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a queen of the beach

Contents

LITTLE FOLKS.

A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.

By the Author of “Pen’s Perplexities,” “Margaret’s Enemy,” “Maid Marjory,” &c.

CHAPTER I.—THE MOOR.

Crimson and gold.
As far as one
could see across
the moor it was
one broad expanse
of purply
heather, kindled
into a glowing
crimson by the
blaze of ruddy
sunshine, and
lighted here and
there by bright
patches of the
thorny golden
rod. Dame Nature
had evidently
painted
out of her summer
paint-box, and had not spared her best and
brightest colours. Crimson-lake, children; you know
what a lovely colour it is, and how fast it goes, for
you are very fond of using it, and there is only one
cake in each of your boxes. But here was crimson-lake
enough to have emptied all the paint-boxes in
the world, you might suppose, and the brightest of
goldy yellows, and the greenest of soft transparent
greens, such as no paint-box ever did, nor ever will,
possess; and over all the most azure of blues,
flecked with floating masses of soft indescribable
white, looking to Elsie like the foamy soapsuds
at the top of the tub when mother had been
having a rare wash, but to Duncan like lumps
of something he had once tasted and never
forgotten, called cocoa-nut ice.

It seemed a pity when Dame Nature had spent
her colours so lavishly that there should be no one
to see her bright handiwork. Yet, sad to tell, there
lay the broad sheet of crimson and gold day after
day unnoticed and unheeded, till, in despair, it
at length began to wither and blacken and die.

For this was a lonely moor, where the heather
and gorse bloomed so bravely, so lonely that even
along the road which skirted it the number of those
who passed by in a day could be counted on the
fingers of your hand; and as for the moor itself, it
seldom had any visitors but the cows from the little
farm which nestled away in one corner; and do you
suppose such lazy, cupboard-loving creatures cared
whether the heather bloomed or not, so long as
they found grass enough to eat?

But the glorious moor had a worse indignity than
this to endure, for there was a cottage here and there
whose inhabitants frequently crossed by the beaten
tracks, and never so much as lifted their eyes as
they passed along, to notice the gorgeous dress
their moor had put on. They were so used to it.
Had she not worn it every year since they could
remember? and so they sauntered by, thinking about
eating or drinking, or how they would serve their
neighbours out, sometimes even quarrelling loudly,
and never giving so much as a passing thought
to all the beauty God had spread around them, and
which we who dwell in towns would give so much
to see.

The sun was shining down very hotly, but it had
not yet begun to wither the heather and gorse, on
the day when I want you to notice two little
children going across the moor. I told you there
were cottages here and there, and in a pretty little
green hollow just beyond a fair-sized hillock was
one where lived the MacDougalls. These two
children were Elsie and Duncan MacDougall.
They very often crossed the moor, for the farm was
on the other side of it, and the milk and butter had
all to be fetched from it, the milk twice a day,
whether the sun blazed, or the chilly Scottish
drizzle blotted out the hills in a misty haze, or the
north wind swept across it, and shook the gaunt fir-trees
to and fro in its noisy wrath.

“Ain’t you coming on, Elsie?” Duncan cried
impatiently, for Elsie had seated herself on a big
stone, pushed back her sun-bonnet from her damp
[Pg 2]
freckled forehead, crossed her brown arms defiantly
over her holland pinafore, and was swinging her
bare feet as if she never meant to move another
step to-night.

“No, I ain’t coming, Duncan, and that’s all
about it,” Elsie replied, sulkily, only she said it in
a broad Scottish accent which you would hardly
have understood had you heard it, and certainly
could make nothing of if I were to try to write it.

“Then we’ll get beaten when we get back,”
Duncan said, miserably. “Mother’s always scolding,
and it’s your fault, Elsie.”

Elsie looked at him contemptuously. “Go on
by yourself,” she cried; “I ain’t afraid. It’s only
Robbie that they’re in such a hurry to get the
milk for, and I’m not going to hurry for Robbie.
Go on by yourself, do.”

But this was more than Duncan dared do, and
Elsie knew it, for, in the first place, it would have
seemed as if he sided with Robbie against Elsie,
which would have been quite untrue; and, in the
second, it would have got Elsie into trouble with
their mother, and that Duncan would not have done
for anything in the world. If Elsie had been a
queen, then Duncan would have been one of her
most willing subjects, and done her bidding whatever
it might cost.

So there stood Duncan, fidgeting to get on, yet
bound to the spot where Elsie stayed by a bond
stronger than links of iron. It was in vain that he
fidgeted from one bare foot to the other, or vented
his impatience by flinging his Scottish bonnet high
in the air and catching it again. Elsie was immovable,
for Elsie was in one of her very contrariest
moods to-day, and I can hardly describe to
you how very contrary she could be.

At last, very slowly and deliberately, she got off
the stone, and began slowly to stretch herself. “Do
make haste!” cried Duncan, almost tired out.

“I can’t be hurried,” Elsie replied, with a grand
air, stooping down to pick up the milk-can, which
she had deposited at the side of the stone. “It’s
much too hot and I’m much too tired, and I don’t
see why I should be expected to fetch the milk at
all. You and Robbie ought to do it. You’re boys,
and I’m a girl. It’s a shame, and I mean to tell
mother so.”

Duncan gazed at her in amazement. He knew
Elsie was very daring, but did she really mean to
tell their mother that?

“Me and Robbie?” he gasped. “Robbie never
goes nowhere with us, Elsie, don’t you know?”

“Yes, I know, child,” Elsie replied, with a lofty
toss of her head. “It’s just what I do know.
Robbie stops at home while you and me do all the
errands and everything else too, and it isn’t fair.”

“But you wouldn’t like Robbie to come with us:
you know you wouldn’t,” Duncan exclaimed, in
perplexity.

“With us! No, indeed,” Elsie cried, with a little
contemptuous laugh. “I don’t want any spoilt
little namby-pamby cry-babies along with me; but
that’s no reason why I, a girl, should fetch milk
for Robbie to drink while he stays at home. Can’t
you see that, stupid-head?”

Duncan said “Yes,” but he didn’t, all the same.
He and Elsie went together, and it never had occurred
to him that it ought to be different. He
didn’t care for Robbie: Elsie didn’t, and so he
didn’t. Elsie said he was a spoilt baby, therefore
Duncan knew he must be one; and certainly
he couldn’t scamper over the moor, and climb the
trees, and fly here, there, and everywhere, like he
and Elsie could.

Elsie had begun to move slowly along, carrying
the basin, in which was butter wrapped in wet
cloths and a cool cabbage-leaf. Duncan had the
milk-can, and would have been almost home by
now, had he not been obliged to keep on waiting
for Elsie to come up with him, his eager footsteps
continually carrying him far on ahead of her sauntering
pace.

“I’m just not going over that hill,” she said,
deliberately, when at length they reached the
purple hillock on the other side of which stood
the cottage. “Come on, Duncan; I’m going round.”

“But it’s ever so much longer, and we’re so
late,” grumbled Duncan.

“Who cares?” cried Elsie, stolidly. “I’m a girl
and I’m not going to climb up the hill in this
heat.”

Duncan stared again. He had never heard
Elsie complain of the hill before. Usually they
scampered up it, and rolled down the steepest side—not,
truly, when there was milk to carry, but at other
times. And now Elsie was walking along in a
languid, mincing fashion, as if she had no more
fun in her than Robbie himself, and had never
scampered bare-foot over the moor six days out of
every week, no matter what the weather might be.

“There’s Robbie at the garden gate beckoning
us. I expect mother’s very angry,” cried Duncan,
despairingly.

“Who cares? let him beckon,” Elsie replied, with
the most provoking indifference. “Run on by yourself
if you’re afraid.”

Most unkind taunt of all. Did not Elsie well
know that Duncan was bound to her by the chains
of a most unswerving, unquestioning loyalty? and
that though he was, so to speak, ready to jump
out of his skin with impatient anxiety, to forsake
Elsie would never enter his simple little head.
[Pg 3]

When Robbie saw that they did not hurry, he came
running towards them, calling out, “Elsie, Duncan,
do make haste! Mother’s so cross. You are late.”

“Are we? And are you in a hurry, Robbie? because
if you are you’d better fetch the milk yourself
another time. Duncan and I are not your servants,”
Elsie replied, loftily.

Robbie stared, as well he might. “I only know
mother’s very cross,” he reiterated dubiously, as if
not quite knowing what to say; “and I don’t think
you know how late it is.”

“Look here,” cried Elsie, standing stock still:
“suppose I tip this milk over on to the heather,
what’ud you say to that?” and she lifted up the lid,
and tilted the can, until the foaming white milk
was just ready to pour over the side.

“Oh! Elsie, Elsie, what are you doing?” cried
Duncan, in a panic; while Robbie exclaimed,
“Wouldn’t mother make you go back and fetch some
more, Elsie, with the pennies out of your box?”

Perhaps Elsie thought it might be so. Any way,
she put the can straight, and moved on again, but as
she did so she said to Robbie, “You’d like to tell
mother what I said, wouldn’t you, duckie? So you
can if you like; I don’t care what you tell mother.”

“No, I don’t want to tell,” Robbie said, almost
angrily, with a pink face and a moist look in the
eyes.

As the three children walked along you could
hardly help noticing what a difference there was
between the two elder and Robbie. Elsie and
Duncan were big-limbed, ruddy-cheeked children,
with high cheek-bones, fair-skinned, but well
freckled and tanned by the sun. Their younger
brother was like them, and yet so different. His
skin was fair, but of milky whiteness, showing too
clearly the blue veins underneath it. The ruddy
colour in their faces was in his represented by the
palest tinge of pink. His bare arms were soft and
white and thin. Their abundant straw-coloured
hair had in his case become palest gold, of silky
texture, falling in curling locks almost on to his
shoulders. He was, in short, a smaller, weaker,
more delicate edition of these two elder ones. They
looked the very embodiment of health and strength,
he fragile, timid, and delicate. No wonder he never
scampered across the heath or rolled down the hillsides.
The mists were too chilly for him, the sun
too hot; and so it came about that Elsie and
Duncan went together, and Robbie was left behind,
for Elsie was selfish, and hadn’t it in her nature to
wait about for the little one, and suit her steps or
her play to his, and Duncan did whatever she did.
Perhaps their mother did not care to trust the
little fellow with Elsie, knowing too well that she
was thoughtless, and unable in her own robust
strength to understand the fatigue and listlessness
of her little brother. Elsie told him he would run
well enough without shoes and stockings, but their
mother had most particularly charged him that he
was never to take them off without special permission,
for he was too delicate to run the risk of
damping his feet. Elsie and Duncan thought it
great nonsense, and both pitied and despised
Robbie for being such a miserable molly-coddle.

“Now here’s mother herself coming after us,”
cried Duncan, anxiously scanning Elsie’s face to
see how she would act now.

But Elsie was still unflurried. Duncan almost
held his breath, for there were signs of a
storm. Mrs. MacDougall’s face was red, her
mouth ominously screwed up; she waved her
hand angrily towards them—an action which Elsie
pretended not to see.

“Where have you been all this time, madam?”
she burst forth, when they reached her. “I will
teach you to hasten your footsteps. Did I not
send Robbie to the gate to beckon you to be quick?
You suppose you may do as you like, but you are
mistaken, you lazy, ill-behaved wench. The new
frock I had bought you shall be given to Nannie
Cameron, and you shall wear your old one to the
kirk. How will that suit your vanity? And you
may be off to bed now directly, without any supper.
There are twigs enough for a birch rod, my lady,
if bed does not bring you to a better frame of
mind. Run in now, and don’t let me see your face
before six o’clock to-morrow morning.”

What could Elsie be thinking of? She did not
run. Robbie looked at her in piteous distress;
Duncan was beside himself. He cast a beseeching
glance at Elsie, a momentary one of resentful
anger at his mother, an impatient one at Robbie,
the unfortunate messenger of their mother’s anger.

Then a look of great determination settled over
their mother’s face. “Do you dare me?” she
cried. “Did I ever threaten and not perform?
Will you compel me to whip you? Then if you
would not have it so, hasten your footsteps at
once.”

Duncan caught hold of Elsie’s hand and tried
to pull her, but those sturdy, legs had the very
spirit of obstinacy in them. “Be quiet,” she said;
“I want to be whipped.”

“Mother means it,” Duncan cried. “She has
never done it before, but she will now, Elsie.”

Elsie had often dared her mother, but never
so flagrantly as this; and Mrs. MacDougall was
not a woman to be dared with impunity. Elsie was
going a little too far; every one saw that except
herself.

“Stay here,” Mrs. MacDougall said sternly to
[Pg 4]
the two boys when they entered the cottage
kitchen. Then she took Elsie by the shoulder, and
marched her up the few stairs. Robbie and Duncan
stood stock still, looking blankly at each other.

he came running towards them (p. 3).

Presently there came from the room overhead a
low sobbing sound, and a minute or two afterwards
Mrs. MacDougall appeared, stern and frowning.

It was an unhappy supper they sat down to.
Robbie was very wretched, and as for Duncan,
each mouthful threatened to choke him. Mrs.
MacDougall wore a troubled face. After it was
ended Duncan crept away to his sister’s room.

“I knew mother would,” he said, sympathisingly,
“and I know she’ll do it again, if you do it. You
wouldn’t, would you, Elsie? Mother never whipped
you before, never in all our lives, Elsie, but you
didn’t care. What was the matter with you?”

“You little stupid!” Elsie replied patronisingly;
“I won’t fetch the milk at all, not if mother whips
me every day. I don’t care. You don’t know what
I know, and you don’t know what I’m going to do,
but I know myself; and you little cowardy custard, you
don’t know what secret I could tell you if I liked.”

CHAPTER II.—WHAT ELSIE FOUND.

D
uncan
crept away to his own little bedchamber
with an uneasy feeling of trouble.
It was next to Elsie’s, separated from it
only by a little square bit of landing, and,
like hers, was a tiny apartment under the roof,
with a ceiling of the bare rafters which supported
the tiles. In each was a small wooden bedstead,
a deal stand, with basin and jug of coarse white
earthenware, and a small deal box, which served
both to keep clothes in and as a chair.

Everything was scrupulously clean, even to the
dimity vallance that hung across the low window.
In autumn and winter the bleak wind whistled
through the chimneys and rattled the casements in
a way that would have prevented a town-bred child
from sleeping, and up in those bare rooms there
was cold enough to pinch you black and blue; but
Elsie and Duncan had never thought much of
that, for they had been accustomed to it from babyhood,
and only threw on their thick homespun
garments in greater haste.

Just now the weather was unusually hot, and the
[Pg 5]
little lofts had gone to the other extreme, and
were more like ovens than anything else. Duncan
had scarcely taken off his jacket when he heard
Elsie calling. He ran to see what she wanted. “I
s’pose you won’t go telling any tales about what I
said just now,” she exclaimed shortly.

“Of course I shan’t,” Duncan replied, indignantly;
“but what was it you said? There
wasn’t anything to tell tales about except that you
said you weren’t going to fetch the milk.”

Elsie’s mind was so full of her own affairs that it
was quite a shock to her to find that Duncan had
taken so little heed of her words. “It’s a good
thing I’m not such a silly baby as you are,” she
said, contemptuously—a way in which she so often
spoke to Duncan that he quite believed Elsie to be
the cleverest, most daring, and bravest creature in
existence.

“This place is like a furnace,” she cried, irritably
throwing the sheet which covered her down
on to the floor. “Why should I be poked up here
and Robbie sleep downstairs with mother and
grandmother, eh, Duncan?”

“I s’pose it’s because he always does,” Duncan
replied dubiously.

“Stupid-head!” cried Elsie. “And why does
he always?”

Duncan thought a minute. “P’raps it’s because
he’s the youngest, and was the baby when you and
me was bigger,” he answered presently.

Elsie turned over with an angry grunt. “It
isn’t anything of the sort,” she cried; “and you
might have known I didn’t want you to answer
me.”

“I thought you asked me,” Duncan said, in
much perplexity.

“You ought to have said you didn’t know, and
then you’d have told the truth,” Elsie said shortly.
“Hush! there’s some one coming up. Crawl
under the bed, in case they come in.”

A slow dragging footstep came up the steep
stairs, and presently a voice called softly, “Dooncan?”

Duncan began to crawl out from under the
bedstead, answering as he did so, “Yes, grandmother,
here I am.”

Elsie dangled her foot over the side of the bed,
and gave Duncan a pretty sharp kick as he
emerged.

“What’s that for?” he stopped to ask.

“Only because you’re such a ridiculously silly
little softie, that nobody could put a grain of sense
into your head,” Elsie replied, angrily. “Supposing
it had been mother. A nice row you’d have got us
into. Why couldn’t you keep quiet, and she’d
have thought we were both in bed and asleep.”

“But I knew it was grandmother’s voice,” said
Duncan.

“Dooncan,” called the voice again, “I want
you.”

Duncan opened the door this time. His grandmother
did not seem to notice that he was in a
forbidden place, but asked, with an anxious quaver
in her voice, “Did mother beat Elsie, Duncan?”

“I think so,” Duncan replied indignantly.

“Eh, well, Duncan,” she said, consolingly,
“mother’s often threatened and never done it
before, and Elsie’s a wilful child, with a spirit and
temper that must needs be broken. But what was
the matter now?”

“It was about fetching the milk,” Duncan
replied. “Elsie don’t like it, and she wouldn’t be
quick.”

“Eh, well; but it’s the place of the young to fetch
and carry,” said the old woman, in a much more
cheerful tone than she had used before. “But
Duncan, my laddie, have you picked up a wee bit
of paper with writing on it, what grandmother has
dropped?”

“No, granny, I haven’t never picked up a piece,”
Duncan replied.

“Nor seen it lying about neither, dearie? Come
now, think if you picked it up and threw it in the
fire. I won’t be angry if you tell the truth.”

“I never saw it at all,” said Duncan again.

“Ah, well! I thought perhaps that it was about
that mother was angry with Elsie, but it wasn’t,
after all; you’re sure of that, Duncan?”

“Oh no; it was about the milk,” Duncan returned,
readily.

“And Elsie’s asleep now. Well, well, youth
must be chastised sometimes,” crooned the old
woman, softly. “You needn’t talk about the paper
I’ve lost, Duncan. It’s safe enough in the fire, no
doubt; but if you see a scrap of paper lying anywhere,
bring it to grandmother, and she’ll give you
a penny for sharp eyes.”

Then the old dame went cautiously downstairs,
feeling the way with her thick stick, and Duncan
once more went off to bed.

He woke very early the next morning, wondering
whether Elsie would keep her vaunted threat of
refusing to fetch the milk, and if so, what would
happen: for if Elsie were obstinate, their mother
was firm as a rock in doing a duty, and Duncan
well knew she would not be overborne by any one.
So it was with a vague uneasiness that he put on
his clothes and went downstairs. To his surprise
and relief, Elsie was already in the kitchen and was
busily, though with a sulky-enough expression,
rinsing out the can. Elsie’s valour, like that of
many an older person, was greater in words than
[Pg 6]
action, and there is no doubt that the previous
night’s punishment had had its effect.

But that Duncan should think so was the
last thing that Elsie would wish. Directly they
were outside the door, she said in a careless tone,
“It’s nice and cool this morning across the moor:
much better out here than in that little loft.”

“And won’t you come this afternoon?” asked
simple, straightforward Duncan.

“I don’t know,” Elsie answered sharply. “It
depends upon whether I feel inclined. Duncan,
what was that granny was asking about a piece of
paper?”

“She only asked me if I’d picked a piece up
with writing on it, and said she’d give me a penny
if I found it.”

“I dare say she would,” laughed Elsie; “but you
won’t ever get the penny, Duncan, so don’t expect
it. She didn’t ask if I’d picked it up?”

“No, she didn’t; but have you found it, Elsie?
because I’ll take it to her, and give you the penny,”
Duncan remarked.

“A penny indeed!” laughed Elsie contemptuously.
“I wonder whether you really could keep a
secret, Duncan?”

Duncan was rather hurt at the implied doubt.
“I never told tales of you, Elsie, never,” he said,
earnestly.

“Look here,” Elsie exclaimed, “I was weeding
my bit of garden just under the kitchen window
yesterday, and granny was sitting at the window,
yet never saw me. She was reading some old
letters, peering at them ever so hard through her
spectacles, and talking to herself all the time. I
expect she’d taken them out of mother’s drawer, for
she kept on looking round to see if any one was
coming, and the best of it was I was watching all
the time, and she never knew it. I saw her put
one piece of paper down on the window-sill; she
was saying very funny things to herself. ‘Meg
shouldn’t have done it; she wouldn’t take my advice.
Ah! she’ll rue it some day, I well believe,’ and all
on like that. Of course Meg means mother, and I
was just wondering what it was she was talking
about, when the wind blew quite a puff, and blew
the piece of paper right on to my garden. I was just
going to peep at it, and see what it was mother
shouldn’t have done. Then granny gets up, and goes
peering all round to see where the paper’s gone. She
pulled all the cushions out of the chair, and turned
up the matting, and looked over her letters ever so
many times, and never noticed that it had blown out
of the window. Presently I put my head through the
window, and cried out, ‘What’s the matter, granny?’
‘It’s only I’ve dropped a little bit of paper, my
dear,’ she says to me. ‘Just come and see if your
young eyes can find it.’ I went in and looked all
round. Of course I didn’t find it, and I was
almost dying of laughing all the time.”

“And have you got it now, Elsie?” Duncan asked,
with wide eyes.

“Yes, I have,” Elsie replied shortly; “and it’s
much more interesting than I thought it would be.
It’s about you and me.”

“You and me?” echoed Duncan, who was of a
matter-of-fact mind, and was always content with
things just as he found them.

“Yes, stupid,” said Elsie, crossly; “I always said
mother favoured Robbie, and so she does. Why
he has new things much oftener than you, and
you’re older too. Do you and me have boots and
stockings for week-a-days? then why should Robbie?
Don’t you wonder why mother pets him so?”

“No,” Duncan answered truthfully. “He’s ever
so much more babyish than me.”

“Well, I say it’s a shame,” continued Elsie.
“Look at this old sun-bonnet. Do you think I ought
to wear such a thing as that? Didn’t I always say
I’d love a long feather like the ladies at the manse?
and why shouldn’t I have one, and a silk pelisse,
and gloves upon my hands, and sweet little shoes
for walking in?”

“Why, you’d be just a lady,” Duncan said.

Elsie laughed a pleased soft laugh. “A lady,
just a bonny lady,” she said over to herself; “and
wouldn’t you love to be a little laird, Duncan?”

“I don’t know what it’s like, Elsie,” Duncan said
thoughtfully.

“It isn’t like fetching milk and sleeping in a loft,”
Elsie said sharply. “It isn’t like porridge for breakfast
and porridge for supper. It would be like——everything
that’s nice,” she said, after a minute
or two’s pause, for she really did not know anything
about it, and was suddenly pulled up in her description
by that fact.

CHAPTER III.—THE LETTER.

T
he boy walked along, silently thinking over
what Elsie had been saying, in a muddly,
confused sort of way. Robbie, and granny’s
letter, and Elsie’s beating, lairds and ladies,
and something secret and mysterious that Elsie
knew, were mingled hazily in his mind, in such
chaotic fashion that he had nothing to say, not
knowing how to put his ideas into the form of a
question.

It was not until they were on their road home
again that he suddenly asked, “Whose letter is it,
Elsie?”

“What do you mean?” Elsie returned, with
more than usual quickness. “I say it’s mine and
yours. Mother’d say ’twas hers, most likely; perhaps
[Pg 7]
granny might say ’twas hers; I say it’s ours
as much as ever it’s theirs, and the person what
wrote it is our father; so there, Duncan.”

“Mine too!” Duncan echoed, in greater bewilderment
than before. “Then, if it’s mine too, Elsie—

“Well, what?”

“I ought to read it, an’ see what’s in it.”

Elsie laughed. “Of course you ought,” she
replied encouragingly. “That’s just what I said to
myself when I caught sight of it; and when I’d read
it, an’ saw that it was all about you and me, an’ told
a secret too, what granny an’ mother have always
kept away from us, d’you think I was goin’ to
give it up? no, not if I know it. An’ to think they
fancy it’s lost—leastways, granny does—an’ mother
don’t know anything about it at all. What fun it
is! D’you know, Duncan, I don’t so very much
like mother.”

Duncan looked at her in alarm. Scottish
children of all classes are brought up in very
strict notions of filial duty and affection, and
these were no exceptions to the rule. Duncan
looked all round anxiously, as though he feared a
bird might carry the dreadful treason to their
mother’s ears.

Elsie looked as if she were enjoying the sensation
she had made. “I’ve got a good reason,” she said,
nodding her head knowingly. “You’ll see it when
you’ve read the letter. I always thought I wasn’t
so very fond of her, and now I see why it was. It
wouldn’t have been right if I had; an’ when she
beat me, I can’t tell you how I felt. I couldn’t
like any one who beat me!” Elsie continued,
grinding her teeth together with rage at the
memory, “even if it was my own mother.”

“You seemed as if you wanted to make mother
do it,” said Duncan, who was often much distracted
between his allegiance to rebellious Elsie and the
strict sense of duty and obedience in which he
had always been trained.

“P’raps I did,” Elsie replied. “But I don’t
care; and mother shan’t have the chance again.
I don’t think our father’d let her if he knew it.”

“Our father?” faltered Duncan. “Why, our
father’s dead.”

“Is he?” asked Elsie, enigmatically. “Robbie’s
father is.”

“And isn’t that ours?” Duncan asked contemptuously.

“That’s just it,” Elsie replied, with some excitement.
“That’s just what the letter’s about. Now,
if you sit down here I’ll read it to you.”

“We shall be late again,” Duncan said, nervously.
“Don’t let’s stop now, Elsie, and make mother
cross. Could we do it after school?”

“P’raps I’d better tear it up, or give it back to
granny,” Elsie said, with a taunting air. “It don’t
matter to you.”

“Oh, don’t!” pleaded Duncan, divided again
between the sense of duty, his own curiosity, and a
fear of offending Elsie. “Do keep it till after
school.”

“Yes, I will,” Elsie replied. “And mind you
bring home an atlas with you, for, now I think of
it, I must have a map of England and Scotland.”

“But we mustn’t bring home books,” Duncan
urged.

“Never mind; you must do it by mistake. We
must have a map, I tell you; and if I’ve had the
trouble of getting the letter, you can take the
trouble to get the map. Mind you do, now, or else
I shan’t tell you anything about it. You can take
it back in the afternoon. ‘Tisn’t stealing.”

No, nor disobedience, nor deceit, nor telling a
lie, eh, Elsie? Evidently Elsie did not stop to
think of that any more than she had stopped to
consider whether she had any business to read that
old letter of her mother’s when it fluttered out of
the window.

They reached the cottage in good time. Robbie
and their grandmother had only just come downstairs.
Mrs. MacDougall seemed to be in an
unusually pleasant temper this morning. “I’m
glad you’ve hastened, my child,” she said to Elsie.
“Sit down to the table, and get slicing that
cucumber I’ve just cut. It’ll be more refreshing
with some bread-and-butter and a cup o’ milk than
the porridge, and a change too.”

Duncan glanced at Elsie with a half shame-faced
expression, as much as to say, “Mother is kind,
you see, when you’re good. She’s sorry you had to
be beaten last night.” But Elsie only replied by a
look of defiance, as though to say, “That doesn’t
make up at all.”

“Let’s see: what’s to-day?” Mrs. MacDougall
continued, pleasantly, as she poured out the milk
into the children’s cups. “Can it be the thirty-first?”

“No, no, Meg; surely not,” quavered the old
grandmother, who, for reasons of her own, wished
to appear ignorant. Was it not to refresh her
failing memory about what happened just about
this time of year, a long while ago, that she had
gone to her daughter’s desk, and got out those old
faded letters? Mrs. MacDougall would not have
minded her reading them, but she would mind having
them lost, for she was very methodical; and besides,
many of these letters were important ones, written
by hands long since folded in death.

“And to-morrow’s Robbie’s birthday,” Mrs.
MacDougall continued, laying her rough, strong
hand very gently on the child’s fair curls. “Very
well do I remember this time seven years ago.”
[Pg 8]

“Yes,” sighed the old grandmother. “Poor
little dears! and Nannie a bonny lass too.”

Mrs. MacDougall glanced at her mother with
something like a frown. “I never think of Robbie’s
birthday without thinking about poor Aunt Nannie,”
she said to the children.

They knew well enough why, for they had heard
the tale often enough. Their Aunt Nannie had
been their mother’s beautiful young sister, and the
news of her death had come to them when Robbie
was a baby of a week old. They had never even
seen her, for Duncan was but a year old, and
Elsie not three, when she died, and she had been
living in England with her English husband at
the time.

“Robbie reminds me so of her,” Mrs. MacDougall
said softly. “She was fair. He takes after her
wonderfully, doesn’t he, mother?”

“Very much indeed,” the old dame replied.

“Ah well! Robbie must have some fresh cakes
to-morrow for his birthday and a plate of plums,
and you can have your tea under the big alder
an’ Elsie shall pour it out.”

“Oh, thank you, mother, how nice!” the little
boys exclaimed. Elsie’s ungracious silence passed
unnoticed by all but Duncan.

“P’raps I shan’t be here to pour it out,” she
said, in a careless tone, when they were outside the
door. “Mind you don’t forget the atlas, Duncan.”

Then they started off to school. It was a longish
walk across the moor and along a dusty road
to the nearest village. Robbie, although seven
years old, was exempted from going on account of
the distance and his delicacy. Elsie bore in mind
that Duncan had gone before he was that age, but
Robbie was such a petted baby. He was not
nearly so strong as Duncan had been at his age.

Duncan’s was a very placid, slow sort of mind.
He went through his tasks without any excitement
or distraction, although occasionally a vague
curiosity as to what Elsie could want the atlas for,
and what the letter said about them, did wander
through his brain. When school was ended he
slipped out unobserved with a small atlas, which
he had had difficulty to secure, under his jacket.

Elsie was waiting for him at the edge of the moor.
They sat down on some stones, and Elsie pulled
the letter from inside the neck of her dress.

“I shan’t say anything; I shall read it to you,”
she began; “and if you can’t make anything of it I
s’pose I must explain it afterwards. It’s from our
father to Mrs. MacDougall.”

“What, to mother?” Duncan asked.

“H’m, you’ll see presently,” Elsie said impatiently.
“Worst of it is, there’s a piece torn off all along,
which makes it difficult to read. It begins, ‘Dear
Mrs. MacDougall.’ Oh, I forgot. It’s put at the
top, ‘Kensington, London.’ That’s the capital of
England, you know, and it means that the person
what wrote it lived there.”

“But father didn’t, did he?” began Duncan.

“Hold your tongue till I’ve read it,” Elsie replied.
“I can’t stop to explain beforehand. This is it:—

“‘Dear Mrs. MacDouga

I have to be
teller of very bad new
sister, my poor wife die
morning. It will not be a
shock to you than it wa
me. I had no thought
it was likely to happen
a few hours previous
sent her love to you
her mother.

The two little things ar
but I have been
what I can do with th
I have not seen them'”

(here the page turns over and the missing words
are from the commencement of the line)—

“‘night and I don’t feel
to see them yet. The sound
ir voices is too much for
hat can I, a helpless
wer do for them. They
be better off among their
kinsfolk than left
mercy of strangers. I often
I made a mistake in
nging poor Nannie to this
cat crowded city away from
ive moors.
The children I am told
eak and delicate. There
be a chance for them'”

(here the fresh page begins)—

“‘in their mother’s native
The woman who has charge
trustworthy. She shall brin
to you, if you will take
they live, bring them up with
your own, and as your own.
the girl turns out anything
her mother, she will be we
enough. I shall not interfe
the children. All I want to
is that they are well care
In a year or two I may
able to interest myself
them. For the pres'”

(fresh page)—

“‘likely I shall wander
t, Reply at once
Yours truly,

R. Grosvenor.'”

When Elsie had finished reading she sat looking
[Pg 9]
at Duncan. “It doesn’t seem very plain,” he
ventured to say, presently; “and there wasn’t
anything about you or me in it. You said there
was.”

mrs. macdougall glanced at her mother (p. 8).

“Stupid little thing! isn’t there some of it torn
off? and when you put the words in it’s easy
enough to read. I’ve put them in to myself. First
of all, it’s about Aunt Nannie dying, isn’t it?”

“I s’pose it is,” Duncan agreed; “and it’s writ
by Uncle Richard, isn’t it?”

“If you call him Uncle Richard. I say it’s our
father what wrote it—yours and mine, Duncan.”

Duncan stared at her in puzzled silence. “But
Aunt Nannie was our Aunt Grosvenor, wasn’t
she?” he asked.

“If you call her Aunt Grosvenor. I say she
was our mother. I’m sure she was,” said Elsie.

“Our mother!” Duncan said, under his breath.
“What do you mean, Elsie?”

“The letter says something about two little
babies,” Elsie began.

“Does it?” Duncan asked. “I didn’t hear it.”

“Well, it says, the ‘little things,’ and that’s the
same; and it’s all about sending them to Aunt
[Pg 10]
Nannie’s native place. Well, this is Aunt Nannie’s
native place; and who were the two little things,
eh?”

“I’m sure I dunno,” Duncan said slowly.

“Well, they weren’t Robbie, were they? Then,
who were they? Why, you an’ me, of course.
It says ‘the girl’ somewhere, an’ of course that’s
me. So now, isn’t the letter about us? an’ that’s
why granny was so afraid of losing it. Do you
see now, little silly? It’s plain enough.”

“But why did they?” murmured Duncan.

“That’s the funny part of it. They ought to
have told us. Why didn’t she?”

“Who?”

“Why, Robbie’s mother, of course. She isn’t
our mother, an’ I’m not going to call her mother;
I shall call her ‘she.’ You can call her what you
like. Why does she pretend to be our mother when
she isn’t? It’s different with granny, ‘cos she’s
our granny right enough. Didn’t I hear her say
‘Meg ‘ud rue it?’ It’s a shame to have made a
secret of it.”

Duncan had been turning it over in his poor
little mind. He formed ideas very slowly, but
there was often more sense in them when formed
than in the quick conclusions of cleverer children.

“But if Uncle Grosvenor is our father, Elsie, why
don’t we live with him? He never’s been to see
us, never. He’d be sure to know Aunt Nannie
was our mother, and not—you know—’she.'”

“I believe,” said Elsie, in a mysterious voice,
“that ‘R. Grosvenor’ thinks we’re dead.”

“Oh, Elsie! but we aren’t at all,” gasped Duncan.

“No, I shouldn’t, think so. Doesn’t the letter
say they are weak and delicate (what a beautiful
letter it is, Duncan. I’m sure R. Grosvenor is a
grand gentleman), and ‘bring them up with your
own and as your own for a year or two?’ That
was till we got strong; and she’s kept us always.
Of course R. Grosvenor (I’m not going to say
uncle), doesn’t know that we’re quite well now. I’m
sure he thinks we’re dead. Who does ‘your own’
mean but Robbie. Oh, how dull you are, Duncan!
Can’t you see now why she pets that boy so, and
makes such a fuss over him? He’s her own, and
we’re not; she loves him and doesn’t love us.
Did she ever beat Robbie?”

“Robbie isn’t naughty,” Duncan protested; “at
least, only a very little sometimes.”

Elsie uttered an impatient exclamation. “Does
Robbie have to fetch milk, and go to school, and
pick up wood? No; he’s treated different. Now
you know why I don’t like her.”

Duncan gave vent to a sigh of perplexity. There
rose up in his mind a sort of uncomfortable feeling
that everything was going topsy-turvy. Somehow
or another he seemed to see Robbie’s mother
sitting by the side of Elsie’s bed when she had the
fever last winter, and bustling about to get nice
things for her, hushing the others with a strange
look in her eyes that made them quiet at once,
for they could see she was troubled. Or he seemed
to smell the grateful smell of the hot cakes waiting,
crisp and tempting, before the big cheerful fire, to
greet them on their return from afternoon school
on a dreary winter day. She had been kind, though
she was so strict, especially to Elsie, and Duncan
was feeling something very much like sorrow to
think that, after all, she was not their mother.

“What are you going to do, Elsie?” he asked
presently.

“I’ve just been wondering when you were going
to ask me that. Of course it can’t stop like this.
Haven’t you heard granny say how rich Uncle
Grosvenor was, and what a grand place it was
where he lived? Well, then, he’s a grand laird, an’
if we lived with him you’d be a little laird, and me
a lady. Does he think we have to fetch milk and
butter, and go after the hens, an’ all that? But I’m
goin’ to let him know all about it.”

“How, Elsie?”

“Well,” Elsie replied, “I’ve been thinking of that,
an’ it’s just a real difficult matter; for I’d never
get time to write all the long explanation, with that
she always prying after me. She’d find it out, an’
stop the letter, even if I could find the paper;
an’ I dunno’ as I can spell all the long words it ‘ud
take to explain it. An’ more too, I couldn’t wait
an’ wait for the answer. We ought to go an’ see
Uncle—R. Grosvenor. I’ve almost made up my
mind, Duncan, that I’ll go to England an’ find
him.”

“You couldn’t do it,” Duncan said.

“Couldn’t I?” Elsie said scornfully, “It isn’t so
very far. England’s another country, but it joins
on. You only step out o’ one into the other, for I
looked most particular; an’ there wasn’t even
mountains to get over. There’s only what folk
call the border, an’ I’m sure that isn’t much.
P’raps it’s a line, or a road, or a ditch, or something
like it. You go straight out of Scotland—as
straight as ever you can go. I’ve looked on
the map. Give it me now. If you go from Dunster
you’ve only to keep in a straight line till you
get into England, an’ any one’ll tell you the way
to London.”

“I’m sure it’s a dreadful long way,” Duncan
said disconsolately. “I should be frightened
while you was gone, till you came back.”

“Come back,” said Elsie. “I shan’t never do
that, I hope. When I find my father he’ll take
[Pg 11]
care o’ me. Now then, will you come with me,
Duncan?”

“I don’t think I’d go, Elsie. We might get lost,”
Duncan urged. “I wish you could write a letter
instead.”

“I’ve made up my mind to go if I do anything
at all,” Elsie said, in a tone of decision. “You
needn’t come unless you like.”

Duncan looked perplexed again. This was
indeed an awkward predicament. The thought of
running away to England didn’t seem nice, somehow,
but if Elsie went and he stayed, how frightened
he’d be all the time about her; and when
they questioned him, how would he be able to
keep her secret, especially if Robbie’s mother had
that troubled look in her eyes? and how lonely it
would be going backwards and forwards across
the moor all alone without Elsie.

“I wish you wouldn’t go, Elsie,” he said to her
presently.

“Most likely I shall,” Elsie replied. “Mind you
tell no tales. We must be quick home now. Come
along; I shall have to think of ever so many things
before we go, so you’ll have plenty o’ time to know
whether you’ll come or stay behind. Oh, I know
I shall be a real lady, Duncan, an’ have bonny
clothes. Of course I shouldn’t like fetching milk
an’ things when I’m a little lady born. Isn’t it a
shame, Duncan?”

“I dunno; I don’t mind,” Duncan then said.

“Give me the atlas,” Elsie said; “I must get away
an’ have a goodish look at it when we get in, for
you must be quite sure and take it back this afternoon.”

But Elsie was not to “get away,” for Mrs.
MacDougall was waiting at the gate with a
basket by her side.

“You’ve been loiterin’ again,” she cried briskly.
“I’ve been waitin’ this half-hour for you to take
these beans down to the shop. Here’s a bit o’
bread you can eat along the road, an’ you’ll have
just to make haste.”

Elsie cast a defiant glance at the basket as she
took it slowly up. She knew too well its destination.
The neatly tied-up bundles of young well-grown
beans lying on the fresh cabbage-leaves would be
one of the attractions of the village shop. A day
or two ago all the plums that were ripe had gone
the same way, to the children’s disgust. Mrs.
MacDougall was a clever gardener, and had a ready
sale for her small stock of produce. To-day Elsie
and Duncan would get no dinner beyond the bit of
bread. That was the result of their loitering.
They had lost the valuable time through their talk
over the letter.

But Elsie quite lost sight of the fact that she
alone was responsible for losing it, and was very
angry about it.

“I have quite decided,” she said to Duncan.
“This is what I’ll do; to England I will go!”

(To be continued.)

LITTLE MISS PROPRIETY.

ainty little maiden,
Sitting there in state,

While the music’s calling,
And the dancers wait.


“A courtly little beau
For your hand is waiting:

What is it, my dear,
That you are debating?


“Do the pretty slippers
Pinch your tiny feet?

Tell me quickly, dearie,
Why you keep your seat.”


Little maiden answers,
Anger in her face,

“We’s not bin intodoost:
It’s twite a disgwase!”

Mary Lang.

[Pg 12]

“she saw a cat’s face looking up at her.”

FIGHTING WITH A SHADOW.

“It is much pleasanter to be by oneself, then
there is no one to quarrel with,” said
Pussy.

And she stretched herself out on the
soft, mossy turf, and half closed her eyes, purring
gently. She was a young cat, and got into much
trouble at home, for she was constantly quarrelling
with her brothers and sisters. She said it was
their fault, and they said it was hers. And Mrs.
Grimalkin, the old cat, said that there were faults
on both sides.

“I’m not a bad temper,” said Pussy; “and I
never quarrel with people unless they quarrel with
me.” So saying, she opened her eyes wider, and
looked round. She liked the warm sunshine, and
the scent of the flowers, and the soft velvet turf.

How pleasant it was!

“I should like to live here always,” she said.
“Then Tib, Frisk, and Kitty would not be able to
tease me as they do. It is very annoying to be
tormented all the time, and if one says a word
in one’s own defence, one gets blamed for being
quarrelsome. The idea of my quarrelling with
any one: it is perfectly absurd.”

And Pussy purred and looked round complacently.

Presently she crept down to the water’s edge,
and peeped over into the smooth glassy stream;
and as she did so she saw a cat’s face looking up
at her. She stretched out her paw to give it a pat,
and the other cat did the same. Then she drew
away, and raised her back as high as she could.
So did the other cat, only it seemed to Pussy as if
she were upside down.

“So provoking,” said Pussy; “just as I fancied
I was all alone here, to find that there is a cat
under the water coming up to trouble me. Probably
she has a large family down there, and they will
come swarming up and be as disagreeable as my
own sisters and brothers. And how exceedingly
mean of her not to give notice that she was coming.
I should have heard the faintest mew, for everything
is so quiet here. It is evident that her
intentions are hostile, or she would not steal up
like a thief. But I will certainly not stand such
behaviour.”

And again she put out her paw.

So did the other cat.

“Where do you come from?” asked Pussy. But
she received no answer.

“Speak!” said she, impatiently waving her tail.
[Pg 13]

The other cat waved in return, but no answer
came. Then Pussy began to get very angry. So
did the other cat.

And they grew fiercer and fiercer, making strange
faces at each other, until at length Pussy became so
much enraged that she prepared to spring upon her
enemy, and would the next moment have plunged
into the water, had not some one suddenly seized
the tip of her tail.

She turned to avenge herself upon the new offender,
when lo! who should it be but her own mother, Mrs.
Grimalkin, who happened to be out on a foraging
expedition, and chanced to pass that way.

“You foolish young creature,” said she; “if I had
not been here you would have been drowned. Don’t
you see that it is but your own image in the water:
there isn’t another cat there; it is only your own
shadow. But cats as quarrelsome as you are, when
they can find no one else to fight with, will fight
even with a shadow.”

J. G.

PRETTY WORK FOR LITTLE FINGERS

EMBROIDERED GLASS-CLOTH.

fig. 1 – pattern square

This is very pretty and easy work, just the
thing for any little folk who are anxious to
help a fancy sale for some good cause, or
to make a nice
useful present to a friend,
but who have not time
or skill to undertake
anything long and difficult.
It is very quickly
done, and can be used
for toilet-covers and
mats (these should be
edged with narrow torchon
lace), night-dress
cases, aprons, comb-bags,
and a number of useful articles; it is much
admired, and always sells well at a bazaar.

fig. 2 – border

All you
have to do is to get some common glass-cloth,
tolerably fine, with cross-bars of red or blue, and
some red or navy blue knitting-cotton, which you
can buy either by the pound or the ball. Two
ounces will do a quantity of work, and cost about
the same as a ball.

fig. 3 – worked with cotton

With this, which may be
either the same colour as that of the material or
the contrasting one, the pattern is worked upon the
squares formed by the cross-bars, as in Fig. 1, and
in this way a number of pretty devices can be
formed. Toilet-covers and large aprons should
have a border as in Fig. 2; for mats a single border
will suffice. Bags, &c, may be worked in checquers,
every alternate square, or in large cross-bars,
by carrying on Fig. 2 over the whole surface, but
when you choose a large pattern, always count the
squares before you cut off your piece, or you may
find the pattern break
off in the middle.

fig. 4 – worked with wool

I
have seen a very effective-looking
bag, all the
squares of which were
worked over with dark
blue cotton, the bars
being blue, and two
tiny red stitches worked
as in Fig. 3, wherever a
simple cross was formed
by the cotton intersecting
the stripe of the material.

Use a darning or crewel needle, and a very long
thread, or you will have to be continually taking
fresh. This work is sometimes done with crewel
wool, and in rather a different way, see Fig. 4; but
it is not so neat and pretty, in my opinion, as that
done with cotton, and is more extravagant, since the
wool must be used double and every stitch repeated.

I once saw a large apron with bib and pocket
bordered with squares
worked in this style with
bright dark ultramarine
crewels, and with ribbon
strings of the same
colour; it had a handsome
effect. I shall only
say in conclusion that I
have no doubt the clever
brains and nimble fingers
of some of my young
readers will soon be able
to improve upon these simple elementary designs,
and to produce some new and more elaborate ones
which will give them all the more pleasure for being
of their own creating.

Somerset.

[Pg 14]

cloister westminster abbey

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER
ABBEY.

By Edwin Hodder (“Old Merry“).

I.—HOW THE ABBEY WAS BUILT.

O
ne day some children came to me,
and said, “Oh, do please take us out
somewhere on our half-holiday, and
show us some of the great sights of
London.” Remembering how it had
once been my privilege to be one of a party invited
to go over Westminster Abbey, under the guidance
of the late Dean Stanley, and how, from his graphic
descriptions, the Abbey had ever since had an additional
wealth of interest to me, I proposed to these
young people that they should meet me some Saturday
afternoon, and I would take them over the
Abbey, and tell them all I could remember or read
up about its history. They were delighted with the
proposal, and so to the Abbey we went.

I should like to take all the readers of
Little Folks in the same way, but I remember
the story of the British Princess, named St.
Ursula, who undertook to “personally conduct”
eleven thousand young maidens to Rome, and
how she came to grief on the return journey,
as any one may see who goes to Cologne, where
all their bones are preserved in a church; and as I
should have a great many more followers than she,
I think it will be better if I try in the next six
numbers to tell you what I told the young people
who went with me on that Saturday afternoon and
on other afternoons, and as nearly as I can in the
same words.

Now, girls and boys, before we enter the portals
of Westminster Abbey, I want you first to come
with me and walk round about it, so as to see it
well from the outside; and first of all, we will post
ourselves near to the great hall built by William
Rufus as a portion of his intended palace. It was
upon this spot that Edward the Confessor dwelt,
and for fifteen years watched the erection of the
Abbey. But you must not imagine that the beautiful
building that rises so grandly before us as we
stand here to-day is the same that the Confessor
reared, for of his famous church only one or two
[Pg 15]
columns and low-browed arches are now in existence.
Of the edifice we now behold, the central
portions were built by Henry III., the nave was
added under the Edwards and Henry V., the
gorgeous eastern chapel was raised by Henry VII.,
and bears his name, and the western towers rose
when George III. was king.

But I shall have more to say to you presently
about these various additions. Let us cross over
now to St. Margaret’s Churchyard, and as we stroll
round the Abbey, I will tell you how it came to be
built at all. To get at the very beginning, we shall
have to go back to a time long before Edward the
Confessor sat watching his workmen—to the days
when London was a Roman city, and when the site
of modern Westminster was a marshy tract of
ground, crossed by various streams and channels.
At that time the river Thames and one of these
channels enclosed an island about a quarter of a
mile long and somewhat less in breadth. It was a
marshy wilderness, and had the character of being
“a terrible place,” and amongst its swamps and
thickets the huge red deer, with his immense
antlers, and the wild ox found a refuge. When it
received a name, it became known as Thorn-Ey,
that is, Isle of Thorns; in later days people called
it Thorney Island. Tradition says that in the
midst of the wilderness there was erected, in the
year 154 A.D., a Temple of Apollo. We are next
told that King Lucius, who was said to have been
the founder of a great many English churches,
turned the temple into a Christian sanctuary.
Then we hear that in 616 A.D., Sebert, King of
Essex, founded an Abbey here, and dedicated it to
St. Peter, “in order to balance the compliment he
had made to St. Paul on Ludgate Hill.” All this
is very doubtful, but from the earliest times in
history there has been shown a grave of Sebert
as that of the founder of the Abbey.

Twelve monks of the Benedictine order were
placed here by Dunstan, and suffered a great deal
from the Danes, who in these times did much
mischief in England. The last of the Saxon
kings who kept up the long struggle with these
pagans was Edward, who by his exile to escape
from their tyranny won the title of Confessor. He
was a very strange man, who seemed never
thoroughly happy except when he was sitting in
church or when he was hunting in the woods. He
had milk-white hair and beard, rosy cheeks, “thin
white hands, and long transparent fingers.” He
was sometimes gentle, sometimes furious; sometimes
very grave, going about with eyes fixed on
the ground, sometimes bursting out into wild fits
of laughter.

Edward returned from his exile accompanied
by Norman courtiers and Norman priests, and full
of Norman ideas. He appears to have been very
much delighted with his visits to the great continental
cathedrals, so different from the simple
structures of the Saxons. During his troubles he
had vowed to make a pilgrimage to Rome; but the
Pope gave him leave to build an Abbey to St.
Peter instead. Edward accordingly resolved to
restore the monastery on the Isle of Thorns, on a
very different scale from anything that had been
before attempted in England.

According to a legend told in after years, there
was near Worcester a holy hermit “of great age,
living on fruits and roots,” who dwelt “far from
men in a wilderness on the slope of a wood, in a
cave deep down in the grey rock.” To this holy
man St. Peter appeared one night, and bade him
tell the king that he was released from his pilgrimage,
and that at Thorney, near the city, he must
build a Benedictine Abbey, which should be “the
gate of heaven, the ladder of prayer, whence those
who serve St. Peter there shall be by him admitted
into Paradise.” The hermit wrote out his dream
on parchment, and sent it to the king, who compared
it with the message to the same purpose just
received from Rome, and at once set to work on
the project.

Another story was told to show that Thorney was
specially under the patronage of St. Peter. It was
said that on the evening before Mellitus, first
Bishop of London, was about to consecrate the
monastery built here by King Sebert, a fisherman
named Edric was engaged by a venerable stranger
to ferry him across to the island. The stranger
entered the church, and assisted by a host of angels,
who descended with sweet odours and flaming
candles, dedicated the church with all the usual
ceremonies. Then returning to the awe-struck
fisherman, the mysterious stranger declared himself
to be St. Peter, Keeper of the Keys of Heaven,
and that he had consecrated his own Church of
St. Peter, Westminster. When the king and
Bishop Mellitus arrived next day, Edric told his
story, and pointed out the marks of the twelve
crosses on the church, the walls within and without
moistened with holy water, the letters of the Greek
alphabet written twice over distinctly on the sand,
the traces of the oil, and even the droppings of
the angelic candles. The bishop could not
presume to add any further ceremonial, but retired.

Edward restored the old royal palace close by,
and dwelt there fifteen years, superintending the
erection of the Abbey. Dean Stanley says he
spent upon it one-tenth of the property of the
kingdom. His end was approaching when he
dedicated the Abbey, on Innocents Day, 1065, and
[Pg 16]
on the last day of the year he died. I shall tell
you about his funeral later on.

The edifice stood pretty much as Edward the
Confessor left it till the reign of Henry III., who
showed his love for the Abbey first by adding to it,
and then by demolishing it almost entirely, and
raising in its place the building that has been called
“the most lovely and lovable thing in Christendom.”
In this rebuilding St. Peter was almost lost sight
of, and the Shrine and Chapel of Edward the Confessor
became, as it were, the central idea of the
whole. Very lavishly did King Henry spend his
money over the restored Abbey: the cost was at
least half a million, as we should reckon it. His
work includes the apse and choir, the two transepts,
one arch of the nave, and the chapter-house;
Under the Edwards the nave unfolded
itself farther west, and the Abbot’s House and
Jerusalem Chamber were built. Richard II. was
very fond of the Abbey, and rebuilt, at great expense,
the famous north portal, often spoken of
as “The Beautiful Gate,” or “Solomon’s Porch.”
By Henry V. the nave was prolonged nearly to its
present length. It was just completed in time for
the grand procession to sweep along it when the
Te Deum was sung for the victory at Agincourt.
The architect by whom the work was carried out
was Dick Whittington, Lord Mayor of London.

The next important addition to the Abbey took
place in the reign of Henry VII., when the large
eastern chapel which bears that monarch’s name
was built. The great wars of York and Lancaster
were now over, but amongst the chief
actors in those tragic events there was one who,
by his saintly goodness and sufferings, had left a
revered name upon the lips of Englishmen.
Images of Henry VI. were seen in great churches
throughout the country, and stories of his good works
and miracles were everywhere told. Henry VII.
promised to build at Westminster a magnificent
chapel, in memory of Henry VI. The Pope
promised “canonisation” (as the making of a new
saint is called), and the king obtained from the Westminster
Convent £500 (equal to £5,000 nowadays)
for the transference thither of the holy remains.
But they were never brought from Windsor.
Henry dreaded the immense expense, and completed
the chapel as a grand sepulchre for himself
and his new dynasty.

There is one feature of the Abbey, as seen from
the outside, of which I have not spoken—the western
towers. These were built as far as the roof by
Abbot Islip, who witnessed the erection of
Henry VII.’s Chapel. Two hundred and thirty
years afterwards Sir Christopher Wren restored
Islip’s work, and designed the upper portions.
The edifice is not yet complete, as the square
central tower requires a lofty spire to complete it.

And so, young people, in the course of centuries,
from out “the terrible place” in the wilderness-island
has risen the famous Abbey of Westminster,
the full title of which is the “Collegiate Church, or
Abbey, of St. Peter.” We have now got over the
dry part of our subject, so we will enter the Abbey,
and as we tread its holy shades together I shall
have more interesting things to tell you about
some of the famous men and women and stormy
events that have made it for ever memorable.

MADGE’S DOVE

ow, Madge,” cried Hal, and bent his bow,
“Just watch this famous shot;

See that old willow by the brook—
I’ll hit the middle knot.”

Swift flew the arrow through the air,
Madge watched it eager-eyed;

But, oh! for Harry’s gallant vaunt,
The wayward dart flew wide.


Flew wide, and struck his cousin’s dove
As, wheeling round and round,

It hovered near—the wounded bird
Fell fluttering to the ground.

And in a moment o’er her pet
Dear Madge is bending low.

Oh, how she blames the faithless dart,
The cruel, cruel bow!


The dove, soft folded in her hands,
She presses to her breast;

The bird that brought the olive spray
Was never more caressed.

Her tears upon its plumage fall,
They fall like soft warm rain—

Sure if the bird were dead such love
Would give it life again.


Poor Hal stands by, and tries to speak
His sorrow and regret;

Madge scarcely hears a word he says
For pity of her pet.

But time, the gentle healer, cures
The wounds of doves and men—

The days restore to faithful Madge
Her bonnie bird again.

Robert Richardson.

[Pg 17]

the wounded dove (See p. 16.)

[Pg 18]

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

SOLOMON’S DREAM AT GIBEON.

I
t had been a great day at Gibeon. A
thousand animals had been slaughtered,
and laid upon the altar of burnt-offering;
and, as the successive sacrifices were
consumed, the flames had ascended, and
the smoke, in curling clouds, had gone up towards
heaven in token of acceptance.

A new king had come to the throne, a grand,
and great, and mighty king, Solomon, the most
comely of the sons of David. The fierce fightings
of David, the man of war, were over. The
glittering crown of Israel had been placed upon
the head of Solomon the Peaceable; and the
people hoped great things, and celebrated his
accession with loud and hearty rejoicings. The
dominion of Israel extended, as had been promised
to Abraham, from the Euphrates to the river of
Egypt. David and his mighty men had fought
and conquered. And now the people of Israel
were entering into rest, and into the enjoyment of
that which his sword had won for them.

So Solomon, in his gratitude, offered up his
thousand burnt-offerings; and the people, with
heart and soul, joined him in praise to God, and
their joyous psalms of thanksgiving went up with
the ascending smoke.

Gibeon, which was a priestly city, lay in the
tribe of Benjamin, about six miles and a half
from Jerusalem; and there, in the reign of David,
the Tabernacle, which had been at Shiloh, had
somehow come to be pitched.

So Gibeon had become an important place; and
thither Solomon went to offer up his sacrifice.

The flames that had consumed the last animal
had died away, and the cloud of smoke had
ceased to go up. The sun that had lighted up the
world had sunk below the horizon, amid clouds of
gold and purple, seemingly well pleased to have
witnessed, on this sin-stained earth, so grand and
noble a scene as that of a young and happy, handsome
and rich king, recognising God’s providence,
and offering up so worthy a sacrifice of praise and
thanksgiving to Him who had placed him upon
the throne.

The shades of night had fallen upon all, and the
joyous king himself had retired to rest. With a
clear conscience and a light heart, he had lain
down, and, after the fatigues of the eventful day,
had fallen into a peaceful sleep.

For all his subjects loved and honoured Solomon,
and gloried in having him for their king.

Well might his heart be light and his sleep be
sweet. Well might his face be radiant with joy,
even as he lay unconscious upon his bed. But
soon an expression of still greater joy overspread
his countenance. A still brighter light came into
his face, and his heart leaped within him; for,
in a dream of the night, God drew near this
chosen and well-beloved son of David, to heap
upon him still greater favours.

Pleased with the love and gratitude and devotion,
to which the young king had given expression by
his costly sacrifice, God, who loves a thankful
heart, and pours into it still more of His goodness,
visited the sleeping Solomon in the stillness of the
night.

“Ask what I shall give thee,” He said; and as
the voice fell upon Solomon’s ear—

for that was the voice that he then most loved, and
most desired to hear.

And what an exceedingly gracious offer it made!
To get whatever he should desire! Had ever
grandest king been so favoured? But what should
he ask for—this youthful king, to whom life was
just opening out as a pleasant paradise, offering him
all that seemed worth the coveting? Was there
anything yet wanting to him? How many things
he might have requested!

His father is said to have died, at the age of
seventy years, feeble and broken down. Would he,
in so short a time, be tired of living? Would he,
so soon, be ready to leave the glory and honour to
which he had been called? Should he ask for
length of days? Should he request that, till he had
reached an age exceeding that of Methuselah, the
cold hand of death might not be laid upon him,
and the greedy and all-devouring tomb might not
claim him as its victim? Should he ask that he
might plant his feet upon the neck of all his
enemies, not one daring to raise up a finger against
him? Or should he desire that the vast riches,
that had been heaped up by his father during his
long and victorious wars, and that had been left
to him, might be still further increased, and that
he might be the richest and grandest king on the
face of the earth? Or should he ask that he
might become so famous, that so long as the world
should endure, his name might be a household
word, not only amongst his own people, but in
[Pg 19]
distant lands, from east to west, and from north to
south, wherever the foot of man might tread?

view near gibeon

Oh, no! All these things, which many would
have desired, were to him but empty things of
earth, trifles that must pass away, vain bubbles
that must burst and disappear, leaving behind them
no true and lasting benefit. His thoughts did not
dwell upon them, but upon higher, and better, and
nobler things.

He, the last born of David’s sons, had been
chosen before all his brethren, to sit upon the
glorious throne of his father. Those over whom he
had been called to rule were the chosen people of God.
They had been taken out of all the nations of the world
to be His own peculiar people, and to witness,
amidst the idolatrous
nations around
them, to
the living and
true God. The
heart of God was
set upon them.
His love was
freely poured out
upon them, and
He had bound
them to Himself,
closely as a man
bound around him
his valued girdle.
They were the
descendants of
faithful Abraham,
of Isaac, and Jacob. They had become great, and
mighty, and powerful, spreading themselves out
like the cedars of Lebanon, and flourishing like
the stately palms. All the surrounding nations
looked upon them as the favoured of Heaven, and
feared them.

And he was called to rule them—he, so young
and so inexperienced! It was his mission to rule
them with justice, to train them in the paths of
righteousness, and to bring them still nearer to Him
who had chosen them.

And how should he accomplish it? How small
and insignificant he felt, and how utterly worthless!
How he seemed to dwindle into nothing beside
the great work that he was called to do! And yet
how anxious he was to do it well! How he longed
to be like his father David, a true shepherd to his
people! How his heart yearned over his subjects;
and how greatly he desired to govern them aright,
and to be the channel through which the blessings
of the great King of Heaven might be poured down
upon them!

Yes, that was the one thing he desired—worthily
to perform the great work which had been given
him to do. And young and inexperienced as he
was, he could not do it of himself, and he must
ask for the needful wisdom.

A shade of regret for a moment darkened the
face of the sleeper as he thought of his own inefficiency.
But it soon passed away. There was
wisdom for the asking; and his bright red lips
moved in humble prayer.

“O Lord,” he murmured in deep reverence,
“Thou hast showed great mercy unto David my
father, and hast made me to reign in his stead.
And Thy servant is in the midst of Thy people,
which thou hast chosen—a great people that cannot
be counted for multitude. I am but a little
child. I know
not how to go
out, or to come
in. Give me now
wisdom and knowledge,
for who can
judge this Thy
people that is so
great?”

How pleasing
to God were the
deep humility expressed
in this
prayer, the discernment
of the
great work that he
was called to do;
the earnest desire
to be fitted to do it nobly and well, and the
utter forgetfulness of all earthly glory and fame!

There was no word of reproach, no saying that
as the son of David he ought to be well qualified
for governing. Only the gracious answer came,
that, because all this was in the heart of the young
king, because he had made the worthy fulfilment of
his mission the grand aim of his life, wisdom and
knowledge were granted to him. And because he
had desired these rather than long life, or riches, or
honour, or the lives of his enemies, there should
also be given to him riches, and wealth, and
honour, such as no king had ever enjoyed before
him or should ever know after him. And if he
served God faithfully, as his father David had
done, length of days, also, should be added unto
him.

The young king awoke, “and, behold it was a
dream.” But it was not one of those fanciful
dreams, that come and go, and mean nothing. It
was a dream from God, a great reality, as he was
soon to prove.

From that time Solomon became noted for his
[Pg 20]
wisdom and knowledge. On the most difficult
points he was able to give a just judgment, that
astonished all who heard it. “And the people
feared him; for they saw that the wisdom of God
was in him.”

His wisdom excelled that of all the wise men of the
east, and the understanding of even the wise men of
Egypt sank into the shade when compared with his.

He gave his people three thousand proverbs.
He wrote a thousand and five songs; one of them
which is called the “Song of Songs,” or the “Song
of Solomon,” and which has a place in the Bible,
having a depth of beautiful meaning, which only
the very wise can understand. He knew all about
the trees, from the kingly cedar that reared its
proud head on the famous heights of Lebanon, to
the humble hyssop that sprang out of the wall. He
could tell the nature of each, describe its flowers and
its fruit, and point out of what it was symbolic. The
beasts of the earth, the fowls of the air, the fishes
of the sea, and even the creeping things were all
to him as an open book. He could tell for what
each was created, and what lesson each was intended
to convey. He could answer the most
difficult questions that any one could put to him;
and his fame rapidly spread through all the
countries of the then known world.

He became so rich, too, that silver and gold were
as common as the stones that he saw lying in the
streets, as he rode through Jerusalem in his open
chariot, clothed in white, threads of glittering gold
mixed with his jet black hair.

He erected the glorious temple, which for
grandeur and magnificence stood unrivalled; and
time would fail to tell of the splendour of his throne,
of his palace, and of the palace which he built for
his favourite wife.

In almost all countries, his name has been
familiar; and, to this day, the wild Arabs will tell
wondrous stories about him, as they gather at
night round their blazing fires. His grandeur and
wisdom have ever since been proverbial; and even
Jesus, when He wished to compare the lilies of the
field with something very magnificent, spoke of
“Solomon in all his glory.”

The great king, however, did not get length of
days, because he afterwards grievously fell. But,
without darkening this story with the account of
his subsequent sins, let us try rather to learn some
of the useful lessons that it is intended to teach.
Perhaps you have already found them out.

Like Solomon, we have all in life a great work
to do, and we all lack wisdom. But we have
only, as St. James tells us, to “ask of God,” who
giveth to all men liberally, without reproaching
them for their foolishness. And if we seek the
wisdom that comes from above—the wisdom of
Jesus Christ, we need have no fear; for, as the
great Master Himself tells us, all other things will
be added unto us.

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

1. Which is the only miracle of our Lord that is related
by all the four Evangelists?

2. What city, after its destruction, was sown with salt,
as a sign of the barrenness and desolation that its enemies
wished to see come upon it?

3. How many lepers are we told, were cleansed by
our Lord?

4. Whence did Solomon procure the pattern according
to which he built the Temple?

5. Where does the psalmist call God the health of the
countenance?

6. What is the only occasion on which we read of
Jesus sleeping?

7. Where is Mary, the mother of Jesus, last mentioned.

8. Where do we read that, while, in the reign of
David, the old Tabernacle remained at Gibeon, a new
tent was pitched at Jerusalem for the ark of the
Lord?

9. In which place, after the pitching of the new
Tabernacle, did the high priest officiate?

10. Where do we find that Solomon, on his accession,
recognised the sanctity of both places?

11. Where is there a prophecy of Jonah concerning
Israel, not recorded in the Bible, alluded to in the history
of the kings?

12. From what words of St. Paul do we gather that
other Christians; besides Stephen, were put to death
during the persecution at Jerusalem?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (61-72. See Vol. XIX., p. 346).

61. In Lev. xix. 14, and Deut. xxvii. 18.

62. In St. Matt. xxvi. 30, and St. Mark xiv.
26.

63. In Gen. xviii. 14; Jer. xxxii. 17, 27; Job xlii. 2;
St. Matt. xix. 26; St. Mark x. 27, xiv. 36; St. Luke
i. 37, xviii. 27.

64. In St. Mark xii. 41-44; St. Luke xxi. 1-4; and
2 Cor. viii. 12.

65. Of the mother of Samson, Judges xiii. 2-24,
xiv. 2-9; and Hannah, the mother of Samuel, 1 Sam.
i., ii. 1-10, 18-21.

66. In Judges xiv. 12-19; and Ezek. xvii. 1-10.

67. Proverbs xii. 10.

68. In St. Matt. vi. 25-34; and St. Luke xii. 22-30.

69. In St. Matt, xxiii. 5.

70. St. John xvii. 4.

71. In Lev. xix. 13; and Deut. xxiv. 14, 15.

72. In Deut. xxi. 22, 23.

[Pg 21]

they brought her home in triumph, a merry sight to see.

NESSIE’S ADVENTURE.

essie was lost—her brothers
Had sought her high and low:

Where in the world was Baby?
Nobody seemed to know.


“Mother,” at last said Harry
“Now don’t you be afraid;

We’ll make up a grand search party,
And find our little maid.”


Harry led forth his followers,
Down by the willowed pond,

Past the old grey turnstile,
And into the woods beyond.


They searched by stream and meadow,
They searched ‘neath hedge and tree;

“Where,” said the puzzled children,
“Where can the truant be?”


At last, at last they found her,
In a meadow far away,

Under a sheltering haystack,
Asleep ‘mid the fragrant hay.


They brought her home in triumph,
A merry sight to see,

With flags and banners flying,
And songs of victory.

TOO YOUNG FOR SCHOOL.

By the Author of “Harry Maxwell; or, Schoolboy Honour.”

“Here, I say, old fellow! what’s the matter?
you look as sulky as a brown bear. And
where’s your cap gone? I say now,
do wake up! You’ll catch it if old
Jacky catches you.”

“Let me be. You would look sulky if you had
a little chap of a brother sent to school, miles too
young to come at all, and had got to look after
him and keep him out of scrapes, and show him
how to get on with his lessons, and keep the fellows
from bullying him.”

“Why in the world did he come, Graham?”

“Oh, don’t bother, Johnny, old man,” and as he
spoke, Hubert Graham drew his arm away from
the parapet over which he was leaning with book
in hand, and turning round a frank, honest-looking
face towards the boy who was questioning
him, passed his hand over his eyes, and added,
“What can have come to Uncle Charlie to make
him send Chris off like this, I can’t think. Middle
of term too!”

“Well, how is it?—explain to me—but—I say, old
fellow, where’s your cap? you’ll be in no end of a
row if you lose it, you know.”

leaning with book in hand (p. 21).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up went Hubert Graham’s hand to his head, as he
answered in a bewildered way, “Cap! Haven’t I

got—” and
then hastily
turning, and
looking over the
parapet, he exclaimed,
“Oh! I
say, Seton, just
look there!” and
he burst out into
a hearty laugh as
he added “One
of those barge
boys has just
fished it up out
of the water, and
he’s holding it up
in triumph to me.
I must have been
dreaming. It’s out
of bounds,” he
went on, with a
face of dismay.

“I wonder if the fellow will bring it up to me.”

“Not he,” said Seton.

Dr. Thornley’s boys were not allowed to go,
without special leave, any nearer the town on the
outskirts of which the school was situated than the
bridge over which Hubert had been leaning. The
approach of a master solved the difficulty. Hubert
Graham went up to him. “If you please,
sir, I was leaning over the parapet, and my cap
fell into the river. A bargee has picked it up.
May I run and get it?”

The master looked over, and laughed. “Perhaps
he won’t give it up. You may go and try.”

When Hubert Graham returned to the bridge
in triumph so far as the possession of a very wet
cap was concerned, but rather low in his mind at
having had to pay the exacting bargee a shilling
out of his somewhat scanty store of pocket-money,
he found John Seton lingering about for him.

“I say,” he said, “I want to know about your
uncle, and the little one. He’s a jolly little man
though; I expect he’ll make his way.”

“But there’s a terrible set in the lower school for
him to make his way with,
and he a mere baby.”

“Well! he’s seven—and
that seems like a baby to
us, to be sure,” said magnificent
fourteen years, speaking
in the person of John Seton;
“and you’re right. They are a
set; I wish I was the prefect in his
dormitory, but I’m not. Tell me how he
came here in such a hurry?”

“Well, you needn’t talk about it to the other
fellows. Father and mother are in India. Father’s
regiment was ordered abroad four years ago, and
mother went with him. There were three of us,
and we were sent to Uncle Charlie to take care
of. I was eight years old then, Nellie was five,
and Chris three years old. Uncle was jolly and
kind, and sent me here when I was ten. Just
before the summer holidays were over Uncle
Charlie married, and I’m sure our new aunt does
not care for us to be there. But I never thought
they’d send Chris to school. I wonder what they’ll
do with Nellie?”

“Can’t you write to your father?”

“I will directly, but it’s so long before I can
hear.”

*   *
  *  

A poor little fellow taken from the nursery. A
brave, bright little man enough, but oh! so young,
so pitifully young to be sent to a school where
there were fifty or sixty boys in what was called
the lower school only! Poor little Christopher!
If his mother could have seen him! He came—bright—happy—full
of life, determined to like it; but
before two days were over his little soul was full of
misery. The boys of ten and eleven years became
his dread and torment. On the second day he saw
nothing of Hubert till the evening, and then he said,
“Hubert, why couldn’t I go to our grandfather?”

“Nobody even thought of such a thing, Chris.
I don’t expect our grandfather would like us.”

“How do you know?” said the child.

“Oh! don’t bother,” returned his brother.
“Only by what I’ve heard nurse say. She was
talking one day to Jane, and she said, ‘The
children would have gone to General Graham’s,
only, you know, he was angry with master for
marrying, and so master never asked him to have
them.’ I asked nurse what she meant, and she
was vexed that I’d heard it, and said it was nothing
I could understand.”

“But I am so miserable here.”

“Try to like it. Seton says you can go into his
study to-night, and do your exercises. The fellows
in the school don’t leave you alone, do they, Chris?”
[Pg 23]

“No,” said poor little Chris; “they don’t.” And
sitting in Seton’s little study that night the child
found comfort for the first time.

And for a few days things seemed better. But
it was not to last. Those boys in the lower school,
who had tormented him before, were worse than
ever, now that they thought he was being made
a favourite of by one of the senior boys, and the
poor little fellow had no peace. He complained
bitterly to his brother, but it was no good. Hubert
said it would only make the boys ten times worse
if he interfered. “And never mind, old fellow,” he
said; “it’s half-holiday to-morrow, and you’ll get
some jolly games.”

“Jolly games,” thought poor little Christopher;
“I know better. They won’t be very jolly to me.”

And then Christopher made up his mind, and in
his brave little heart determined to tell no one, but
to run away, if he only could, to his grandfather.
He knew the way to the station from the school,
and he knew that trains went direct to a station
called Kingsdown, where Uncle Charlie always
went when he visited grandfather. “After all, he
can’t be worse than the boys,” he said to himself.
“And Hubert can’t help me.”

But Hubert did care. His smothered indignation
and anxiety knew no bounds, and the very
night that Chris made up his mind to run away,
long after the other boys in his dormitory were
asleep, Hubert lay awake thinking how he could
help his little brother. He fancied he heard a
noise in one of the dormitories. It seemed, he
thought, to come from the
direction of the one in
which Christopher was.
He raised himself on his
elbow to listen, and muttered
to himself, “They
shall only wait till to-morrow,
and then those
two fellows, Howard and
Peters, shall have a piece
of my mind. They’re the
ringleaders. It shall be
the worse for them if
they’ve been frightening
him to-night.”

sitting in seton’s little study

And he lay there listening
till all seemed quiet,
and then saying to himself,
“The poor little chap
is at peace now, I expect,”
he turned round,
and dropped off to sleep.

But he had not been listening
quite long enough.

Little Christopher waited till all the boys in his
room were sound asleep, pinching himself to keep
himself awake; then out of bed he crept, felt for
his clothes, which were close at hand, huddled
them on, put his feet into his felt slippers, as he
dared not put on any boots, and got out in the
passage. His bed was near the door, which was
fortunate, for he thought, if he had had to pass
many of the boys’ beds, his courage would have
failed him. Down the stairs he stole—oh! how
they creaked—and unfastening the shutters of one
of the school-room windows, got out of it into the
garden. But ah! he hadn’t calculated on the big
dog, whose kennel was hard by, and who was out
in a moment.

“Dear, darling Ponto,” cried the poor little
fellow; “don’t bark, my dear.” And up he went,
and stroked and patted the great mastiff, who,
already knowing the little fellow, put his paws on
his shoulders, and licked his face with great
appreciation. For Christopher was tenderly kind
to animals, and he was rewarded for this now in
his day of deep distress. Ponto did not bark.

Christopher whispered to him. “Ponto, I’m
very unhappy. I’m running away. I wish I could
take you with me. I only love you here; excepting
Hubert, and he can’t help me;” and away he
stole.

As he got into the high road the early dawn of
morning gave him a little light.

All was consternation in the school later, in the
morning. A boy missing! Dr. Thornley summoned
[Pg 24]
the whole school before him.
Could any boy give him any information?

hubert lay awake (p. 23).

Hubert came forward. “He said he should run
away yesterday, sir; but I had no notion the
poor boy would or could, or I’d never have left
him last night.”

“Why?—for what reason?” said Dr. Thornley,
his face growing sterner and graver.

John Seton came forward. “I’m afraid, sir,
there’s very bad bullying in the lower school.”

“So bad as this, that a boy should run away!”
said the doctor; “and you a prefect!”

The colour mounted high in John
Seton’s fine young face.

“I’ve not had anything to do with
the discipline the three weeks since
Graham minor has been here, sir;
but some of us meant to speak. It
could not go on.”

“May I go after him, sir?” said
Hubert, his voice quivering with
anxiety.

“I have sent to search for him in all
directions,” said the doctor. “A poor
little child like that might meet with
many mishaps. I am surprised,”
and his voice shook, “that none of
you bigger boys let me know of any
of this base, low, ungentlemanly conduct.”

The expression on the countenances
of some of the boys of the
lower school, as these
words fell from the doctor’s
lips, may be imagined.

Dr. Thornley was the
kindest-hearted of men, but
there were certain offences
that moved him greatly;
and when moved to wrath,
the boys knew he could
be terrible.

“I must find this all
out; and if the boys who
have been bullying little
Graham have not the
bravery to come forward,
and confess it of their own
free will, I must take
measures to discover who
they were. But I warn
them,” added the doctor, “that if I find
them out before they have come forward
and freely confessed their base conduct,
their time at this school will be short.
To-day is a half-holiday. All the lower school
will keep within bounds to-day.”

At that instant “Old Jacky,” as the boys called
him, the school porter, brought the doctor a
telegram. His face wore a look of great relief as
he read it. And he turned to poor Hubert.

“Your brother is safe.” Then to the school he
said, “I have just had this telegram, which I will
read, ‘General Sir Henry Graham, Sefton Court,
to Dr. Thornley, Middleborough. Christopher
Graham safe with me. Shall make full inquiries.'”

fast asleep, with his head on the dog (p. 25).

[Pg 25]
At Sefton Court the same morning all was lazy
and quiet. The blinds drawn down the entrance
door side of the house to keep out the sun, but
doors and windows thrown wide open. An old
gentleman sitting in his library, reading his paper.
Something made the old gentleman restless. He
fidgeted. Something was wrong with his glasses.
Then to himself he said, “I wish Henry was here.
Shall write by next mail. Why shouldn’t his wife
come home, and bring the children here? I don’t
half like it now that Charlie’s married. Perhaps
she won’t like the children. Got a craze on
education too. They overdo it. Dear me! I
wonder where that fellow Thomas is?”

And up got the old gentleman, and walked to
the door. He had no sooner opened it than he
gave a great start. “Hullo! What on earth is
this?” What was it he saw?

His own old dog, Bevis, whose favourite sleeping-place
was the mat at his door, lying there as usual,
but not asleep. Wide awake, as if on guard. And
marvel of marvels! a dear little fair-haired boy
fast, fast asleep, with his head on the dog, who was
lying so as to make himself into as comfortable a
pillow as possible.

The old gentleman stared hard for a minute, then
began to shout for Thomas, which woke the child,
and he began to sob.

they were all three assembled (p. 26).

“There, there!” said the old general. “Who
are you? You oughtn’t to have come in without
leave.” By this time poor little Christopher, for it
was he, had collected his scattered faculties, and
catching hold of one of General Graham’s hands,
cried, “You’re grandfather. Do take care of me.
I’m so unhappy at school; I think I’m too little.
So I said I’d come off to you. You wouldn’t be
as bad as the boys!”

“Who? who?” stammered the poor old general.

“I’m little Christopher Graham. Uncle Charlie
sent me to school, and I’m too little, I expect. I
ran away. I know it was naughty, but forgive me,
and don’t send me back. I had five shillings in
my box, and I ran away in the night, and came
here by the train in the morning; and I asked
where you lived, and I walked here from the
station, and I saw the door wide open, and I
thought as it was grandfather’s house I might
come in; and I was afraid of the dog, but he
didn’t hurt me, and I knelt down to pat him, and
I suppose I was very tired, for I can’t remember
any more.”

But he needed to say no more, for he was in
his grandfather’s arms. And Thomas was close
by, and brought some warm tea very quickly;
and a kind-looking old lady came, who said to
Christopher she was his great Aunt Susan, and
that he must be undressed and have a warm bath,
and go to bed to get a sound sleep before they let
him tell them anything else.

The very next evening Aunt Susan called
[Pg 26]
Christopher into the library. There was his very
own Nellie sitting on grandfather’s knee, and
Hubert standing by!

Dr. Thornley had given Hubert one day’s
holiday to go and see Christopher. Later in the
evening they were all three assembled in a
pleasant cosy room, looking over funny old picture-books,
which kind Aunt Susan turned out of her
treasures.

“‘All’s well that ends well,'” said Hubert; “but
you mustn’t run away from school when you’re
bigger, old boy. You’re only forgiven because
you’re a baby, you know.”

And his grandfather said to him later on—

“My boy, in the battle-field no soldier worthy
to bear the name of ‘Englishman’ ever turned his
back on the enemy. What you had to bear was
hard; but you turned your back on your enemy
when you ran away. And you bear an ancient
name, and you come of a noble race. We must
do our Duty, come what will.”

And Christopher never forgot these words.

THE HOME OF THE BEADS.

Who would
believe it?

You may
well open your
eyes, and shake
your little heads
incredulously,
but nevertheless
it is a positive
fact, that
Venice, the fair Queen of the Adriatic, sends forth
every year no less than three thousand tons of glass
beads, for the adornment of your sisters big and
little in all the four quarters of the globe.

gondola.

The largest buyers of these pretty dainty toys
are the Roman peasant women. America follows
closely in their footsteps, Great Britain’s turn
comes next, then Germany puts in a modest claim,
while the worst customers of all are the Scandinavians,
to whose deep, earnest, thoughtful nature
the glittering baubles appear mere useless trifles.
Among the Russian, Turkish, and Hungarian women,
only the richest classes indulge in these ornaments;
they are scarcely ever seen among the
people, which may perhaps be explained by the fact
that they would not at all suit the various
national costumes.

All those customers, however, who belong in
reality to the civilised nations (for, as a rule, the
higher the cultivation, the less are these shining
ornaments appreciated), only demand the cheaper
kinds of glass beads. The best and dearest, the so-called
perle di luce, find their way to India and
Africa, to the half-civilised and wholly savage
races. And here, the long strings of gay glistening
beads do not merely serve as finishing-touches to
the costume, but form the principal ornament, and
cover the neck, arms, hair, and slender ankles of
many a Hindoo or Malay maiden, while among
the Ethiopians they often represent the sole article
of dress. By these people, the glass pearls are
indeed looked upon as treasures, and the pretty
string of Roman or Venetian beads which you, my
little maiden, lay aside so carelessly, is among
them the cause of as much heart-burning and
anxious hopes and fears as the most costly
diamond necklace would be among English
people.

Japan, too, is not a bad market for their sale;
whereas China again will have none of them, and
turns her back rudely on fair Venice and its industry.

But come! Here lies a gondola ready to our
hand—the boatman seems intuitively to have read
our wishes, and as we glide over the blue rippling
waters in which the stately palaces are mirrored
clear and lifelike, we seem to see a second Venice
reflected beneath us. Gradually we approach the
island of Murano, on which is situated the largest
of the seven great bead manufactories of Venice, and
here Herr Weberbeck, a German, employs no less
than 500 men and women. Altogether about 6,000
people earn their livelihood (and a poor one it is),
by this wonderfully pretty industry, while the value
of the exports amounts yearly to the sum of
£300,000.

The manufacture itself surprises us by the great
simplicity which characterises it. The first stage
is getting the liquid mass of glass about to be
operated upon into a thorough state of toughness
and pliability: one should be able to pull it like
rosin or sealing-wax. The colouring of the mass
is done while it is still in the furnace, by adding
various chemicals, the principal of which are
arsenic, saltpetre, antimony, and lead.

The next process is drawing out the long glass
pipes. This is most interesting. Let us, therefore,
watch the man yonder, one of the glass-blowers, as,
by means of an iron rod, he carefully lifts a ball of
liquid glass, about the size of a small melon, from
[Pg 27]
the open furnace, and with another simple instrument
makes an indentation in the outer circle,
nearly the size of that one sees at the bottom of a
wine-bottle. His colleague, meanwhile, has done
exactly the same to another ball of glass, and as
they both press their balls together, the two outer
circles merge into one, and the air inside the hollow
spaces is completely shut off. Now the workmen
draw back the iron rods, which are still attached
to the hot mass, and a glass thread is seen connecting
them to the centre ball. Then, keeping the
strictest military time, the glass-blowers march off
in opposite directions, to about the distance of a
hundred yards, and the glowing glass thread spins
itself off from both balls, until it is exhausted, or
until the cold air hardens it. The imprisoned air
has likewise, however, been spun out, and thus a
hollow pipe, instead of a solid rod, has been formed,
and so prepared the hole for the future beads.

The glass threads vary in thickness, from that of
a pencil to that of a very thin knitting-needle.
Those intended for beads of mixed colours are
drawn out just in the same way, the only difference
being that in that case the glass ball, as soon as
it is taken from the furnace, is dipped in various
coloured masses of liquid glass, which then form
layers, one over the other, like the layers of an
onion.

Sometimes, very tiny lumps of coloured glass are
stuck on the glass balls, which then form parti-coloured
stripes on the glass threads. The separating
and sorting of the threads or pipes, which are
now broken up into lengths of about three feet, is a
widely-spread home-industry in Venice, and if we go
down to the lower parts of the Lagoon city, where
the people dwell, we shall see numbers of women
and children seated before large baskets, out of
which glass pipes protrude like the quills of a
gigantic porcupine. With fingers spread wide
apart, they carefully weigh and feel the contents
of the baskets, till they have sorted all the pipes,
according to their sizes. The different bundles are
then carried back to the factory, where they are
placed in a machine, not unlike a chaff-cutter, and
cut up into small pieces. It is amusing to watch the
coloured shower as it falls. Do not be afraid, but
just place your hand beneath, to catch the glittering
stream, and it will almost seem as if you had taken
hold of a shower of hailstones.

Any pointed or jagged bits having been cut off,
the beads are now rolled in fine sand, which has
been carefully heated in earthen jars, until just
warm enough to soften the outside of the glass, so
that a gentle friction would rub off the sharp edges.
The sand gets into the holes in the beads, prevents
them from closing up during this process, and ere
we can believe it possible, they come forth round,
perfect, and complete. The larger and smaller ones
are now separated and sorted by simply shaking
them in different-sized sieves, and any beads that
require an extra amount of polish are thrown into
small bags filled with marl, and vigorously tossed
and shaken.

Much more complicated is the manufacture of
the perle di luce, or beads of light, which so delight
the natives of India and Africa. The name is
taken from the way in which they are prepared,
namely, by means of a jet of intense flame, and
great skill and dexterity is required on the part of
the workman, who can display his talent and
originality by ornamenting them with flowers and
arabesques. The combined effects of light and
colour are often very beautiful, and seem a fit adornment
for all those eastern and southern nations
over whom a halo of fable and romance is cast.

In the interior of Africa, these perle di luce are
frequently used as payment instead of coin, and
the cunning Arab, in whose hands almost the whole
of the trade lies, generally turns to his own profit
the delight that the innocent negresses exhibit at
his gay wares.

But contrary to what one might expect, the
black, woolly-headed children of Nature show a
strange distaste for glossy beads; so much so
indeed, that the Venetians find it necessary to
deaden the natural brilliancy which all glass
obtains when it becomes cold, by grinding it, and
thus softening the otherwise shining surface.

Notwithstanding all this, however, the bead industry
of Venice is but a poorly-paid one; only
the most skilful among the hands can manage to
make a decent livelihood. Not very many of the
women can earn more than about 4½d. a day, so
that for them all the fast-days decreed by their
Church are quite superfluous; their fasts last from
Ash Wednesday to Ash Wednesday. Even polenta,
that very frugal Italian national dish, is for them
only a Sunday’s treat; the rest of the week nature
provides them with turnips and other roots, great
piles of which, cooked on an open hearth, greet us
in all the streets of Venice, where they are eagerly
devoured by the hungry crowd. And yet these poor
people work hard to give pleasure and delight to
both great and little folk.

Truly they exemplify the old proverb, “Some
must sow, that others may reap.”

M. H.

[Answer to “Our Imaginary Dissolving Views“—VI.
(See Vol. XIX., p. 351.) 1. Henrietta, Maria. 2.
Vandyke’s picture of Charles I. and his queen: the
children were afterwards Charles II. and James II. 3.
The Fronde. 4. Trial of Charles I. in Westminster Hall.]

[Pg 28]

A PRACTICAL JOKE.

was noon-tide on a summer day,
And in a hammock Bruin lay,
Studying the price of pork and veal,
And wondering how to get a meal,
And what his little ones would do
If all the papers said was true.

The sun was very warm that day,
And having trudged a weary way
In search of food, ’twas no surprise
That Mr. Bruin shut his eyes
Now and again, and did not see
Two monkeys o’er him in the tree.

“Hurrah!” they whispered, “here’s a chance
Of making Mr. Bruin dance!
Oft has he put us in a fix:
We’ll pay him out now for his tricks,
And let him know that, though we’re small,
We’re not so harmless after all!”

’twas noon-tide on a summer day, and in a hammock bruin lay.

[Pg 29]

upon the ground, with aching bones, poor bruin mingled sighs and groans

Then, knife in hand, one monkey passed
From branch to branch, until at last
He reached the bough wherefrom was hung
Old Bruin’s hammock, firmly slung;
And made one sudden vigorous slash
Through all the ropes: then—crash, crash, crash!

Upon the ground, with aching bones,
Poor Bruin mingled sighs and groans,
Compelled to linger there and hear
The monkeys’ frequent taunt and jeer,
While “What’s the price, of bear’s grease, please?”
Went echoing through the forest trees.

G. W.

[Pg 30]

LITTLE TOILERS OF THE NIGHT.

I.—THE PRINTER’S READING-BOY.

It is a gusty Friday night just after
Easter. A night full of wind
which comes in sudden blasts and
drives the sharp shining rain along
the streets so that it seems to
pierce through coats and umbrellas,
and makes such a quick pattering sound
upon the pavement that people who are indoors,
and just going to bed, pull aside their window-curtains,
look out at the flickering lights, and feel
glad to be at home.

Looking up from between the tall flat walls of the
houses in a narrow court in Fleet Street, London, any
one who has eyes can see the gleam of the moon,
and the two or three stars that hang in the long strip
of blue overhead. They can hear the rumble of the
late cab, and the tramp of the policeman outside
so plainly that these sounds are quite startling.
For all day long Fleet Street is a busy place,
with thousands of people going up and down, and
hundreds of carts, cabs, waggons, cars, and carriages,
hustling in the roadway, and people who
have only seen and heard it in the day-time are
surprised to find how silent and deserted it is at
midnight.

But in the narrow court, and in many other
courts and passages close by, there are other sounds
and other lights than the noise of the policeman’s
boots and the gleaming of the stars. Any one
who is standing there may hear a curious buzzing,
and now and then a dull thump, and looking about
may see more than one big building with its windows
all aglow, and the shadows of people moving
across them. Now and then a door will open, and
a lad, perhaps without a cap, and with his jacket
tied round his neck by the sleeves, will rush out as
though the place were on fire and he had been
sent to fetch an engine.

If you are standing near the door you will have
to get out of the way of that lad, or he will be
likely to run you down, or jam you against the
wall, for he is in a hurry. He is not going to fetch
an engine, for if you watch him he scampers down
the next court, or perhaps across Fleet Street, and
in less time than you can get your breath properly,
is back with a tray piled with steaming
mugs, and plates of thick bread-and-butter; and
while you are wondering how he can have got them
so quickly, and whether he will ever carry them up
that steep flight of stairs behind the door of the big
building, he gives a shout that seems to make
twenty echoes, and then you lose sight of him.

In those big buildings with the dark doors and
the lighted windows the news of the week is being
printed, that people may read it in the papers.
There the printers are at work, and will be at work
all night; the lad who has just gone in is a printer’s
lad, and because of some part of the work he has
to do he is called a “reading-boy.”

Nearly every day this week numbers of letters and
telegrams and written accounts of various things
that have taken place in different parts of the
world have been coming in to this building. When
they come in the editor looks at them and sends them
up to the chief compositor. The “compositors,” up
in the top rooms where the lights are shining, stand
before large wooden trays or “cases,” each of which
is divided into a number of small squares, like
boxes without lids. These boxes hold what are
called the types. The types are little slips of metal,
and on the end of each slip is stamped a letter.
One of the boxes in the tray holds the a’s, another
the b’s, another the c’s, and the capital letters and
the stops also have their proper places. When the
compositor has the writing before him on his case,
he takes a small metal box open at one end,
and of the proper width, in his left hand, and with
his right hand picks up one by one the metal letters
that spell the words which are on the page. These
he places in the box with the letter end upwards,
putting a slip of metal without any letter upon it to
make a space between each word. When he has
filled his box he lifts all the letters carefully out
without jumbling any of them up together, stands
them in a tray, and keeps them from falling down
by placing a flat rule of brass against the side
of them. When he has set up so many of these
metal letters that they are enough, when properly
arranged in columns, to make a whole page of printing,
they are all brought close together and then
tightly fastened in a kind of frame, so that they
are quite firm. They are next sent downstairs
and placed on the press, or printing-machine.
Large smooth rollers spread a thin coating of ink
upon this metal page, and then the sheet of
white paper is brought very firmly against it by a
strong machine, which presses so evenly that the
ink is stamped from the metal page of the types on
to the paper. When that paper is removed it is a
printed page, with the same words upon it that the
compositor read upon the letter or written page
sent in a little while ago. All night long these
types with the letters upon them are being set up,
all night long patient men pick up the metal letters
[Pg 31]
and form them into pages; all night long the
steam engine is going, and the letters from the
inky metal pages are being stamped upon the clean
white paper, which, when it is printed all over,
will contain the week’s history of the world, and
will be read by thousands of people.

There are many lads in this printing-office, and
all night they are running up and down with letters
and sheets of writing and printing, or are cleaning
the inky surface of the metal pages, or helping to
fix up the frames. But why are some of them
called “reading-boys?”

Of course when the metal letters are set up
mistakes will occur now and then; so in the first
impression printed from the type, before it is made
up into the pages for printing already referred to
and fastened into the metal frame, these mistakes
must be put right. To do this one person takes
the writing from which the type was set up, and
another the impression from the type, and the man
or boy who has the writing reads it aloud distinctly,
while the other, who has the impression
from the type, reads that to himself at the same
time, and compares what he sees there with what
he hears being read. If he comes to a word
where there is a mistake he makes a mark against
it, and sets it right. When the mistakes are all
marked, the compositor sets them right by
putting in the proper letters and words, instead
of the wrong ones, and then another impression
is printed to see whether all is right this time.
These impressions that are read for mistakes are
called “proofs,” because they prove whether the
work has been properly done. Sometimes, if the
reading-boy is very clever, he can read the first
writing, but the writing is very often so bad that
even the men who set up the metal types can
hardly read it. It is not pleasant work to sit all
night in a close little hot room, with the gas
flaring, and to hear the din, and feel the rolling
of the great machinery, while you have to read
all sorts of things that you don’t care much for,
and haven’t time to think about; but that is what
the “reading-boy” has often to do, though he
sometimes has a good deal of running up and
down stairs, and now and then rushes out to fetch
tea, bread-and-butter, bacon, and other things for
the men, or for himself and his companions. It
is to get a second supply of these dainties that
the boy whom we saw just now comes out again
head-first, and with no jacket at all on this time.
He carries the tray full of empty mugs, and before
he can quite stop himself he comes suddenly
against a burly, weather-beaten looking man, who
is walking up the court, and seems to be lurching
from side to side of the pavement. Before the lad
can stop short, the edge of the tray comes against
this man’s elbow, and crash goes one of the mugs
on the stones of the court.

“Now, then, stoopid!” shouts the boy. “Why
can’t you keep on your right side?”

“Is that the way you speaks to your uncle,
Bennie?” says the big man, laughing. He is a
short broad man, dressed in rough blue cloth, and
with a shiny sou’-wester on his head. He looks
like a pilot, but he is really a fisherman and a
sailor, and he has come up all the way from Yarmouth
on purpose to see Benny’s mother, who is
his own sister.

“Well, uncle, who could ha’ thought of seeing
you here; haven’t you been to mother’s?”

“No, my boy, I got to London by the late train,
and so I thought I’d try and find you out, and we’ll
go home together. What a place this London is,
to be sure, and what a stifly sort of alley this here
is to be workin’ in all night; it don’t seem quite
right for a lad of your age, Benny.”

“Come, don’t you go running down our court,”
says the boy. “I’m all right, uncle, specially since
you was so kind as to pay for me to go to the
classes. Why, bless you, I’m learning French and
Latin now, and I’m put on to reading regular. I
shouldn’t wonder if I was to come to be a printer’s
reader, instead of a reading-boy, and earn ever so
much a week by-and-by.”

“What do you get now, Benny?”

“Eight shillings a week, uncle, and then you
know I can help mother in the shop a bit; but I
say, you don’t mind waitin’ a minute, while I go to
the house over the way. There’s only one or two
places that keep open after twelve, because of our
wanting tea, and ham, and rolls, and coffee, and all
sorts o’ things, to keep us going. It makes you
precious faint to keep up night work without anything
to eat, I can tell you, uncle.”

“Well, I’ll come with you, Benny, and wait for
you at the shop, where I can fill my pipe. But
where’s your jacket, and where’s your cap?”

“Oh, we don’t have time to think about that.
Something’s wanted, and the bell rings, and somebody
shouts down the speaking-tube, and off you
go. It is precious cold sometimes, though, for the
men at our place keep the room so hot. They
can’t bear a breath of air here, and for fear of a
draught, and then getting their fingers cold so that
they can’t feel the type, they paste paper over
every crack, and have all the windows fastened
down, and make you pay a fine for leaving the
door open. Why, uncle, you don’t a bit know
what it is. Talk about the hardships at sea, and
being out night after night off what I’ve heard
you call the Dogger Bank to catch codfish, they’re
[Pg 32]
nothing to being a boy in a printin’ office where
the machine’s always going, and you’ve I don’t
know how many masters to order you about;
but never you mind, I’m going to stick to it,
and if they don’t give me a rise to ten shillings
next week, I’ll leave and go into another place
where they’ll be proud of my talent, and admire me
for my strength. Though I think I would rather
be aboard the Saucy Nancy with you, after all. I
should ‘like ‘a life on the ocean wave, uncle,
and I do get so tired of the night work sometimes.”

“Bless your heart, my boy; there’s lads no bigger
than you at the fishing stations that have as much
night work as you do. Hard work in the cold
and the wind and the wet, and often hungry work,
and a good deal of danger too. There, get along,
and fetch your coat, Benny. I’ll wait here, and
then we’ll go home together to see mother, and as
she tells me you’re to have a holiday, Saturday to
Monday night, you shall come home along o’ me,
and then we will just see what it’s like to be a
Fisher Boy.”

Thomas Archer.

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

By the Author of “The Heir of Elmdale,” &c, &c.

CHAPTER I.—A VISITOR TO RIVERSDALE.

“How
I wish it was a boy. I don’t like girls!”
Bertie Rivers cried, tossing aside his
book. “Do come out, Eddie, and let us
watch for the carriage.”

Eddie laid aside his book a little reluctantly, and
followed his brother through the open French window
of the study. They were two bright, handsome
lads, of twelve and thirteen: Edward the
elder, but scarcely as tall as Bertie, and far slighter,
with a grave reserved air, and rather thoughtful
face; Bertie sturdy, gay, careless, and frank, with
restless, observant blue eyes, and a somewhat unceremonious
way of dealing with people and things.
Eddie called him rough and boisterous, and gave
way to him in everything, not at all because
Bertie’s will was the stronger, but that Eddie, unless
very much interested, was too indolent to assert
himself, and found it much easier to do just as he
was asked on all occasions than argue or explain.

There was a visitor expected at Riversdale that
day, and they were very curious concerning her,
though in different ways: Bertie openly, restlessly,
questioningly; Eddie with a quiet, rather gloomy,
expectation.

“I wonder if she will like us?” Bertie said, as he
climbed to the top of a gate, and looked anxiously
down the white dusty road.

“I wonder if we shall like her?” Eddie replied:
“that’s of more importance, I think.”

“I do wish she was a boy,” Bertie repeated for
about the hundredth time in the course of three
days. “One never knows what to do with a girl
cousin. Of course she won’t care about cricket,
though Lillie Mayson likes it, and she will be afraid
of the dogs, and scream at old Jerry. I wonder we
never even heard of her before, or of Uncle Frank
either. I wonder——”

“What’s the use of wondering, Bert?” Eddie
interrupted, a little impatiently. “Papa told us all
he wished us to know, I dare say. Come along for
a walk. What’s the good of idling here all the morning?
It won’t bring the carriage a minute sooner
to stand watching for it.”

“No, of course not; but I want to rush down
the road to meet it, and we can’t go for a walk till
it comes. It would be a poor sort of welcome
for Cousin Agnes;” and Bertie took another long
look down the road, where nothing was visible
save a cloud of fine white dust.

Three mornings before Mr. Rivers had summoned
both boys to his study, and very gravely
informed them that their Uncle Frank was dead,
and his only child, Agnes Rivers, was coming to
reside at Riversdale.

“She has no home, no friends, no money, no
mother. Try and be kind to her, boys. Don’t ignore
her, Edward; don’t tease her, Bertie; and ask her
no questions about her parents or her past history,
remember that!”

The boys promised; they always obeyed their
father implicitly: indeed, absolute unquestioning
obedience was one thing Mr. Rivers exacted from
every person he came in contact with.

But Bertie was far from satisfied with the very
meagre information he had received, and directly
he got a favourable opportunity, he besieged Mrs.
Mittens, the old housekeeper, with questions concerning
the new relation who was coming to make
her home with them, and of the Uncle Frank
whose name he had never heard before. Eddie
did not share his curiosity, or perhaps concluded
[Pg 33]
that his father’s command to ask no questions
was a general one; Bertie insisted it only referred
to Agnes herself, and repeated his father’s exact
words to the housekeeper.

“I think, Master Bertie, your papa meant you
to ask no questions of anybody; and I have very
little to tell,” she said, gravely. “But this much I
think you may know. Your Uncle Frank was
your papa’s only brother: he displeased your
grandpapa, and left home in consequence.”

“But what did he do?” Bertie cried eagerly.

“Everything he should not have done; but his
worst fault was disobedience, and a world of
trouble it got him into. Remember that, Master
Bertie: your grandpapa would be obeyed, and your
papa is his own son in that respect. So take care,
my dear, take care!” and the old lady shook her
forefinger warningly. “But everything’s forgot
and forgave now,” she added, more cheerfully;
“and right glad I am Miss Agnes is coming here!”

mr. rivers had summoned both boys to his study (p. 32).

Bertie turned away grumbling; he was not a whit
wiser than he had been before, and he felt somehow
that he had been reproved, and, more than that,
warned. But he was not very seriously impressed,
and he determined some day to find out the whole
history of his Uncle Frank: know exactly what he
did, and why he did it; and as he turned the
matter over in his mind, as he sat perched on the
gate, he came to the conclusion that his was a very
strange family, and that there were a great many
skeletons concealed in Riversdale.

“Perhaps Aunt Amy will be sending us a boy
or girl cousin some day or other,” he said to
Eddie suddenly. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

[Pg 34]
Eddie started from a reverie, and looked questioningly
at his brother. “Aunt Amy? what put her
into your head, Bert?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure, unless it’s Uncle Frank.
Don’t you think it’s very funny to have a lot of
relations you never see, hear from, or speak about—very
exciting, too, to have cousins drop in on you
when you least expect it. I hope, Ned, when you’re
master of Riversdale, you won’t banish me, and
forget my very existence till I’m dead. What did
Aunt Amy do, I wonder?”

“She married some one papa did not approve
of—an artist, I think: that’s all,” Eddie said gravely.
“I think Aunt Amy is very happy, and I’m sure she
is very beautiful. She does not come to Riversdale,
because papa is always ill, I suppose; and perhaps
she likes London better, and she has not got any
boys or girls.”

“Oh!” Bertie said, opening his eyes wide; “you
seem to know all about them. Who told you?”

“Papa. I asked him one day.”

“Oh! and Uncle Gregory: what did he do? He
never comes here either;” and Bertie looked up the
road again, as if he did not care very much to hear
the probable reason of that relative’s absence.

“Uncle Gregory is a merchant, and has to attend
to his business, I suppose,” Eddie replied, rather
loftily. “He came here often enough—too often, I
believe—when our mother was alive, and then papa
and he disagreed, and he has not come since.”

“Hum!” Bertie said, slipping down and stretching
himself. “How did you find out, Eddie?”

“Why, I didn’t find out. Papa talks to me sometimes
about our relatives; you talk as if it were a
crime for people not to come here when they have
their own houses and things to attend to. You
might just as well ask why we always stay at home.”

“Oh! but that’s different: Riversdale is such a
jolly place. Why, I wouldn’t live anywhere else for
anything, would you, Eddie?”

“I don’t know; I think it would be wise to see
other places before deciding. I should like to see
a great city—London for instance.”

“I wonder if Agnes is coming from London?”
Bertie cried; “if so, she can tell us all about it.”

“But I’d like to see for myself, to travel everywhere,
visit all the famous places in the world—Italy,
Greece, Egypt—see pictures, statues, beautiful
churches.”

“I think I’d prefer to stay at home: those places
are such a long way off. I dare say I should be tired
before I got there; and I don’t care for pictures
much, except of dogs and horses. I’d just like to
stay here always, hunt and shoot and fish when I
grow up, and play cricket and football, and just
enjoy myself all the time,” Bertie said soberly.

“That’s because you’re ignorant, Bertie, and
have no taste or ambition,” Eddie replied. “You
know what Doctor Mayson says: ‘Travel improves
the mind, and enlarges the understanding.'”

“Yes, but that’s only in a copy-book!” Bertie
exclaimed triumphantly. “Besides, papa is the
cleverest man in the world, and he’s happy enough
here. Oh! the carriage at last. Come and welcome
our new cousin;” and in a moment Bertie
had vaulted over the gate and shouted to the
coachman to stop, while Eddie followed in a more
orthodox fashion, and both boys stood bowing, with
their caps in their hands, to a little girl dressed in
black, with a small pale face, and a quantity of light
hair pushed back from her forehead. She clung to
Mrs. Mittens nervously with one hand, while she extended
the other first to Bertie, then to Eddie and
said, “Thank you, cousins,” for their welcome in the
sweetest, saddest voice in the world. Then the carriage
drove on before Bertie had quite recovered his
astonishment at the fact that the little girl seemed
no more than a baby, yet wore blue glasses, and
spoke with the voice of a grown-up person. He
had meant to spring into the carriage, give her a
hearty kiss and a noisy greeting, and go on to the
house with her; but such familiarities were entirely
out of the question with the grave little lady in
black. Turning round, he looked questioningly at
Eddie, who had returned to the grounds. “Well,”
he cried, “what do you think?”

“I think Cousin Agnes is an ugly, sickly little
thing, not more than seven!” he cried scornfully.
“The idea of a girl in blue spectacles! Come and
have a walk.” For once Bertie followed instead of
leading, though he was strongly inclined to return
to the house. He did not think his cousin was
ugly, and he pitied her for being so pale and sad-looking;
but somehow he felt disappointed too,
and out of humour with himself, and Eddie, and
every one else, and in an unusually silent mood he
set off for a ramble in the woods. Both boys were
disappointed in Agnes, but in a different way.

CHAPTER II.—AGNES FINDS A FRIEND.

“I hope
you will be very happy here, child,
and make yourself at home. Take care of
her, Mittens, and see that the boys don’t
tease her;” and Mr. Rivers kissed the
trembling, nervous little girl on the forehead, and
waved her out of the room. The interview had
been brief, and conducted with absolute silence
on the child’s part. She was overpowered by the
magnificence and awed by the solemnity of her
new home.

“Is that grand gentleman Uncle Hugh, ma’am?”
[Pg 35]
she asked timidly, as she clung to the good-natured
housekeeper’s hand.

“Yes, my dear; and very kind and good you will
find him if you always do just as he tells you.
Now you must come to my room, and have a cup
of tea before dinner. Your cousins never have any
luncheon, and dine with me at three o’clock. Your
Uncle Hugh always dines in his own apartments:
indeed, he seldom leaves them, except for a turn on
the terrace. The children go in every evening to see
him for half an hour, and you will go with them.
We have breakfast at nine, and tea at seven. Your
cousins drive in to Wakeley every day to Doctor
Mayson’s school; they leave at half-past nine, and
get back by three. Sometimes they ride their
ponies, but oftener they drive in the little dog-cart;
and I dare say a young person will come to give
you lessons, but the master has not made any
arrangement yet. You’re to sleep in the room next
to mine; and Prudence Briggs, the under housemaid,
will wait upon you. But the first thing you
must do, my dear Miss Agnes, is to get well, and
strong, and rosy. You have been ill, surely.”

“No, ma’am, not worse than usual; but I have
been up a good deal at night with father.”

“You up at night, child! Dear, dear! what
could folk be thinking of to let you?”

“There was no one else, ma’am, and father had
to have his medicine regularly,” Agnes replied
gravely. “Even when Doctor Evans did send a
nurse, she used to fall asleep at night, and forget
poor father.”

Mrs. Mittens took off her spectacles, wiped
them carefully, put them on again, and looked
earnestly at the child seated opposite to her. But
either her eyes or the glasses were dim again in a
moment. That poor, fragile little creature up at
night, ministering to the wants of a dying man! It
seemed incredible, and yet the child’s face and voice
and words bore the living impress of truth.

“How old are you, my dear?”

“Twelve last birthday. I know I’m very little
and weak, and my back aches dreadfully sometimes;
but Doctor Evans said rest and care would do
wonders for me. I never had much rest at home,
and I was always very anxious about poor father;
ever since my darling mamma died, four years ago,
I had to take care of him.”

“Dear heart alive! Why did you never write to
your uncle?” Mrs. Mittens cried, holding up both
her hands.

“I never knew I had an uncle till after father’s
death; then Doctor Evans told me, and sent me here.
He was very, very kind, and so was my Aunt Amy.
Was it not strange to have an aunt in London and
never know it? But she came at once, and took
me away to her house—ever so much a finer house
than the one we lodged in, but not nearly so fine
or beautiful as this; and she made my black
frocks, and took me to dear father’s funeral in a
carriage. Aunt Amy was very kind, and kissed me
very often, and said she wished she could keep me
always, but Uncle Clair said it was best for me to
come to Riversdale. Do you think it was best?”

“Yes, my dear, of course. Certainly it was best
for you to come,” the old lady replied briskly.

“And do you think my cousins will love me?”

“I’m quite sure of it, Miss Agnes. They are the
best and dearest boys in the world.”

“And Uncle Hugh?” Agnes added wistfully.

“Well, my dear, your uncle is not quite like
other people. He suffers a great deal with his nerves,
and he has had a many sorrows, which he keeps
all to himself; but he’s the most just and most generous
gentleman in the world, and I’m sure he will be
very kind to you; only you must do just what he
says, my dear. All the troubles in the world came
of disobedience, I think, and have done so since the
Garden of Eden. If poor Mr. Frank had only——but
there, what is the use of talking?” and Mrs.
Mittens sighed.

“Did you know my father, ma’am?”

“Yes, indeed! I carried him about in my arms
many a time.”

“Did you love him, please?”

“Love him, Miss Agnes? that I did! Who
could help loving his bright bonnie face? Why, we
all loved him, dearie: he was the light and life of
the house, but he would have his own way—he would
have it, and I fear it led him through a tangled,
thorny path.”

Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittens.

“Please, please tell me one thing more, ma’am,”
she whispered nervously, yet eagerly. “Did my
Uncle Hugh love my father?”

“As the apple of his eye, my dearie: there’s no
mistake about that; he would have given his heart’s
best blood for him!”

“Did he know my dear father was so sad and so
sorry, so poor, so friendless, so—so unhappy?”

“No, child, that he did not. Your father would
have none of him; he was proud with the pride
that goes before destruction. My master would
have loved him, but Master Frank would not.”

“Then there has been some dreadful mistake
somewhere, ma’am,” Agnes said gently, but firmly.
“My father was an angel and a martyr. He was
not proud or unforgiving, and he suffered, oh, so
much! But if you tell me my uncle knew nothing
of it, I cannot blame him.”

“I tell you more, dearie,” said the old housekeeper
earnestly, holding both the child’s hands,
[Pg 36]
and looking into her pale, earnest face. “My
master would have given half his fortune to have
made your father happy, but the wrong was done
before you were born; and it’s righted at last,
thank Heaven! righted at last. Now, my poor
lamb, we will talk of all those things no more;
your troubles are over, and all you have to do is to
get well and strong and rosy, and be as happy as
ever you can;
and always remember,
little
one, you have a
true friend in old
Mittens. She
loved your father,
and she will always
love you;
and now you
must lie down on
that sofa, and rest
for an hour. The
boys are sure to
be in for dinner,
and I want you
to be nice and
bright.”

agnes looked up at mrs. mittens (p. 35).

So Agnes lay
down very contentedly.

“Oh, how I
shall enjoy this
place!” she said
to herself. “How
I shall love it!—my
own father’s
home, where he
played as a child.
Perhaps he lay
on this sofa, just
like me, and
looked across the
beautiful park,
smelt the flowers,
heard the birds
sing. If he knew I was here now, how happy he
would be!” So Agnes mused aloud, resting in the
warm summer sunshine. Her thoughts flew back
to the dreary London lodging where her whole
short life had been passed; her heart swelled as she
thought of the cares, troubles, anxieties, and bitter
losses she had endured; and then her eyes overflowed
with gratitude at finding such kind friends
and such a beautiful home. At last, weary with
her journey, she fell asleep.

After a while the sound of voices roused her,
and in a bewildered kind of way she looked round.

“I say she’s an ugly, miserable-looking little
thing. I shouldn’t think it worth my while to sketch
her!” one voice said, contemptuously. “If she had
been pretty, now, she would have made a splendid
Sleeping Beauty!”

“She looks pale and ill, poor mite, and tired too;
but she’s not ugly,” another voice said decidedly.
“She might not make a nice picture, but she looks
pleasant enough
curled up there.
Come on away;
don’t let us wake
her.”

“I am awake,”
said Agnes, sitting
up, her
cheeks flushed,
her eyes full of
tears, but no one
answered. The
boys, who had
been looking in
at the window
of the housekeeper’s
room,
had turned into
the shrubbery,
and Agnes felt
as if she had
been guilty of a
very mean, unworthy
action in
listening, even
involuntarily, to
a conversation
not intended for
her ears. Her
cousins, too, she
felt quite sure,
would be exceedingly
cross if
they knew she
had overheard
them; and yet
she said to herself—”I was only half awake.
I did not want to listen, and I could not help
it.” It would not mend matters in the least to
tell them that she had overheard their criticism,
so she resolved to be silent, but when Mrs.
Mittens came, a little later, to conduct her to
the dining-room, she was very shy and nervous.
As she took her place, she looked at the boys
wistfully, wondering which of them thought her
“ugly,” and which thought her pleasant enough to
look at curled up on the sofa. Secretly, she hoped
that Eddie was her champion, but before the
[Pg 37]
dinner was over it was easy enough to see that
Bertie was going to be the shy little girl’s friend,
for Eddie scarcely condescended to look at her,
much less speak to her, during the meal, while
Bertie rattled on merrily, telling her of all their
favourite amusements and walks, and promising to
show her all his treasures and lend her his storybooks.
Still, though Bertie was kind, and Eddie
cold and silent, Agnes thought her elder cousin
was far handsomer and cleverer than his brother.
Perhaps he would be an artist, like Uncle Clair;
and when he knew that she too could use her pencil
a little, and loved pictures a great deal, he might be
kinder to her.

CHAPTER III.—AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.

Three months passed away, and Agnes
Rivers was feeling quite at home in her
uncle’s house. She had lost much of
her nervous shyness, but except with
Mrs. Mittens she was very quiet and reserved.
She was a little afraid of her uncle, as were the
whole family; a little in awe of Eddie too, who
was still somewhat stately and grand in his
manner; and she always had an uncomfortable
sort of feeling that Bertie was kind to her just
because she was little and weak, and his cousin.

But on the whole she was happy and contented.
She ran about the park and gardens all the morning,
did no lessons whatever, and amused herself
sketching all the pretty bits of scenery, huge trees
on the lawn, or Mrs. Mittens’ dog and cat, called
Punch and Judy, who lived the most useless,
indolent, amiable life imaginable in the housekeeper’s
room. She could hit off likenesses, too,
in quite a startling way, and Eddie said he would
give her some lessons in painting if she wished.
Agnes was enthusiastic in her thanks for what
was, after all, but a trifling service, and while
the lessons lasted Bertie was rather glum, as he
had to ramble about alone, and amuse himself as
best he could. But Eddie very soon grew tired of
a pupil who after three lessons far excelled the
teacher, and as a change, proposed teaching her
German. Agnes consented, as she would have
done to any plan or project of Eddie’s. But that
course of instruction also came to an untimely end;
perhaps Agnes was a little dull, certainly Eddie
was impatient. And then Bertie had his turn: he
taught his cousin how to play chess, to spin tops,
play cricket (theoretically), regretting every minute
that she was not big and strong like Lillie Mayson,
the doctor’s daughter—the doctor who kept the
grammar-school, not the one who came to see
them when they were ill.

Once or twice Mrs. Mittens suggested to the
master that some one should come and teach Miss
Agnes, saying that the child was left too much
alone during the day, as the boys went to school
every morning. But Mr. Rivers shook his head
impatiently. “Leave the child alone; let her eat
and sleep and run wild till she’s stronger. She
ought not to be dull in Riversdale.”

Nor was she. How could any one with a deep
instinctive love of Nature be dull, or lonely, or sad
with a beautiful park to wander in? who with an
observant eye could walk through the shady lanes
or ramble in the woods without seeing objects of
interest and admiration at every step?

“How good of God to not only give us flowers,
but eyes to see their beauty and hearts to love
them,” the child said solemnly one day. “What
would the world be if there were not any flowers?”

Bertie, who chanced to overhear her soliloquy,
remarked that he thought they could get on better
without flowers than trees, vegetables, or even
animals; “because, we cannot eat flowers, can we?”

“But if you had read a little about the subject,
Bertie,” Agnes replied, “you would learn that we
could have neither trees nor vegetables nor fruit
if we had not flowers first. But it’s those dear
little wild things that seem to grow here just to
make us happy that I love best. I prefer painting
flowers to anything.”

“I don’t; great artists never trouble about
flowers,” Eddie said, joining them. “When I grow
up, I’ll paint splendid figures and grand scenes,
like the ‘Raising of Lazarus,’ or the ‘Descent from
the Cross’: those are the kind of pictures great men
love to paint and the world to look at.”

“But Uncle Clair says people can’t paint like
the old masters now, and that no one would buy
their pictures if they did,” Agnes replied.

“I wish some of you would paint up this mask
for me like a North American Indian,” Bertie
interrupted, pulling a hideous pasteboard face from
his pocket. “Will you, Eddie? If I attempt to put
on the war-paint, I shall make a mess of it.” But
Eddie indignantly refused to lend his talent to such
base uses, and Agnes declared she would paint the
face with pleasure, only she had not the least idea
what an Indian was like. That was an unforeseen
difficulty, but Bertie suggested their looking in the
library for a book with pictures, and copying one.

As they approached the house, they were all
surprised to see Dr. Bird’s carriage at the door.
“Some one must be ill, surely—I hope it’s not papa,”
Eddie cried, hurrying on in advance, Bertie and
Agnes following. “He seemed quite well this
morning. Oh! there’s Lawyer Hurst’s gig—what
can he want? Johnson,” to a servant standing at
the door, “whatever is the matter? Is papa ill?”

[Pg 38]
“It’s nothing, my dears—that is, nothing to be
frightened about,” Mrs. Mittens said, as the boys,
both startled-looking, rushed into the dining-room.
“Your papa had a turn this morning, and I thought
it as well to send for Doctor Bird.”

“But why is Mr. Hurst here?” Eddie asked.

“I don’t know, dearie. I think he just called by
accident, or about some ordinary business.”

“Has papa asked for us—for me?”

“No, Master Edward. Now, don’t look so
scared; there’s nothing the matter, only, as I said,
he got a turn. I think it was something in the paper,
for when I went in with his beef-tea, he had it in
his hand, and looked quite sad and white. I hoped
he was not feeling bad, and he said ‘No, no,
Mittens. Put that down and leave me’; then when I
was at the door, he called out, ‘Mittens, set the
house in order. I’m going on a journey; see to it
without delay!’ That’s every word, Master Edward;
but knowing as the master has not been anywhere
for so long, and seeing him look pale and troubled
like, I just took the liberty of sending a line to
Doctor Bird, asking him to look in quite in a
friendly way. He came at once, and he’s with the
master now. I left the room as you came in, and
the doctor said, ‘Your master is no worse—rather
better, I think.’ So now, my dears, will you sit
down to dinner?”

Bertie’s answer was practical compliance; Eddie
stood for a few minutes at the window, wondering
if it were the death of another estranged relative
that had affected his father; then he, too, took his
place, and ate his dinner in silence. Presently the
doctor’s carriage drove away, and both boys felt
less anxious; but to Agnes there was something
terrible in the unusual hush of the house: it seemed
as if the servants moved about more noiselessly
than at other times, and spoke in hushed whispers.
Eddie went to the library, and Bertie went out
immediately after dinner, and, left to herself, Agnes
curled herself up in an easy chair in the dining-room
with a book, and after reading for an hour,
she fell asleep. It was dusk when she was roused
by the sudden ringing of bells and the hurrying of
feet across the passage leading to Mr. Rivers’
apartments. For a few minutes she sat quite still,
pale, frightened, scarcely daring to breathe; then
she opened the door and peeped out timidly, but no
one took the least notice of her. Mrs. Mittens
crossed the hall hurriedly, looking very pale and
anxious; there were strange voices too, somewhere.
One, Agnes thought, seemed loud and angry. Then
she hurried back to the dining-room and shut the
door, pressing both her hands on her heart to stop
its beating. Something dreadful was happening,
she felt sure, but in that household she was quite
alone and forgotten; no one thought of her at all.

The quiet, glorious autumn night closed in;
still Agnes sat silent and solitary, hoping the best,
fearing the worst. It was quite eleven o’clock
when the dining-room door was opened softly, and
a fair troubled face peered in. It was Bertie. He
alone had thought of her, even in his own great
sorrow—and Bertie was impulsive and passionate,
and felt things deeply. He remembered the poor
lonely little girl, and asked Prudence Briggs if his
cousin had gone to bed. The girl started guiltily;
she had seen nothing of Miss Agnes all the evening;
so Bertie began a hunt over the house for her,
and found her at last in the dining-room alone.

“Oh, Agnes! what shall we do? Poor papa!”
he cried, bursting into tears; and she clung to him,
weeping too, but trying to comfort him, and then
brokenly he told her all that had happened. At
five o’clock Mr. Rivers became suddenly worse.
The doctor had stayed with him, and only sent
home his carriage, and when he saw the change he
sent for the boys at once. Eddie was in the
library, Bertie was out in the grounds. “But it
was all the same,” the lad added, brokenly; “he
was quite unconscious when Eddie reached the
room. I was there half an hour after, but he never
spoke, and now it’s all over! Oh, Agnes! what
shall we do? I can’t believe papa is dead!”

“Telegraph for Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair,”
she replied, with the promptness of a person used
to act in an emergency; and then Bertie, who had
never thought of that, rushed off to the library to
suggest it to his brother, who seemed quite dazed
by the sudden calamity, while Mrs. Mittens entered
the dining-room also in search of Agnes.

“It’s all over, dearie; the master meant to go on
a journey; instead, an unexpected guest came to
him. I’m all dazed and scared like, and can hardly
realise it yet; and would you believe it? four gentlemen
came from London this evening to see your
uncle, and not one of them would believe he was
‘gone’ till they saw him lying there so still and
restful, and one of them now acts just as if he was
master of this house, so I suppose he must be
Master Edward’s guardian. But I do wish there
was some one here to manage things!”

“Send for Aunt Amy,” Agnes suggested again;
and the housekeeper seized the idea gladly.

“That I will, dearie, and for Mr. Gregory too, first
thing to-morrow morning. Surely, child, you have
an old head on young shoulders! Now come and
help me to comfort the poor darling boys. Ah!
Miss Agnes, you are all orphans together now; and
I how things are going to end is more than I know!”

(To be continued.)

[Pg 39]

About Some Famous Railway Trains.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

By Henry Frith.

I.—THE “FLYING DUTCHMAN.”

W
here to, sir?” said
the cab-driver, touching
his hat.

“Great Western,
please, Paddington,”
we replied, and in a
moment the trap of the
hansom was shut, and
we were bowling along
Piccadilly.

A civil porter received
us at Paddington
Station, and took
our luggage for Swindon.
We are going
no farther to-day,
because we want to
see the “Flying Dutchman,”
not only “flying,”
but at rest. So first we secure a seat and
then walk down the platform. We have some
minutes to spare; the clock points to 11.38; we
must start at 11.45 by the Great Western express,
the “Dutchman,” as it is familiarly called, after
that mysterious sailor who came and went with
such alarming celerity.

Here we are then, the summer holidays before
us; and perhaps many of the readers of Little
Folks will be travelling by the “Flying (railway)
Dutchman,” by the time these lines are before
them. Come with me and look at our big “iron
horse,” which will pull us to Swindon at the
average speed of fifty-three miles an hour, which
means at times the fine rate of sixty miles an hour.

Our “Dutchman’s” engine on this occasion is
named “Crimea,” and a fine fellow he is. This
engine has eight wheels; two immense “driving
wheels” eight feet high, more than twenty-four feet
round, so each time that wheel revolves we travel
(say) twenty-five feet, and when we are in full
swing we shall go about thirty yards a second!
The 11.45 down train from Paddington, and the
corresponding up train from Exeter, are the two
“Flying Dutchmen.” There are two other trains
which run equally fast, up and down in the afternoon.
These are the “Zulu” trains, for they were
started as expresses at the time the Prince Imperial
was killed in Zululand.

The great engine waits at the end of the platform,
and as we are good little people—like the
fairies—we will jump up on the foot-plate of the
“Crimea” locomotive, and no one will notice us.
Give me your hand—there. Now you are standing
on the foot-plate; the engine-tender, full of water
and topped with coal, is behind you, the great high
boiler with the furnace is in front. That long
handle which comes from the middle of the boiler
on a level with your little head is the regulator,
which when pulled out lets the steam into the
cylinders, and it then moves the pistons and rods,
and they move the big eight-feet wheels. Perhaps,
when we reach Swindon workshops, we shall go
underneath an engine and see the machinery.

“What is that other handle?” you say. That
is “the lever.” It is at the side next the engine-driver,
you see, and he can pull it back so as to save
his steam, and not use too much; he “expands”
it and makes a little keep the train going after it
has once got into its pace. There are the steam
and water “gauges,” to tell the “driver” and fireman
when the steam is at proper pressure, and when the
water is high enough in the boiler. The steam
gauge is like a clock, or an Aneroid barometer,
right before the driver. Those other handles near
it are the whistle-handles. One whistle is small,
and very shrill, to warn people on the line, and to
tell people the train is coming. The other is a
deep-toned booming whistle which tells of danger
perhaps, and when blown means “Stop the train,
there is obstruction in front.”

“Crimea” is now ready. The engine-driver
pulls open the regulator, and we glide back and
are attached to the train. We have air-breaks
worked on the engine, vacuum-breaks which can
pull us up quickly, and when all the connections
are made the “Flying Dutchman” is ready; he
is harnessed to his eight coaches full of people—the
solemn and sorry; the glad and the cheerful;
and boys and girls, going on all sorts of errands.

“Right!” says the station-superintendent.

The clock over the platform is exactly 11.45
a.m. The fireman, who is looking on, says “Right,
Tom,” the guard whistles, then the driver touches
the small whistle-handle in front; a shrill scream
rouses the many sleeping echoes in the roof, where
they had got to be out of the way perhaps, and the
engine-driver opens the regulator valve—”Crimea”
fizzes a little in front of the cylinders. Off we go!

“Puff-puff,” slowly at first, in a solemn and
majestic manner. We cannot expect such big
wheels to hurry themselves. Under the bridge,
puffing a little more quickly, then we rattle through
[Pg 40]
Westbourne Park and by Wormwood Scrubs.
Puff-puffing much more quickly now, but not quite
so loudly, as the driver has pulled the lever back
and the steam goes up with less force through the
chimney: working quietly. Away, away, on our
iron steed through Ealing and Hanwell—across
the viaduct over the River Brent, which runs to
Brentford—past the pretty church and the dull
lunatic asylum, and so on to Slough, which is
passed in twenty-three minutes after quitting
Paddington. Then we reach Taplow, and have
just fifty-five miles to do within the hour. “Crimea”
rushes across the Thames below Maidenhead, with
a parting roar, but we shall meet the river again
soon, and run alongside it, by picturesque Pangbourne,
Goring, and Moulsford.

Are we stopping? No, we are only just slackening
for Reading. But we cannot wait. The
“Flying Dutchman” has only done about thirty-six
of his seventy-seven miles; he has been forty-two
minutes already, and has got forty-five minutes left
to reach Swindon. A long shriek, and Reading is
behind us; then the river flashes out between the
trees.

Hurrah! Hurrah! Didcot with its Banbury
cakes and tumble-down station is passed. Hurrah
for the “Flying Dutchman,” running easily and
smoothly, sixty miles an hour, well within himself.
He is not tired, he does not pant or whistle, he goes
calmly, swiftly along…. Here is Swindon—what
o’clock is it? Look! Twelve minutes past
one! “Crimea” is punctual to the minute. Well
done, “Dutchman!”

Good-bye, “Crimea,” we are going to see your
friends in the shops; we are going to hear some
anecdotes of your powers, and your friends’ speedy
runs or adventures. We are going to be introduced
to “Lightning,” “Inkerman,” and the “Morning
Star,” the first engine made for the railway by
George Stephenson.

At the works we are courteously received and
conducted to the various shops devoted to the
manufacture of the engines and carriages—the
wheels, whistles, rails, cranks, and cylinders, and
everything else connected with the rolling-stock,
which brings in money to the shareholders, and
proves that if “a rolling stone gathers no moss,”
rolling-stock does in plenty. Here we find young
gentlemen who are pupils and apprentices at work
learning mechanical engineering, and how to make
the future “Flying Dutchmen” and “Zulus.”

We see the old “nine feet” Bristol and Exeter
engines, and are told how one once went off the
line with the “Dutchman” long ago; but it was
a trifling accident. Our “Dutchman,” though he
flies, is pretty safe; and runs free from accident.
We see an engine whose boiler burst the other
day, but fortunately hurt no one much. This
engine looks very much ashamed of itself in the
shed, and has had to submit to a severe operation
to put it right again, which, perhaps, will be a
lesson to it in future.

Then we go under the engines and see the
machinery, which works so easily; and then we
sit down, and ask the driver whether any adventures
have happened with the “Flying Dutchman.”

“Nothing particular; but I can tell you a story
about the railway which will amuse you. It
happened several years ago—but I won’t tell you
where exactly, sir.”

“Let us hear the tale,” we said.

“It was in my father’s time, before I was a
driver, that it happened. An aunt of mine—a
youngish woman then—was travelling by the
G. W. R. (‘Great Way Round’ they used to
call us), when a young man entered the carriage,
where she was sitting alone, and asked where the
train stopped first. This was (say) at Paddington.
My aunt said ‘Reading’ was the first station, and
the train immediately started.

“‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ said the gentleman; ‘but
will you oblige me by cutting my hair a little.’

“My aunt thought the man was mad, but being
alarmed by his manner, consented.

“Then the young man changed his coat, his
collar, his waistcoat, and tie. He put on a pair of
spectacles, and when my aunt dared to look at
him he was for all the world like a clergyman—an
elderly gentleman in spectacles!

“‘Now,’ said he; ‘you must promise to be
quiet, and never contradict me. If you do you
will rue it.’ So my aunt—she was young then—promised,
and before they reached Reading the
train was stopped. A guard and a constable came
up, and looked into every carriage.

“‘Have you the tickets, dear?’ said the man to
my aunt.

“‘All right, sir,’ said the guard. ‘We don’t
want to disturb you at all. We are looking for
some one else.’

“The train went on, but the ‘old’ clergyman, as
he seemed, left the train at Reading. He had
committed forgery, but by disguising himself, escaped.
‘Clever rogue,’ was he not?”

By the time we had heard this tale we were at
Swindon Station again waiting for the “Zulu,”
for we are bound for Bath and Bristol. Here it
comes just as the other train came, very punctually.
We take a farewell of our friend, and as we
pass the shops on our way, we jot down in our
note-book what we have seen, and some of our
pleasant experiences of the “Flying Dutchman.”

[Pg 41]

Mornings at the Zoo.

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VI.—THE STORK FAMILY.

Whatever
they may be in their native countries, the Storks at the Zoological Gardens, London,
are lone and melancholy birds. They seem to take their pleasure sadly—as was once said of
the English folk—but they look so much like very wise and profound philosophers that
perhaps they view life gravely because they have themselves realised in their own experience
how serious a matter it is. In the Gardens they appear to lead a hermit’s existence. They are treated
with severe neglect by the bulk of the visitors, though possibly they consider the respect of an
occasional distinguished Royal Academician of greater value than the homage of an indifferent
multitude.

Yet in other lands than ours the Stork family is held in high honour. In many parts of the
Continent they are encouraged to build their nests in chimneys, steeples, and trees
near dwellings. Indeed, as an inducement to them to pitch their quarters on the
houses, boxes are sometimes erected on the roofs, and happy is the household
which thus secures the patronage of a stork. Some of the people among whom
they sojourn during the warm summer days regard the presence of the bird
as a kind of safeguard against fire. And as an illustration of their love for
their young, a story is told of a stork which, rather than desert its helpless
offspring during a conflagration in Delft, in Holland, remained heroically
by their side and perished with them in the flames.

In Morocco and in Eastern countries also storks are looked upon
as sacred birds. And with good reason, for they render very
useful service both as scavengers and as slayers of snakes and
other reptiles. In most of the towns a storks’ hospital
will be found. It consists of an enclosure to
which are sent all birds that have been
injured. They are kept in this infirmary—which
is generally supported by
voluntary contributions—until
[Pg 42]
they have regained health and strength. To kill
a stork is regarded as an offence. In Sweden also
the stork is held as holy, there being a legend in
that country to the effect that this bird flew around
the cross of Christ, crying “Styrka!” “Styrka!”
(“Strengthen!” “Strengthen!”) But, as Dr.
Brewer points out, this tradition clashes with fact,
inasmuch as stork’s have no voice. For the valuable
offices which they perform in the removal of
garbage they are, in some countries, protected by
law. At one time the White Stork was a pretty
common bird in England, where it helped the
farmers by clearing the soil of noxious insects. It
disappeared, however, partly because it was subjected
to a good deal of persecution, but mainly
because an improved method of agriculture took
away its occupation.

In India the stork’s cousin is called the Adjutant,
and a very appropriate name it is. It is a familiar
figure in most of the towns and villages where its
scavenging is of the greatest use. But the adjutant
is not endowed with so much wisdom as we should
naturally expect such a serviceable bird to possess.
The following notes about an adjutant’s curious
ways have been sent to the Editor of Little Folks
by a lady in Calcutta, and will be read with interest.

“When the rainy season comes in Calcutta, the
adjutants are soon seen resting on one leg on the
house-tops, kneeling in all kinds of funny places,
or stalking very grandly through the wet grass.
Sometimes in the dim lamp-light they look as they
stand about on the edge of the flat roofs like stiff,
badly-arranged ornaments, and sometimes ten or
twelve settle on some tree, when it seems as if
their heavy bodies must weigh it down.

“They do not often come in numbers into the
gardens of houses or the outskirts of the town, but
one was a very faithful visitor for a little while in
the neighbourhood of a house which was not at all
central. This house has a garden or compound, as
Indians would say, which is connected by a gate
with a large square containing a large tank. There
are many of these tanks, in appearance like ponds
or reservoirs at home, about Calcutta and the
neighbourhood. The natives fetch water to drink
from all, and in some they bathe and wash clothes.
The tank now to be described is enclosed by a
wall with gates to the main road and into the
compounds of houses which come up to it. Round
the tank is a broad gravel-walk, and on either side
the walk grows long rank grass. Frogs abound in
this grass, and crickets come out of holes in the
ground, and make a terrible whistling at night.
For some time no adjutants appeared in this tank
square to feast on the rich supply of frogs; but at
last one day an adjutant was seen walking down
the grass. With self-important step and craning
his long neck forward, he came slowly on, hurrying
a little when some frightened frog foolishly made a
hop out of his way. At last he reached a gate
leading into one of the private compounds, and
there he paused. What he saw inside no one can
guess, as the grass is kept short; and except
in one corner far, far away from the gate, there
were not half the fine fat frogs that Mr. Adjutant
might have found on his own side of the gate.
Whatever he saw, certainly the bird longed to
get through. He poked his head through the
bars as far as he could on one side, took two steps
to the other and tried that, back again to the
first, and so on, till that foolish, foolish bird had
walked twenty times to and fro. Then he went off
in a huff, and stood on one leg near the tank till
dark, when it is to be hoped he recovered his
temper. About the same hour next day back came
the adjutant to repeat his yesterday’s performance,
except that he walked slowly round the tank instead
of standing on one leg when he found it a failure.
Perhaps he was thinking the thing over. He did
not think to much purpose, for day after day for
more than a week back came the adjutant to walk
like a soldier on duty up and down, up and down,
poking his head through the bars each time. Sometimes
he did it a score of times, sometimes only
two or three. After ten days he disappeared.
Where is he? Has he gone to find a blacksmith
among the adjutants? or have his brother
adjutants had him shut up till he has sense to know
the best way for a bird with wings is, not to try to
get through narrow bars, but to fly over the top?”

Unlike its white cousin, the Black Stork rather
avoids the society of man, frequenting solitary
places and building its nest on the very top of the
very tallest trees. It is really, however, not an
unamiable bird, as was proved by Colonel Montagu
in the case of one which he managed to
catch by means of a slight wound in the wing, and
which lived with him for upwards of a year. It
used to follow its feeder about, and displayed a
most inoffensive disposition. With other birds it
was on terms, of peace, and goodwill, never threatening
them with its big, strong bill. An excellent
angler, its skill in capture was seen to greatest
advantage when it had to encounter an unusually
slippery eel.

Canon Tristram observed black storks among
the shallows of the Dead Sea, to which their prey
was brought down by tributary streams. Surely
no picture more suggestive of utter solitude could
be imagined than this of the black storks, lovers
of loneliness, fishing on the silent shores of the
Dead Sea.

James A. Manson.

[Pg 43]

The Children’s Own Garden.

THE CHILDREN’S OWN GARDEN IN JULY.

J
uly being generally
the hottest month
of the year, plenty
of water is an important
thing in
connection with
Gardening, and as
we have previously
recommended, apply
it right and
left, to shrubs,
grass, trees, flowers,
and walks. It is
most important for
the leaves and
stems of plants to
be perfectly free
from dust and dirt, as this is one of the very
first steps to securing a strong, healthy, and
vigorous growth. A writer once described the
pleasure in dry weather of attaching a hose to a
main and sending a stream of water over and on to
the tops of the young trees and shrubs as well
worth £100 a year to any lover of Nature. A great
drawback to town gardens, or gardens situated
near crowded thoroughfares, is that the plants there
grown are almost invariably smothered with dust:
under such circumstances successful gardening
becomes simply a matter of impossibility, as hardly
any plants will thrive, or even live, under such
conditions. A proper site is, therefore, a matter of
primary importance.

*   *
  *  

There is, however, plenty of work, other than
watering, to be done this month. Seed of a great
number of plants should now be saved and carefully
placed in dry cool places until the time arrives for
sowing them. Cuttings of a multitude of perennials
ought now to be secured and immediately planted:
those of such important plants as chrysanthemums,
pansies, snapdragons, stocks, and wallflowers, in
particular; divisions of auriculas and polyanthuses
may now be made. If a cold frame be available,
utilise the same by keeping cuttings of the very
hardy sorts in it until they have thoroughly rooted,
and transfer them to the open border. Less hardy
plants will need a protection of some sort through
the winter, and few things are more suitable for
such a purpose than a frost-proof frame, where air
can be plentifully given every time the state of the
weather admits.

*   *
  *  

Dahlias will be now coming into full glory, and
as the first three or four flowers are usually worthless,
cut them off before they fully expand. Hollyhocks
may now be frequently supplied with liquid
manure. Rose-trees will require looking after:
give them plenty of rich food, and, when the
“perpetual” flowering section has done blooming,
cut back each shoot to about two or three buds
from its base. Small pieces of grass will periodically
need mowing, and this ought to be done with
a proper mowing-machine, as a pair of shears
invariably causes an irregular and jagged after-growth.
All unsightly vegetation, such as dead
leaves or flowers, dried up stems, &c., must be
promptly removed; weeds ought not to be allowed
to grow a second pair of leaves—much less to
flower—before being exterminated. Trailing and
climbing plants, especially roses, will need careful
attention, and keeping within bounds: straggly or
weakly shoots must be at once cut away.

*   *
  *  

The most important requirement just now in
the kitchen-garden is water: during hot weather
completely saturate the ground with it. July is not
a very brisk month in the Children’s Kitchen-garden;
however, seeds of such useful salads as lettuce
and radish may still be sown; and a few dwarf
French beans can be put in if there is sufficient
room. By sowing a small quantity of the early
sorts of peas, it is just possible to obtain a fair crop,
and particularly so if the autumn holds fine.

*   *
  *  

It may not be amiss to make a few remarks as
regards gathering fruit, flowers, and vegetables, as
this is a much more important matter than is
usually thought. In gathering such salads as cress
or mustard, and fruit of every sort, an absolute
rule is to exercise the utmost care; and such “telltales”
as broken branches, mutilated stems, and
salads—cress, for example—entirely up-rooted, will
at once proclaim a slovenly method of gardening.
This, above all things, must be avoided. Skilful
gardeners, whether amateur or professional, will
sever a flower with so much care that its parent
plant will scarcely be seen to shake whilst undergoing
the operation. In gathering peas, most
people tug and pull at these as if anxious to see
how much strength the pods can possibly bear.
In this instance, as in others where the same carelessness
is employed, the plants get severely disturbed,
and a consequent short crop is put down
to the score of bad seed. Neatness, order, and
care are principles of great moment in Gardening.

[Pg 44]

A SUMMER HOUR.

’tis here the children love to come (p. 45).

wide expanse of yellow sand,
A breeze so fresh and free,
Which, gently rippling, scarcely wakes
The calm and tranquil sea.

Beneath the clear and shining wave
Bright shells and sea-weeds lie,
Reflecting all the golden light
Of the sweet summer sky.

[Pg 45]
And many a crystal pool is there,
Where hermits lurk below,
And restless shrimps in coat of mail
Flash swiftly to and fro.

A noon-day hush is over all,
Unbroken by a sound;
Till … sudden peals of baby mirth
Wake all the echoes round.

‘Tis here the children love to come,
On the bright sand to lie,
Or in the gleaming water hold
Their mimic revelry.

Oh, happy hearts! those gladsome day
Upon the golden shore
Will linger on in memory still,
A joy for evermore.

D. B. McKean.

LITTLE MARGARET’S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.—VII.

By Phillis Browne, Author of “A Year’s Cookery,” “What Girls can Do,” &c.

“I
should like my little pupils to learn to roast
meat to-day,” said Mrs. Herbert, as she entered
the kitchen where the children were
waiting for her.

“You will let it be beef, though, won’t you?”
said Margaret. “If we have to cook meat we
might as well cook the best kind of meat there is.”

“You consider beef the best kind of meat then,
do you?” said Mrs. Herbert.

“Oh, yes! I should think every one does.
Father says there is nothing like the roast beef of
old England.”

“English people generally like roast beef, I
know,” said Mrs. Herbert. “Indeed, they have
been so accustomed to take pains with it, that now
it is often said that English cooks roast well, if
they do nothing else well.”

“It seems to me that there is nothing to do in
roasting meat,” said Margaret. “The fire does all
the work; we put the meat down to the fire, and in
a little time we take it up, and it is done.”

“But the right kind of fire for roasting is not always
made up in any kitchen,” said Mrs. Herbert.
“The first thing which the cook who intends to
roast has to see after is the fire; and she ought to
make it ready quite an hour before she puts the
meat down.”

“Oh dear, what a trouble!” said Margaret.

“Please, ma’am, I know how to make up a fire
for roasting,” said Mary. “I have done it many a
time for my aunt.”

“Then tell us what you know about it,” said
Mrs. Herbert.

“The fire must be a good size, larger than the
meat which is to be roasted before it. The cinders
and dust must be cleared thoroughly away from
the bottom of the range, the live hot coals must be
pushed to the front, and the space at the back
which is made empty must be filled up with
knobbly pieces of coal packed closely together,
though not so closely that the air cannot get
through. The hearth must be swept up tidily, and
the cinders, mixed with a little damped coal-dust,
must be put at the back on the knobbly pieces of
coal, and that is all.”

“Very good indeed, Mary,” said Mrs. Herbert,
“you evidently know all about this part of the
business.”

“But I don’t see the good,” said Margaret. “Why
do we not make up the fire when we are ready for
it? It would last all the longer.”

“Because we want to have the fire clear and
bright, not dull and smoky. It must be kept bright
all the time too, and it must not be allowed to get
hollow in places. Can you tell us, Mary, what you
are to do if the fire needs to be mended before the
joint is finished?”

“The live coal must be drawn to the front, ma’am,
gently, so as not to let any cinders go into the
dripping-tin,” said Mary. “But we ought not to let
the fire need mending; we must watch it and keep
putting cinders and pieces of coal on to keep it up.”

“You see now, Margaret, how important it is to
have the right kind of fire,” said Mrs. Herbert.
“Have you heard that red meat which is to be
roasted should hang for a while before being
cooked?”

“At any rate I have heard people say ‘This meat
is not tender; it has not been hung long enough.'”

“Just so. It is very important that red meats
which are to be roasted should be left to hang till
tender. When we have a cool airy larder, we can
hang meat for ourselves, when there is no such larder
the butcher will hang it for us. The time which
the meat must hang depends upon the weather.
In dry cold weather it may hang a long time—two
or three weeks—but in hot weather it must be
quickly cooked, or it will not keep. In frosty
weather, too, it should be put in a warm kitchen for
some hours before being roasted, or it will not be
tender.”

“What do you mean by red meats, ma’am?”
[Pg 46]

“I mean, Mary, meats red in colour when cut,
such as beef, mutton, and game. What are called
white meats, such as veal, lamb, and pork, will not
keep, and they therefore have to be cooked when
fresh. Can either of you tell me what is the first
thing to be done when you are going to roast
meat?”

The little girls thought for a minute, then Mary
said, “When we were going to boil the leg of
mutton we weighed it, that we might know how
long we were to let it simmer.”

“Quite right, Mary. So you must do with this
piece of beef. Weigh it and then allow for roasting
a quarter of an hour for every pound, and a quarter
of an hour over. If the joint is thick and solid we
allow twenty minutes to the pound. In fact, we
should always have a little consultation with ourselves
before we begin to roast, and say to ourselves,
‘Is this meat solid and thick with little bone,
or is it thin and small?'”

“How long must we give the sirloin of beef?”

“A quarter of an hour to the pound and a
quarter of an hour over. Cook is now going to put
down the dripping-tin and screen for us. I should
like you to watch her and then try to remember
what is necessary. Do you notice that she puts a
large slice of dripping into the pan first thing?”

“What is that for?” said Margaret. “I thought
the dripping dropped from the fat.”

“So it will in a little time, but we want some hot
fat to baste the meat with immediately. If we put
a slice in the tin a few minutes before the meat is
hung on the hook, the fat will melt and be ready for
our purpose. Never wash the meat before roasting
it. If you do, it will not brown properly, and
the juices will be drawn out. Some cooks are very
particular to wash meat, and they say that it is
dirty not to do so, for we never know by whom
meat has been handled. For my part I never feel
uneasy about meat which has been bought of a
good butcher. If I had any doubt on the subject
I should wipe it well, but not wash it.”

“The dripping is quite melted now, mother.
Shall we hang the meat on the hook, and wind up
the jack?” said Margaret.

“Yes, dear; wind the jack before you put the
meat up. In hanging the meat recollect to put the
thickest part downwards, because the heat of the
fire will be greatest at the bottom. Be careful, too,
to pass the hook through a secure place where
there is little juice, for the flesh will give way with
cooking, and if you do not provide for this your
joint may fall into the pan. Do you recollect that
when we were boiling meat we first plunged the meat
into boiling water to harden the albumen on the
outside so as to make a case to keep in the juices.”

“We cannot do that now, though,” said Mary.

“We can do something of the same sort. If we
put the meat close to the fire and baste it with hot
fat for a few minutes at the beginning we shall
harden the outside. Then we may draw it back
and roast it more slowly till done. Above all
things, however, we must be careful to baste it
well. Stand at one side of the fire, take the
fat up carefully with the basting-spoon, and pour
it over the lean part of the meat. The basting-spoon
will not become too hot if you put it in
a plate by the side, not in the tin. If you baste
the meat well, it will not shrink or become dry and
hard, it will be juicy and savoury, and it will be a
good rich brown colour.”

“How quickly the fat melts!” said Mary. “There
is plenty of dripping in the pan now.”

“We will pour a little of the dripping away
shortly, for we want to have it a good colour,” said
Mrs. Herbert. “If we let it remain too long before
the fire it will be burnt and discoloured.”

Very patiently and for a long time the little girls
basted the roasting joint, and at last they were
rewarded by seeing it take a rich brown colour.

“In another quarter of an hour the beef will be
roasted enough, ma’am,” at length said Mary, looking
at the clock.

“It smells as if it would taste all right, does it
not?” said Margaret.

“Now we must prepare for the gravy. Cook
has put the dish for the meat and the plates where
they will get hot, for little girls cannot see after
everything. In this small saucepan is a little
stock made by stewing two or three bones and
scraps (with no fat whatever), a sprig of parsley,
a few rings of onion, which have been fried till
brown, an inch of celery, and five or six peppercorns
in water. I do not know whether you
noticed that this stock has been stewing by the
side of the fire ever since we came into the kitchen;
I have skimmed it every now and then, and covered
it closely again.”

“I noticed it,” said Margaret. “I thought it
would turn out to be for something which we
wanted.”

“It is for gravy. You see it is a rich deep brown
colour, gained from the browned onion. We must
strain this gravy, put a little salt with it, let it boil,
then unhook the joint, pour a couple of table-spoonfuls
of this gravy into the dish, put the rest into a
gravy tureen, and serve at once. There will be
plenty of gravy altogether, if we use that which is
in the tureen and the dish as well. Besides, our
joint has been well basted, and is not dry, so gravy
will run from the meat into the dish.”

“Can’t we make gravy from the dripping-tin?”
[Pg 47]

“We should have had to do so if there had been
no stock,” said Mrs. Herbert. “In that case we
should pour out the fat from the tin very gently and
carefully till we come to the brown sediment at the
bottom. We should mix with the sediment a
breakfast-cupful of boiling water, and scrape, with
the spoon, any little brown dried specks of gravy
there might be. When we had obtained as much
gravy as possible we should strain it into a saucepan
and keep it hot till the meat was quite ready.”

“I am sure father will enjoy this roast beef,” said
Margaret.

“I hope and think he will,” said Mrs. Herbert.
“Beef roasted in this way before the fire is most
excellent. It is, however, not nearly so common
as it once was, for with the stoves and kitcheners
now in use, it is easier to bake, or, as it is called,
to roast meat in the oven. I therefore wanted you
to understand the best way of roasting meat, and
you shall next learn how to roast it in the oven.”

(To be continued.)

HOW PAULINA WON BACK PETER.

A FAIRY STORY.

Bravo! bravo! bravo!”

It was a tiny voice that spoke, sweet and
clear as a nightingale’s; but it was not a
nightingale. It was a large brown and scarlet
butterfly, with a dash of purple in its wings.

The mannikins paused in their gambols, and
one made a bow, whilst another skipped up the
scarlet runner that had suddenly shot up out of
the ground, and twined in and out in fantastic
knots, and brought himself to a level with the
butterfly.

“If you had but wings!” added the butterfly.

peter was sitting up in bed

“Now,” continued
the
mannikin, “as
you are an emperor,
I really
think that you
might order
some wings for
us. What do
you say?”

“A Red Emperor,”
observed
the butterfly;
“but after all there’s not much in it. It is,
you see, all in the name. And I haven’t really any
power whatever to give wings or anything else.
For you must know that I am under orders myself.”

The mannikin looked at the Red Emperor in
surprise.

“And you an Emperor?” said he. “Hasn’t
this scarlet runner sprung up so that we might run
up it to speak to you?”

“That may or may not be,” began the Emperor.
“But——”

II.

“But what?”

No, the Red Emperor was not speaking now.
Somehow the butterfly and the mannikins had got
into the book that Paulina was reading to Peter.

Peter was
sitting up in
bed; he had
also a book in
his hand, and
he threw it
down and
sprang out of
bed, crying
out—

“But what
a splendid butterfly!”

“Oh, your
sprained ankle,
Peter!” cried
Paulina.

But Peter
was at the window,
in fact,
half out of it;
and his left
ankle, which
was bound up with bandages, suddenly appeared
to be quite as free from pain as his right ankle,
which had nothing whatever the matter with it,
and he leaned over the window-sill, murmuring—

[Pg 48]

“Oh, Peter! how can you?” said Paulina.

But Peter was gone, and when Paulina looked
out of the window, she could see neither him, nor
the mannikins, nor the
scarlet runner.

Of course she could
not, for they were not
there. Where had they
gone? oh where? oh
where?

paulina had a stick … in her hand

III.

“Never mind, Paulina;
it is a warm summer
day.”

Was it the great
butterfly who spoke?
No one else was near,
and he was sunning
himself among the elder
blossoms.

Paulina now listened
breathlessly.

“That is to say, the
mannikins have red
jackets and caps, and
they are rolling along
so fast, with Peter in
the midst of them, that
you will find it quite impossible to overtake
them.”

“Are you speaking to me?” said Paulina.

“Of course I am. Can’t you hear what I am
saying? I am the Red Emperor.”

“Then please, good Mr. Red Emperor, fly away,
and tell Peter to come home again.”

“I am an Emperor,” replied the butterfly, “and
I cannot be ordered by a little girl. You must
get back Peter yourself.”

“But I can’t see Peter. Where is he?”

“But I can’t get to cloudland.”

“Of course not, you’re much too heavy.”

Paulina began to cry.

“If you make such a dreadful noise I shall fly
away. Otherwise I shall stay, and tell you what
to do in order to get Peter back.”

“I will do anything in the world,” said Paulina;
“whatever you tell me to do I will at once do.”

“There is but one
thing to do—you must
become an artist.”

“That is impossible,”
sobbed Paulina. “What
shall I do? What shall I
do?”

“Take off that prim
little cap. Tie up your
hair with black ribbon,
and put on a blouse.
Then you will be an
artist.”

“But I’ve never
learned to draw.”

“Pooh!” said the
Red Emperor.

IV.

Paulina did not know
where she was or how
she came there, but she
found herself before a
wall on which hung a
scroll with a face roughly
sketched upon it. Paulina
had a stick with a
bit of chalk at the end
of it in her hand, and
she did not know
whether she had drawn
the face or not.

“Perhaps I did,” said
she. “I think it is a likeness of the moon.”

“Pooh!” answered a voice.

Paulina knew that it was not the Red Emperor,
for he had flown away. She looked round, but
there was no one to be seen. Still the voice went
on speaking—

paulina … began to put on the colour

“Who are you? where are you?” asked Paulina.
“And do you know anything of Peter? He went
with the mannikins.”

“Yes, up in the clouds with them. I saw him.
The clouds were drifting hither and thither, and he
[Pg 49]
could not keep steady upon them, so he tumbled
down to the earth again.”

“Oh dear! Oh dear! What a fall he must have
had!”

Paulina heard a curious whistling, crackling
laugh that seemed to
go off in gusts: puff,
puff! blow, blow, blow!
phew, phew! And then
it subsided into a
gentle whistle.

“It’s nothing to
laugh at,” said Paulina.
“He’ll catch cold, and
he must be very much
hurt.”

“No he isn’t; he
has hurt some one else
instead. I saw him
standing over the boy
that he had knocked
down.”

“He was always
fighting,” murmured
Paulina.

“And he had on
a full suit of blue
clothes,” said the voice,
“and striped stockings
and a white collar.”

“Blue! That’s his
best suit. How did he
get it?”

“I don’t know everything,”
replied the
Wind, for it was the
Wind who was speaking
to Paulina; “but

“Oh!” ejaculated
Paulina. “How can I
get him home again?”

The Wind whistled
for a short time, and
then answered—

“By getting a palette,
and brushes, and paint, and canvas, and
becoming an artist. What is the use of wearing
a blouse and long stockings, and having
your hair tied with black ribbon, if you are not
going to be an artist?”

V.

The Wind had gone away, the scroll with the
sun’s face drawn upon it had vanished, and
Paulina was not where she had been a few moments
before. She did not know where she was, and
everything seemed to be going the wrong way;
but she saw the Red Emperor resting upon a
rosebush, so she felt
that she was not without
a friend.

“I’ve been waiting
for hours,” said the
Red Emperor testily,
“and so has the easel,
also the paints and
palette; and the canvas
is stretched and
the sketch made. You
have nothing to do but
to mount up to your
seat, and fill in with
colours. Shade away,
beginning at the left
corner, and make
haste.”

Paulina looked at
the canvas, upon which
was the outline of a
figure reclining upon a
rock. She was going
to say she could not
shade it, when the Red
Emperor said sternly—

“No nonsense!
Mount to the seat and
paint as fast as you
can, for if the painting
is not finished before
the stars come out,
Peter will never come
home again.”

Paulina scrambled
up; she took the
palette in one hand,
the brush in the
other, and began to
put on the colour as
fast as she could.
She did not take any
pains, but dabbed
away, beginning in the
left-hand corner. She scarcely looked at what she
was doing; but somehow or other it answered,
and the picture progressed rapidly. Paulina herself
was surprised, but she knew that she must lose
no time, for the stars were only waiting for the
twilight.

“The evening star, oh! don’t let it come,” said a
[Pg 50]
very tiny little voice, that sounded like Peter’s, a
long way off; and it went on saying—

standing over the boy (p. 49).

“I should be dizzy if I looked down: I’m so very
high up,” answered Paulina; “but I should like to
know where you are, Peter.”

“Never mind where he is,” said the Red Emperor,
“so that he is somewhere; that is enough for you.
He is not far off. You will descend as the picture
draws near completion, and at the last stroke of
your brush you will see him. Obey me, or Peter
will vanish away, and you will never see him again.”

Again Peter’s voice was heard—

“Yes, I’m near you, but I’ve grown very small;
the Wind shook me about till I was only half the
size I ought to be, just for knocking down a boy
who came in my way. Go on, Paulina; paint
away, make no delay, or I shall have to go away.”

And the Red Emperor also said, “Go on.”

VI.

And Paulina went on with her work. Her
palette was almost clean, so thoroughly had she
used up all the colours upon it, and the painting
only wanted a few more touches, which she added
carefully. Then she drew a little backward to
take a view of her picture. She closed her eyes
for a moment, the better to consider the subject,
and when she opened them, the picture, the easel,
the palette, and brushes had disappeared, and she
was standing in a garden where roses and lilies
and red carnations were growing, and fountains
were sending up cool white spray. The Red
Emperor was there also.

And beside Paulina there stood Peter himself.

“I am my proper size again,” said he. “It’s been
all a very wonderful journey, and I’ve seen wonderful
sights.”

Paulina kissed him, saying—

“Of course he must be content,” said the Red
Emperor severely.

“Of course he must,” echoed the Wind, “if not, I
shall whirl him away to the top of a mountain.”

one of the mannikins tumbled.

“Of course he must,” said two mannikins who
suddenly appeared in sight, rolling and pushing
along what seemed to Paulina to be the half of a
large orange.

Not that it was anything of the sort.

“It’s a casket of gold

From the caverns old,

Where the dwarfs are working for ever.
All that it doth hold,

If you should be told,

Oh! would you believe it? no, never!”

And one of the mannikins tumbled over it, and
turned somersaults, and rolled it up to Paulina.

And then the Wind whispered very softly to her—

“Little maid, I told you true,

Mannikins in red and blue

Would bring something good for you

If the painting well were done

Ere the setting of the sun.”

“Yes, yes,”
said Paulina;
“it’s all true;
but the painting’s
gone, and
it all seems like
a dream; and
I’ve got Peter
back, and his
ankle’s well. But
how did he get
his blue suit?”

But that neither the Red Emperor nor the Wind
told her; neither did Peter, for when she asked
him the question he only said—

“I don’t know!”

Julia Goddard.

[Pg 51]

The Editor’s Pocket-book.

The Natural Bridge, Virginia.

The two greatest natural curiosities—if one may
use the phrase in this connection—in North
America are the Falls of Niagara and the Natural
Bridge in Virginia. A picture of the latter will be
seen in our new heading. It is an arch cut, so to
speak, out of the rock, and stands upwards of two
hundred feet above the ground below. How it
originated has been a kind of puzzle, some urging
that the rock was hollowed by an earthquake, others
that the bridge is the result of the action of water.
Unfortunately for these conjectures no ruins are to
be seen beneath. The bridge has formed the scene
of several hair-breadth escapes.

The Colossus of Rhodes.

The city of Rhodes is situated on the island of
that name, which lies some twelve miles from the
coast of Asia Minor. It was founded four hundred
years before the birth of Christ, and, among other
things, was noted for its Colossus—pictured in
our heading—which was reckoned to be one of
the Seven Wonders of the ancient world. The
Colossus was a gigantic statue in brass of Helios, or
the Sun, and stood at the entrance of one of the
ports. It was 105 feet high. According to one
belief—which, however, is now abandoned—the
Colossus bestrode the harbour, one foot resting
upon a pier at one side, the other upon a pier
at the other, while the figure itself was so lofty that
ships in full sail could pass underneath the outstretched
legs. Sixty years after it was built it was
thrown down by an earthquake.

Chinese Palanquins.

A favourite mode of travelling in China and
other countries of the East is by palanquin, which
is a kind of wooden box, about twice as long as it
is high, with shutters and other appliances to make
it comfortable. The palanquin is carried by
porters—just as in the drawing given above. The
vehicle is furnished inside with a mattress—on
which the traveller reclines—and cushions, and
is also fitted with shelves and drawers. Travelling
is continued day and night. There are different
kinds of palanquins, some resembling the sedan
chairs that used to be fashionable in England.

The Flamingo.

This queer bird—also shown in the heading
above—is found in the tropical and temperate
regions of the globe, and frequents marshes and
shallow lakes. In deep water flamingoes swim, but
they prefer to wade, for then they can bend down
their necks and rake the bottom with their peculiar-shaped
bill in search of food. Flocks of these
birds, with their red plumage, when seen from a
distance, have been likened by observers to troops
of soldiers.

“God’s Providence House.”

The house represented in the new heading, and
bearing the above quaint name, is situated in Chester,
a city famed for its picturesque old buildings. It
is built of timber and brick, and upon the beam
supporting the second floor is carved “God’s
Providence is mine Inheritance, 1652.” It is
supposed that Chester was visited with plague in
that year, and that this house was the only one
which escaped the pestilence. Hence arose the
pious inscription of the grateful tenant.

An Ancient Monster.

Once upon a time, so long ago that I cannot tell
when, strange creatures lived on land and sea.
They have all died out now, but their bones are
sometimes found in a fossil state, and by means of
[Pg 52]
them scientific men have been able to construct, or
piece together, as it were, these old-world monsters.
You will see the picture of one of them in the
new Pocket-book heading. It is called by the long
name “Ichthyosaurus”—a Greek term meaning
“fish-reptile.” This animal was a huge creature
something like a crocodile, with four paddles and a
tail, and its native element was water. It had a
large head with big eyes, and its jaws were well
filled with terrible teeth. It possessed features in
common with fishes as well as with reptiles, and
hence its compound name.

Arabs of the Soudan.

Little folk who read their newspapers know
something of the dauntless courage of the Soudanese
Arabs. The Soudan is a desert of vast extent,
partly bordering upon the boundaries of Upper
Egypt. It is inhabited by wandering Arabs and
some other peoples. They are, most of them, quite
fearless, and even when opposed to British forces
have shown a courage worthy of their foes. Armed—like
the one drawn in our heading—with spear and
shield—for but a few of them owned rifles and fired
them unskilfully—they rushed again and again right
up to the serried ranks of the British soldiers. These
Arabs have several vices, but no one has denied them
the highest degree of bravery.

A Lesson in Charity.

It is related of the late Mr. Peter Cooper, an
American benefactor, that he was one day watching
the pupils in the portrait class connected with the
Women’s Art School of Cooper Institute. About
thirty pupils were engaged in drawing likenesses of
the same model from various points of view—some
in profile, some full face, some nearer and others
farther from the light, and so forth. After studying
the scene for a while Mr. Cooper said, “Such a
sight as this should be a lesson in charity, when
we perceive how the same person may be so
different, according to the way he is looked at by
various people.”

The Busy Bee.

Few little folk have any idea of the labour that
bees have to expend in the gathering of honey.
Here is a calculation, which will show how industrious
the “busy” bee really is. Let us suppose
the insects confine their attentions to clover-fields.
Each head of clover contains about sixty separate
flower-tubes, in each of which is a portion of sugar
not exceeding the five-hundredth part of a grain.
Therefore, before one grain of sugar can be got,
the bee must insert its proboscis into 500 clover-tubes.
Now there are 7,000 grains in a pound, so
that it follows that 3,500,000 clover-tubes must be
sucked in order to obtain but one pound of honey.

The Dwarf Trees of China.

In China, that land of curiosities, may be seen
oaks, chestnuts, pines, and cedars growing in flowerpots,
and fifty years old, but not twelve inches high!
They take the young plant, cut off its tap-root, and
place it in a basin of good soil kept well watered.
Should it grow too rapidly, they dig down and
shorten in several roots. Year by year the leaves
grow smaller, and in course of time the trees become
little dwarfs, and are made pets of like canaries
and dogs.

What is the “Lake School”?

In reading about poets and poetry, you will
sometimes find an allusion to the “Lake School.”
This was the term applied by a writer in the
Edinburgh Review to Wordsworth, Southey, and
Coleridge, because they resided in the lake district
of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and because—though
their works differed in many respects from
each other—they sought for inspiration in the
simplicity of Nature rather than in the study of
other poets, or of the prevailing fashion.

The Cuckoo’s Fag.

Tom Brown, as readers will remember, was in
deep trouble at Rugby about the fagging system
in vogue during his “school-days.” Many things
have happened since then, and amongst others a
marked improvement in fagging. The cruelty and
insolence and selfishness of it have disappeared,
and the system itself will one day die out. As
regards boys, so far so good. Among some feathered
folk, however, fagging flourishes in full
vigour; and so long as there are cuckoos so long
will there be fags. Many birds are imposed upon,
one of the commonest victims being the hedge-sparrow.
For days a sparrow has been watched
while it fed a hungry complaining intruder. It
used to fly on the cuckoo’s back and then, standing
on its head and leaning downwards, give it a
caterpillar. The tit-bit having been greedily
snatched and devoured, the cuckoo would peck
fiercely at its tiny attendant—bidding it, as it were,
fetch more food and not be long about it. Wordsworth
tells us in a famous line that “the child is
father of the man,” and no apter illustration of this
truth could be found than the cuckoo. Let us trace
his early life history, and to begin with, peep
into, say, a wagtail’s nest. It contains a few eggs
all seemingly alike. In due time they are hatched,
and you at once notice that one of the baby birds
is quite different from the rest. It is blind, naked,
yellowish, and ugly, and ere long will prove itself a
monster. How did it come to be born there?
Well, you must know that it is a young cuckoo.
Now, its mother has several bad habits.
[Pg 53]

the cuckoo’s fag. (See p. 52.)

[Pg 54]
For instance, she does not make a nest, but lays her egg
on the ground, and then places it in a nest where
there are others like the one she has laid. She is
cunning, you see, as well as lazy and cruel; for
she has, like a thief in the night, introduced into
an innocent home a real tyrant. The young
cuckoo soon reveals its true character. It begins
by edging the wee wagtails to the side of the nest
and then turning them out one by one. Of course
the little things thus thrown over fall to the ground
and die, but even if some kind person were to
restore them to their home, they would be again
bundled out in the same brutal fashion. Having
got rid of the children of the rightful owners of the
nest the ruthless sneak speedily cries for food;
and the parents of the ejected birds actually tend
this glutton with the greatest diligence. The
young cuckoo is ever gaping for food, and for
weeks the poor foster-parents are kept hard at
work to supply its hunger. Why do they do so?
Probably because they regard it as one of their own
offspring, though they may have a sort of instinctive
notion that there’s something wrong; and so
the weary round of fagging goes on until the
cuckoo takes itself off to start life on its own
account. So greedy, lazy, and thoroughly selfish,
however, is this bird that after it has outgrown its
nest, and is quite able to provide for itself, it will
still look to its industrious comrades for its meals.

The Greatest Whirlpool in the World.

Off the coast of Norway, close to the Lofoden
Islands, the current runs so strong north and south
for six hours and then in the opposite direction for
a similar period, that the water is thrown into
tremendous whirls. This is the far-famed Maelström,
or whirling-stream. The whirlpool is most
active at high and low tide, and when the winds are
contrary the disturbance of the sea is so great that
few boats can live in it. In ordinary circumstances,
however, ships can sail right across the
Maelström without much danger, and the tales
about the vessels and whales which have been
engulfed in the stream are more or less pure fables.

The Dog and the Telephone.

An intelligent dog was recently discovered wandering
about the streets of an American city, by a
gentleman who knew it. He at once asked its
master by means of the telephone whether he had
lost his dog. The reply came “Yes; have you
seen it?” To which the further instruction was
sent, “Suppose you call him through the telephone.”
Accordingly the dog was lifted up and
the ear-piece placed at its ear. “Jack! Jack!”
shouted its owner, whereupon Jack, recognising the
voice, began at once to yelp most vigorously,
and licked the telephone in a friendly way, evidently
thinking that its master was inside the machine.

A QUEEN OF THE BEACH.

(See Coloured Frontispiece.)

E played together on the sands,
We roamed the moors for heather,

We climbed the cliffs with clasping hands
In the wild and windy weather;

And sweet were my little queen’s commands
As we merrily played together.

Her eyes were blue as the limpid sea

When the morning sun is on it,

Her locks were bright as the corn might be

With the blaze of noon upon it,

And her scarlet cap was a charm to me,

But her laughing lips outshone it.

So fearless was the little maid,

Not a danger could astound her,

With her bucket and her busy spade,

On the sea-bound shore I found her,

Of the winds and the waves all unafraid

While the sea-gulls floated round her.

And many a house of sand we reared,

The walls with shells adorning,

While boats our happy playground neared,

And breakers gave us warning

That though we neither paused nor feared,

All would be gone next morning.

A. M.

[Pg 55]

Little Folks

SPECIAL NOTICE.

The Editor desires to inform his Readers that the names of Officers and Members of The Little Folks Humane
Society will be printed in the Magazine as usual during the next six months, but that after the present
Volume is completed, and when Fifty Thousand Names have appeared, the publication of the Lists will be discontinued.
As, however, the operations of the Society will still be carried on, and some accounts of its progress will from time to
time be given in Little Folks, the Editor hopes to receive, as hitherto, the “promises” of all Children who are willing
to join; and, on receipt of these, their names will be inscribed on the Register of the Society, and Certificates of Officership
and Membership also forwarded to them if stamped addressed envelopes be enclosed. (The number of Officers and
Members now on the Register is about 49,500). The Editor is aware that in certain instances intending Officers find
that it takes many months to complete the list of fifty names, which it is necessary to collect in order to become an Officer,
and he thinks it probable that the total of Fifty Thousand referred to above will be reached before some of his Readers
have been able to obtain this number of “promises” from other children. To meet this difficulty, and in order
that the efforts on behalf of the Society of such children may be rewarded just as they would have been had the publication
of names in Little Folks been longer continued, the small book and medal hitherto given to Officers will still be
awarded; though in all cases it will be necessary, in sending up the fifty “promises,” to enclose a Certificate from a
Parent, Teacher, or other responsible person, stating that the list had been commenced previous to the appearance of
this notice in Little Folks. The book and medal will not in future be awarded to any readers other than those just
referred to—that is, those whose lists of fifty names are in actual progress at the present time (July 1st, 1884).

TWENTY-NINTH LIST OF OFFICERS AND MEMBERS.

Officers’ Names are printed in Small Capital Letters, and the Names of their Members are printed beneath. Where a short line, thus “——,”
is printed, the end of an Officer’s List is indicated.