THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

SHEILA.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.

“‘CYRIL IS WORTH TEN OF HIM.’”

All rights reserved.]

{498}

CHAPTER V.

EFFIE’S HERO.

“I’ve just been telling Effie that we
must do something to cheer her up and
put heart into her. She’s got the
summer before her now, and she’s getting
stronger. We can’t let her shut herself
up much longer. We must get her out
into the fresh air and sunshine, and
make a new woman of her.”

Cyril was the speaker, and he looked
at Effie with a kindly smile. She smiled
back, and her cheek glowed. There
was an animation and brightness about
her that Sheila had not seen before.

“I should like that,” she said eagerly,
“but they will hardly let me do anything.
I’m always asking to do things; but I
can never get leave—hardly.”

“Then we’ll take French leave,” said
Cyril gaily. “Look here, Effie; suppose
I dress up in a wig and spectacles, and
play the part of a new doctor, will you
let me prescribe for you?”

She clapped her hands and laughed.

“I should think I would indeed! Oh,
Cyril, do be doctor for a little while and
tell me what to do! You have such
splendid ideas!”

“Well, my first idea would be to get
you out on to horseback. You would like it
no end if you once got used to it, and it
would be a capital thing for you. Here’s
Sheila with her horse to be a companion,
and I can always hire a decent hack
from Lovejoy and take you out. Your
father would make nothing of getting
you a little easy-paced cob, gentle, and
used to a lady; and there’s the park for
you to take your first rides in, till you
have got your nerve and seat well assured.
It would be no end of a good thing
for you; don’t you think so yourself?”

“Oh, yes, Cyril!” cried Effie eagerly,
and Sheila’s eyes were shining, for she
saw that if Effie once took to riding, she
would get her share of her favourite
exercise. “You know I used to have
my pony, but when I outgrew him they
never got me another. Mother is
nervous, and there was so much trouble
and illness in the house, and then I got
ill myself. But I’ll talk to father. I’ll
get his leave, and you’ll choose me a
cob, won’t you, and teach me how to
ride again? I hope I sha’n’t be very
stupid; but you know I do get rather
nervous sometimes now; I suppose it’s
being ill. Things get on my mind and
I can’t get them off; but I should feel
safe with you.”

“Oh, I’ll take care of you!” answered
Cyril. “We shall just have to get the
doctor on our side and everything will
be right, you’ll see.”

“I don’t care what the doctor says!”
cried Effie. “I mean to do as I like now.
I’ve obeyed doctors quite long enough,
and I’m not a bit better for it. You
shall be my doctor, Cyril. I shall obey
you and defy everybody else. Won’t it
be fun? Do ask about a nice horse for
me. Father will give me anything I
want, I know. And he thinks such a lot
of you, Cyril. If you’ll only be there to
help me, he won’t mind what I do.”

“And when once you can ride, there’ll
be plenty of fun for us all in the
summer,” went on Cyril. “We can
get up picnics and water-parties and
things like that; and when your birthday
comes we might have a regular
fête in the park, with sports or mild polo
or steeplechase, and you should show
off your prowess. Perhaps by the
autumn you might be promoted to a
hunter and ride to hounds. There’s
some very good country all round here,
and I don’t see why you shouldn’t take
your place as the heiress of Cossart
Place, which is what you are, Effie.
You ought to be quite a great lady in
Isingford and its vicinity.”

When Cyril was gone, after spending
an hour with the two girls and leaving
them quite roused up and full of pleasureable
excitement, Effie turned to Sheila
and exclaimed eagerly—

“Isn’t he splendid!”

“He’s very kind and nice,” answered
Sheila, “so different from the rest. I
don’t mean that they’re not all nice;
but Cyril seems to belong to a different
world.”

“Yes, doesn’t he? That’s just how I
feel. He’s always been so different from
the rest. The funny thing is, that father
does not think half as much of him as
he does of North; but I never could
care a bit for North. Cyril is worth ten
of him.”

“He has been brought up so differently—has
been to public school and
college. I like University men; they
are quite different from others. I can’t
bear that Oscar shouldn’t finish his
course there; but still, he always will
have the air of an Oxford man everywhere!”

Sheila spoke with sisterly pride, but
Effie was not listening. Her thoughts
had gone off on their own tack. Presently
she asked with a would-be air of
carelessness—

“Did Cyril ever talk about me to you,
those days you were in River Street?”

Sheila paused and hesitated. Cyril
had sometimes spoken of Effie, but
always in a rather slighting fashion, not
unkindly exactly, but as though he held
her in rather small estimation. If Sheila
had not hurt Effie’s feelings once already
to-day, she might have answered with
more truth than diplomacy, but she had
had a lesson and was too good-natured
to give pain willingly, so she replied
after a moment’s pause—

“Yes, he talked about you several
times. He is fond of coming here, I
think. He likes the house and the park
and garden. Are you and he great
friends, Effie? I thought you seemed to
be.”

“Yes, I think we are,” answered
Effie with a pleased and conscious smile.
“You see, Raby and Ray aren’t a bit
intellectual, they don’t care to read or
talk about books, and Cyril is so clever.
He reads to me sometimes and lends me
books, and we talk about them afterwards.
I have a lot of time for thinking
about things. Cyril thinks a great deal
too. I suppose that’s why he likes
coming. Do you think he thinks me
clever, Sheila?”

“I don’t know. He did not say.”

“I don’t call myself clever,” went on
Effie, “but I think in my own way; I
don’t go by what other people tell me.
I like to have my own ideas about things.
One ought to be original, don’t you
think? Mother often says I have such
an original mind. I think perhaps I
shall write some day when I am stronger.
I have done a few things. Cyril saw one
or two. I think he was rather anxious
for me to go on. Perhaps I’ll show them
to you some day. I took a prize once at
an essay competition; Cyril helped me.
He was very proud when I got the
prize.”

Effie was quite happy now, fairly
launched upon her favourite topic.
Sheila listened and tried to be sympathetic,
but wished that Cyril had stayed
longer. His conversation was more
interesting a good deal than Effie’s.
Presently there was rather a long silence
between the girls, and then Effie asked
suddenly—

“Sheila, do you think there’s any
harm in cousins marrying?”

“I don’t know,” answered Sheila,
waking from her day-dream. “Why
should there be? Don’t they often do
it?”

“Yes, very often; but some people
don’t like it. I never quite know why.
I can’t see why they shouldn’t.”

Sheila turned a glance rather full of
interest upon Effie.

“Does Cyril want to marry you?”
she asked, with the outspoken candour
of girlhood.

Effie’s face flamed, but there was a
lurking smile in her eyes. She looked
down and twisted her hands together.

“I don’t know. He has never said
so. Did you think that yourself, Sheila?”

It had not entered Sheila’s head till
Effie’s own words had suggested it; but
certainly Cyril had paid a good deal of
attention to Effie, and had seemed
anxious to see more of her.

“I’ve never seen people in love,” she
answered; “I don’t know what they
do, or how they look. Do you think
you would like to marry Cyril, Effie?”

Effie blushed, but looked up with a
sparkle of defiance in her eyes.

“He’ll have to fall in love with me
first, and then I’ll perhaps think about
it. You don’t suppose I’m going to
care for anybody in that way if he
doesn’t care for me? I’m the heiress
of Cossart Place—you heard Cyril say
so himself. I believe I shall have a
very big fortune some day. You don’t
suppose I’m going to be had just for the
asking—not even by Cyril!”

Sheila held her peace; her ideas
about love and marriage were very
elementary and immature, but she did
not see that what persons had could
make very much difference. It was
whether they cared for each other, she
thought.

The following weeks were rather
amusing ones for Sheila and Effie.
Cyril had taken up in earnest his plan
for getting Effie to ride again; and
Mr. Cossart had been talked over when
he found that the doctor approved and
that Effie’s heart was set upon it.

Cyril was the master of the ceremonies
throughout. He first hired for her a
trained circus pony, who would obey
at a word, and who carried Effie
patiently round and round the sweep of{499}
the drive till she had regained some
of her former aptitude for the saddle.
Meantime he was scouring the neighbourhood
in search of a suitable cob
for her future use; and when he had
heard of a likely animal, he would call
for Sheila to accompany him to the
place, because, as he said, though she
might not know whether the creature
were sound or not, she could give a
very good opinion as to whether its
paces were easy and comfortable, and
whether it was the kind of creature Effie
would like.

These rides were a source of great
enjoyment to Sheila. She found Cyril
a delightful companion, and he seemed
to find her the same. It was a relief
to get away from the atmosphere of
Cossart Place for a few hours—away from
Effie’s companionship, and the feeling of
irritation and constraint which she often
experienced there.

“I suppose it is my fault,” she sometimes
said to Cyril, if he chanced to find
her in one of her stormy moods. “I
want to be nice to Effie; but she does
aggravate me sometimes! When she
is ill, I am really very sorry for her. It
must be dreadful to feel as though you
couldn’t breathe. But I do think she
would be better if she wasn’t always
talking and thinking about her symptoms.
It’s partly Aunt Cossart. She is always
asking her about them. But—oh, dear,
I do get so tired of it! And then if I am
cross, I get into such disgrace!”

“Poor little thing!” said Cyril kindly.
“Yes, it must be a trying life for you;
but I will do all I can to brighten it up
for you. We will try to get some fun
out of the summer. Uncle and Aunt
Cossart will do anything and agree to
anything if they think it is in the interest
of their darling! So we can make a
capital stalking-horse of Effie!”

Sheila suddenly raised her clear glance
to Cyril’s face. Something in the tone
of the last words struck her with a
momentary sense of uneasiness. Surely
he was sincere in wishing to do Effie
good and rouse her up? Anything the
least bit untrue went against the grain
with Sheila terribly. He seemed to see
the question in her eyes, and at once
continued—

“You can see for yourself how much
she wants taking out of herself; and
that will never be done at home. We
must get her out into the world amongst
other people. As it is, she thinks she
is rather a wonderful being. When she
goes out more and rubs against others,
she will find her level, and it will do her
a world of good.”

“Don’t you like Effie, then?” asked
Sheila.

“Oh, yes, in a way, poor little thing!
I am sorry for her, and we have always
been good friends. She was a merry
little soul once, though too cheeky for
my taste. Perhaps she will be better
of that as she grows older. But she has
had no advantages. She has never
seen society—as you and I call it—and
she shows it in every word and thought.
She has no charm about her—that great
possession of womanhood—and when one
sees her beside somebody who has so
large a share, one feels the absence of it
more than ever.”

Sheila felt Cyril’s eyes upon her, and
blushed crimson. She was not used to
compliments, yet there was no misunderstanding
the meaning of his words.
She could not help quivering with a sort
of pleasure, yet felt as though it were
somehow treachery to her cousin. For
that Cyril was Effie’s hero Sheila could
not doubt, though she would never exactly
admit as much.

The cob was selected at last, had up
on trial, and finally purchased; and
Cyril was to be found at Cossart Place
most mornings in the week to take the
girls out for a ride.

Effie could only go short distances as
yet, and her steady cob did not require
more exercise than the daily amble.
But Shamrock was young and mettlesome,
and so was the horse Cyril had
hired for his own use; and often, after
Effie had dismounted and gone in, the
other two would betake themselves for a
canter across the park, or a ride on some
errand or other, generally of Cyril’s
devising.

The Cossart cousins had always been
on brotherly and sisterly terms, and
nobody took exception to this arrangement.
Sheila was delighted to get the
long breezy canters through the budding
lanes or across a stretch of park-land,
and Cyril’s companionship was always
pleasant. Her little worries seemed to
smooth themselves down when he was
near; and he had a way of saying
flattering things, which, if a little
embarrassing sometimes, was rather
delightful too.

The only thing that Sheila did not
quite like or understand was his way
of half laughing at Effie behind her
back—making out that what he did for
her was a kind of duty and treadmill,
whilst he was all the while longing to
be off with Sheila.

Effie did not take this view of matters.
To her he professed himself the most
devoted of knights. She fully believed
that he enjoyed riding beside her more
than anything in the world, and he
certainly seemed to profess as much.
But when off and away with Sheila,
he would give her a laughing look, and
say—

“There, now we can enjoy ourselves.
Aren’t we good to be so patient over our
task? But it’s worth it, for what we get
afterwards. Don’t you find it so too, little
cousin?”

And then Sheila would feel guilty and
uncomfortable, and ask herself if she
were being hypocritical. But surely
Cyril could not be that, and she quickly
drove away the unwelcome misgiving.

Once rather a strange thing happened
whilst they were riding together. A
man on horseback suddenly joined them—rather
as though he were waiting for
them. She thought Cyril changed colour
and looked angry; and he said to her
at once—

“Ride on, Sheila. I will join you
almost at once. I have a little business
to talk over with this gentleman.”

Sheila did as she was bid. She rode
ahead; but she heard the voices of the
men behind in argument, and what
sounded rather like disagreement. At
least, the other man seemed angry.
Sometimes he spoke quite loud and
roughly, and once Sheila heard him
say—

“Is that the heiress you are riding
with, then?” But she could not hear
Cyril’s reply; and when he came back
to her, his face was pale and very much
clouded over.

“Is anything the matter, Cyril?” she
asked. But he tried to laugh as he
answered in an off-hand way—

“Oh, we all have our little worries,
Sheila! It’s nothing much! It’s
nothing to bother over! I’ve squared
the fellow for the present. He won’t
trouble us again; and don’t you say
anything about this to anybody! It’s
nothing to anybody but myself!”

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

“Mother” in fourteen languages.—Here
are fourteen varieties of the word
“Mother,” all bearing a distinct resemblance—Anglo-Saxon,
Modor; Persian, Madr;
Sanscrit, Matr; Greek, Meter; Italian,
Madre; French, Mère; Swedish, Moder;
Danish, the same; Dutch, Moeder; German,
Mutter; Russian, Mater; Celtic, Mathair;
Hebrew, Em; Arabic, Am.

Don’t be Indiscreet.—An indiscreet girl
does more harm than an ill-natured one, for
the latter will only attack her enemies and
those she wishes ill to, but the other injures
indifferently both friends and foes.

Ladies and Gentlemen.—Coolness and
absence of heat and haste indicate fine qualities.
A gentleman makes no noise; a lady is serene.—Emerson.

The Greatest Event in Life.—Marriage
is the greatest event in life. It is also a new
beginning of life. It is a home for the lonely,
a haven of rest for those who have been too
much tossed by the storms of life. It is the
best and most lasting thing. It is heaven
upon earth to live together in perfect amity
and disinterestedness and unselfishness to the
service of God and man until our life is over.—Jowett.

Words for Music.—Too much thought
in words intended for music has a disturbing
and over-weighting effect. Music does not
only deepen emotion, it sometimes obscures
the meaning. Hence the poet must meet it
with a concession. The most effective words
for songs are simple, slight, lucid, with unity—a
simple idea worked out to one climax.

Avarice.—A neighbour once refused
another the loan of his well. The latter was
thus compelled to sink one himself, and in so
doing he tapped his neighbour’s spring, so that
his neighbour’s well ran dry. Thus avarice ofttimes
defeats itself and benefits its enemy.

{500}

THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.

By F. W. L. SLADEN.

PART I.

Under the above title it is intended to give
a series of six papers on the subject of
“Practical Bee-keeping,” of which this one is
the first.

STOCK-BOX AND FLOOR, SHOWING QUILTS AND FRAMES.

It is presumed that the reader is a stranger
as yet to the pleasures of bee-keeping, but
has some desire to know a little about these
extraordinary, interesting and useful insects,
and thus to solve some of the mysteries of
the hive. The best way to do this is to keep
a hive of bees of your own, and the following
papers, as they appear month by month, will
aim at giving seasonable directions for establishing
and managing it.

A MODERN BEE-HIVE.

Bee-keeping is a pursuit that has several
peculiar advantages to recommend it. Much
pleasure is derived in obtaining an insight into
the habits and requirements of these interesting
insects by actual handling and observation.
There is also the aid to health, which a
moderate amount of exercise in fresh air and
sunlight, with a restful change of occupation
for the mind, cannot fail to bring. And last,
but not least, there is the honey—the prize
at the end of
the season for
the diligent
bee-keeper,
the sum-total
of little tokens
of gratitude
contributed
by
thousands of
little workers,
each so tiny,
but which,
when put together,
form
a very substantial
and
adequate return
for all
the trouble
and attention
bestowed upon
them.
This last
brings with
it the pleasure
of being able
to place on
the family
table the product
of one’s own bees, or if it amounts to
more than can well be disposed of at home,
there will be
the profit that
will accrue from
disposing of it
at a fair price to
friends. There
are, indeed,
many people
living in the
country who
are able to make
quite a useful
addition to their
income by following
this pursuit.

Perhaps the
only thing that
can be said
against commencing
bee-keeping
is the
possibility of
getting stung,
but this is almost
always the
result of too frequent
or careless
handling;
it is seldom
worse than a
passing inconvenience, and the bee-keeper
soon learns to look upon it as a factor not worth
taking into account. The timid, however, may
render themselves nearly sting-proof by the
use of india-rubber gloves lined with wool,
besides the veil usually worn by bee-keepers to
protect the face.

Few people are unsuited for bee-keeping.
The invalid can manage to attend to a few
hives during the warm sunny weather in
summer without fatigue. The only persons who
are really unfitted to take up bee-keeping
are those who have not the desire or
opportunity to attend to the bees regularly,
or those who at first, perhaps, take up
the new hobby with great zest, only to leave
their pets to neglect when the novelty of the
thing has somewhat worn off, or on the
occasion of the first difficulty. Such a one
should not keep bees. When we become
the possessors of dumb animals, which depend
more or less upon human aid for their well-being
and comfort—and bees certainly do—a
responsibility rests upon us which it would
be wrong to ignore.

There are few places in this country where
bees may not be kept. The heart of a large
city is perhaps the most unfavourable place
for bee-keeping, but even in London bees have
been kept successfully in Regent Street,
Holborn, and in other parts. Wherever
flowers flourish, bees will generally find a
subsistence. In country districts where Dutch
clover and sainfoin are largely cultivated, and
on the heather-clad moors of Yorkshire and
Scotland, they will yield considerable returns
of honey in favourable seasons.

On the whole, bee-keeping is a fascinating
pursuit to those who are engaged in it, and
thus almost every intelligent bee-keeper is
more or less of an enthusiast, and there is, I
think, a general fellow-feeling and desire to
help one another amongst all interested in
the craft, be they old hands, beginners, or
even merely desirous, would-be bee-keepers,
which is a pleasing indication of genuine love
of the work they have at heart.

OLD-FASHIONED SKEP AND MODERN FRAME HIVE.

The best advice I can give to those who
intend to start bee-keeping is to go and see
a practical bee-keeper living in the neighbourhood,
who keeps a few colonies of bees in
the modern wooden hives. Choose a warm,
sunny day sometime this month for the visit,
and ask him to open one of the hives before
you, and to explain its contents to you and
how to handle the bees.

It will be seen that a bee-hive consists
essentially of three separate parts, (1) the
floor, (2) the stock-box, and (3) the roof.

The stock-box contains the combs and bees.
The combs vary in number from eight to
twelve, or more; they are built in wooden{501}
frames which hang from the sides of the
stock-box, and are kept a certain distance
apart by means of metal ends, so that the
bees may have free passage between them. The
number of the frames of comb may be varied
according to “the strength of the bees.”[1]
When there are fewer frames than the stock-box
is capable of containing, the empty space
beyond them is shut off by means of a close-fitting
board called a dummy. The entrance
is a narrow slit on one side of the hive between
the floor and the stock-box through which the
bees pass in and out. The portion of the floor
which projects beyond the entrance is called
the alighting-board. Several thicknesses of
cloths, or quilts as they are called, are placed
on top of the frames to keep the bees warm.

Besides these simple essentials of every
hive, there should be an upper story or lift to
contain the super, which is a box placed over
the frames in summer, in which the bees may
store all honey beyond what is required for
their own use. In many hives the lift is made
so that by inversion it will drop down over
the stock-box for the winter, and so help to
keep the bees extra warm.

It will not be necessary to trouble the
reader at present with any details of the
structure of the bee-hive, these being of use
chiefly only to those who intend to make their
own hives; and this is not recommended, as
good hives can now be obtained ready-made
from the leading dealers, which are much
more satisfactory.

A hive with the combs fixed in movable
frames like the one described above has a
great advantage over the old-fashioned round
straw hives or skeps in which the combs are
fixed immovably. In the former, any or all
of the frames of comb may be lifted out and
examined, and the exact state of the colony
ascertained in a few minutes, while with the
latter the bee-keeper could never tell what
was going on inside the hive. Without
knowledge there cannot be much progress,
and we can understand how, by keeping bees
in this latter style, our forefathers for so many
centuries never dreamt of any improvement
on their barbarous plan of destroying the bees
by burning brimstone when they wanted to
obtain the honey.

In this country we have now a further
advantage in the movable comb system by the
universal adoption of a standard size of frame,
which has been fixed by the British Bee-keepers’
Association. These standard frames
are of course interchangeable, and will fit any
hive made to take them.

There are one or two ways of making a
start in keeping bees, but the best for this
time of the year is to procure a swarm. Two
swarms obtained in May or the early part of
June would make a very good beginning. It is
not advisable to start with more, until a little
experience is gained, and thus the chances of
failure and disappointment will be diminished.

The following is a list of articles necessary
for commencing bee-keeping which should
now be procured, so that all may be in
readiness for the swarm when it comes, some
directions for hiving which will be given in
the next paper.

LIST OF ARTICLES FOR COMMENCING BEE-KEEPING.

(To be continued.)

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.

CHAPTER VI.

AN EXPERIENCE.

Florence Brand presented herself at
her sister’s house on the following morning,
to take her to a large registry office,
“You’ll see plenty of girls there,” she
said. “You must be prepared to wait a
while if you are told that a suitable
article is not then on the premises.”

“I suppose I shall get home before my
half-past-one dinner-hour?” said Lucy.

“It is not in the power of woman to
prophesy when you will get home,”
Florence answered. “But surely,” she
cried, as her little nephew came in
equipped for a walk, “you do not dream
of taking Hugh with us?”

“Certainly I do!” answered Lucy.
“It may not be much of a pleasure for
him; but he is good and patient.
Indeed, there is nothing else to be
done.”

“Cannot you leave him with your
charwoman?” asked Florence. “Don’t
you think she is respectable?”

“Hugh,” said his mother, “run upstairs
and find my gloves in my bedroom.
Yes,” she replied to her sister as the
child ran off, “Mrs. Sim is perfectly
respectable as a charwoman. But I
know nothing of her as regards children.
She might think it kind to indulge Hugh
with lumps of sugar, or by telling him
stories of ghosts or murders.”

“Well,” said Florence, “you think I
am hard on the lower orders; but I’m
sure I’d leave my youngsters in their
charge for a few hours—in one’s own
house too, where there can be nothing
dirty or infectious. I don’t know much
more of the nurses I hire than you do of
your Mrs. Sim.”

“I could trust Hugh with Pollie
without any misgiving,” answered Mrs.
Challoner. “I knew her ways with him
as I know my own.”

She said no more, though she might
have added that nothing but bitter compulsion
would induce her to trust her
darling to the tender mercies—mental
and moral—of many women not of the
“lower orders,” even of Florence herself!—whose
motherly methods were by
no means those of her sister.

The registry office was kept in an
old-fashioned house in an old-fashioned
street. A few men, with that undefinable
stamp which marks a manservant, were
lounging about the door, while dotted
over the pavement were groups of smart
and voluble young women. Now and
then one of them raised a shrill mirthless
laugh.

Lucy’s heart sank within her.

“Of course, some of all sorts come
to these places,” said Florence reassuringly.
“Let me tell you these very
girls would pass muster in any respectable
house once they are arrayed in
their caps and aprons. They put on
their good manners with their livery.”

Lucy wondered whether it may be true
wisdom to insist on a garb which so
easily becomes a mere domino in which
very unexpected human nature may
masquerade.

“We shall have to go up to the second
floor,” whispered Mrs. Brand. “The
menservants are seen on the ground
floor, cooks and head-housemaids on
the first, and smaller fry, such as we
want, on the second. Possibly lodging-house
keepers interview their little
slaveys in the attics.”

Women hanging about on the landings
managed to make plain their contempt
for ladies who were manifestly seeking a
mere “general.” The front room on
the second floor was so thronged that
the sisters could scarcely find standing
room. It was not easy to distinguish
between mistresses and maids, for nobody
was of a refined type, and in dress—at
least, on first glance—all seemed
equally smart and fashionable.

A clerk of the office was edging about,
note-book in hand. She was a red-faced
middle-aged woman, wearing a dusty,
jet-trimmed black alpaca gown.

“A general servant is scarcely to be
had, madam,” she said.

“Then what are all these?” asked
Mrs. Brand. “I thought this was the
‘general servants’ department.”

“So it is. But most of these are
general servants ‘where another is kept.’
They would not go as a single hand,”
explained the clerk.

“I must have one who will consent to
do so,” said Lucy. Something in her
low clear voice and simple decision of
manner made the registry office clerk
turn and look at her. This was not the
style of mistress with whom she was
best acquainted.

“I will try to please you, madam,”
said the clerk. “I fear there is nobody
suitable in the house at present. But
one may come in at any moment. A
great many girls do not appear till about
noon. May I ask you to take a seat?
There is a sofa vacant near the window.”

As the sisters took their seats on the
shabby little sofa, two or three gaudy
girls strolled past them, inspecting them
from their hats down to their boots.

Lucy whispered—

“This puts me in mind of what we
used to read about the slave marts in
the States.”

“Yes, only it is the employers who{502}
are now on view!” said Florence
snappily.

“I don’t know whether that makes it
either worse—or better,” Lucy answered,
drawing Hugh closer to her side.

The next moment a tall raw-boned
woman with a forbidding countenance
stepped up and bluntly asked,

“Are you wantin’ a general servant?”

“Yes, I am,” Lucy replied, her heart
sinking within her.

“I’m looking for a place. What
wages do you give?”

Lucy named the sum she had paid
Pollie.

“That’s not very high for a general,”
observed the woman.

“It is a very quiet situation,” said
Lucy.

“H’m!—out in some country place, I
suppose?”

“No,” answered Lucy, “my house is
in Bloomsbury.” She was cowed into
giving answers when she should rather
have retorted by questions. Really she
did not want to question this woman, or
to have anything to do with her. Yet
in this place she had not courage to
say so. Mrs. Brand did not come to the
rescue.

“Bloomsbury houses are pretty big—too
big for one woman.”

“Mine is a small house,” faltered
Lucy.

“How many in family?”

“Only two,” Lucy answered; “myself
and this little boy.”

“D’ye expect me to do the washing?”

Lucy was ready to cry out that she
did not “expect” her to do anything,
except to go away! But she was so
demoralised that she meekly replied—

“My last servant did the washing,
with help; but if I get one who suits me
in other ways, I am willing to put the
washing out.”

“Are you a widder, then?”

Lucy’s heart thumped.

“No, my husband is on a long
voyage.”

“A ship-captain is he?”

“No, he is travelling for his health.
He will be at home within the year.”

An expression came into the woman’s
insolent eye, which Lucy did not understand,
though it made her feel hot.
The woman gave her head a significant
little wag. It meant something apart
from what she said, though her words
were insolent enough.

“I reckon there won’t be much
regular cooking in your place. There
never is, where there isn’t a proper
master. I don’t think your place will
suit me.”

“I am sure it will not!” said Lucy
quietly.

One or two tawdry girls who had come
up to listen to this colloquy nudged
each other and laughed at the discomfiture
of their fellow-worker.

“Well, you’ve got rid of her,”
observed Florence. “The idea of her
asking all those questions! What right
have they to know anything except the
work which will be required of them and
the wages they are to get?”

“I don’t say that,” said Lucy.
“Before a woman accepts a place, I
think she has a right to know whether
it is quite respectable—and many little
details beside. But she might have
waited till I had first put some questions
to her. Fancy, if I had behaved so
when I went, a stranger, to look after
the first appointment I had at the
Institute!”

Florence made an impatient gesture.

“You compare things which have
no standard of comparison,” she said.
“You are a lady and know how to
behave and to keep your proper place.
These creatures don’t. They must be
taught. If you had taken that woman
in the right way, and talked down
to her and cheapened her well, she
would have respected you, and she
might have turned out a servant good
enough.”

“Florence, dear,” pleaded Lucy, “I
would not wish to take any woman into
my house who could behave so. And
her appearance was horrid!”

“She would have done up decently
enough if you had insisted on it,” said
Florence. “Why need you care how
uncouth a servant looks so long as you
can get plenty of work out of her? It
is not as if you had a professional man
in your house, and had to think of a
girl’s appearance in opening the door.
Do better next time. Here comes
another.”

“Are you wanting a general servant,
ma’am?” said the girl, advancing
towards Mrs. Challoner.

This was a younger woman than the
last. Better looking too, despite the
draggled feather which overhung her
hat. There was some pertness in her
voice and manner. But Lucy was not
repelled by her as by the other, and
was therefore brave enough to carry on
some catechism on her own side.

“You have been a general servant
before?”

“Yes, m’m; I’ve never been anything
else.”

“Then you have plenty of experience,
and know what you are undertaking?”

“I’ve been in places, m’m, since I
was fifteen. I’m twenty-two now.” She
looked at least four years older.

Again Mrs. Challoner stated the
wages she gave, adding some rough
sketch of the duties of the place.

“I am sure a reliable girl will find it
comfortable,” she said. “And now—if
we agree on other things—what references
have you to give me?”

The rather haggard face fell; but the
pert voice answered undauntedly—

“I was three months in my last place,
m’m, and they’ve got nothing to say
against me.”

“Three months is a very short time,”
commented Lucy. “Why did you
leave?”

“Well, m’m, the missis had such
a temper as never was.” A pause.
“She couldn’t get no girl to stay.”

“She will give you a character?”

“Well, m’m, it’s a shame if she
didn’t! I’ve had nothing against my
character.”

“She could not know you very well
in three months’ time,” mused Lucy.
“But she could at least tell me the
character she got when she engaged
you.”

“She never asked a character,” said
the girl. “Ah, m’m, she was too glad
to get anybody. She knowed her own
temper and that no one wouldn’t stay.”

Lucy looked at her with considering
eyes.

“If I were a servant,” said she, “I
would not go where my character was
not sought for. I should feel sure it
could not be a good place.”

The girl muttered something about
ladies being sometimes hard put to it
and in a dreadful hurry, and about “a
poor girl having to get her bread.”

Lucy’s charity instantly accepted all
such possible excuses.

“If you explained the circumstances
to the mistress you lived with before this
last, perhaps she would allow me to
make a few inquiries about you?”

“She might,” the girl said; “but
some ladies do not like to be troubled.”

“How long were you in that situation?”
asked Lucy.

“Six weeks,” answered the girl.
“There was a fire, and after that they
made some changes, and that was why
I came away.”

“But I do not like the look of this,”
observed Lucy. “And what about the
situation before that?”

“I don’t know where those people
are,” said the girl, a sullenness coming
over her. “The master bankrupted,
and it was as much as I could do to get
my wages.”

“You have been very unfortunate,”
remarked Lucy, pondering whether this
might not be simple fact, and whether
justice might not demand that she
should give the girl “another chance.”
Still it was her present duty to get a
reliable household helper, and other
considerations must take second place
to that absolute duty. Yet she shrank
from coming to any harsh decision.

“What is the longest time you have
kept any situation?” she asked.

“I was a whole year in one,” said the
girl, with great self-satisfaction.

“How long is that ago?” inquired
Lucy.

“It was my second place,” returned
the girl, rather defiantly. “And it was
a hard one. For it were a public, an’
the master, he drank, and the missus
were dead, and there were six children.
I might have been there till to-day,”
she went on, “but I had to go into
’orspital, I were that worn out.”

What a life history if it were true!
And what a terrible imagination if it
were false! But why had the girl found
it so hard to keep other places if she had
so readily endured the slavery indicated
in her words?

“I am afraid you will not suit me,”
said Lucy, very gently. “I fear you
have had no opportunity to get the
experience and training I require.”

“I’ve always been in places, m’m,”
answered the girl tartly. “If ten years
o’ different places doesn’t give one
experience, I don’t know what will!”

“Experience of changes,” said Lucy,
“but not experience in work and in
regular household ways.”

The girl looked in Lucy’s face and
saw that her dismissal was decided.

“Oh, well, m’m, please yourself!”{503}
she said. “There’s plenty o’ places
goin’ that’ll suit me, and I’d not care to
stay long anywhere!”

“You did better this time, Sis,”
whispered Florence Brand as the damsel
flounced away. “But you must not be too
particular. Don’t peep too closely behind
their set scenes. If they tell you a
lie decently, make believe to believe it.
Then, if anything turns out wrong, why,
you’ve been deceived, you know, and
your credit is saved.”

Lucy scarcely heard what her sister
said. The squalid horror of the lives
opening before her sickened and suffocated
her soul, just as the fetid atmosphere
of the crowded room was sickening
to her body.

“Poor girl, what chance has she
enjoyed?” she said. “She had not a
bad face. If I had not been fixed as I
am, I might have given her a trial, and
have helped her to be glad ‘to stay long
somewhere.’ One couldn’t wonder that
she wasn’t, if all she told is true.”

Florence laughed.

“True?” she echoed. “Not one
word of it! I believe she found out that
you weren’t the mistress for her before
she told you about ‘the public.’ She
reckoned that would choke you off.
They are cute enough for anything.
True! Why, she openly told you one
flaring fib, and you never noticed it!”

“What was it?” asked the bewildered
Lucy.

“She said she went into service at
fifteen and is twenty-two; and next she
said she had been in service ten years.
And yet you’re ready to cry over her!
Oh, my dear, simple sister! You need
not be so sorry for her—be sorry for
yourself, in the power of such as she.
She needs no pity!”

“This only shows her greater need of
pity,” said Lucy; but she had to stoop
and soothe Hugh, who was plucking at
her dress and saying—

“Let us come away, mamma! I
don’t like these people, and the room is
so nasty!”

“Poor little dear, he isn’t used to it!”
said a voice which Lucy had not heard
before.

It was that of a lady seated on a
chair half behind the little sofa, which
was drawn forward crosswise. This
lady was knitting a child’s stocking.
She was quietly and neatly dressed,
and did not look much more than thirty
years of age. She had a pale face, with
a sort of enduring stillness upon it, not
unlike that of one bearing up against
some chronic pain or trouble. She
patted Hugh’s shoulder kindly and
smiled up into Lucy’s face, adding—

“It’s a great pity any of us have to
get used to it!”

“Yes, indeed,” Lucy responded,
instantly recognising that she was
addressed by another “expectant mistress.”
“We have been here more
than an hour already, and nobody has
even approached me but two most
unsuitable women! It is a terrible
waste of time!” she added, thinking
of the brief wintry daylight in which
she had to finish her seaside sketches,
which the picture-dealer desired to
have in hand before the New Year,
and which she herself wished to complete
before she took up her teaching at
the Institute.

“You don’t know what it is yet!”
said the lady, quite cheerfully. “This
is the third day I’ve been here—staying
on till the afternoon. I’ve seen nobody
suitable yet.”

“May I ask if you have ever hired
a servant here before?” said Mrs.
Challoner.

“I have not,” replied the stranger;
“but my husband’s sister did. She
came here daily for nearly a week, and
when she got a suitable girl, she only
stayed two months, because she heard
of another place in a neighbourhood she
liked better!”

“I wonder almost that you are making
this experiment after that experience!”
remarked Lucy.

“It does not seem very encouraging,”
answered the other; “but what is one
to do? And when we get them they
don’t work, and don’t they waste and
destroy! I wish we could do without
servants altogether! I think I could
get along finely—if it wasn’t for opening
the street door. One cannot do that,
you know.”

Lucy was silent, considering. It
seemed to her, at that moment, that if
Charlie was at home, and no duty of
breadwinning lay upon herself, then
rather than endure a prolongation and
repetition of her present experience, she
would spend the remainder of her life in
opening her street door to all comers.

The lady accepted her silence as
sympathy.

“My sister-in-law says the same,”
she went on. “She and her husband
have a flat—a pretty little flat near the
Parks, where they are rather expensive,
so they have one with only five rooms—and
they’ve just got one little child.
And Minnie says she could manage
quite well, if it wasn’t for taking out
the perambulator.”

“I always took out my boy myself,”
said Lucy, with her arm about Hugh’s
neck, “and I often opened the hall
door—generally, indeed—because I could
see who was coming from my window,
and it saved my maid’s running up a
flight of stairs.”

The stranger looked at her rather
coldly.

“That is the way servants get
spoiled,” she remarked. “And they
don’t stay with you a bit longer for all
your pains.”

“Mine stayed with me seven years,
and has only gone away to get married,”
said Lucy quietly.

The other gave a little laugh.

“You had better mention that to the
girls,” she answered. “I believe it
recommends a place. But most of
them will feel they have been deceived
with false hopes unless the event comes
off within seven months! Seven years!
Well, you’ve got something to learn
now. You have not cut your mistress-teeth
yet.”

Lucy felt that her mind was opening
to new lines of thought in the world
about her. She had always known that
Florence thought in these ways; but
she had thought that was just Florence.
Her own small circle of intimates were
people of another sort, being all people
who had done real work of some kind
or another, and were proud of it, and
would have felt hurt to be suspected of
idleness. But here were women who
were prepared to work (for a glance
at the knitter’s hands revealed that
truth about her), but who were so
ashamed of work that they could do it
only out of sight, and were under the
mean necessity of hiring a mask to do
whatever people must see! How odd
it was! And then it flashed into Lucy’s
mind that one can scarcely expect very
worthy girls to rush eagerly to discharge
tasks that other women are simply
ashamed to do! If it be so disgraceful
to open one’s own door, or to wheel
out one’s own baby, why should other
women not feel it still more disgraceful
to open other people’s doors and wheel
out other people’s babies? Why should
they not be eager to rush from these
discredited duties towards others not yet
lying under the same ban?

At that moment the groups in the
middle of the room parted a little, and
the elderly female clerk of the registry
came towards Mrs. Challoner with an
unctuous smile spread over her face.
Following at her heels was another
woman, who was, however, nearly
eclipsed by her ample figure.

“I think I have found somebody to
suit you, ma’am,” she said. “I think
we have been most fortunate. Just the
sort of person to please you is not to be
found every day. It is quite Providential.
I’m so glad you should see her before
there is any chance of her being snapped
up. I’d advise you to settle with her,
madam,” she added, bending over, in a
familiar whisper which made Lucy draw
back. “She’d have a dozen chances
if she were here half an hour. Her very
appearance is enough. You’ll speak
to me, please, madam, before you go
away.”

As she moved aside for her “introduction”
to step forward, Lucy beheld
a neat, crisp little figure which might
have stepped out of a Royal Academy
picture of a happy cottage home or
mansion nursery. This was not a young
woman; she was between forty and fifty,
dressed in black, with a small prim
bonnet enclosing a neat white cap and
tied with narrow white ribbons. The
face within the bonnet was well-featured
and softly ruddy, the pleasant middle-aged
bloom being set off to advantage
by the slight frosting of the hair visible
beneath the cap. A small straw basket
was held firmly in the neat cotton-gloved
hands. An angel with shining wings
could have hardly looked more apart
than she did in that throng of coarse
tawdry femininity, nor have been a more
unexpected apparition. A well-trained
respect, without a dash of servility,
was in her voice and manner as she
said—

“I am Jessie Morison, ma’am. I
understand you want a servant.”

“She’s just your style, Luce,” whispered
Florence; “but she’s too old!
It’s no use taking people after others
have got all the work out of them.”

(To be continued.)

{504}

THE QUEEN’S AVIARY AT WINDSOR.

By ERNEST M. JESSOP.

FRONT VIEW OF HER MAJESTY’S AVIARY, WINDSOR.

But few of the many who yearly stroll
through the lovely glades of Windsor Park
know or think of the infinite variety of bird
life contained within its boundaries. Many
and wide apart in nature and disposition are
its feathered rovers. From the tiny tomtit
to the lordly golden eagle, from the motherly
white Dorking to the wild turkey of Canada,
all make or have made for them their homes
or their nests.

PLYMOUTH ROCKS.

Many years since (in fact, over thirty) signs
of the presence of a great depredator were
noticed in the more secluded
parts of the forest: one day
the remains of some luckless
rabbits, another a dead or
dying lamb. Traps were set,
and a strict watch kept for the
poacher. Within a very short
period was caught a splendid
male specimen of the golden
eagle. He was promptly housed in a large
wooden enclosure near the head keeper’s
house, where he has lived and flourished for
more than thirty years; his eye as bright,
his talons as strong, his spirit as fierce as
when he roamed at will the emperor of
the air.

A GOLDEN PHEASANT.

Some four or five years since a comrade
was also caught and placed in a similar
enclosure beside him, so that, day after day,
when sociably inclined, they can exchange
harsh-noted confidences. They have so far
got used to the presence of their captors as
to allow of a man entering their enclosures to
sweep them out; but the boldest keeper in{505}
the Queen’s employ will not yet venture to
touch such fearful wild fowl.

Not very far from the eagles’ domain, one
may perchance see a flock of Canadian wild
turkeys. These birds (almost as large as our
toothsome Christmas friends) are more wild
in name than in nature, for instead of haunting
trees and coverts to be shot in the manner
of pheasants at the proper season, they at
present insist on being domesticated and
partaking of the head keeper’s hospitality
when the members of his household feed the
numerous song-birds which gather around the
house for their daily meals.

But we must leave the keeper’s house with
its fascinating surroundings and make for our
proper destination, which is the aviary at
Frogmore.

Over the verdant turf and under the wide-spreading
trees, mainly following the private
road traversed every day by Her Majesty
when residing at Windsor, past the kennels
with their noisy occupants, past the lovely
fruit and flower gardens, just outside of
Frogmore House, and beside the beautiful
dairy, stands the object of our walk.

SILVER-PENCILLED HAMBURGH.

Below the level of the road in a gently-sloping
grass-grown dell is built the aviary. Originally
the site was occupied but by some dilapidated outbuildings.
The present construction is entirely due to the
designs of the never-forgotten Prince Consort. He it
was who saw the capabilities of the site, and with his
usual forethought added art to utility.

Although originally designed for the reception of rare
and curious birds presented to the Queen, the aviary has
for many years past been mainly used as a miniature
poultry farm. Now and again may arrive some showy
feathered biped from foreign lands to lead a quiet happy
life, well tended and cared for; but in the main ducks
and chickens, turkeys and pigeons form the bulk of the
population. It is a charming, peaceful little scene to
gaze upon, this fine summer morning, the fountain and
pond with its fat white ducks in the foreground, behind
the well-kept terrace with its summer-house at one end,
with rustic seat so often occupied by the Royal couple
in days gone by, and a background formed by the neat
range of brick buildings and spreading trees.

Let us go and interview its keeper. This is a fine
stalwart specimen of a retired policeman. Thirty years
does Hammond tell us he served in Her Majesty’s household
police, and now, in the Indian summer of his days,
he quietly lays down the law
to turkeys, and takes the
smallest of chicks and the
most amiable of pigeons into
custody. Before the advent
of Hammond, the aviary,
which was for forty years
under feminine supervision,
had somewhat declined in
usefulness; but, as its new
guardian is a practical man
as well as a poultry-fancier,
the whole of his little domain
looks well kept and
prosperous.

SILVER-SPANGLED HAMBURGHS.

The eighteen pens with
brick roost-houses behind,
which form the front of the
aviary, are mostly occupied
by very fine specimens of
domestic poultry, the breed
of its occupants being indicated
by an enamelled iron
label affixed to the front of
each pen, every breed being
kept absolutely separate.

The breeds of poultry kept are too many to
describe here; suffice it to say that Hammond
thinks his best birds are white Leghorns and
black Minorcas. For laying purposes, he
prefers a cross between Leghorn and Plymouth
Rock; for winter laying, Plymouth Rocks;
and for the table, white Dorkings to his mind
bear the palm.

The aviary does not supply all the poultry
required for the Castle, the first idea being to
keep all its pens well stocked with good
handsome birds, and to send the surplus to
the Castle kitchens. The eggs, ranging between
forty and fifty daily, are sent to Windsor
Castle, Buckingham Palace, and Osborne
House only, the Queen’s other residences
procuring their supplies elsewhere. About
one hundred birds are required each year for
stocking the pens, the remainder bred going,
as I before remarked, for table purposes.
Here I may mention that the only fowls
served at Her Majesty’s own table are white
Dorkings.

“FIELD-MARSHAL,” THE TURKEY.

After acquiring much useful information on
poultry farming, I am taken to the rear of the
premises, where breeding operations are mostly{506}
carried on. Incubators, I am told, are not in
use or desired at Windsor. Every convenience
is, of course, provided for the sitting hens, but
with seemingly a natural perverseness they
occasionally prefer the oddest of nests chosen
by themselves to the most comfortable ones
provided for them. Here, for instance, in a
dark corner is a stout foster-mother of a hen
bringing up a handsome family of ducklings
in a bushel basket. It was noticed that her
own eggs were invariably laid in this receptacle,
and so when breeding time came the
basket was duly filled up for her accommodation.

HAMMOND AND HIS BANTAM “TOBY.”

All chickens for the first three weeks of
their lives have the run of the pretty old-fashioned
garden attached to Hammond’s
cottage; but as soon as that age is attained,
over-indulgence in horticultural pursuits compels
their removal.

In addition to chickens some fifty to sixty
Aylesbury ducks are annually reared and
fattened for Castle use. Some of these are
now wandering about with happy and contented
looks, little recking of the use of those
succulent peas shooting up so tall and straight
in their keeper’s garden. Here, too, in the
yard are a few portly Rouen ducks, the
female of which breed some time since distinguished
herself by laying an egg five
ounces in weight; but, remarks Hammond
when relating the incident, “she does not
often do it.”

In the four pigeon lofts which surmount the
roof of the aviary there live at present some
forty pigeons mainly of the “Foreign Owl” and
“Jacobin” breeds. The youngsters bred and
not required for stock purposes go the way of
all pigeons—that which leads to pies. At the
aviary are also kept some beautiful white
doves purchased abroad by H.R.H. Princess
Beatrice.

Next I am shown some representatives of
the turkey race. These are of a very handsome
race known as the Cinnamon turkey.
Their native home in Britain is as far north as
Caithness; but it is believed the breed was
originally brought from the United States or
Canada.

The male bird (some three years of age) is
of most imposing presence. His colour is a
rich chestnut brown, with a black edge to
each feather and white wing flights. As he
marches to and fro with slow and stately step
over a measured track, his prismatic-hued
head and neck, combined with his brown and
white uniform, irresistibly remind one of the
chief hall porter at some stately hotel or
theatre.

He is pleased to express his approval of
the appearance of my coadjutor with the
camera by giving vent to a series of gobbles
which sound like the prelude to a solo on the
big drum. He then proceeds to disperse the
small crowd of humble feathered admirers who
have gathered around him, and poses himself
for the coming picture.

Sad to relate though, the sharp click of the
rapid shutter of the camera quite destroys his
self-possession, and he flies for protection
behind an old chicken coop, for ever losing
caste in the eyes of a small white bantam
looking on, who gives vent to his disgust at
this craven conduct by a series of ear-piercing
challenges.

Some years since, the Queen possessed a
beautiful breed of pure white turkeys. Of
these there are not any specimens surviving
at Windsor, although, as pairs of the birds
were given to the Prince of Wales, the Duke
of Connaught, and the late Duke of Albany,
it is possible that the breed is not extinct.

And now once more to the front of the
aviary. Here are a splendid pair of golden
pheasants, the male bird as he darts about
in the sunshine looking a perfect vision of
beauty. He was reared at Windsor from
parents bred at the Zoological Gardens. The
eggs of his mate are given to a sedate hen to
hatch, for greater safety than they would get
in the nest of their somewhat frivolous mother,
who in her turn receives those of a bantam to
take care of.

In the same pen with the golden pheasants
lives a pretty little family of buff and white
pied pigeons—the property of the Queen’s
Indian Secretary.

Near by one may see a small party of ringdoves
assuming the most graceful attitudes
as they whisper soft nothings to one another
in the bright warm sunshine. These pretty
creatures are a living reminder of the innate
gallantry of the Irish race. During the
Queen’s first progress through Ireland after
her marriage, as the Royal carriage was slowly
passing through a triumphal arch, a pair of
ringdoves were gently lowered almost into
Her Majesty’s hands. It is from this pair
that the pretty little family before mentioned
is descended. The doves are great favourites
with the Queen, who always relates the history
of their origin with special pleasure.

Before leaving, one must have a glance at
the Queen’s room, situated in the centre of
the aviary, which remains practically the
same in appearance as when first fitted under
the superintendence of the Prince Consort.
It is a very simple but bright apartment of
moderate size, with a big bay window overlooking
the terrace and fountain.

The walls are papered with a light chintz
pattern, and the furniture is framed in light
oak and upholstered with a flower pattern
cretonne. The principal ornament of the
room is a large case of stuffed birds shot by
the late Prince Consort. The case is about
six feet in height, and has a rustic oak framework.
Its occupants are grouse, black cock,
and capercailzie. Carved on the frame of the
case is “Taymouth, Sep. 8th and 9th, 1842.”
All around the walls of the room are other
cases of old favourites which in days gone by
adorned the pens of the aviary. There is a{507}
splendid pied peacock, Amherst pheasants,
Indian pigeons, a bantam formerly belonging
to the Prince of Wales, and many others.
One should also notice the head and claws of
a gigantic emu, who in his lifetime was the
proud representative of Australia at Windsor.
In the corridor leading from the Queen’s
room to the garden stands a group of
kangaroo rats, a big bustard, a Muscovy
duck, and a splendid peacock, once the
property of the Earl of Beaconsfield. This
last bird was removed to the aviary from
Hughenden shortly after the late Earl’s death.

“THE FOSTER-MOTHER.”

Until the last few years, the aviary was a
favourite place for the Royal Family to
partake of afternoon tea, and here in the
Queen’s room is still kept the neat dark blue-and-white
Dresden china service which was
in ordinary use by Her Majesty. The Queen
still drives round the aviary in her daily visit
to Frogmore, but rarely alights from her
carriage.

Of Royal and distinguished visitors there
are many, but not any so regular or so
welcome as the children of H.R.H. Princess
Beatrice, who seldom allow a day to pass,
when staying at Windsor, without “coming
to feed the birds”; and right well do those
same birds know and welcome the youthful
visitors. From the big turkey to the tiny
doves, all are on the alert when the sound of
carriage wheels is heard, and a universal
chorus of approval bursts from the feathered
throats as the Royal party distribute their
largesse.

The family of the Duke of Connaught also
have a special interest in the aviary in the
shape of some dozen or so of long-haired
white Canadian guinea-pigs (a present from
their aunt, the Princess Louise), which live
and flourish under Hammond’s fostering care.

And now old Time is fast a-flying, so one
must think of taking leave; but I cannot,
without great discourtesy, omit a mention of
one of the most important characters on the
establishment. This is “Toby,” a tiny white
bantam cock with a beautiful rose-coloured
comb. Throughout the morning he has carefully
followed his master’s footsteps, seemingly
under the idea that his protection was necessary
from the evil designs of journalists and photographers.
Too near an approach to the
beloved governor was at once resented, while
when a halt was called for descriptive purposes,
he would stand patiently by with head on one
side, crooning his satisfaction with the explanation,
and anon darting a sharp look at the
man with the note-book as though he would
say, “Now, have you got that down?”

So satisfied with our attention is he that at
his master’s desire he proceeds to show us a
small specimen of his talents. Standing on
the ground, with Hammond’s hands linked
together before him, a short run is taken and
the hands are neatly jumped five or six times
in succession.

Other tricks were to follow, but unfortunately
Toby’s father just then appeared from behind
a coop, followed by a numerous harem.
Something cynical with regard to frivolous
amusements was evidently said by the newcomers,
for without the slightest warning
Toby at once proceeded to assault the man
with the camera, and, as the bird must weigh
a pound and a half, whereas the artist is
not more than thirteen stone, we deemed it
prudent to say good-bye, and beat a hasty
retreat, followed by triumphant crowing from
Toby and his sire, who, by the by, gives
himself airs on the strength of being a prize-winner
at one of the great Norwich shows.

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

The oven door of a kitchen range should be
left open at night to air the oven, unless a cat
is left in the kitchen. Cats sometimes get
into the oven for warmth if it is left open, and
that is not advisable.

Care should be taken when giving fruit to
children to remove any pips or core, which
might prove dangerous if swallowed.

The hall door of a house should now and
then be set wide open to air the passages
thoroughly, someone being at hand to see that
no one enters unbidden.

A tablespoonful of washing-powder in
the hot water in which china and silver are
washed is of great value; but the water should
be very hot.

In arranging a new house, it is rather a
good plan to have distinctive names for the
bedrooms, and it is a pretty idea to name
them after jewels or flowers, and have the
rooms decorated with colours and designs to
match, so that there might be the Emerald,
Ruby, Turquoise, and Amber rooms, or the
Forget-me-not, Rose, and Primrose rooms.
The hand-candlesticks, match-box cases, and
hot-water cans should be painted to suit each
room.

Never use any but the best soap for the face.
If this is not obtainable or within reach of your
purse, use only a little oatmeal in the water.
Common soaps produce blotches and skin
irritation, especially those that are highly
coloured and scented.

Both woollen and cotton stockings should
be mended with silk rather than cotton or
wool. It is more comfortable, resists wear and
tear longer, and does not easily discolour.

There is scarcely anything more injurious
to health and spirits than a damp house.
Leave it as soon as possible.

Fur worn round the throat has a certain
danger, not only that of making the throat
delicate, but also that the fine hairs find their
way into the stomach and lungs, and become
injurious.

If a kettle or saucepan has to be put away
and not used for some time, see that it is
quite dry inside, for if put away wet, rust will
accumulate and make a hole in the metal.

{508}

SOCIAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN EAST END GIRL.

By LA PETITE.

PART III.

THE LAUNCH.

was sitting in the
study one morning
busily writing, when
sounds of an altercation
in the hall
were followed by the
door opening and the
appearance of our parlour-maid,
with indignation
expressed in every line
of her expressive and superior
person. She had always been very superior,
so much so that I frequently wondered why
she continued to grace our quiet house, but
now, as I glanced at her, I thought I perceived
signs of her removing the light of her presence
from us at no distant date.

“What is it, Jane?” I inquired mildly.

“If you please, miss,” she replied, with an
evident effort, “there’s a young—pusson ’as
come, what says she must see you at once,
which I told her you never saw no one in the
mornin’, an’ ast ’er ’er bizness, which she
says as it’s ’ers an’ not mine!” Here her
emotion choked her, and enabled me to get in
a word edgeways.

“What is she like?” I asked, rising
hastily.

“Tall an’ brazen-faced, with a fringe down
to ’er eyes, an’——”

But I heard no more, for I was already in
the hall, where I discovered Belinda Ann
standing on the mat in an aggressive attitude,
bristling all over, and with her arms akimbo.

At sight of her old enemy, the parlour-maid,
who had followed me down, she gave an
expressive snort, which was replied to by that
functionary by a toss of her head and the uplifting
of an already “tip-tilted” nose. Fearful
of the renewal of the “few words” they
had evidently already had, I hurriedly greeted
Belinda Ann, and drew her after me to a
room at the top of the house, which at this
time of day was always secure from interruption.
Here I set to work to soothe her ruffled
temper and hurt dignity, which had evidently
been seriously upset, as for a long time all I
could get out of her was, “What call ’ad she
to give ’erself airs? Set ’er rup indeed! I
don’t ’ave ter ’ire soldiers ter walk out with
me o’ Sundys!” and suchlike unprofitable
exclamations.

By-and-by, however, she became more cheerful,
and when I produced some refreshments
in the shape of lemonade, biscuits and bananas,
she had regained her usual serenity. I may as
well say here that there was a curious point of
resemblance between Belinda Ann, a daughter
of the people, and the highest in the land,
and that was, that no matter how strange
her surroundings might be to her, she adapted
herself to them at once, and never exhibited
vulgar curiosity or “gave herself away,” as
she would have put it, by expressing surprise
or admiration.

Thus, if I had expected her to be impressed
by the size of the house or elegance of the
furniture, I should have been disappointed.
Like the thorough woman of the world that
she was, she lounged in a velvet arm-chair as
if she had been accustomed to it from babyhood,
and though her bright, dark eyes glanced
into every corner, not a word or a look
escaped her to prove that it was all new to her.
As a rule one finds this calm sang-froid and
savoir faire only at the extreme ends of the
social scale, though of course there are
exceptions.

All this time I was quite in the dark still as
to why she had honoured me with a visit, but
when she had eaten her third banana, swept
all the biscuit crumbs in her lap into her
mouth, and finished the lemonade, she
remarked, with her usual abruptness, “Want
ter see a launch?”

“Certainly!” I replied, with commendable
presence of mind. “When, and where?”

“Now!” she returned with equal brevity.
“There’s one on to-day down at Victoria
Docks at three o’clock, an’ I think we can just
abaht do it.”

“But it isn’t Bank Holiday! How is it
you are able to leave your work?” I injudiciously
asked, for Belinda Ann stiffened
and froze at once, and looked for a minute as
if she repented of having come.

She thought better of it, however, for
presently she remarked briefly, “Don’t often
get a launch, when we do we tyke a holiday.
If they don’t like it at the factry, they ken
lump it. Needn’t come if yer don’t want!” I
was getting used by this time to her curious
way of talking like a sixpenny telegram, so I
hastened to assure her I wanted to come very
much, and as it was obviously now or never, I
left a hurried note for my absent family to say
where I had gone, dressed in frantic haste,
and was soon ready to accompany Belinda
Ann.

There were two ways of getting to the docks,
by Underground or omnibus. The latter took
much longer, but as I have a constitutional dislike
to the Underground, I proposed the alternative
route, and my companion politely
assented.

“We must take a Blackwall from Piccadilly,”
I remarked, as I stepped briskly out, “but
when we get there, I’ll put myself into your
hands, Belinda.”

Again she agreed, having become unusually
quiet, and not till we turned into Regent
Street did she regain her cheerfulness. I did
not particularly notice it at the time, but long
afterwards I found out the reason, which was
briefly this. There were two ways of reaching
Piccadilly from our house, one being down
Regent Street, crowded at that time of day,
and the other down deserted back streets.

Luckily I chose the former, and Belinda
had been watching to see which I should take,
being quite ready to assume that I was
ashamed of her if I had gone the quiet way.

I certainly had no idea of minding being
seen with her, as the worst thing that could
happen would be that my friends might think
me rather eccentric in my choice of society,
but as I was doing nothing wrong, their
opinion troubled me little.

Belinda Ann had evidently got herself up
with a special eye to my company. A well-worn
but neat black serge skirt was surmounted
by the inevitable blouse, evidently
picked up cheap at some second-hand clothes
shop. It had once been handsome, being of
shot pink and blue glacé silk trimmed lavishly
with iridescent trimming and quantities of
cheap lace, but now most of its glories had
departed, and personally I should have preferred
their absence altogether, but still it
suited her in a bizarre, picturesque way,
although it attracted more attention than was
quite desirable. It was surmounted by her
old black straw hat, from which, however,
she had removed the dirty white flowers.

She looked better in her workaday dress
and apron, but it would be difficult to tell her
so, and I was still busy revolving plans in my
mind for her education in taste, when we
arrived in Piccadilly, and in the wild excitement
of “boarding” the Blackwall omnibus,
my thoughts were reduced to chaos. Belinda
Ann, with rare delicacy, climbed on the top,
leaving me to sit inside alone, so I had plenty
of leisure for thinking during the long hot
drive.

Oh, it was long and it was hot! Many
times during our progress I thought regretfully
of my favourite window-seat at home, with its
usual accompaniments of an interesting book
or a little languid work.

I was in for it now, however, as I realised
more fully when the omnibus stopped and we
got out. Belinda Ann indicated another very
small specimen of the same vehicle round
which a surging crowd was having a sort of
free fight, at sight of which I basely deserted
my colours.

“Let’s take a cab, Belinda!” I suggested
weakly, but this proved easier said than done.
Not a single cab was to be had for love or
money, and it really looked as if we should get
no further.

At last a small but sympathetic bystander
volunteered the information that the omnibus
yard was not far off, and if we went there we
should have the first choice. Cheered by this
idea we hastened thither, and though our joy
was rather damped by finding that the same
happy thought had struck about twenty other
people, we dashed recklessly into the thick of
the fray, and after a breathless struggle, landed
in a triumphant heap on the floor inside.
Someone trod on my skirt and nearly tore
it off, but Belinda Ann did such noble execution
with her sharp elbows and sharper tongue
that this was my only mishap, and we subsided
into seats with just elation.

Belinda Ann especially was so pleased at
our success that it made her unusually
“chirpy,” which state of mind led up to
a regrettable incident. A gentleman in
corduroy mounting to the roof discovered
that his “young lydy” was seated inside the
omnibus. Pausing therefore half-way up the
staircase, regardless of the impatient throng
behind him, he poked his head under the
lamp and tried to persuade her to come outside
with him. The lady was coy and the gentleman
urgent, which somewhat prolonged
matters, until at last a West-Ender immediately
behind the impatient lover lost his
temper and observed irritably—

“Now then, my good fellow, don’t keep
us here all day! If you’re going up, get
on!”

The “good fellow” turned on him at once,
his “young lydy” of course sided with her
fiancé, and Belinda Ann stuck loyally to her
class by remarking in her peculiarly penetrating
voice—

“Ho, yuss! ’Cause ’e’s got on a nigh ’at, ’e
thinks the ’ole bloomin’ ’bus berlongs ter rim!
Yuss hindeed.”

I was covered with confusion, and vainly
tried to quiet her, but the unlucky young
“toff” made matters worse by defending
himself.

“Well,” he said fiercely, “he has no right
to block the whole staircase!”

“No, in course not!” agreed Belinda Ann,
with dangerous politeness and withering
sarcasm. “Most inconsidrate I calls it.
Boo—hoo—hoo—oo!”

The war-cry was taken up all round till its
unfortunate victim was only too glad to hide
his diminished head in its despised “topper”
anywhere “out of the four-mile radius” of
the savage whoops with which the neighbourhood
fairly rang.

As for me, I sat in my corner scarlet with{509}
embarrassment and an hysterical desire to
laugh, and was thankful when at last the
omnibus moved off.

The rest of the journey was accomplished
in peace, but we still had some distance to
walk when we got out and joined the throng
of happy, careless, jovial holiday-makers
trudging along in the sun.

The crowd was a queer mixture of West
and East, grand ladies in the most fashionable
toilettes being obliged to elbow their way
through the friendly costers and merry factory
girls amid a chorus of “What ho! What
price me? ’Ow’s thet fur style?” and so on.

I was thankful that so far I had escaped
their embarrassing notice, and kept close to
Belinda as we streamed over a level crossing
and approached the water’s edge.

Do not suppose she was dumb all this while.
Far from it, for she it was who led the various
war-cries, and, as she would have termed it,
“kept her end up”; but in the midst of her
wildest sallies, she never forgot me, and more
than once when some rough girls and men
jostled against me unnecessarily, she gave
them “what for!” vigorously.

At last she landed me, flushed, panting and
dishevelled, but triumphant, in a cosy nook
on the wharf formed by huge piles of timber
on three sides and the water on the fourth.
The planks were so arranged as to form a
seat below and a little pent-house roof above,
while I enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the
beautiful battleship which was to be launched
presently.

There was just room for one and no more,
so Belinda Ann stood at the entrance and
surveyed me as if I were her invention and she
had just taken out a patent for me! I was
less amused by this than usual as I was lost in
admiration at the sight before me.

I had always heard that a launch at the
docks is made a general holiday in the
neighbourhood, which accounted for the dense
crowds around. I am not now alluding to
the stands erected for the aristocratic spectators—though
these were packed—but to the
uninvited guests, who literally swarmed everywhere,
so that you might have walked on their
heads. Every roof, bridge, hole and corner
was thick with sightseers, and the water was
black with boats. The ships being built in
various other parts of the docks had also been
“boarded,” and not a square inch of ground
or water was uncovered.

I recognised many of the girls I had seen at
the Club, some with a bashful-looking young
man in attendance, with whom they were
evidently “walking out,” but most of them
arm-in-arm with four or five girl-friends, all
in a state of innocent high spirits, shrieking
with laughter at nothing at all and indulging
in practical jokes at each other’s expense.

Presently a flourish of music from various
bands in the vicinity announced the arrival of
the Royal personages who were to launch the
boat, and a long string of firemen came
hurriedly through the crowd to form a guard
of honour.

Each man had to bend under a rope which
was stretched across the path, and this formed
fine sport for Belinda Ann’s irrepressible
friends, who knocked off their helmets, tripped
them up, and otherwise harassed them as long
as they were within reach.

I thought Belinda Ann looked on rather
regretfully, but she would not desert her self-imposed
sentry duty, and turned a deaf ear to
her “pals’” invitations to join them.

From my place I could not see distinctly
what happened, although I knew the Royal
duchess was to strike away the supporting
posts with a mallet which would launch the
ship, and then smash a bottle of champagne
against its side to name it; but all I actually
saw was its huge bulk gliding majestically
at first and then more quickly down and away,
while a chorus of shouts, bells, and indiscriminate
noises arose as it went.

Then Belinda Ann bent down to me and
whispered, almost savagely, “Let’s get out
o’ this, d’yer ’ear? Somethin’s bound ter
’appen!”

“Why? What?” I gasped, rather taken
aback by her manner and words, and disposed
to remain in my comfortable corner until the
crowd had dispersed a little.

She vouchsafed no reply, but, clutching my
arm, dragged me unceremoniously to my feet
and piloted me back the way we had come,
clearing a path through the throng as if by
magic, interposing her broad person between
me and the rough element, and forging ahead
as if pursued by wild beasts. I could not
understand her sudden haste, and, being quite
breathless, tried to stop and rest, but she
pulled me relentlessly on.

Once, near the level crossing, I saw a girl
being led past, as if ill, followed by someone
carrying a bundle of wet clothes, and I tried
to draw Belinda Ann’s attention to it, but she
chose that identical moment to dash across
the rails in face of the warning shout, “Express
coming!” and I had to fly after her. She
never stopped or spoke till we got to the
Underground Railway Station, when, for the
first time, she looked at me and said shortly—

“What next?”

Then I noticed that she was white and
looked strangely scared, and concluding she
was faint, I replied, “We’ll go home by
train!” and diving into the station I committed
the extravagance of buying two first-class
tickets, as the crush in the third class
was not to be thought of.

A train came in five minutes afterwards,
and we secured two seats so that the journey
home was quickly accomplished, rather to my
relief, for Belinda Ann really looked ill.

As we drew near home I heard boys
shouting, “Haccident at a Launch! Horful
Scenes!” but somehow I did not associate
it with what I had just come from, and
Belinda Ann never said a word till I had
landed her in the upstairs room at home
which we had left so gaily that morning.

I plied her with tea and cake and bread-and-butter
until the colour began to come
back to her face, and then I said—

“Why, Belinda, what has come over you,
and why were you in such a tearing hurry,
and what did you mean by saying something
would happen?”

“What I said,” she replied shortly; “and
I was right too. That ship’ll be unlucky, you
see if ’taint, and what’s more, they’ll ’ave
trouble in gettin’ sailors to man ’er, you mark
my words!”

“I don’t understand you one bit,” I said
impatiently.

“Then you didn’t ’ear as the bottle was
filled with seltzer or some such stuff ’stead o’
champagne?” she asked excitedly.

“No,” I answered, “but I don’t see what
difference that could make.”

“Sailors would,” she returned darkly.
“An’ besides, the bottle didn’t break an’ ’ad
ter be smashed afterwards.”

“Belinda Ann,” I exclaimed severely,
“how can you be so wicked? Don’t you
know that it’s very wrong to take notice of
omens and to be superstitious and to believe
in luck and chance?”

She screwed up her mouth and pouted her
lips in a way she had when not convinced and
too polite to say so (which latter was not often!),
and then said doggedly, “Then why was it
all those people were thrown into the water
by the back-wash, an’ lots on ’em drownded?”
which was the first intimation I had of what
turned out to be a terrible accident.

I regret to say that on this occasion (the first
time I had tried to get in “a word in season”)
Belinda apparently got the best of it, but for
once she bore her victory modestly, being too
subdued by the catastrophe and the danger
which had approached me to be very jubilant
or to triumph openly.

Now I understood her flight, for she was
afraid lest more horrors were to come, and,
regarding me as a precious piece of costly
treasure in her care, she had never rested till I
was landed in comparative safety.

She had even shielded me from the sight of
it all, and the chivalrous soul, who would
never have known fear on her own account,
had yielded to panic for my sake.

Thus I was made aware of another characteristic
of my East-Ender, namely, the vein of
superstition which underlay the practical
matter-of-fact front she presented to the
workaday world.

There was a deep-seated belief in her mind
in such things as luck and chance, as I now
found out, and when she left me that night
she was still firmly convinced that the ship
we had seen launched that day would never
come to any good!

“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE BATTLE OF CORUÑA.

Well might Moore cast anxious glances
towards the harbour of Coruña, where
the vessels from Vigo should have been.
They had been delayed by contrary
winds; and this failure on their part to
arrive in time was a most serious matter.
The British Army, brought thus far in
safety, would now lie without the means
of escape in a narrow trap, between
Scylla and Charybdis, hemmed in by
the pitiless ocean on one side, by the
ever-increasing hordes of the enemy on
the other.

With unfaltering courage he at once
set himself to examine the position,
assigning the troops to their various
quarters, some in the town of Coruña,
some in villages hard by. One range of
rocky hills, three or four miles off, would
have been the right line of defence; but
Moore had not men enough to occupy
it. He saw at once that, should he
attempt to do so, the French might be
able to turn his position, and to cut him
off from embarkation.

That post of vantage had to be left to
the foe. Moore was obliged to content{510}
himself with a lower ridge, nearer to the
walls, which was quickly put into a
state of defence.

A short rest was given to the soldiers,
new muskets and ammunition were
supplied, and the officers strenuously
exerted themselves to restore discipline.
But this was no longer difficult. When
once the Army stood at bay, facing the
enemy, every trace of insubordination
vanished. The greater number of
Moore’s soldiers were young; yet in
their fighting powers they could not
have been outdone by veterans.

So desperate did the condition of
things seem to be for the English, with
the transports not yet come, and with a
greatly superior force occupying a
greatly superior position, that, though
Moore’s heart never failed him, the
hearts of some did sink at this juncture,
even of brave men, high in rank.

Moore called no Council of War; he
asked no man’s opinion. But certain of
his Generals ventured to offer unsought
advice. They put before him the
extreme unlikelihood that they could
long resist an enemy descending upon
them from the heights; and they represented
the heavy loss to life which would
certainly result from an attempt to embark
in the transports during such
attacks. Then they suggested that,
since affairs had reached so perilous a
stage, it might be well to send a flag of
truce to Soult, asking permission, on
honourable terms, to depart unmolested.

Moore disdainfully flung the counsel
from him, without an instant’s parley.
Capitulate! Never! If the French
came on, let them come! He would
fight to the last. The Generals bowed
to his fiery decision, and said no more.

Indomitable as Moore was, however,
the strain of the last few weeks had
been tremendous, and it had told upon
him heavily. All through the 12th of
January he was hard at work, preparing
for the battle which might take place.
Everything was thought of; every possible
precaution was taken. He reviewed
the troops; and by his own splendid
confidence and dauntless air he breathed
fresh energy into their jaded ranks.

The evening of that day saw him
nearly worn out with his ceaseless
exertions; yet at daybreak he was once
more in the saddle, reconnoitring the
enemy’s camp, and visiting every part
of his own.

By eleven o’clock strength failed, and
he came back to headquarters utterly
spent. Rest had become a necessity
before he could do more. He sent for
Stuart, brother to Lord Castlereagh,
who was suffering from his eyes, and,
therefore, was unfit for active service.
Moore desired him to start at once for
England, in a vessel then about to leave,
and to place before Ministers the precise
position of the Army. In an ordinary
way Sir John would have written details
with his own hand, but his present
exhaustion made this impossible.

“I cannot write—I am too tired,” he
said wearily. “But there is no need.
You understand everything, and you will
explain all fully.”

For two hours prostration had the
upper hand. Then came a rally.
Moore sat up, called for paper, and
finding that the vessel was not yet under
weigh, he wrote to Lord Castlereagh a
rapid semi-confidential statement of
affairs, in his terse easy modern
English, always singularly free from the
little tricks of expression peculiar to his
time. His despatches might for the
most part have been almost as well
penned in the ninth decade as in the
first decade of the century. Had Moore
not devoted all his energies to soldiering,
he might have become great in literature.

This was the last despatch that he
ever penned.

Next day, the 14th, some cannonading
took place; but there was no serious
fighting. The French did not move.
They were still concentrating their forces,
having suffered greatly, like the English,
in those terrible marches.

In the evening at last the transports
made their appearance; and all next
day the embarkation of the sick and
wounded, as well as of the cavalry, was
going on. Moore had found that, in the
country around Coruña, cavalry could be
of little use.

By noon on the 16th everything was
in train. Unless they should be attacked
by Soult, the whole English Army would
be on board that night. Moore placed
all arrangements for the embarkation in
the hands of Colonel Anderson; and
then again he went off to review his
troops, finding them in excellent order
and in the highest spirits.

They to a man wished for nothing
better than a fight. That question,
however, was left to Soult to decide.
No matter how intensely Moore might
long for a victory over the enemy, he
would not make the first move. He
knew well that, in the then condition of
Spain, even a battle won could do little
practical good to the cause in hand. It
might cover his name with glory. But
from first to last a higher aim than mere
glory for self had been before Moore’s
eyes.

Between fourteen and fifteen thousand
infantry now remained on land to oppose
the twenty thousand already entrenched
on the opposite heights; and further
French reinforcements were constantly
arriving. Moore’s cannon were far
inferior to those of the French, alike in
number and in weight of metal. The
French guns, indeed, dominated the
English position.

At two o’clock, as Moore was on his
way to the outposts, a messenger came
from General Hope, to inform him that
the enemy “was getting under arms.”
The radiant delight which glowed
in his face, when he found that a battle
was to be forced upon him, was recorded
later by one who saw it. He expressed
his gladness, regretting only that the
lateness of the hour, upon a short
winter’s day, would hardly leave him
time to make the most of the victory
which he expected to gain.

Then he spurred away, full gallop, to
the field. Soon the roar of cannon told
that action was begun; and in a little
while, along the whole front, both Armies
were hotly engaged.

Upon the main ridge of the English
position Moore had placed two Divisions—Baird’s
on the right, Hope’s on the
left. A third Division—Fraser’s—occupied
high ground, well in rear of
the right, to prevent any possibility of
the French making their way to Coruña
by a road which ran in that direction,
and so cutting off the British force from
the town.

Paget’s Division was held in reserve
behind the ridge; and for a while Roy
chafed impatiently, fearing to have no
share in the battle that day. Even
had it been so, the Reserve would have
had small reason to complain, since
they had borne the lion’s share of
fighting during the retreat. But their
turn would come.

The first and heaviest brunt of the
onset was to fall upon Baird’s Division,—more
especially upon the 4th Regiment,
the 50th, which was commanded
by Charles Napier and Charles Stanhope,
and the 42nd Highlanders.

With their usual vehement swiftness the
French advanced, in separate columns,
against the right, the left, and the
centre of the British line; while another
powerful column sought to pass, as
Moore had foreseen, down the valley
which lay between Baird’s and Fraser’s
Divisions, towards Coruña; and yet a
fifth column waited in reserve.

But the peril of that fourth column’s
advance no sooner became apparent
than it was met. The right wing of the
4th British Regiment, on the extreme
right of the ridge, was promptly thrown
back, so as to face the flank of the
adventurous French column, which was
seeking thus boldly to turn the English
position; and into the column was
poured a crushing fire.

Moore, alert, cool, intent, watching
every movement, called out, “That was
exactly what I wanted to be done.”

Nor was this all. For General Paget,
with his Reserve, advanced upon the
column in front, doubled it completely
up, and like a whirlwind swept onward,
clearing the valley of the foe.

Roy had his chance then, and he did
not fail to use it. His was the honour
of bearing the King’s Colour belonging
to his Regiment. The Royal and the
Regimental Colours are, as we know,
always consecrated with religious ceremony
at the time of presentation, and
they are looked upon with the most
intense veneration and pride by every
British soldier. Not least were they so
regarded by Roy Baron!

Right proudly he carried his royal
burden; and though its folds were rent
in more places than one by the hail of
bullets, and though Roy exposed himself
with all that reckless gallantry which
is natural to the British officer, he had
the good fortune to escape with no
wound worth mentioning. He had his
fair share of hard knocks, notwithstanding;
for Paget’s Division, once engaged,
fought on till the close of the battle.

The French attack was directed with
greatest force against the three regiments,
already named. Their piquets,
which occupied the little village of
Elvina, beyond the ridge, were driven in
by the energy of the enemy’s onset, and
Elvina for a time fell into the hands of
the French.

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That of course could not be allowed,
and orders were given that the 42nd
and the 50th should advance to expel
the foe from the village.

Moore, always to be found at the point
of greatest danger, where his presence
would most be needed, was at hand.
His voice could now be heard to ring
out in his characteristic challenge—

“Highlanders—remember Egypt!”

Like greyhounds from the leash, in
response to those beloved tones, they
leaped to the charge, carrying everything
before them. Moore, in his
passionate ardour, actually charged
with them, and he told the men that
he was “well pleased” with their conduct.
Baird, the second in command,
leading his Division, had his arm shattered
with grape-shot, and was carried
from the field.

Before Moore appeared, the officers
and men of the 50th Regiment—ordered
to advance with the 42nd—had been
eagerly looking out for him, realising
that this would be the crux of the
English position, and feeling one and
all that “under him they could not be
beaten!” that, if only Moore were
present, victory was absolutely secure.
“Where is he? Where is the
General?” was heard in eager murmurs
along the line.

As they asked the question, he came,
bearing down upon them at headlong
speed on his cream-coloured charger,
a fiery animal, with flying black mane
and tail tossed in the breeze. The
force with which Moore reined in flung
him forward almost upon the horse’s
neck, while his head was thrown back,
and he examined the enemy with a gaze
of such extraordinary and searching
intensity, that Charles Napier, in after
years, seeking to describe the scene,
could find no language with which he
might fitly describe that look.

Without a word Moore then galloped
off; but he soon returned; and hereabouts
it was that, as he was speaking to
Major Napier, a round shot from the
heavy French guns on the height struck
the ground between them. Both horses
swerved sharply, but Moore instantly
urged his back to the same spot, asking
calmly if Napier were hurt, and receiving
a quiet, “No, sir.”

Then, as he watched the spirited
charge of the 50th regiment, led by
Napier and Stanhope, he exclaimed—

“Well done, Fiftieth! Well done,
my Majors!”

The French were rapidly driven out of
Elvina, with heavy loss, both regiments
pursuing them beyond the village, into
ground much broken by stone walls.
By this time the English were without
supports, and the French, having received
strong reinforcements, rallied
and turned upon them with fresh fury.
Napier got too far in advance of his
men, received five wounds, and was
taken prisoner; and Stanhope was
killed.

Moore, grappling anew with the
danger, hurried up a battalion of the
Guards to reinforce the 50th, which was
being slowly forced back, and the 42nd,
which had come to an end of its powder
and shot. He galloped to the latter
regiment, and again his voice rang out
with inspiring energy—

“My brave 42nd, join your comrades!
The ammunition is coming! And you
have your bayonets still!”

That was enough. The 42nd had
believed itself about to be relieved by
the coming Guards; but armed or
unarmed the men would have gone
anywhere for Moore. Once again,
without ammunition, yet undaunted with
fierce impetuosity, they dashed against
the foe.

Both here and elsewhere throughout
the line fighting raged furiously. Sir
John rode back to the ridge, where he
could overlook the whole battle. In all
directions the British were holding their
own, and signs of approaching victory
were clear.

Those signs came true. A little later,
and the French were finally driven out
of Elvina. On the left of the British
line, they not only were repulsed
with very severe loss, but were attacked
in their own position by the conquering
English, and were followed even into
the villages beyond their ridge. The
column which had essayed to turn
the British right had been utterly
wrecked, crushed out of existence, by
Paget’s Division, which would in turn
have stormed the great French battery
of eleven guns, had daylight lasted long
enough.

But before matters had advanced thus
far, and while the 50th and the 42nd
were still hard beset and strenuously
resisting, something else happened, of
terrible import to England.

Hardinge[2] came up to report to Sir
John that the Guards were advancing.
And as the words passed his lips, as he
pointed out the position of the Guards,
a round shot from the battery opposite
struck Moore, hurling him to the
ground.

(To be continued.)

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