Transcriber’s Note: A table of Contents has been added for this HTML version.
Amendments can be read by placing the cursor over words with a dashed underscore like
this.
| July 1884 | Pages 1-64 |
| August 1884 | Pages 65-128 |
| September 1884 | Pages 129-192 |
| October 1884 | Pages 193-256 |
| November 1884 | Pages 257-320 |
| December 1884 | Pages 321-380 |
Little Folks:
A Magazine for the Young.
NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES.
CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited.
LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
Contents of December 1884 issue
INDEX.
Amusements, Recreations, &c.—
Pretty Work for Little Fingers—
Embroidered Glass-cloth, 13.
The Children’s Own Garden, 43, 100, 179, 239, 290, 360.
Hints on Canvasine Painting, 75.
Some more Little Presents, and the way to make them, 139.
A New Game for Children, 142.
How to make pretty Picture-Frames, 203.
A Game for Long Evenings, 275.
Little Papers for Little Art Workers—
Ivory Miniature Painting, 330.
Children’s Own Garden, The—
July, 43.
August, 100.
September, 179.
October, 239.
November, 290.
December, 360.
Fanciful Rhymes, Pictures, Stories, &c.—
Little Miss Propriety, 11.
Fighting with a Shadow, 12.
A Practical Joke, 28.
How Paulina won back Peter (A Fairy Story), 47.
A Race on the Sands, 77.
The Kingfisher and the Fishes, 81.
The Maids and the Magpie, 91.
A Game of Cricket in Elfland (A Fairy Story), 105.
The Little Flowers’ Wish, 116.
Their Wonderful Ride, 153.
What came of a Foxglove (A Fairy Story), 172.
A Foraging Expedition in South America, 207.
What the Magic Words Meant (A Fairy Story), 235.
The Discontented Boat, 242.
The Brownies to the Rescue, 256.
The Rival Kings (A Fable in Four Situations), 276.
The Fox and the Frog, 288.
The Magic Music and its Message (A Fairy Story), 293.
The Rival Mothers, 337.
A Race for a Cat (A Fairy Story), 361.
Humane Society, The “Little Folks”—
Special Notices, 55, 373.
Lists of Officers and Members, 55, 121, 185, 249, 313, 372.
True Stories about Pets, Anecdotes, &c., 57, 187, 251, 374.
Little Margaret’s Kitchen, and What She Did in It, 45, 110, 161, 233, 279, 335.
Little Toilers of the Night—
The Printer’s Reading-Boy, 30.
The Fisher-Boy, 151.
Young Gipsies, 273.
Music—
Three Little Squirrels, 59.
A Harvest Song, 112.
“Let’s Away to the Woods,” 181.
Dignity and Impudence, 245.
The Happy Little River, 316.
A Day in the Snow, 376.
Peeps at Home and Abroad—
Stories Told in Westminster Abbey—
How the Abbey was Built, 14.
The Coronations in the Abbey, 113.
Royal Funerals in the Abbey, 176.
Curious Customs and Remarkable Incidents, 222.
The Sanctuary, Cloisters, and Chapter-House, 291.
The Monuments, 366.
The Home of the Beads, 26.
Little Toilers of the Night—
The Printer’s Reading-Boy, 30.
The Fisher-Boy, 151.
Young Gipsies, 273.
Some Famous Railway Trains, and their Story—
The “Flying Dutchman,” 39.
The “Wild Irishman,” 86.
The “Flying Scotchman,” 204.
The Continental and “Tidal” Mails, 346.
Children’s Games in Days of Old, 91.
A Day on Board H.M.S. Britannia, 142.
The Water-Carriers of the World, 157.
The Prince and his Whipping-Boy, 220.
A Few Words about the Dykes of Holland, 267.
A Few Words about Tattooing, 359.
Pocket-book, The Editor’s: Jottings and Pencillings Here, There, and Everywhere—
The Natural Bridge, Virginia, 51;
The Colossus of Rhodes, 51;
Chinese Palanquins, 51;
The Flamingo, 51;
“God’s Providence House,” 51;
An Ancient Monster, 51;
Arabs of the Soudan, 52;
A Lesson in Charity, 52;
The Busy Bee, 52;
The Dwarf Trees of China, 52;
What is the “Lake School?” 52;
The Cuckoo’s Fag, 52;
The Greatest Whirlpool in the World, 54;
The Dog and the Telephone, 54;
The Wounded Cat and the Doctor, 117;
A Remarkable Bell, 117;
About the Mina Bird, 117;
An Historical Cocoa-Plant, 117;
The International Health Exhibition, 118;
Famous Old London Buildings, 118;
Model Dairies, 118;
Trades in Operation, 118;
The Costume Show, 118;
Street of Furnished Rooms, 119;
Other Exhibits, 119;
Young Heroes, 119;
An Intelligent Mare, 119;
Who were the Janizaries? 182;
A Canine Guide, 182;
The Taming of Bucephalus, 182;
The Price of a Picture by Landseer, 183;
“Ignoramus,” 183;
Saved by South Sea Islanders, 183;
A Strange Vow, 183;
Honour among Cats, 183;
Memory in Parrots, 183;
The Clock-tower in Darmstadt Palace, 183;
Oiling the Waves, 183;
Spider Knicknacks, 184;
An Affectionate Dog, 184;
A Sagacious Cavalry Horse, 184;
What is a Nabob? 184;
A Curious Volcano, 184;
How a Dog saved its Blind Master, 246;
Abraham Men, 246;
Famous Abdicators, 246;
Memory in Cats, 247;
Fugitives from Siberia, 247;
Tame Humming Birds, 247;
Intelligent Dogs, 247;
Skating Race in Lapland, 247;
The Riddle of the Sphinx, 247;
The Wolf and the Bees, 248;
About Pages, 248;
The Union Jack, 248;
Glendower’s Oak, 248;
A Product of the Soudan, 309;
The Vallary Crown, 309;
Supposed Relic of Trafalgar, 309;
The Founder of Ragged Schools, 309;
Tallow Trees, 309;
A Saucy Sparrow, 309;
“Sansculottes,” 310;
Fresh-water Springs in the Sea, 309;
Feathered Thieves, 310;
Carlyle’s Birthplace, 310;
Memory in Dogs, 310;
Anecdotes of Apelles, 310;
Drawing the Badger, 311;
A Gallant Rescue, 311;
War Elephants, 311;
About the Mistletoe, 370;
Badges of the Apostles, 370;
The Yule Log, 370;
The Senses of Bees, 370;
Abolition of Christmas Day, 371;
The Dancing Bird, 371;
Americanisms, 371;
Peacock Pie, 371;
The “Ironsides,” 371;
Migration of Storks, 371.
Poetry—
Little Miss Propriety, 11.
Madge’s Dove, 16.
Nessie’s Adventure, 21.
A Practical Joke, 28.
A Summer Hour, 44.
A Queen of the Beach, 54.
A Race on the Sands, 77.
The Children’s Light Brigade, 85.
The Maids and the Magpie, 91.
Harvest Days, 108.
Waiting for Father, 113.
Summer Visitors, 140,
Their Wonderful Ride, 153.
[iv]
An Apple Song, 170.
Daisy and Dolly, 176.
Legends of the Flowers—
The Scarlet Pimpernel, 180.
The Sunflower, 280.
His First Sketch, 204.
Contentment, 217.
The Brownies to the Rescue, 256.
The Song of a Little Bird, 267.
Poor Pussy, 313.
A Morning Visit, 333.
The Rival Mothers, 337.
A Helping Hand, 345.
“Father’s Coming,” 348.
The Legend of the Reeds, 358.
The Birds’ Petition, 368.
Little Doctor May, 375.
Prize Competitions—
Picture Pages Wanting Words, &c, and Answers, 58, 64, 124, 128, 188, 192, 252, 320, 379.
Lists of Honour. 58, 124, 188.
The Little Folks Special Prize Competitions for 1884, 62.
The Little Folks Annual for 1885, 252.
A New Little Folks Painting Book Competition, 319.
Prize Puzzle Competitions—61, 126, 190, 254, 318, 378.
Puzzles, Our Little Folks’ Own, and Answers—58, 60, 125, 128, 188, 189, 253, 317, 320, 374, 377.
Questions and Answers—63, 127, 191, 255, 319, 379.
Railway Trains and Their Story, Some Famous
The “Flying Dutchman,” 39.
The “Wild Irishman,” 86.
The “Flying Scotchman,” 204.
The Continental and “Tidal” Mails, 346.
Serial Stories—
A Little Too Clever. By the Author of “Pen’s Perplexities,” “Margaret’s Enemy,” &c. &c, 1, 65, 129, 193, 257, 321.
Their Road to Fortune: the Story of Two Brothers. By the Author of “The Heir of Elmdale,” &c, 32, 93, 163, 224, 281, 348.
Short Stories—
Too Young for School, 21.
How Paulina Won Back Peter (A Fairy Story), 47.
The King and Queen’s Quarrel, 78.
Master Tom’s “Rainy Weather,” 88.
Jemmy’s and My Adventure, 101.
A Game of Cricket in Elfland (A Fairy Story), 105.
The Little Flowers’ Wish, 116.
Andy’s Brave Deed, 147.
What Came of a Foxglove (A Fairy Story), 172.
A Foraging Expedition in South America, 207.
Little Fé, 218.
What the Magic Words Meant (A Fairy Story), 235.
A Young Roman’s Sacrifice (A True Story), 239.
The Discontented Boat, 242.
Harry’s Prize Rabbit, 242.
The Rival Kings (A Fable in Four Situations), 276.
“Whistling for It,” 271.
The Magic Music and its Message (A Fairy Story), 293.
Mab, the Wolf, and the Waterfall, 299.
“Where there’s a Will there’s a Way,” 302.
“Home, Sweet Home;” or, Lost in London, 302.
Faithful to Her Trust (A True Story), 332.
Little Bab and the Story-Book, 341.
Hedwig’s Christmas Presents, 355.
A Race for a Cat (A Fairy Story), 361.
Ethel’s Pink Plant, and what Happened to it, 364.
Stories, Poems, and Pictures of Birds, Beasts, and Fishes—
Fighting with a Shadow, 12.
Madge’s Dove, 16.
A Practical Joke, 28.
Mornings at the Zoo—
The Stork Family, 41.
About the Bats, 104.
In the Fish-house, 170.
The Kangaroos, 297.
A Race on the Sands, 77.
The Kingfisher and the Fishes, 81.
The Maids and the Magpie, 91.
About the Frankolin, 121.
Summer Visitors, 140.
Buried Alive; or, Love Never Lost on a Dog, 158.
A Foraging Expedition in South America, 207.
All about Snails, 232.
Harry’s Prize Rabbit, 242.
The Rival Kings (A Fable in Four Situations), 276.
The Fox and the Frog, 288.
Poor Pussy, 313.
Going to Sea in a Cage, 334.
The Rival Mothers, 337.
A Helping Hand, 345.
The Birds’ Petition, 368.
Sunday Afternoons, Our—
Solomon’s Dream at Gibeon, 18.
The Dream of the Barley Cake, 82.
Nebuchadnezzar’s Dream of the Huge Tree, 154.
The Dream of Pilate’s Wife, 214.
A Dream for all Ages, 306.
Saved by a Dream, 338.
Bible Exercises, 20, 84, 156, 216, 308, 340.
Westminster Abbey, Stories Told in—
How the Abbey was Built, 14.
The Coronations in the Abbey, 113,
Royal Funerals in the Abbey, 176.
Curious Customs and Remarkable Incidents, 222.
The Sanctuary, Cloisters, and Chapter-House, 291.
The Monuments, 366.
A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.
By the Author of “Pen’s Perplexities,” “Margaret’s Enemy,” “Maid Marjory,” &c.
CHAPTER XX.—MRS. MACDOUGALL FINDS DUNCAN.
A whole
week elapsed,
in which Mrs.
MacDougall received
no tidings of the
children. Every
day she trudged
to the market-town
and back,
not able to bear
the suspense
without doing
something. Every
day she received
the same
answer, and turned
away with
a weary sigh.
The men who
answered her
questions noticed her change from day to day, and
shrank from giving her the same hopeless replies
time after time. They were puzzled and astonished,
but still confident that the children would ultimately
be found. In their own minds they believed
the children had fallen in with some wandering
gipsies or other vagrants, and were being closely
guarded. They knew well enough that there were
plenty of ways of stealing children, and keeping
them out of sight in barges, colliers, or gipsies’
vans, and that the time that had elapsed made the
probability of finding the children much less; but
this they kept to themselves.
Mrs. MacDougall, however, was not so easily
blinded. She knew the dangers that were waiting
to engulf them. She called to mind having read,
some years ago in the newspapers, of a little fair,
delicate boy, who was stolen away and never found.
She remembered distinctly enough the agonised
appeal of his parents that every man and woman
would join in the search for the child by keeping
their eyes open wherever they went.
She had been deeply interested, and wondered
how such a thing could happen. She remembered
that, in spite of all, little Charlie (that was the
child’s name), had never been discovered, and that
his fate had remained shrouded in mystery, the
supposition being that the child had been stolen
by cruel, wicked people, and perhaps died of fright.
Could such a fate have overtaken her children?
A hundred times a day she cried to God that He
would save them from a life of sin and degradation,
even if by death, and there is no doubt that the
mother’s prayers had the reward of keeping them
out of the dangers she feared for them.
The Sabbath came round. Mrs. MacDougall
put on her best clothes, dressed her mother and
Robbie, and went off to the kirk as usual.
“The Lord will not ill-requite me for keeping His
day holy,” she said solemnly, when her mother
suggested that news might come in her absence.
“The Lord knows I am in His kirk, and He will
no seek me in the cottage.”
Her simple faith was destined to receive its
verification. Early the next morning a messenger
arrived, bringing news. He spread out an official
document on the table, and began with much unnecessary
and tiresome questioning.
“If ye’re wanting to send me crazy, you may
just take your own time, but if not, will ye tell me
right out are they found?” she asked sharply.
“Well, yes, they are,” the man replied.
“Then tell me how, and where.”
“The boy is in Edinburgh, ill of the fever, but
well cared for in a children’s hospital. The girl is
in London, in a place she won’t be running away
from in a hurry.”
“You mean a prison, surely?” Mrs. MacDougall
gasped. “Say the right word, man, and don’t
put your own gloss on things. It doesn’t make
them any the better.”
“It isn’t a prison exactly,” the man replied,
“except that she can’t get free from it without the
permission of them that put her there. She got in
with some people who are now in custody, and as she
will be an important witness, she will be, perhaps,
detained there until the case comes before the
magistrates; but she is safe and sound, according
to our information.”
“And can I no rescue her from that place?”
Mrs. MacDougall asked.
“That depends upon many things,” the officer
answered cautiously. “I could not undertake to
say.”
In a very short time Mrs. MacDougall was
ready for her journey. “Ye will nae gang outside
the gate whiles I’m gone,” she said to Robbie, “an’
bless your heart for a good child, I know you will
not disobey me.” Then to her mother she added,
“I will just ask our good neighbour Jarrett to look
in an’ see ye all right, an’ that your wants are
[Pg 322]
supplied.” Then she bade them adieu, and departed.
They walked as far as Dunster, calling at the
farm on their way, then hired a vehicle to convey
them to Killochrie, the nearest place to which the
trains ran—not by the circuitous route that Elsie
and Duncan had found their way there, but by a
direct road.
That night Mrs. MacDougall was in Edinburgh,
and was mightily amazed and confused with the
grandeur and bustle of the place, which she had
never seen before. How her children could have
found their way here, and still more, how they
could ever have been discovered and identified in
such a teeming, bustling, bewildering city, she
could not imagine. She had yet to see London, to
which Edinburgh could not compare for teeming
multitudes, labyrinths of streets, and all the gigantic
bustle and confusion of a vast city.
“Ah! but it’s a right wicked place,” she exclaimed
in horror, as she passed by some of the foul-smelling
closes, or courts, as we call them, where dishevelled
hag-like old women sat on door-steps, and
filthy, squalid children played in the gutter, where
ill-favoured young people of both sexes hung idly
about the entrances, chaffing or quarrelling with each
other. “Ye police people must be a poor set out,
an’ ye can no do away with such dens as these!”
Mrs. MacDougall cried in righteous indignation.
“And the country folk are all for sending their
girls into the towns to get high wages and such
gear. I would not have one of mine come to such
a Babylon as this!”
But Mrs. MacDougall had not time for more
observations, for they were soon at the hospital
where sick children were received. They were at
once admitted. A kind-looking woman came forward,
and asked if it was necessary to see the child.
“Are ye no aware, ma’am, that he is my ain
bairn?” Mrs. MacDougall began; but her companion
interrupted her.
“Our business is to identify the little laddie,” he
said, with a tone of authority.
“Then I warn you to be careful,” the woman
replied. “He is just in a critical condition, and
must not be spoken to.”
“Ye mean well to say his life is in danger?”
Mrs. MacDougall asked quickly.
“I cannot deny it,” the matron replied; “but
you must not despair. Children make wonderful
recoveries,” she added, kindly.
She led them to the door of the ward, where a
nurse came forward to conduct them to the proper
bed.
“It is my ain little bairnie,” Mrs. MacDougall
whispered; “but sairly altered, sairly changed.”
“He couldn’t have been worse than he’s been,”
the nurse said, drawing them a little way from the
bed. “The delirium was just dreadful to see! But
that’s past, and we only want him to rally. He’s
about exhausted now, and must be kept quiet. I
would not like him to open his eyes and find you
by his side. By my will you would not have been
admitted.”
“Then I’ll go directly,” Mrs. MacDougall said,
quickly. “I will no beg you to be kind to my
bairn, for I can trust your face; but I will pray
for you to be rewarded for every act o’ kindness
done to a poor lost little one. When can I come
again?”
“To-morrow’s the right day. You can come
then,” the nurse replied.
“I’ll be near at hand, an’ they’ll let me know
if a bad change comes,” Mrs. MacDougall said
hurriedly. “I’ll get the nearest lodging to be had.”
When the clothes of the child had been duly
identified, the officer and Mrs. MacDougall departed.
“I shall no leave this place to-night,”
Mrs. MacDougall said, firmly. “The lass is safe
and sound, and Duncan may be dying. I must be
near by.”
So a decent lodging was found, in which Mrs.
MacDougall took up her quarters, having first
taken her address to the matron, who promised her
that she should be sent for if immediate danger
developed itself. The officer was somewhat
puzzled by Mrs. MacDougall’s determination; but
as his instructions were to proceed with the
identification of both children, he determined to go
on to London at once, armed with the most minute
description Mrs. MacDougall could give him of
the missing child.
It is needless to say that the description tallied
perfectly. As, however, the examination of John
and Lucy Murdoch, known to us by the name of
Donaldson, was expected to take place in a day or
two, the officer remained in London, waiting to
obtain Elsie’s full discharge, which could not be
hoped for until after this important event.
Mrs. MacDougall was acquainted with her
perfect safety, and as Duncan remained on the
brink of the grave, she did not, for the present,
attempt to leave Edinburgh.
CHAPTER XXI.—BEFORE THE MAGISTRATE.
O
n
a certain morning, not long after her first
appearance before the magistrate, Elsie
was once more brought into court. She
had hailed the appearance of her old acquaintance
with something approaching delight,
for any change was a welcome one from the hard,
dreary, monotonous life she had been leading in
the wards of the workhouse.
“Do you know anything about Duncan?” she
asked, eagerly. “Did they really take him to the
hospital? she didn’t turn him into the streets, did
she? Oh! I have been so frightened about it.
They said they didn’t know anything about it in
there. You know, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know,” the man said, gravely.
Elsie looked up in his face questioningly. It
was very grave. “Is he—is he—dead?” she
gasped.
“Not as far as I know,” the man replied; “and
he did go into the hospital right enough; but he
was as near dead as possible when your mother
found him there. I don’t think it’s certain now
whether he’ll recover.”
“Mother found him!” Elsie cried. “Then—then
she knows where we are?”
“Yes, she knows,” the man replied.
Elsie involuntarily drew a long sigh of relief. It
was only afterwards that she began to be worried
with doubts as to what her mother would say or
do. In that first moment her first instinct was
that being found by her mother was the end of all
trouble, and that was, no doubt, a true and natural
instinct.
But the after feeling of fear and doubt soon
came to cloud Elsie’s joy at what seemed such good
news. How glad she would be once more to be
back in the clean, sweet cottage on her native moor.
She had thought that life hard, and so wanted to
be a little lady, but it was a perfect paradise compared
with her present life; and as for care, which
is the greatest enemy to happiness that we can
have, she had not known what it meant before
she ran away. Food and clothes, and warm, comfortable
shelter, were all hers without a thought on
her part, and yet she had been so discontented and
cross and disagreeable to everybody because she
had not dainty food and nothing to do. But she
had found out what it felt like to be without a
home or a friend, with coarse food, and nothing
but harsh words; and she had been continually
told that that was far more than she deserved,
and was given to her only out of charity, for
which she ought to be most grateful.
If only Mrs. MacDougall would let her go home
and things be the same as before, she would never
be discontented or ungrateful any more, but she
could hardly believe that she would ever get back
again to that old happy life.
And Duncan? He might die! Then it would
never be the same again. Dear little Duncan, who
did not want to come away, and had always been
contented, but would not forsake his sister. But
for her he would be well and happy now, whereas
everything was dreadful and wretched. It was
quite certain it could never come right. If only
she had known beforehand? It seemed so easy
and so nice. Was it her fault that things had
turned out so different? Was she to blame for not
knowing?
In this way she tried to find some excuse and
consolation where there was indeed little enough,
falling back on the idle excuses people so frequently
make. How many people ask “Was it my fault
that I did not know?” when that was not at all
where the fault lay.
At last the court was reached. Elsie was taken
into a small room, where she had to wait some
time, and had plenty of time for reflection. She
grew very nervous and frightened, and began to
wonder whether they had sent for her to punish
her, whether the white-haired gentleman thought
she had told stories, and was going to send her to
prison. Yet the officer had seemed kind, and they
had promised her that by-and-by she should be
allowed to go home. Could she have told a story
without knowing it? She tried to think over all she
had said. Suddenly it came into her head that
perhaps this clever, wise gentleman knew that her
name was not MacDougall, but Grosvenor, and
would punish her for that. What ought she to have
said? She puzzled and puzzled over it till she grew
quite stupid and bewildered.
By-and-by the officer who had brought her took
her hand and led her forward. As she entered
the great room in which she had been once before,
she noticed that it was thronged with people. She
was presently placed in a small, square, box-like
place, reminding her a little of the pews in the
kirk. Before her she soon detected the old gentleman
who had questioned her, but there were several
others seated near him. Turning her head slightly,
her eyes fell with fright and dismay on the figures
of the “fairy mother” and a man, who was neither
Uncle William nor Grandpapa Donaldson, yet reminded
her of both.
They were looking at her, and Elsie saw something
in their faces that made her tremble. Yet
she could not turn her eyes away till the “fairy
mother” dropped hers, and with a heavy sigh made
a little movement, as if to hide from herself the
sight of her ungrateful child.
Then Elsie caught sight of another face: she
recognised the man Andrew. There were others
whose faces she did not know.
The Bible was handed her, and again she had to
repeat the words of the solemn oath. Again the
old gentleman leaned forward and asked her if
she knew what an oath was, repeating his solemn
warning. Then came the question, “What is your
name?”
“Please, sir, I don’t know,” Elsie faltered, bursting
into tears.
“The child is just dazed, your honour!” cried a
voice from the crowd, which rang strangely in
Elsie’s ears, but the venturesome individual was
silenced immediately.
“You told us the other day,” the old gentleman
said kindly. “You have only to tell the truth, then
you need not be frightened.”
“I’m afraid it was a story,” Elsie exclaimed.
And the “fairy mother” looked round anxiously.
“I don’t know whether my name is Elsie MacDougall
or Elsie Grosvenor, because I am not
sure whether Mrs. MacDougall was our mother or
whether Aunt Nannie was.”
Again a voice cried out something from the
crowd, but Elsie did not catch the words. The
person was warned that she would be removed if
she interrupted again, and the gentleman continued.
“We will take your name as Elsie MacDougall.
Is it true that you ran away from your home on a
certain Wednesday?”
Elsie replied that she had done so, and then she
was asked a great many questions, first about
herself, then about the companions she had
travelled with, which it would take far too much
room to write down. She was terrified almost
beyond measure at answering such inquiries with
the terrible “fairy mother” standing close by,
especially when other gentlemen began to ask her
questions too in a sharp way that confused and
bewildered her. Every particular of her acquaintance
with these people was drawn from her, and a
great deal of interest displayed in her account of
how she was separated from Duncan, and the
description of “Uncle William’s” sudden change
into “Grandpapa Donaldson.”
“Now look well at this person. Have you ever
seen him before?” the magistrate asked, pointing
to the man standing near Mrs. Donaldson.
Elsie replied that she had not but he seemed to
remind her a little of some one she had seen.
One of the gentlemen then held up a black wig,
and whiskers, beard, and moustache.
Elsie recognised them at once. “I know what
that is like!” she exclaimed, in great astonishment.
“He had hair like that when he was Uncle
William.”
Another wig was then held before Elsie’s wondering
eyes. This time it was grey, with a small
close-cut beard and whiskers, such as the old man
in the railway carriage wore.
They were handed in turn to the man standing
by Mrs. Donaldson, with a request that he would
put them on. This, however, he indignantly refused
to do, but Elsie took a steady look, and felt
sure that if he had he would have looked exactly
like Uncle William and Grandpapa Donaldson.
The next astonishing thing shown her was a
light grey coat, the exact counterpart of the one
worn by the gentleman in the carriage and Uncle
William. It was turned inside out, and behold, it
became a completely new overcoat of a drab
colour, like the one worn by Grandpapa Donaldson.
So that was how he had changed himself so
completely, by changing his black hair for grey and
turning his coat inside out. He must have done
it very quickly and quietly, while Mrs. Donaldson
kept Elsie’s eyes fixed on her. He stoutly denied
this, but it was very strange that the black wig
should have been discovered in a mysterious pocket
of that cleverly-made coat, and that Mrs. Donaldson’s
papa should be so vain as to go about in a
wig, and false whiskers, beard and moustache,
because he had none of his own—very strange
indeed; and so the lawyers and magistrates seemed
to think it.
Elsie was very, very tired with the long examination
she had to undergo. All she could make out
of it was that these people, whose real names were
John and Lucy Murdoch, were suspected of
having stolen a great deal of money from rich
people. At last Elsie was told she might go, and
the officer of whom she had seen so much came
forward to lead her away. As she was passing out,
who should she see coming towards her but Meg.
She lifted her eyes, and looked with a frightened
glance at Elsie. Her eyes were red, and she
looked altogether most wretched and unhappy.
“I haven’t told a word,” Elsie couldn’t help
whispering as she passed close by her; but Meg
did not seem to hear, for she never raised her head
or even smiled.
Elsie wondered what they were going to do with
her, and hoped she would not get into any trouble.
But she could not help thinking of her own miseries.
Now, she supposed, she must go back again to that
dreadful workhouse, with its harsh matron and
dreadful companions, its misery, discomfort, and
loneliness. She could not help shuddering and
gulping back the sorrowful sobs that seemed to
choke her. She was very tired and down-hearted.
The man touched her on the arm. She lifted
her eyes, and saw standing close by, her mother,
Mrs. MacDougall. In a moment Elsie flew
towards her with a cry of joy, exclaiming “Oh!
take me home, mother; take me away, please.”
“I’ve got the discharge from the magistrate,”
Mrs. MacDougall explained. “I applied for it
this morning directly after the court was opened.”
“Quite right, ma’am,” the man assented. Then
turning to Elsie, he exclaimed, “Now, my girl,
you’re free to go home with your mother; and if
you take my advice, you won’t try running away
again. You’re just fortunate to have got off
as you have. If it hadn’t been for our tracking
the Murdochs just when we did, there’s no telling
what would have become of you. They are not
the sort that would hesitate to get rid of you in any
way that came first when they found they didn’t
want you; and all I say is you may be thankful you
stand where you do at this moment.”
“You’ve just had a narrow escape of being drawn
into a den of sin and iniquity,” Mrs. MacDougall
added fervently, “and I’m right thankful to the
Almighty for the good care He’s taken of you.
I’m sure, sir, you’re very kind to this erring lass,
and I’m right grateful for all your goodness.”
“Mother,” Elsie faltered, hardly daring to frame
the question, “where is Duncan?”
“He’s in the hospital yet,” Mrs. MacDougall
replied. “He lies in a fair way to recover, if no ill
turn befalls him, but I doubt me if he’ll ever be the
same laddie again. He’s woefully altered, but the
Lord has been good to him too, and put it into the
heart of that poor body they call Meg to take
him to the hospital, though they had no intention for
her to do it. May she be rewarded for her charitable
deed!”
At this moment the officer came back to say that
a cab was ready to take them to the station.
“And am I going with you now?” Elsie asked.
“Yes; we’ll be getting back to Edinburgh to-night,”
Mrs. MacDougall replied.
They bade the officer good-bye, and drove away.
Elsie could hardly believe that she was once more
free and on her way home. The revulsion of feeling
was too much; she lay back in the carriage,
and sobbed as if her heart would break.
“I will no reproach you, Elsie,” Mrs. MacDougall
said, gently, “for I ken you’re punished enough,
but it will do ye no harm to feel sore-hearted for
all the sorrow you’ve brought on yoursel and
others.”
CHAPTER XXII.—THE MURDOCHS.
M
rs. macdougall
and Elsie had some
time to wait before the night train started.
They spent it in the waiting-room, Mrs.
MacDougall having first procured for Elsie
as comfortable a tea as her means would allow.
To Elsie it seemed a perfect feast.
While they are waiting I must take the opportunity
of telling all that had been found out about
the Murdochs, and how they came to take charge
of the children. Lucy Murdoch had been, as Meg
said, quite a poor girl, living in one of the miserable
closes in which the old town of Edinburgh abounds.
She was very pretty and clever, but naturally
inclined to deceit and cunning. When she was
about seventeen she went to service, but could
never keep a place, because she was impertinent,
and so fond of dressing herself up in fine clothes
that she at last began to steal things from the
ladies she lived with in order to gratify her vanity.
Her friends said she looked like any lady, and
this so pleased the vain creature that she tried to
pass for one wherever she could, giving herself
great airs in shops she was sent to and when walking
out of doors. At last it was found that she
had been to a shop in Edinburgh and ordered
some things in the name of a young lady, in whose
mother’s house she had been a servant. After this
she disappeared from Edinburgh, and her friends
saw nothing of her for many years.
When they heard of her again, she was married.
She came back dressed as a smart lady, and looking
and speaking very much like one. She had
been in London, and had picked up all sorts of
fine ways. Her husband was just such another as
herself: they both disliked honest work, but lived
by their cunning.
One of their tricks was to go to a grand hotel
where there were rich people, make the acquaintance
of some wealthy lady or gentleman, skilfully manage
to rob the unsuspicious individuals of any money
they might have with them, and then depart, letting
the suspicion fall on some unfortunate servant.
Just before they had met Elsie and Duncan they
had been staying at a very fashionable resort in
the Highlands, where Lucy Murdoch, by her dashing
manner and profuse liberality, made a great
many friends and was much admired. There
happened to be among the company an Australian
gentleman just arrived in England, who had
brought with him a pocket-book full of notes, which
he perhaps intended to pay into an English bank.
The gentleman, being boastful and proud of his
money, gave broad hints of the wealth he carried
with him to Lucy Murdoch and her husband,
whom he thought very nice people, and so much
more friendly to a foreigner than the cold, proud
English folk usually are. One morning the gentleman
found his pocket-book gone, notes and all.
He came into luncheon full of it, pouring out his
indignant wrath to his genial friends, the Murdochs,
who commiserated him, and were as indignant as
he. One of the waiters was suspected. The
wretched man declared that he had seen the
gentleman, Mr. Halliwell (the name under which
the Murdochs were then going), coming out of the
Australian gentleman’s bedroom, that he had
spoken to him, and that Mr. Halliwell had said
that he had made a mistake and just gone inside,
but had seen directly his error. The man was not
believed, for there were the Halliwells still staying
in the hotel, going and coming as freely as could
be. The next day they paid their bill (a good long
one) and went away, bidding their acquaintances
good-bye, and hoping they should meet in Edinburgh.
After they had gone some way on their journey,
Lucy discovered that she had lost a letter from one
of her bad companions in Edinburgh—no other than
the man Andrew, who was one of their accomplices.
Fearing she might have dropped it in the hotel,
they made all haste to get to London, but their
journey was delayed at a certain point by the
stupidity of a driver, who had undertaken to drive
them to Killochrie, but could not find the way, the
consequence being that they lost their train, and
would be delayed eight hours.
Now Lucy Murdoch had heard of the missing
children, and when she stopped Elsie and Duncan
to ask them the way, she immediately supposed,
from what Elsie said, that these were the very ones.
Being very clever and quick-witted, she saw in a
moment she could make use of them to forward her
own escape. Driving to the nearest town, she
purchased black ready-made garments, retired to a
lonely spot, and dressed herself as a widow, smoothing
back her curled locks under the close round
bonnet. Then she went to the children, dressed
them in the clothes she had bought, walked back
to the station, and went on by train to a little town
some twenty miles off, where she spent the night,
her husband having gone first to secure a lodging.
On the next day they went on to Edinburgh under
the new name of Donaldson, John Murdoch passing
as her brother, and the children as her fatherless
little ones on their way home from school.
Duncan’s illness interfered with her plans, and
necessitated her seeking the help of the man
Andrew, while she and her husband went to a
fashionable hotel. But Lucy Murdoch was not to
be daunted. It would do just as well to travel to
London with one child as two, and even serve still
further to destroy her identity. So she would
have cast Duncan off like an old shoe. Elsie’s
determination made this difficult, but she soon
devised a plan to get Elsie off by cunning, and
leave Duncan behind. Although she promised
Elsie that Duncan should go to the hospital, she
had left instructions with Meg that he was to be
taken back to Andrew’s house. Meg, however,
took him to the hospital, and said (poor ignorant
thing) that she had found him ill in the street.
When she got home she put on her most stupid
air, and declared that she didn’t rightly know what
Mrs. Murdoch meant her to do, that she was very
sorry if she’d done wrong, and hadn’t she better go
and fetch him back? Andrew abused her, but
at the hospital the child was left. Poor Meg! she
had in her a kind heart, and might have been a
good, happy girl but for bad companions.
The police, however, were on the track of the
Murdochs. They had been watched from place
to place, and evidence collected. When they least
thought of danger they found themselves lodged in
a prison.
Elsie’s account greatly helped to prove their
guilt. Meg was examined, and was found to have
known a great deal about their doings; but as
she was not found guilty of any crime, she was
allowed to go free, and advised by the magistrate
to forsake her old companions, and endeavour to
live honestly and respectably. A charitable lady
afterwards took her into a home, being much
touched by the account she gave of Duncan’s
illness, and the way she had done what she could
to save his life.
John and Lucy Murdoch were sentenced to be
imprisoned for a great many years. The man
Andrew was also severely punished.
What they intended, to do with Elsie was not
clear. Duncan they had left dangerously ill,
without nursing or medical advice. The magistrate
pointed out to him that they ought to be grateful
to Meg, for if the child had died they would
certainly have been charged with causing his death.
Probably they would have left Elsie to a similar
fate: unless, indeed, they had succeeded in
making her one of themselves, in which case she
would, perhaps, have been tempted to join them in
some hideous crime, and have ended her days in a
prison.
CHAPTER XXIII.—BACK HOME AGAIN.
E
lsie
and her mother travelled all night,
and reached Edinburgh early the next
morning. This time it was only a third-class
carriage, crowded by very ordinary-looking
men and women—a very different journey
from the one with the wicked “fairy mother;”
but the unhappy child, tired out with all she had
gone through, leant her head against her mother’s
shoulder, and slept through the night with a sweet
sense of safety and protection to which she had
long been a stranger.
They found Duncan still slowly mending, but
looking a mere shadow of his former bonnie
self. Elsie was so overwhelmed at the sight of
his poor little wasted figure, and cried so bitterly,
that the nurse promptly ordered her out of the
ward.
“Tell Elsie I’m quite well now,” he said
anxiously to Mrs. MacDougall. “She needn’t cry,
because we are going home; aren’t we, mother?
You did say we might.”
“Yes, well all be happy again together soon,
little lad,” Mrs. MacDougall replied.
“Perhaps they hurt Elsie,” Duncan continued,
still anxious for Elsie. “They were bad people,
mother;” and the little fellow shuddered.
They were obliged to calm him and turn his
thoughts away. One of the worst points of his
illness had been the fits of terror that came over
him when a recollection of the Fergusons or the
Murdochs passed through his brain. It had been
feared that his mind was seriously affected by the
fright he had undergone.
He was not yet fit to be moved, so Mrs. MacDougall
decided to take Elsie home, and come
again to fetch Duncan when he was ready to
leave, as she had barely money enough left to take
her to Dunster. Duncan was, however, convalescent,
and in a fair way of recovering.
It was only now that Mrs. MacDougall, the
more pressing cares of her mind relieved, had time
to remember Elsie’s curious statement before the
magistrates. “What did you mean, child, by
saying that you didn’t rightly know your own
name?” she asked. “Surely you were dazed with
the strange faces all round you. I feared you had
lost your reason.”
Elsie hung her head sheepishly. Although she
had heard nothing from any one on the subject, she
had somehow a conviction in her mind that she had
been very silly. It was easy to talk grandly to
Duncan, but quite a different thing to tell the
story to Mrs. MacDougall.
“I don’t know. I did think that perhaps me
and Duncan were the babies of Aunt Nannie’s
what Uncle Grosvenor sent you to take care of,”
Elsie stammered,
growing very red.
“Good patience,
child! What do you
know about your aunt
Nannie’s babies?”
Mrs. MacDougall exclaimed,
in amazement.
“Who have
been tattling to you
about what don’t
concern them?”
“Then we are
those babies!” Elsie
cried, with a flash
of excitement.
“You!” cried Mrs.
MacDougall; “that
you are not. What
could make you think
such a thing? Whoever
told you so much—an’
I reckon your
foolish old grannie
was the person—might
as well have
told the whole story,
which, however, it
was my great wish
should be kept quite
a secret. Robbie
was your poor Aunt
Nannie’s bairn.”
“Robbie!” Elsie exclaimed, slowly; “but there
were two babies, mother.”
“There were twin babies, but one died the next
day after it reached me, poor bairn. It was a girl
baby, and the one the father took an interest in; but
it died, and he cared little or nothing about Robbie,
so I kept him my own self, for he was but a poor
little lad, and could no bear a rough life. Often
I’ve been tempted to let the child go back to his
own flesh and blood, but I hadn’t the heart,
knowing there was none that would look after him
with the care he needed.”
“Is Robbie better than we are, mother?” Elsie
asked, with the old jealousy cropping up once more.
“Uncle Grosvenor is a grand laird, is he not?”
Mrs. MacDougall laughed. “He’s just a well-to-do
tradesman, though he had mighty fine airs when
he used to come to Dunster; but I never liked the
looks of him. He broke his poor wife’s heart, and
never believed it till she lay dead, and then he
was sorry, and tried to make some amends. He
was a bit touched when he saw his motherless
bairns, and did a kind deed when he sent them to
me; but he soon grew
blithe and gay again,
and troubled his head
no more. I’ve never
heard from him from
that day to this, except
that he sends me
payment for the babies
still. He doesn’t
even know that the
little one died, for
he has never written;
and I don’t know
where he is; but any
day he may come, and
just take it into his
head to fetch poor
Nannie’s bairn away
from me: but I hope
he won’t, for now that
he’s married again
and has many children,
as I am told,
poor Robbie will be
ill-welcomed among
them.”
What a different
tale this was from
the one Elsie had
concocted in her own
mind! How utterly
foolish and ashamed
she was feeling. She
would tell all, and would so ease her mind.
“Mother,” she said, speaking quickly, “it was
all through a letter I picked up and read, and
because I always thought Robbie was your
favourite more than me and Duncan. I thought
he must be your little boy, and that we were not.
You did buy Robbie more things, and never sent
him for the milk.”
“Ye’re right enough, Elsie,” Mrs. MacDougall
said, with a sigh. “There’s many a time, when
I’ve been sore pressed, I’ve been tempted to take
the money that Robbie’s father sent to buy the
clothes you and Duncan were in need of; but
I’ve always stood against it, and never spent a
penny of that money for any other purpose than
the right one, and I’ve taken care of the child
more jealously than if he was my own. But the
Evil One himself must have put it in your heart to
be jealous of that poor little lad. With all my
care, I doubt that he’ll ever see manhood. And
as for the letter, I think I know the one you mean.
If you found it, you’d no call to read it.”
“But I read it, and I kept it,” Elsie confessed,
seeing that her mother had quite failed to comprehend
all that she had tried to tell her. “It was
for that I wanted to run away—to go and find who
I thought was our own father—and I took Duncan
with me. I thought it would be easy. I didn’t
mean to hurt Duncan.”
“I will be no harsh to you, Elsie,” Mrs. MacDougall
said, sorrowfully. “It’s a sore thing for
a mother to think of; but God has taught you His
lesson in His own way. I doubt you’ll never do
the like again.”
It was only by degrees that Mrs. MacDougall
heard the whole history of the children’s wanderings,
or Elsie fully understood the terrible dangers
to which she had, by her own act, willingly
exposed herself and Duncan. Never had she fully
realised what the word “home” meant until returning
to it, after having been homeless, lonely,
and outcast, she was received with the glad welcome
that no one else in all the wide world would
have extended to her.
Mrs. MacDougall was, like many of her race, a
woman of few words, and not given to demonstrations
of affection, yet with a deeply-rooted, fervent
feeling of attachment to her own flesh and blood
that nothing could destroy, that was only equalled
by her strong sense of religious duty. In that
terrible week of suspense, when she received no
tidings of the missing children, her hair had
become grey, and her face aged by many years.
In seeking them out, she had spent unhesitatingly
the hardly-scraped savings of years, laid by for the
decent burying of her old mother and herself.
These facts spoke more strongly than words.
Even Elsie knew well enough the terrible degradation
an honest, respectable Scottish woman would
feel it that any of her birth and kin should fall
upon the charity of strangers.
Elsie had been ever a tiresome child. She was
what people call clever—that is to say, she had
from an early age the power of thinking for herself,
and forming her own ideas on many subjects.
This very activity of brain often overwhelmed the
better feelings of her heart, which was not really
bad. It was her own supposed cleverness that had
led her into such a grievous error concerning that
unfortunate letter she had found, her restless
curiosity that had led her into the temptation of
reading it, whereas Duncan’s slower brain would
have allowed his heart time to speak its protest
against an action that he had been trained to regard
as mean and dishonourable. Cleverness is
a dangerous gift, apt to lead into very stray paths,
unless there is firm principle to weigh it. Lucy
Murdoch was extremely clever. Better for her to
have been without one talent than to have used all
ten to her own utter ruin.
Mrs. MacDougall gave Elsie no bitter reproaches.
She explained to her how grievous a sin she had
committed, and what sorrow she had brought on
those who had always shown her the truest kindness.
She would allow no one to speak to Elsie
about it, except the good old minister at the manse,
who had known her from her birth. Farmer
Jarrett greatly desired to give her a good talking to,
but Mrs. MacDougall said, in her true Scottish
fashion, “Nay, neighbour; the Lord had pointed His
own moral, an’ we can no better it. She has the
little brother she loves always before her eyes to
warn her.” And this was true enough. Duncan
had never recovered the effects of the fever. He
seemed to have lost all his old robustness and
vigour, taking little interest in anything, only caring
to sit quiet and undisturbed before the fire. No
words could have affected her more than that most
pitiful sight. Mrs. MacDougall often caught
Elsie’s eyes fixed on the child with a wistful, sorrowful
expression. She and Robbie waited on him
continually, with patient unfailing tenderness, and
both the children vied with each other as to who
could be the more kind and thoughtful for him.
Mrs. MacDougall from that time changed her
treatment of Robbie, and moreover, explained to
all three children the circumstances of his birth.
She believed that she had erred in practising even
this well-meant deceit, intended for the good both
of Robbie and her own two children, which had,
however, resulted in the very jealousy she had tried
to prevent. Robbie benefited by the change, and
was certainly far happier. He grew less babyish—stronger
both in mind and body. The old jealousy
died away, and Elsie liked him far better as a
cousin—yet treated in every way like herself—than
she had done as a brother.
For several years no one dared to mention in
Duncan’s presence the sad experience he had
lived through. His terror and excitement were so
intense at the mere recollection of it, that the utmost
care was necessary. He could never go out
alone, for if he met a person who seemed to his
morbid fancy to resemble either of the Fergusons
or the Murdochs, his shuddering fear was shocking
to witness. He and Robbie had quite changed
places. It was he now who needed all the anxious,
watchful care that in former days Elsie would have
called petting.
If no one reproached her, it is certain she reproached
herself, more and more bitterly as she
grew older, and understood how grave a misfortune
she had brought upon Duncan, the one person she
was most fond of in this world. She had turned
his very trust in her into the means of sacrificing
him. Sometimes she was so tortured by this
thought that she could hardly bear it. “I will
never leave him as long as I live,” she often said
to herself, as a sort of reparation for what he had
suffered. “I will take care of him till I die.”
But there is a hope that in course of time, after
he has passed the years of boyhood, he may recover
his old strength, and in this hope Elsie lives.
the end.
LITTLE PAPERS FOR LITTLE ART WORKERS.
IVORY MINIATURE PAINTING.
W
e
all know the beautiful miniatures
that grandmammas count as some
of their greatest treasures, mementoes
of the friends of long ago. Some
of those little bits of ivory are now worth, over and
over again, their weight in gold. The names of
Nicholas Hilliard, Isaac and Peter Oliver, Samuel
Cooper, Nathaniel Hone, and Richard Cosway,
are well-known in connection with the art of
Miniature Painting. Photography now supersedes
all other modes of taking portraits on a
small scale on account of its rapidity, but no
photograph, however carefully coloured, ever did,
or ever will, equal the exquisite little gems left to
us by the men we have reason to honour whose
names I have mentioned already. I should, for
my part, be glad to see the art, which has never
gone quite out of fashion, restored to its old
popularity.
The choice of a good piece of ivory is important.
You can get the pieces of various sizes
from any good artist’s colourman, and you must
look out for one that has as little grain as
possible in the centre, because the space the face
will occupy should be free from streaks that would
be detrimental to the painting. The remainder of
the ivory is not of so much consequence, as in
representing the drapery and background the grain
can generally be hidden. Large sizes can be
obtained, but I should not advise you to begin on
one of them; a piece about 3½ in. by 4¾ in. does
very well for a first attempt. Ivory can be cut
with a pair of scissors, but it is a risky operation,
and it is far better to get a professional worker to
cut it for you if you need the shape or size altered;
then, too, if you want an oval shape you will be
pretty sure to get a true oval, which very possibly
you could not manage yourself. Red sable
brushes are used, and you should select those that
will come to a good point. You will not require
more than three or four, a medium size for washes,
a smaller for stippling, and a very fine one for
finishing-touches. An oval china palette is also
needed; the small slabs sold in ordinary paintboxes
are not serviceable for miniature painting,
as many colours and tints are necessary. Use the
best water-colours if you wish to succeed, and you
will find those in pans or half pans are preferable
to the dry cakes, as time is not spent in rubbing
them down. These are the most useful colours:—Cobalt,
French ultra, Prussian blue, carmine, or
pink madder, Indian red, vermilion, light red,
sepia, burnt umber, burnt sienna, Indian yellow,
yellow ochre, ivory black, and Chinese white. I
do not consider more than these requisite for an
ordinary palette. Then you must have a firm
drawing-board, and a bottle of clear strong gum.
Some pieces of old linen should be kept at hand
for cleaning the palette; if anything else be used
for the purpose fluffy particles will be left on it that
will get mixed up with the colours, and that we
must do all in our power to avoid. I want to
impress upon you the importance of choosing
a good light for your work; for one reason you
cannot get the delicate tints which are the great
charm of ivory miniature painting if you sit in a bad
position for seeing well; and for a second reason
the work is so fine that there is the danger of
trying your eyes too much if you are not careful in
this respect.
You must never continue the work if your
eyes feel tired. Some person’s eyesight is so
much stronger than that of others that you
must judge for yourselves whether or no it is
harmful to you to produce such fine paintings.
It is best to sketch the portrait first correctly on
paper; not many amateurs will be able to do it
direct on the ivory without some guide, and as few
alterations as possible must be made on the ivory.
If the sketch be tolerably dark it may be laid
beneath the ivory, and so traced off with a brush
filled with light red. It is far easier, of course, to
work from a photograph; if you do this you need
only to place the ivory over it, and thus you have
the features, and the principal folds of the dress,
ready to mark off with the brush on the semi-transparent
ground. You must be so very careful
not to let the ivory slip in the faintest degree out
of place, or the likeness will sure to prove a
failure.
When you have all the principal points clearly
defined, fix it by gumming it at the top to a
square of writing-paper, which must be white.
At the back of this lay three or four more squares
of paper, until the ivory thus mounted looks
opaque. Bristol board is used sometimes instead
of paper, but it is liable to warp when exposed to
heat. The ivory must only be gummed at the top,
for if gum were allowed to run under the face the
flesh-tints would be darkened; the papers also
must be gummed together at the top, and they
should be somewhat larger than the ivory. It
must be placed aside until dry pressed in a book
with a piece of clean paper over it. Lay on the
first flesh-tint evenly with a large brush, leaving
the whites of the eyes untouched. Light red, or
Venetian red, to which the slightest touch of
yellow has been added, forms a good tint to work
upon; for dark complexion a little more yellow
will be requisite.
When the right depth of colour in the lights
of the face is properly secured, the shadows may
be put in with a good-sized brush. It is a great
mistake ever to use very small brushes when
larger ones can be equally well employed. In
every style of painting we should strive to work as
far as possible in a broad manner, and large
brushes help us to do this. So, too, we should
whenever practicable lay on our colours in
washes; if we begin with stippling our drawings
they will be “niggling,” and will be sure to look
poor and “spotty.” The shadows differ in shape
and in colour on all faces, and to render these
accurately is by no means an unimportant part of
taking a likeness; the expression depends greatly
upon the shadows, and we need to study nature
closely if we would represent all the delicate
gradations faithfully. As a shadow colour, cobalt,
Venetian red, carmine or pink madder, and a
suspicion of yellow, will make a good foundation;
but the tint must be varied as occasion demands.
Under the eyes, the shadows are blueish, whilst
those under the eyebrows and nostrils are warm in
tint; Indian red serves well for warming shadows.
Beginners will very probably fear to lay in the
shadows too strongly, but when they see the effect
produced, they are likely to go to the opposite
extreme and smear in the shadows heavily for the
sake of giving character to the likeness. The
happy medium is what we must strive to secure;
we do not want our paintings to be weak, but
neither do we want them “dirty” in tone. The
shadows on the throat should be rather grey, but
not so much so as to appear livid and unnatural;
here light red and cobalt will predominate. On
the neck they will be of a soft blue tone. They
must all be clearly washed in without reaching too
far into the lights, as lights and shadows must
subsequently be softened into each other with
the lovely demi-tints that afford the pearl-like
appearance of the natural clear complexion. These
half tints are formed of cobalt and light red, or of
French ultra and carmine; pink madder may
take the place of carmine if preferred, for though
not so brilliant it is more lasting. A fair child’s
complexion will require more vermilion and less
carmine than that of an adult. To keep the form
of the lips true to nature is another point that
demands our strictest attention. Blue eyes are
put in with cobalt, toned with shadow colour;
grey, with a mixture of blue and red. There are
many varieties of shade in brown eyes, and you
must find out by experiment what is best to use
for them, as you may have, at one time or another,
to depict hazel, chestnut, and deep brown eyes that
are called black. You will find burnt terra sienna
and shadow colour useful, and in the case of the
darkest brown shade, the employment of lake and
sepia will be necessary. The pupil is put in with
sepia.
On no account must black be used in painting
the eyes. Now we come to the eyebrows
and eyelashes. These are of the same colour
as the hair, but usually darker in tint. Do not
try to make out the separate hairs, or hardness,
which is very undesirable, will ensue. Sometimes
in finishing the eyelashes you will improve them
with a few fine strokes after the wash of colour is
laid on. The hair must be painted broadly in
large masses, and its natural fall on the forehead,
its tendency to curl or wave, must be truly
rendered. For black hair use neutral tint, and a
little indigo for the lights; for the local colour,
indigo, lake, and gamboge. For brown hair, sepia,
but should it be very dark add a little lake. Burnt
umber will give a beautiful chestnut brown if mixed
with lake modified with sepia. No part of a
miniature should be finished off until all the rest
is close to completion; for one colour affects
another considerably when they are placed side
by side, and so it is impossible to judge of the
strength of a tint until all its surroundings are
brought near to an equal state of finish. Select a
colour for the drapery that will suit the complexion
and hair; one that will heighten the effect of each,
and produce a pleasing harmony. Nothing is
more charming than white for a young girl, who
possesses a fair complexion; the ivory itself forms
a soft creamy white ground that needs only the
shadows and reflections to be thrown in, and a
little Chinese white is employed for the lights. If
the dress is coloured you should manage to introduce
some white lace around the throat. Black
velvet is also extremely becoming; the lights are
put in with Chinese white.
Brilliant colours for draperies should always
be avoided, as there is so little space in a
miniature to be given to the accessories that they
must be kept low in tone if they are to be subordinate
to the likeness. A small quantity of gum
is required in the background, and in the draperies
just a drop is mixed in with the colours for finishing
off the dress. The harmony of the whole
will depend greatly on the tint chosen for the
background. It may be as dark as you like, only
you must not let it be heavy. A neutral tint of
grey or brown is easy for a beginner to manage,
and a warm red-brown is admirable for the
purpose. A soft blue sky with fleecy-white clouds
makes the best background for a fair girl in a
white dress. Wash in the background colour to
the desired strength, then stipple it to get it smooth.
With a few general remarks I must end these
suggestions. “Stippling” is the filling in with a
small brush, but not too fine, of any spaces left
when the colour is washed in. The polished
surface of the ivory will not take the wash as paper
does, and it requires a great deal of working up
before it appears level and smooth. Any touches
may be put in with a trifle of gum added to the
colour. You will use sepia for the dark touches
on the eyebrows and eyelashes, carmine and sepia
for those about the mouth and nostrils. The spot
of white in the eye must not be forgotten. The
lights are always left, not taken out afterwards.
Any hairs that may be found on the ivory after a
tint is washed in must be removed with a needle
or the extreme point of a clean brush. Lay in your
colours with decision, and always try as far
as you possibly can to work in a broad free style.
FAITHFUL TO HER TRUST.
F
ar
away in the mountains of Westmoreland
there is a lonely ravine
called Far Easedale, and here was
once a cottage called Blentarn Ghyll,
where a man named Green once lived
with his wife and six children.
One day George Green and his
wife went to a sale of furniture at Grasmere.
Before starting they spoke kindly
to their eldest girl Agnes, who was then only nine
years old, and begged her to take special care
of all her little brothers and sisters.
“We shall be home to-night, dear,” said Mrs.
Green, “but you’ll be a little mother to them whilst
we are away, won’t you?”
Agnes promised gaily, thinking it would be rather
fun to be left in charge.
All went well till towards evening, when a terrible
snow-storm came on. The white flakes fell so fast
that the door was blocked up; worse than this, the
snow made its way through the windows.
Having put the baby to bed, Agnes and the other
children sat up till midnight, hoping that their
parents would come, but not a sound was heard, as
the snow fell silently thicker and thicker.
In the morning the snow had stopped falling, but
it lay so deep that Agnes dared not venture out.
The children were miserable, and Agnes, child
as she was herself, forgot her own trouble in trying
to cheer and comfort them. Then she boiled what
milk there was in the house, to prevent its turning
sour, and made some porridge for breakfast, eating
very little herself, for she feared the little stock
of meal might fail.
After breakfast she asked her two brothers to
help her cut a way from the door to the shed where
the peat was kept, and they carried in as much as
they could. Then they closed the door till night
came and they forgot their troubles in sleep.
The next day a strong wind had blown away so
much snow that Agnes determined to try to find
her way to Grasmere. It was a difficult task, for
there were brooks to cross; but the brave girl was
urged on by the memory of the little ones she had
left behind, and made her way there.
Here she found that her father and mother had
started for home on the first night. As they had
not since been heard of, she had little doubt that
they must have fallen into some hole or brook and
have perished in the snow.
Still faithful to her trust, the poor child returned
to the cottage, where she carefully watched over
her brothers and sisters, until kind friends found
new homes for the little orphans.
E. M. W.
A MORNING VISIT.
“and at last nurse says i may carry up her morning tea.”
D
arling
mother! not to see her
For a whole week and a day!
It was hard; but she is better,
And at last nurse says I may
Carry up her morning tea.
Only one wee, tiny minute
Must I wait to kiss her cheek,
And to whisper how I missed her
Every day this long, long week,
And to ask if she missed me.
Often, while they thought me sleeping,
Did I lie an hour and more,
Crying—when the house was quiet—
Softly at her bedroom door,
Where she could not hear nor see.
Oh, it was so dull without her!
Every one was grave and sad;
But I think, now she is better,
Even the little birds look glad
As they hop from tree to tree.
Maggie Macdonald.
GOING TO SEA IN A CAGE.
AN OLD SAILOR’S STORY.
A
ye,
aye, sir! I’ve seen a good
many queer things in my time,
sure enough; but the queerest
thing I ever saw was a bit of
work aboard the old Mermaid,
when we were homeward bound
from Hong Kong and Singapore.
Would you like to hear the
story? Well, then, if you’ll just
come to an anchor for a minute or two on this coil
of rope, I’ll tell you all about it.
The very first day out from Hong Kong I took
notice of one young lady, who was lying on a kind
of basket-work sofa, on the sunny side of the poop-deck.
She had the sweetest face I ever saw, but it
went to my heart to see how thin and pale she
looked. And well she might, poor thing! for it
seems she had something wrong with her back, so
as she couldn’t walk or stand up, or anything;
and she was going to England to see some great
doctor or other, and try if he could cure her.
All the passengers were very good to her, I will
say that for ’em; and as for us blue-jackets, every
man Jack of us would have jumped overboard only
to please her, when once we knew how it was.
But she was too weak to talk or read much, and
the chief thing she had to amuse her was a little grey
Java sparrow, which she had with her in a cage.
Whenever she came on deck, the bird’s cage was
brought up too, and put close beside her; and it
was Bob Wilkins, the pantry-boy, who always had
the carrying of it.
It was a pretty little thing that bird was, and
as sensible as any man; fact, it was a deal more
sensible than many men that I‘ve met. When
she had a headache (and terrible headaches
she used to have, poor lass) that bird would be
as quiet as a mouse. But when she was well
enough to stand it, she’d have the cage brought to
her, and open it with her own hands, and out the
little fellow would pop, and flutter on to her
shoulder, and eat out of her hand, just as natural
as could be. And then she used to stroke its
feathers with her poor thin fingers and smile such
a strange, sad kind of smile, that many a time
I’ve had to go away in a hurry for fear I should
cry outright; and I can tell you I wasn’t the only
one, neither.
But fond as we all were of that bird, there was
somebody else that was fonder still, and that was
the captain’s big tortoise-shell cat: and to see
the way it kept its eye on that Java sparrow, and
watched for a chance to get hold of it! you never
saw the like.
Well, the captain was a kind man, and didn’t
want to hurt the poor cat, specially as it was a
great pet of his wife’s; so he tied it up to keep
it out of mischief. But of course it took and
squalled all night, till nobody could sleep a wink
for the noise, and he had to let it loose again. So
then he says to me—
“Thompson,” says he, “just keep your eye on
that cat, and if it ever comes on to the poop-deck,
drive it off again.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” says I, and I kept a bright lookout,
sure enough. But one day that cat was too
sharp for me, after all.
It was getting towards afternoon, on our second
day from Port Said, and Miss Ashton was lying on
her couch on the poop-deck, with her bird’s cage
hanging from one of the lashings of the awning,
close beside her. I’d just been down to fetch our
third officer’s telescope; and as I came up again,
something brushed past me. I saw the cat spring
up at the cage, the cord snapped, and down went
bird, cage, cat, and all, slap-dash into the sea!
The next moment there came a big splash, and
there was our pantry-boy, Bob Wilkins (the one
that used always to carry the cage up on deck, you
know), overboard after ’em. And as if that wasn’t
enough, Bill Harris the carpenter (who was a
special chum of Bob’s, and happened to be standing
by at the time) catches hold of a life-buoy, and
overboard he goes too. So there they all were,
the cat after the bird, Bob after the cat, and Bill
Harris after Bob.
“Man overboard!” sang out half a dozen of us.
“Stop her!” cried the first officer. “Stand by
to lower the boat! Cast off the gripes! let go the
davit-tackle!”
You should have seen how quick that boat was
lowered, and how the men made her fly along!
When we picked ’em up, (though they were a long
way astern by this time) Bill was clinging to the
life-buoy, and Bob had got hold of it with one
hand and the cage with the other. The bird was
fluttering about and looking precious scared, as
if he didn’t like going to sea in a cage; and the
cat was sitting on Bill’s shoulder, and holding
on with every claw he had. The passengers sent
round the hat for Bob Wilkins, and a pretty
deal of money they got; but I can promise you
he thought more of the thanks Miss Ashton gave
him for the job than of all the money twice over.
But I was just going to leave out the best part
of the whole story. They say it’s “an ill wind that
blows nobody good,” and so it came out that time,
sure enough. When the young lady saw Bob jump
overboard, and thought he was going to be drowned
in trying to save her bird, it gave her such a
fright, that she, who couldn’t even sit up without
help, jumped right up on her feet and looked over
the side after him! Well, sir, from that day
forth, to the end of her voyage, she was always
better able to move than before; and the great
London doctor who cured her afterward (for she
was cured at last) said that “nervous shock,” as
he called it, had been the saving of her, and that
he’d had just such another case already. Now,
that’s as true as I sit here; and if you don’t
believe it, here comes Bob Wilkins, and you can
ask him.
David Ker.
LITTLE MARGARET’S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.—XII.
By Phillis Browne, Author of “A Year’s Cookery,” “What Girls Can Do,” &c.
Many
were the consultations which
Margaret and Mary held together
trying to decide what was to be
made at the last Cookery lesson.
The last lesson! something
wonderful must be accomplished;
but what was it to be?—that was
the question. Margaret felt as
if she should like to take advice on the subject.
“What should you make if you were going to
cook something, and were allowed to choose for
yourself?” she asked her friend, Rosy Williams.
“I should make some toffee,” said Rosy.
Toffee! Margaret had never thought of it, but
of course it was the very thing. She had been
picturing to herself roasts and broils, and stews
and soups, but toffee was worth everything of the
sort put together. If only Mary would agree.
Mary was like Rosy, however: she decided
instantly.
“And, as it must surely be very easy, why should
we not try to make it by ourselves, without
mother?” said Margaret. “We might get to
know how, and then do it without any help at all.”
“Of course you might,” said Rosy. “After all
the lessons in cookery you have had, I should think
you could make a little toffee. Toffee is so easy
to do. If you think I could help, I should be very
glad to come: if Mrs. Herbert would let me.”
“Thank you!” said Margaret; “you are kind.”
“My brother Tom could come too,” continued
Rosy. “Tom is very clever at making toffee; he
is quite accustomed to it. Whenever cook goes
out for a holiday Tom makes toffee.”
So Margaret asked her mother to consent. At
first Mrs. Herbert looked rather doubtful; then she
glanced at the eager little faces looking up at her,
and she smiled. The children at once clapped their
hands. They knew what the smile meant.
“Yes, dears, I think you may do as you wish.
Only promise that you will be careful not to burn
yourselves. There is one thing in our favour:
toffee is best made over a slow fire, so there will
be less danger. You can make your toffee this
afternoon if you wish, and I will tell cook to put
everything ready for you.”
Punctually at the time appointed Rosy and her
obliging brother Tom appeared, and all the
children went off to the kitchen, Tom taking the
place of master of the ceremonies.
“We shall want a simple brass pan,” he said.
“Yes, that is just the kind,” he added, as cook
handed to him a small saucepan, which was so bright
inside that it shone like gold. “Now we must weigh
out a quarter of a pound of butter, let that melt, then
put in half a pound of raw sugar and half a pound
of treacle. We stir this over the fire, and when it
has boiled a little we add two table-spoonfuls of
vinegar, and keep on boiling till it is ready.”
“That is very easy,” said Mary. “Shall I weigh
the butter?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “You weigh the butter, I
will weigh the sugar, Rosy the treacle, and Margaret
measure the vinegar. It is such an advantage
to have so many helpers; we get the work
done so quickly. There is a proverb which says
‘Many hands make light work.’ It is quite true.”
“How clever your brother is, Rosy!” said Margaret.
“Please, had we better not divide the work,
then?” said Mary, “and take it in turns to stir?”
“Yes, we will stir by the clock: six minutes
each.”
“Who is to begin?”
“Shall I begin, as I understand how to do it?
Then Margaret can follow, then Mary, then Rosy.”
“But how shall we know when it is boiled
enough?” said Margaret.
“That is just what I was going to tell you. We
cannot say exactly how long it has to boil, but we
must try it. When a little of the toffee which has
been dropped into a cup of cold water makes a
crackling sound, or breaks clean between the teeth
without sticking to them, the toffee is done.”
“Which of us is to try whether it is done,
though?” said Margaret.
“As we are all going to make the toffee, I should
say we had better all try it. We can have four
cups of water and four spoons, can’t we, Margaret?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Margaret. “Will you fetch
them please, Mary?”
Mary went off as requested, but she was away
so long that Tom and Margaret had finished
stirring, and they were ready for her to take the
spoon when she returned, looking hot and excited,
but bearing the four cups of water and four spoons
on a tray.
“Aunt Bridget wouldn’t let me have four cups at
first,” she remarked on entering: “she said it was
too many; but I got them at last.”
“That’s right,” said Tom. “Shall we try if the
toffee is nearly ready?”
“We had better not try too soon, because if four
of us taste very often, we shall eat so much before
it is ready that there will be very little to divide
after it is ready.”
“Quite true,” said Tom; while Mary stirred
enthusiastically until her six minutes were gone.
“Now for my turn,” said Rosy.
“I think we had better try whether it is done
enough yet,” said Tom.
“Tom, how unkind you are!” said Rosy. “Everybody
has stirred but me, and just as my turn has
come you want to try it. Besides, how can I try
it when I am stirring?”
“Very well, we will wait,” said Tom good-naturedly.
“Don’t cry, Rosy;” and Rosy’s face
brightened, while all the children watched the
spoon as it went round and round, while the toffee
gradually became darker and darker in colour, and
an odour more strong than agreeable filled the
kitchen.
At length the hand of the clock reached the
point which marked Rosy’s six minutes. All four
cups were brought forward, all four spoons were
dipped into the foaming liquid, and then emptied
into the water. The toffee fell to the bottom in a
dark cake, which hardened almost instantly, and
which, when broken between the teeth, snapped
without sticking at all, and tasted—ugh!
At this moment Mrs. Herbert appeared.
“I am afraid you are letting the toffee burn,”
she said; “we can smell it all over the house.”
“It is rather burnt,” said Tom.
“It does not taste so badly, though,” said Margaret.
“Very likely we shall not taste the burnt part so
much when it is cool,” said Rosy.
“I am afraid you will have to throw the toffee
away, my dears. It is sadly burnt.”
“Oh, no, no!” said all the children at once.
“I thought we should have done better as there
were four of us,” said Margaret.
“Perhaps, after all, it is not an advantage to have
so many helpers,” said Tom.
“At any rate,” said Mrs. Herbert; “you will
have proved the truth of the proverb, ‘Too many
cooks spoil the broth’—I mean the toffee. And
after all, in cookery, as in other things, nothing
teaches like failure which is made the most of.”
“Never mind, Mary,” whispered Margaret, as
the burnt toffee was carried off to cool. “We
have made a good many excellent dishes when we
two were the only cooks, and mother was the
teacher; we will try toffee again another day, when
we are by ourselves.”
On that occasion I think we may perhaps venture
to predict that the toffee will be a greater success.
THE RIVAL MOTHERS.
aid Mistress Bear to Mistress Fox,
“Your girl is very small.”
Quoth Mistress Fox, “It is not so;
Your boy is not so tall.”
“My boy is tall and sturdy too,”
Cried Mistress Bear with ire;
“And he’s a handsome little lad,
The image of his sire.”
“His sire! Ha, ha! why, all the world
Says, ‘Ugly as a bear.'”
The very trees with laughter shook,
As thus they wrangled there.
“Ho, ho! dear ladies, what’s the fuss?”
Two waggish bears stray’d by.
The gentle mothers told their tale,
A tear-drop in each eye.
“Call here the foxes,” and they came.
One was an ancient sage.
“Now place the young folk back to back,
And simply state their age.”
The dames obey’d, the infants laugh’d;
Spoke he, Reynard so wise,
“‘Tis useless; size and beauty lie
In love’s fond, partial eyes.”
OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.
SAVED BY A DREAM.
The
sun shone brightly down
upon the pretty village
of Bethlehem, as, from
the top of the hill on
which it stood, it overlooked
the smiling fields
below. And how peaceful
all looked, carrying
one’s thoughts back to
the old times, when the
loving and gentle Ruth,
who had come with her
bereaved mother-in-law,
to cast in her lot with the people of God, went
after the gleaners in the fields of Boaz, and humbly
picked up the ears of corn, that were so considerately
dropped for her! How greatly she was afterwards
blessed, and what an abundant reward was hers!
There in that very neighbourhood her great-grandson
David quietly tended his sheep, and, in
sweetest strains, lifted up his voice, in love and
gratitude, to the Great Shepherd in the heavens.
What a peaceful life he led amongst his beloved
flock! And how his careful tending of his sheep
prepared him for that higher care which he was to
take of God’s chosen people! And how, ages
afterwards, when some other peaceful shepherds
were watching over their flocks by night, a wondrous
light shone round about them, and a bright
angel told them the good tidings of great joy which
should be to all people! How to their astonished
gaze, there suddenly appeared a whole host of
beauteous beings, praising God for His love and
mercy to mankind, and filling the whole expanse
of heaven with melody sweeter than the sweetest
ever before heard upon earth!
How, too, only one mile from where the shepherds
lay, a happy mother gazed long and tenderly
on the face of her newly-born child, who was to be
called “The Son of the Highest,” who was to take
away the sins of the world, and have given to Him
the throne of His father David! And those Wise
Men, too, that had come from the far East—how
they rejoiced when they saw the bright star that
had guided them to the land of the Jews re-appear
and twinkle over the lowly place where the
heavenly Babe lay! What praise and thanksgiving
went up from their grateful hearts, as they
looked upon the child-face that they had travelled
day and night to see!
Truly, it seemed as if, since the days of the fair
and virtuous Ruth, the blessing of God had rested
upon that peaceful village, that had come to be
called “the city of David,” and as if no sorrow
was ever to visit its soft green fields.
But, as if to draw our thoughts upwards, there
is no spot on earth to which, at some time or other,
sorrow does not come; and the hitherto peaceful
Bethlehem was to have its full share.
A wicked king sat on the throne of Judæa, whom
nobody loved and many abhorred. He was an old
man, and terribly afflicted; and his temper,
which was always ferocious, had become more
dreadful than that of the wildest lion that had ever
rushed up from the swelling of the Jordan.
His father, Antipater, was an Idumæan, and a
servitor in the temple of Apollo at Ascalon, whilst
his mother, Cypros, was an Arabian. He, therefore,
belonged to the despised Ishmaelites and
the hated Edomites; and the Jews were by no
means inclined to look favourably upon him. To
please them he professed to follow their religion,
but he was not a Jew at heart. He trampled upon
their feelings and prejudices, and leaned to the
side of the Romans; and they, therefore, mistrusted
him, and longed for the time when they
should be freed from his misrule.
He had rebuilt their temple, and made it the
most noble and magnificent building on the face
of the earth; and they gloried in seeing its white
marble pinnacles and golden roof glittering in the
sunshine. For nine years he had constantly employed
18,000 men in its re-erection, and for upwards
of thirty years more he had kept adding to
its embellishments, till for grandeur and costliness
it stood unrivalled. But when it was completed he
set up over its chief gate the golden eagle of the
Romans, and at the sight of that abhorred ensign
all their gratitude fled, giving place to bitter resentment.
He married Jewish women, which was a compliment
to their race; but his unjust and cruel
treatment of them roused up all their worst
feelings, and made them regard him for ever as an
enemy.
The beautiful and virtuous Mariamne, who
belonged to the Maccabees, the noblest of their
families, he, in a cruel fit of jealousy, ordered to be
put to death. Her brother, the youthful Aristobulus,
who was High-priest, he caused to be
drowned before his eyes in pretended sport. Her
grandfather, the aged Hyrcanus, who had once
saved the life of Herod, when threatened by the
Sanhedrin, he sent tottering to his death. Her
mother, Alexandra, fell a victim to his frenzy, and
her two sons,—Alexander and Aristobulus, when
they were grown up, and had wives and children
dependent upon them, he ordered to be strangled
in prison, the chief crime of all these being, that
they were justly esteemed and beloved by the Jews.
No wonder that his subjects liked him not, and
that he sat uneasily upon his throne! No wonder
that when the Wise Men came from the east to
Jerusalem, saying, “Where is he that is born king
of the Jews?” he trembled, for he knew well that
should another aspirant to the crown appear, the
Jews would only be too ready to take his part.
Insecure as he felt himself to be, he determined
on finding out who this new king was, and taking
immediate steps for ridding himself of him. So
under pretence of desiring to do honour to the
young child, he directed the Wise Men to make
diligent search for the infant king, and then tell
him where He was; that he also might go and
worship Him. But in his heart he was anxious
to know where the Baby-king was only that he
might send some secret assassin to take His life.
He had done darker and more difficult deeds than
that, and had put safely out of his path far more
formidable enemies than a helpless babe. The
Wise Men would soon come back, as they had
promised, and then in less than a day the dreaded
Child would have ceased to live, he would be able
to breathe freely again, and unpopular as he was,
he would still retain his crown.
But the Magi did not return. Overwhelmed
with joy at having at last found the wondrous Babe,
to which the strange star had guided them, they
lay down to rest, intending, in the early morning,
to set out again for Jerusalem. But the great
Father above, who knew all the dark secrets of
Herod’s heart, warned them in a dream not to go
back to him; and they returned to their own
country by another way.
Herod waited and watched in his palace for the
return of the Magi; and his secret executioner was
at hand, ready to set out for Bethlehem at any moment.
And when he found that they had discovered
his hypocrisy and wicked intentions, and
that his infamous design was thwarted, his rage
knew no bounds; and he vowed to himself that the
Child-King should not escape him, and that he
would be fully avenged.
From the information received from the Wise
Men, he concluded that it was within two years that
the mysterious guiding star had first appeared. And
a dark and terrible thought came into his wicked
heart. If he could not tell which of the many
babes in Bethlehem was the long-expected
Messiah of the Jews, the great King, whose advent
had been revealed in the far east by a bright orb
of heaven, then he would kill all the little ones
that were two years old and under; and the One
that he feared would be sure to be slain amongst
them.
To do the dark deed he hastily despatched some
of his soldiers; and soon the peaceful pasture
lands of Bethlehem, which had so lately resounded
with the glad songs of angels with shining wings,
rang with shrieks of frantic mothers. For the
soldiers of the cruel king entered house after house,
and snatching the innocent babes from their
mothers’ arms, ran them through with their glittering
swords; and the bodies of the pretty little
things that, but a few moments ago, were looking
up with happy smiles into the loving faces that
bent tenderly over them, were cruelly thrown on the
ground, their red blood streaming along the floors.
Out of house after house the bereaved mothers,
wild with grief, rushed into the streets, uttering
piercing cries, smiting their breasts, throwing up
their arms towards heaven, and calling down upon
the committer of the atrocious crime the just vengeance
of Him who hears the oppressed.
Never before had the quiet village sent up such
cries of despair, or witnessed so cruel a scene!
Who could look unmoved upon the poor mothers
running frantically about the narrow streets, with
wild tearless eyes, dishevelled hair, and, on their
blanched faces, looks of terror, that told of the
terrible blow that had been struck at their hearts’
inmost core? Oh, it was terrible! Yet the ruthless
king cared not. His hands were so deeply
imbued with the noblest blood of Jerusalem, that
the lives of a few tiny babes were nothing in his
sight. While the broken-hearted mothers were
wildly shrieking, he was rejoicing; assured that
the one Child, whose life might perhaps have been
something to him, was quieted for ever.
But his wicked design was nevertheless baffled.
The great God above, who had foreseen all, had
watched over His own Son, and the Holy Child
was being borne safely along towards Egypt—that
land where so many of his countrymen had found
refuge in times of persecution, distress, or famine.
Probably the night before the massacre, whilst
Joseph, the husband of Mary, was sleeping peacefully
on his bed, a beautiful bright angel appeared
to him in a dream, and warned him of the danger
to which he was exposed at the hands of the
troubled king.
“Arise, and take the young child and His mother,”
the heavenly visitant said to him, “and flee into
Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee
word; for Herod will seek the young child to destroy
Him.”
The face of the angel was beaming with love,
and he had been sent on an errand of mercy. But
how his words thrilled through the just and tenderhearted
Joseph! Destroy his darling babe, that
holy child whom God had given to his good wife to
nurse and bring up for Him! Kill the little One
about whom such great things had been said; at
whose birth a whole sky full of angels had sung
for joy; and before whom the Wise Men, who
had been guided from the distant east by God
Himself, had bowed in humble adoration. Never.
“Man proposes; but God disposes.” Man may
try to hinder the great, purpose of God, by attempting
to take the life of the one whom He would
raise up to accomplish it. But God can never be
baffled. And not all the plans that a thousand
Herods, wicked as the one that sat on the throne,
could form, could bring His word to nought.
Suddenly, Joseph awoke; and starting to his
feet, thought over the dream. That it was sent
from heaven he felt sure; and he must immediately
obey it.
He must rouse the mother; and under cover
of the darkness, they must set out at once. By
the time that the bright sun lighted up the
horizon it might be too late; for, even then, the
dread messengers of the cruel king might be on
their way.
Hastily he awoke Mary, telling her of the dream;
and soon the God-fearing man was on the road to
Egypt, with the loving mother and her precious
child safe by his side.
The dark curtain of night had not yet been
lifted from the earth; but they went fearlessly
along, trusting to the guidance of Him who had
bidden them set out. And when the agonising
shrieks of the mothers of Bethlehem rent the air
and were re-echoed by the astonished hills, Joseph,
with his precious charge, was far away. So, though
the swords of Herod did a terrible work, they did
not take that one life, to destroy which he had
commanded the massacre.
Still, Joseph and Mary journeyed along and
along, till, at last, the great Pyramids came in view,
and they reached the farthest bank of the river of
Egypt, and were safe.
There, it is said, they remained two years, living
at Mataréëh, to the north-east of Cairo, till the
angel of the Lord came again to Joseph, in a
dream, to tell him of Herod’s death, and bid him
return to his own land.
Then away they went, back again to the Holy
Land, which was to be the scene of Jesus’ ministry,
thinking as they went, how “The steps of
a good man are ordered by the Lord,” and rejoicing
that no plan formed against His people shall
prosper.
For even in their sleep He can warn them, by
a dream, of the most secret machinations of their
enemies.
H. D.
BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.
61. Which of the Psalms gives us a short history of
Joseph?
62. Where does St. Paul enumerate the several appearances
of Christ after His resurrection?
62. What restriction did Moses lay upon the Israelites
with regard to their election of a king, on their settling in
the land of Canaan?
64. Where are we assured that the Almighty is not
ashamed to be called the God of those who have had
faith in Him?
65. What women does St. Paul mention by name in
his enumeration of people remarkable for faith?
66. Where is it said that drowsiness shall clothe a man
with rags?
67. Where are we told that those who go into great
passions shall suffer punishment?
68. Which of the Apostles speak of Jesus as the
Shepherd of His people?
69. Which of the three Apostles who witnessed the
Transfiguration afterwards refers to it in his writings?
70. Where do we find it said that every word of God
is pure?
71. “Then shall come to pass that saying that is
written, ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.'” (1 Cor.
xv. 54.) From which of the prophets does St. Paul
quote these words?
72. What king of a heathen nation did God call His
shepherd?
ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (49-60.—See p. 308).
49. The Wise Men (St. Matt. ii. 1, 2).
50. In Eccles. vii. 19, ix. 13-18; Prov. xxi. 22.
51. Only St. Luke (St. Luke xxiii. 7).
52. Solomon (Prov. xviii. 21).
53. St. James (James iii. 2, 5).
54. The Epistle of St. James iv. 4.
55. In Rev. v. 9, 10.
56. In Prov. xxi. 23, xiii. 3.
57. On his rebuking Elymas the Sorcerer at Paphos
(Acts xiii. 8-11).
58. At Gibeon (2 Chron. i. 3-6).
59. Of blue (Exod. xxviii. 36, 37).
60. It is shown in the words, “It is finished” (St.
John xix. 30).
LITTLE BAB AND THE STORY-BOOK.
By the Author of “Clare Linton’s Friend,” “Mr. Burke’s Nieces,” &c.
Who
is this
little girl, I
wonder, comfortably
seated,
and with
a great book
before her,
on which she
looks with
delight? Her
hair is tidily
brushed, and
her nice white
collar hangs
over the edge of her dress. She is a sweet, pretty
little girl, I think, and yet if I tell you the story of
her day, and what had happened before she got that
book, you will see that she is not so happy after
all. Just hear what she was doing two or three
hours before.
She stood at the window with a little white nose
flattened against the glass, and two big sorrowful,
indignant eyes staring out at them, as the merry
party left the house. There was Uncle Jem,
whom she did love, and
whom she felt might have
said a kind word for her;
and Aunt Anastasia, who
was that sort of a person
that no one since she was
born had ever thought of
diminishing the five syllables
by the use of any shorter
name given in playfulness
or love. No one, till that
moment at least, had ever
thought of calling her anything
but Anastasia; but at
that moment naughty Bab,
with her little flattened
nose and big mournful eyes,
broke the spell by calling
out, “Anasta-sia, indeed!
Aunt Nasty, I think!”
Then there was her
Cousin Robert, whom poor
Bab honestly believed to
be a much naughtier boy
than she was a girl, and
yet who generally managed
to keep out of scrapes;
and Selina, demure and
well-mannered, but whom Bab’s unruly, affectionate
little heart had never been able to
love; she was followed by Miss Strictham, the
governess. And then there was Mr. Beresford,
the kind, good-natured friend who was staying in
the house; and Bab, just for a minute, felt that
she would rather have died than that he should
know she was in disgrace.
She watched them all go off under the bright
blue sky, and then she turned round, and with
her back to the window, faced the rather dingy,
dull-looking schoolroom, and burst into a loud
roar.
For Bab was only seven years old, and had not
yet lost the first intensity of crying with which
power every baby is born. She roared for two
or three minutes, plenty of tears coming with the
roar, after which she felt a good deal better.
“I’m such a little thing to be punished,” she
said to herself. “I don’t think they ought to
punish such a little thing as I am. I must be
young when people live to be as old as grandpapa,
with wrinkles over every scrap of his face, till
it looks just like no face at all, only wrinkles.”
Then Bab examined her little round, rosy,
pleasant face in a mirror over the fireplace.
“Not a single wrinkle,” said she. “I must be
very young; but if they punish me this way, I
shall get wrinkles. I’m sure I shall, because I’m
so miserable!”
I am afraid poor Bab often deserved to be
punished. She was idle at her lessons and extremely
saucy, and she was a quaint little thing,
so that sometimes she seemed to be impertinent
when she really did not intend it, though I must
own that at other times she did intend it as
much as any other young lady seven years old
possibly could. On the present occasion, when
her governess scolded her for her idleness, she
said she had not been idle, but had been making
a charade; and then she began dancing about the
schoolroom, and jumping on tables and chairs,
and all the time shouting loudly, “Selina, guess—this
is the charade—guess, Selina, guess! My
first is what nobody should be, my second is what
everybody should eat, and my whole is—oh,—Strict-ham,
Strict-ham. Why don’t you guess,
Selina? Oh, why don’t you?”
Miss Strictham marched her off in dire disgrace.
The picnickers would be absent four hours, and
during that time Bab was not to quit the schoolroom.
Maria, the housemaid, would bring her dinner, and
nurse would look in on her now and then, but she
was not to have the younger children with her. She
was to be a solitary prisoner in solitary confinement,
and she was on her parole. Her aunt made her
promise not to leave the room, and having done so,
was content, for, as she said to Uncle Jem in rather
a complaining way, “It is a very odd thing that
Bab never tells a falsehood or breaks her promise.
Robert and Selina both do sometimes, and yet
they are so much better children. Isn’t it odd?”
Having enjoyed a good roar, and feeling wonderfully
refreshed thereby—for Bab was too proud to
have shed a tear in Aunt Anastasia’s and Miss
Strictham’s presence—the poor little thing got hold
of her lesson-books and prepared to learn a
French verb, some questions and answers in
English history, and to do a sum in compound
addition, and write a copy.
“As if it mattered to such a little thing as I am
whether King John was a good man or a bad one,
or what sort of a thing Magna Charta was!” said
she, reproachfully, to her book; “as if it mattered
to anybody, indeed, when it was such an extremely
long time ago! Eleven hundred and ninety-nine
he came to the throne; and who’d care if he had
never been born or never come to the throne? And
we’re not barons, and we’ve not got Magna
Charta; and it’s all nothing at all, but a great pity
it ever happened, for if it hadn’t happened, poor
little children living hundreds and hundreds of
years afterwards would not be troubled about it.
I call it rubbish!” and with the word rubbish she
tossed the little book up, and down it came with
a broken back.
Bab picked it up and held it with one corner.
When she saw the melancholy scrambling way
in which the cover and the pages hung, she went
off into irresistible shouts of laughter—for Bab’s
laugh was as loud and as hearty as her cry. Then
she did her sums and wrote her copy, and after that
Maria brought in her dinner.
Bab clapped her hands for joy when she saw
what the tray contained, and then she began her
dinner.
But now the lessons were over, the dinner was
finished, and what was poor little Bab to do for the
rest of the time?
She went round the room, casting out first her
right hand and then her left, touching thus in turn
everything in the apartment, but there was nothing
more interesting than a pen-wiper, a schoolroom
inkstand, or a grammar, so she called out “No,
no, no” to everything, and then all of a sudden
down came her hand on a big book with scarlet
and white binding, and she gave a loud scream, a
pirouet, and then said “Yes!”
Yes; I should think so. Why, it was Mr.
Beresford’s fairy book—the beautiful book he
was showing them last night.
Then she seized on the precious book, brought
it over with quite a struggle to the school desk,
opened it there, and with elbows on table and
cheeks on hands, gave herself over to perfect
enjoyment. And so it was that we saw Miss Bab
when our story began, sitting before the great book
enjoying herself.
Such beautiful, lovely pictures went round every
page, with a little verse set down right in the middle
of the pictures. Fairies gorgeously coloured, all
twining together or mixing themselves up with
butterflies till you scarcely knew which was which,
and not one bit of white paper to be seen through
or mid the brilliant creatures—actually a wide border
of fairies and butterflies, and nothing else, and the
verse in the middle was also in illuminated letters.
In her eagerness, hanging over the book to read
it, Bab happened to lean on the end of a pen standing
up in art inkstand. She was too much interested
to know what it was, but it came spluttering
out, and a little speck of ink splashed on the white
paper beyond the border.
“Oh, oh!” cried excited Bab; “is it not like
some little bad fairy running along to hurt them?”
It was very hot, and Bab’s eyes shut after she
had said that, and when she opened them again
she forgot the bad fairy, she was so shocked to see
the splash of ink on the paper. And then she felt
the sun warmer and warmer, and she shut her
eyes once more.
“Look again,” said a very little voice, but very
sweet, oh, so sweet!
So she did look again. She saw all the beautiful
painted fairies and butterflies had risen up alive
from the page, and were dancing and gliding round
and round it, never passing off the border to the
outside or the inside. It was a lovely sight to see,
and little Bab laughed and clapped her hands.
Then a very grand and proud-looking fairy slipped
out of the dance, and stationed herself in front,
where she could take a good look at Bab.
“Little girl, why did you do that?” said the
fairy, severely.
“Oh, what, please?” Bab was a brave child,
but she did feel a little shaky and nohow just then.
“Brought the bad fairy Blackamè to creep in
among us and eat up our butterflies.”
And had Bab really the power to bring a fairy
Blackamè over there when she thought it was only
a splash of ink? And she looked with a sort of
terror on the bad fairy Blackamè when she thought
she had brought her, and could not send her away.
“Oh, fairy, fairy!” she cried, “do forgive me.
But can that wretched little black splashy thing—for
you really can’t call it a splash—eat your butterflies
when there are so many of you to fight for
them, and they’ve got heaps and heaps of wings to
fly away with?”
“But how can we manage that?” replied the
fairy, sharply, “when we are too timid to fight and
the butterflies are too brave to fly away.”
“Well, that is inconvenient,” sighed Bab; “but
don’t you think, since the butterflies are so brave—how
I do like them for being so brave!—don’t you
think they might fight a little?”
“Butterflies fight!” screamed the fairy. “Were
butterflies ever seen to fight since the first
butterfly? What will you say next? I think you
are a very disagreeable little girl. First you bring
down Blackamè, and then you want to set all our
dear pretty butterflies fighting.”
“It was you who said they were so brave,” murmured
Bab, half penitent and half injured.
“And pray, is there any reason why I should
not be permitted to say that butterflies are brave?”
asked the fairy, with a sort of deadly politeness.
“And so much as I used to long to see a fairy!”
sighed Bab to herself; “and now I really wish she
would go away.
“What are you prepared to do about Blackamè?—tell
me,” demanded the fairy, suddenly.
She made Bab jump, but Bab did not mind that;
she was a straightforward child, and liked to go
direct at a thing. She reflected, and then she faced
the difficulty she had got into bravely, and replied
in a grave, resolute way, “Anything you wish.”
The fairy looked at her. “Why couldn’t you say
so before?” she said, very sharply. “It would have
saved all this trouble.”
Again Bab felt that it was not fair—she thought
the fairy was unfairer even than Selina; but she
was a fairy, and besides that, Bab had brought
Blackamè down upon them; so she said instantly,
not meekly and humbly; for that was not her way—but
in a resolute, hearty manner, that gave one
confidence to see—”Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“I’ll tell you,” said the fairy quite good-naturedly,
“and you’ll do it. That’s quite fair. Well now,
the thing to do is this: go out in the evening with a
long pole, and knock up high into the branches of
the trees, and glance up and down, holding your
dress out, and singing:—
Blackamè! What a rout!
Little birds that cannot sin.
Drive the wretched fellow out,
Blackamè;’
And then you’ll see——” but what she was to see
Bab never knew; something touched her, and then
rushed with headlong sound through the window.
The fairy was gone, and, stranger still, the bright
beautiful book, with its butterflies and fairies, was
gone too.
She looked lazily round her, and, to her surprise,
saw Selina standing at the other end of the table.
“Why are you home so early?”
“Home so early! It’s half-past five, if you
please. Why, you lazy little thing, you’ve been
asleep all the time!”
Bab looked at the clock on the mantel-piece, and
saw it was a quarter to six. How quickly the time
passes when you are with fairies! She knew she
had not been asleep, because she knew she had had
the visit from the fairy, and she was so anxious to
know what would happen next. About seven
o’clock she thought she might go out with a
long pole to the tree; and she supposed the fairies
had put the book somewhere, till the birds should
come and drive Blackamè out of it, and she
hoped very much Mr. Beresford would not miss
his beautiful book till then, when it would be clear
from the black splotch which she now knew was
not Blackamè.
“Where is Robert?” asked Miss Selina. “He
dashed out of the carriage and through here,
and he must have gone out by the window.
And you must have been asleep, or you would
have heard him.”
Bab remembered the sound of the rush through
the window, and she saw now a spill of ink just by
the place where the book had been. But Robert
could not have been there, because she was talking
to the fairy at the very time, and she must have
noticed him, and felt him greatly in the way.
When it was past seven o’clock, Bab slipped away,
and took Mr.
Beresford’s alpenstock
out
of the stand in
the hall, and
beat about
the branches
of the elms
and horse-chestnuts,
and
danced and
sang, holding
her dress up,
and did everything
exactly
as the fairy
had told her to
do, and as you
will see her
doing in the
picture.
But she had
not been dancing
and singing
(Bab often
recalled the
scene, when
she was older,
with pleasure)
more than about
twenty
minutes before Aunt Anastasia put her head out
of the window, and told her to come in.
It was much pleasanter to be dancing for the
fairies up and down, with outstretched frock, than
to go into the house and find Blackamè still on the
page, and have to confess she brought him there,
and be in disgrace for it.
Mr. Beresford held out a kind hand to her, and
drew her to his side.
The book, when Mr. Beresford took it in his
hands, naturally opened at the page where it had
been lying open that morning so long, and there
were all the fairies and butterflies lying flat and
beautiful, and the verses in the middle of the
page. But there, instead of Blackamè, were five or
six Blackamès perhaps, intertwining together like
the fairies and the butterflies, but bearing to mortal
eyes nothing but the appearance of a thick smudge
of ink.
“Oh, I didn’t do that!” cried poor little Bab,
and burst into tears.
“Who did, then?” inquired Mr. Beresford,
quickly.
“Why, I saw Robert with the book in the hall
soon after we came home,” cried Selina, on impulse.
“Did you
do it, Robert?”
asked Mr.
Beresford.
“Why does
she say she
didn’t do it,
and begin to
blubber?”
cried Robert,
politely designating
Bab
over his shoulder.
“Wasn’t
she left at
home? Who
could do it
but she?”
“Because I
saw you do
it,” replied Mr.
Beresford, and Robert’s white
face became scarlet—the mean
little fellow as he stood there before
them, who had committed a
fault, and then tried to lay the blame on a girl.
“Bab was lying back in her chair fast asleep,
and with bright smiles on her face, that showed
that she was having happy dreams, when in you
ran, jumped over desk, book, and all; threw a
little of the ink across the page by a kick with
your foot, then looking with dismay at your work,
tucked the book under your arm, and jumped
through the window with it.”
Robert blubbered at this. “I wanted to take
the ink out.”
“You have been a very bad boy,” said his father.
“You deserve a flogging, and shall have it. I am
very much grieved about your book, Beresford.”
Robert almost screamed.
“I think more of his laying the fault on this
little girl,” replied Mr. Beresford, his hand among
Bab’s curls, “than of the book.”
Bab sidled up to him. He sat at the table
looking so kindly at her, and she stood by him, her
elbow on it, and with her pretty modest eyes fixed
on him. “But it doesn’t seem quite as if he did
that, does it?” she asked; “he took the book
away to make it well. If he had left it with me,
everybody would have believed I did it, and he
knew that quite well.”
“No, he had not laid a plot, but at the moment
he put the blame on you.”
“That was because he is such a coward. Pray,
he couldn’t help it; he was too frightened. You
were too frightened, weren’t you, Robert? You are
such a coward!” Bab said plainly.
Robert, still crying, she made his excuses.
“And I am very sorry. I’d quite forgotten; but
I did it too.”
Mr. Beresford smiled.
“Did what, little Bab?”
“Ah, perhaps you’ll be angry, and I shall be so
very sorry; but I must tell. I did it too.”
She sidled up a little nearer, and looked gently
at him.
“Did what too?”
“I spurted a little—leetle ink by a spluttering
pen, and it was a bad fairy called Blackamè; and
another fairy was just telling me how to set it right,
when Robert must have rushed in and did it all;
but if I hadn’t put the book on the desk near the
ink, nothing would have happened, and Robert
would be happy. Oh, please, Uncle Jem, don’t
flog Robert.”
“Very well; you are a good little thing, Bab.
Go to bed this moment, sir; perhaps I may let you
off, as your cousin is so kind.”
Robert left the room, and his father followed to at
least give him a good scolding. Bab was left alone
with Mr. Beresford. She stood near him, with a
wistful expression about both her face and her figure.
“Will it spoil the book? And it has all happened
because I was naughty and couldn’t be
taken. I think they had better take me next time,
Mr. Beresford, whatever I’ve done;” and a humorous
look sparkled into Bab’s eyes.
“And the fairies came and talked to you? But do
you know it was not really a fairy, Bab? You were
fast asleep, for I saw you myself; you must have
been dreaming.”
“Oh dear! And was not it a fairy? then it was
just a common dance I had under the tree. But
do you know I’m not quite sorry, for she was not
half as nice as fairies are; and that was not really
a Blackamè, was it? Well, I’m sorry I could
call up a bad fairy, only I do wish I had really
been dancing for birds.”
“I wish you were not so often in disgrace, little
Bab.”
“So do I; but I don’t think I shall be next year.
Father and mother are coming home then from the
Mauritius, and I shall be an own little girl again.”
Mr. Beresford kissed Bab affectionately when she
said that, but Bab did not know why he kissed her.
A HELPING HAND.
F
rank’s
road to school leads over ways
Where yet no trains approach,
And past the Yellow Dragon Inn,
Where stops the Dirleton coach:
Here the old horses, Duke and Ned,
Are daily watered, changed, and fed.
Frank knows them well, and one hot day,
As whistling home he sped,
He saw the patched old feeding-bag
That hung at Neddy’s head
Fell too far down—Ned vainly tried
To reach the yellow corn inside.
No one was near—Ned tossed his head,
And strove, but still in vain,
Hungry as any horse might be,
To seize the tempting grain;
Frank checked his headlong homeward course,
And then approached the wearied horse.
With quick light hands he raised the bag,
And made the strappings tight;
Ned hid his nose among the corn,
And softly neighed delight.
For Frank it was sufficient prize
To read his thanks in Ned’s bright eyes.
Robert Richardson.
SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.
By Henry Frith.
IV.—THE CONTINENTAL MAIL AND “TIDAL” TRAINS.
W
e
have to travel in two important
trains now, and within
twenty-four hours will make
two trips, the one by night,
the other by day. Hitherto,
we have been standing with
our drivers in full daylight,
looking at the pleasant country,
and thinking of many
historical events as we pass. Now we have to
mount our engine at night, and go all the way to
Dover without stopping.
We will start from Cannon Street this time, at
ten minutes past eight p.m. We could go at a
quarter to eight or ten o’clock in the morning, but
it will be quite a new experience for us to travel on
an engine by night, and return from Folkestone, on
another occasion, by daylight and see the country
as we fly along. Now let us start.
What a short train! Yes, it is, but then the
Charing Cross portion with the West-end passengers
has not yet arrived. Before it comes in we shall
draw out to the bridge and back down upon the
newly-arrived carriages. Then the train will be
complete, and we shall start punctually as possible
with “Her Majesty’s Mails.” Oh, what bags
and sacks and vans full of letters have been, and
are being, thrown into the mail-train! How roughly
our poor little letters seem to be treated; tumbled
out on the ground, tossed into the carriage which
seems already full, and then hurriedly untied and
sorted, by quick-fingered clerks, into the various
pigeon-holes, and tied up in the local bags, to be
dropped, perhaps, as the train flies past the various
stations.
But the engine is waiting. We must turn away
from the well-lighted sorting-van, bright even in the
gleam of the electric light, which illuminates the
great echoing station with its winking glare. On
a platform just outside are numerous arms and
signals—one arm is lowered; then another. The
Charing-Cross portion of the mail is in now. It is
thirteen minutes past eight p.m.—no doubt the
“official” time for starting—and with a shriek we
pass from the brilliant station to the darkness of the
river.
The Thames flows sullenly down in the lamplight,
swirling under the piers of the railway, and
shimmering under the lights of London Bridge as
we curve round above Tooley Street; but we do
not stop at London Bridge Station on this occasion.
We peep through the glasses in the weatherboard
and see such a number of red and green
signals, that it reminds us of the Crystal Palace
devices in lamps, and even as we look some turn
green (is it with envy at our speed?) or red (is it with
anger at our passing on without saying good-night?)
but our engine-driver, who never moves his head or
speaks to us, looks in front—we are nearly in
darkness now—and we look about us.
We feel warm about the feet and knees—the
wind whistles around our waist. We stand near
the fireman, looking through his glass, and near a
hand-lamp, which shines on a water-gauge glass to
tell the driver when the boiler needs replenishing.
We rush past Bermondsey all lighted up, and we
see in the distance blazing chimneys, down Deptford
way, and red lights on the Brighton Railway rushing
at us in the air, and white and green lights of
engines rushing at us on the rails. We overtake
and pass a train whose passengers look nice and
warm, and one little boy is flattening his nose
against the window, to see us pass, and no doubt
thinks his train a very slow one, and his engine-driver
a “muff,” for being beaten in the “race.”
So we leave the ancient “Beormund’s Eye”
where many hundred years ago was an abbey, and
where now are tanneries and many trades with
accompanying and peculiar odours. Away we go
in a direct line over the Surrey Canal—the river and
the ships we cannot see. We get a glimpse of
the lighted Crystal Palace and rush into Chislehurst,
where the late Emperor of the French
and his son lie buried.
Puffing up hill as if it were short of breath the
engine goes, and is suddenly swallowed up in a
great tunnel! Oh, the roaring, the clattering, the
clamp, clamp, clamp, the “dickery-dickery-dock”
tune which the wheels play upon the metals and
chairs and joints of the line! Suddenly we are out
again under a starry sky; all the mist and fog and
smoke are gone. The light which surrounded us in
the tunnel, the flickering gleam which shone on us
from roof and walls, is as suddenly dispersed and
hangs now overhead in the white curling steam, as
the fireman opens the furnace door, and the gleam
dashes along with us like a halo.
From Sevenoaks our speed increases; the driver
slackens off the steam, but we rush on faster and
faster. Through another long tunnel, then into the
open air round a curve, flying along an embankment
until we think we must go over it. Rush,
roar, and rattle! Speed slackens, bump, thump,
whizz, a long whistle; green and red lights above
and below, a big station, engines beside us, people
like phantoms on the platforms, crash, bang!
Tunbridge is passed, and we are running on level
ground, in a straight line for full twenty miles, to
Ashford. Ah, we can breathe again now. It did
seem rather alarming just then.
So on we go towards Folkestone and Dover.
Now the salt-laden breeze tells us we are near our
destination. The sorting-clerks work harder and
faster. The Continental mail-bags, Indian mail-bags,
Mediterranean and China mail-bags, all are
ready for transmission to the steamer. Into the
tunnel through the
Looks fearfully on the confined deep”—
known as the Shakespeare cliff, in consequence of
that description in “King Lear.”
We quickly reach Dover, so well known as the
resting-place of Queen Elizabeth’s “Pocket Pistol,”
twenty-four feet long, on which is the legend—
And I’ll carry a ball to Calais Green.”
The train glides down the pier, the carriage-doors
are opened, mail-bags and muffled travellers
are hurried on board. The lights are extinguished,
the engine retreats into the darkness, then we
jump off and go to bed.
Next time we meet our engine it is waiting for
the Tidal train at Folkestone. This train starts
from Charing Cross and from Paris daily, each way,
at hours when the Channel passage can be accomplished
at or near high water. We shall soon have
a still faster service, and eight hours between
London and Paris will be the usual time.
The run up to London need not be dwelt upon.
The pace is not excessive, but punctuality is well
observed, and the train runs in safety. We remember
one bad accident, though, to the Tidal train.
It was at Staplehurst in 1865. The Whitsuntide
series of accidents which disfigured that holiday
season was closed by the terrible catastrophe
that happened to the Tidal train on its way from
Folkestone to London. This train is an erratic
one. It travels at different hours each week, and
changes daily. On the 9th June in that year
(1865), the railway near Staplehurst was under
repair. The men were working, and had taken up
two rails when the Tidal train was seen approaching.
The foreman had mistaken the time. There
was no chance of avoiding an accident. The
express came dashing into the gap, and eight
carriages were flung over a bridge into a little
stream beneath. The engine and the tender
jumped the vacant space of rail, and ran into the
hedge, but the carriages toppled over, leaving only
two of them on the line at the back, and the engine
and luggage vans in front. So the eight other
carriages hung down and crushed into each other.
Ten persons were killed and many injured.
In the train was the late Charles Dickens, who
was travelling to London. He had with him the
MS. (or proofs) of a tale he was then engaged upon,
and in the preface to the work he mentioned the
occurrence. He was most useful to the injured
passengers, and with other gentlemen exerted himself
greatly to alleviate their sufferings. We need
not dwell upon the painful scene of the accident,
which created quite a sensation, as it occurred to
the Continental express, by which so many holiday-makers
travel.
We have not mentioned many accidents in the
few papers we have put before you, for there is a
sameness in them unfortunately; but we remember
one terrible accident which occurred
in consequence of a little boy playing on an engine,
which ran away and caused a bad collision by
dashing into a train which it overtook in its
wild race.
Perhaps you little readers of Little Folks are
not aware that boys begin at a very early age to
learn the mysteries of the locomotive engine.
These lads are “cleaners” first, and have to rub
up the bright parts of the engines, and clear out
the fire-boxes. Accidents have happened to the
lads, even boys have been killed by going to sleep
in the fire-boxes, and when the fire was lighted
next morning they have been suffocated. The
engine-driver expects his fire lighted and steam got
up for him when he comes down to the engine-shed,
or “stable.” You may, perhaps, have
noticed the round houses near the railway—say at
York Road, Battersea—those are the engine-“stables.”
Every engine is placed in its “stall,”
so that its chimney is just under an opening, or
flue. It is also over a “pit,” so that the fire can
be raked out, or the working examined from underneath
before the engine goes into the station next
day to take the train away to the seaside, or to
carry you to school, or home for the holidays.
The engine-driver or the fireman examines the
rods, cranks, and all the different joints, nuts,
and screws; oiling or “packing,” “easing off,” or
“tightening up” the various parts, so that the
machinery may run easily and without heating.
One tiny bit of grit may wreck a train.
But our allotted space is now filled, and will not
permit us to tell you more concerning engine-boys.
So we must say “good-bye” to you all.
“FATHER’S COMING!”
h,
Father is coming!
Through all the long day
We thought of him often,
When he was away;
We knew he was working
While we were at play.
He’ll be tired, I think;
I have set him a chair
In his own cosy corner—
He likes to sit there—
And we’ll bring him his slippers,
His old favourite pair.
I think it’s the nicest
To watch at the gate;
And Dolly sits by us
While thus we all wait.
He’ll be here very soon—
It’s so seldom he’s late.
See, Baby knows too
Who is coming to-night;
She is crowing, and clapping
Her hands with delight!
There’s his footstep at last!
Oh, hurrah! he’s in sight.
THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.
THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.
By the Author of “The Heir of Elmdale,” &c. &c.
CHAPTER XVI.—”THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY.”
“Tell
me everything, Aunt Amy,” Bertie
said, as soon as he could find a voice.
“When did it happen? Was it an accident?
Oh! why didn’t you send for me
sooner?”
“It was very sudden, darling,” Mrs. Clair replied.
“I telegraphed for you at once, for your uncle
wished it, and asked for you as long as he was
conscious. But the doctor said from the first that
there was no hope, and even wondered how he had
lived so long. I fancy your uncle knew from the
first that the attack would be fatal whenever it
came. Do you know why he asked for you so
often, Bertie?”
“No, aunt, except that he always loved me, and
was very, very good to me.”
“Yes, dear, and he trusted you too; almost his
last words were, ‘Tell Bertie he must take care
of you and Agnes: he must be the “head of the
family” now!’ Uncle Harry’s death will make a
great difference to us, dear.”
“I’m so glad he said that, Aunt Amy; and I will
take care of you all,” his glance including even
Eddie, who sat silent in a corner. “It was good of
him to trust me!” and then the remembrance of his
other uncle’s want of confidence and harshness
rushed back on Bertie, and he sobbed bitterly.
Aunt Amy made him sit beside her, and comforted
him tenderly till his sobs ceased, and then listened
with patient, loving sympathy to all his troubles,
which Eddie now confided in her.
“Do you think I did very wrong, Aunt Amy? do
you think Uncle Gregory should have been so
unkind?” he asked, looking at her wistfully.
“I think, dear, that you behaved very well indeed,
under the circumstances. Of course, if you could
have asked permission it might have been better, but
then you would have missed the owner of the bag.
What troubles me most is your having slept on the
damp grass. I fear you have caught cold.”
“Not much, auntie; my throat is a little sore,
but it’ll be all right again presently. When I wanted
to see you so badly yesterday, I did not dream I
should be here to-day, and find you all so sad. I
was only selfishly thinking of my own trouble, and
what a poor, pitiful affair it seems, compared to
yours. Oh! auntie, how good and patient you are!”
“No, no, Bertie, I’m very far from good, and not
nearly so patient as you think; but as we grow
older, dear, we learn to suffer in silence, and some
griefs are too deep for words or tears. If we had
only our own strength to support us, how could
we endure such sudden incurable losses as mine?”
Bertie was silent for a few moments, then he
stood up, and laid both his hands on his aunt’s
shoulders and looked earnestly at her.
“I will take care of you; I will remember every
word dear Uncle Harry said. Can I begin now?
Can I do anything at all, Aunt Amy, this very day?”
‘father’s coming.’ (See p. 348.)
“No, dear, except to lie down and rest, and get
rid of your cold. I have thought of nothing yet,
except to telegraph for Nancy to come down and
take the children home, and to Mr. Williams. I
have not another friend in the world now, Bertie.
We poor Rivers’s are left to ourselves!”
“You forget Mr. Murray,” Bertie said. “You
can’t think how kind and generous he is; he will
help us in every way; and surely Uncle Gregory
will come!”
“I fear not, dear. Uncle Gregory and Uncle
Harry were not related, and never very intimate;
but indeed, there is nothing any one can do for us.
Besides, Uncle Harry’s wishes are very plain; his
will is not a dozen lines,” and Mrs Clair sighed
deeply. She knew her husband had died poor—not
worth a couple of hundred pounds, perhaps—but
she did not know of the many small debts contracted
through thoughtlessness, and left unpaid
through carelessness, or she would have been still
more anxious about the future. It was the sudden
feeling of loneliness and desolation, the sudden
sense of responsibility and helplessness combined,
that seemed almost to stupefy her.
The worst of that first day of her bereavement
was that she had nothing to do: strangers performed
all needful offices; but it was a comfort to pet
and nurse Bertie, because they had all been left in
his care—a circumstance Eddie bitterly resented,
though he was quite silent on the subject. Though
reluctant to lie down, Bertie had not been many
minutes on the sofa before he was sound asleep,
and when he awoke, he found Nancy, the old housekeeper
from Fitzroy Square, had arrived, and was
busy making preparations for their departure.
Aunt Amy was with her, and just at that moment
Mr. Murray entered the room, holding a telegram
in his hand, and looking very much excited. As
soon as she heard his voice, Mrs. Clair came in,
looking very pale, but quite composed. After a
few inquiries about Bertie, he placed the message
in her hand, and as she read it she smiled sadly.
“Just what I thought, Mr. Murray. Why should
Mr. Gregory trouble himself about us in our
affliction? Because his sister married my brother
gives me no claim on him,” she said gently.
“Perhaps not; but sorrow, friendlessness, death,
give you a claim on every man who deserves the
name. I’m disappointed in Gregory, and I’ll take
an early opportunity of telling him so.”
“I can scarcely blame him, Mr. Murray, when
my husband’s oldest and dearest friend fails me
now; but he says if I let him know when the
funeral takes place he will try to attend.”
“Very kind and truly considerate of him,”
Mr. Murray cried, scornfully. “Will you be so
good as to tell me the name of this true old
friend?”
“It cannot matter much to you, Mr. Murray;
but he’s called Arthur Williams, a well-known
sculptor.”
“Hum! I’ll see if I can’t give him a famous
order some day, selfish fellow!” he added, in an
undertone. “And now, dear Mrs. Clair, may I
ask what you are going to do?”
“I do not know; I have not thought yet. I am
so sorely disappointed.”
“Then allow me to think for you,” Mr. Murray
interrupted; “but first answer me one or two
painful questions. Did your husband leave a
will, or express any wishes?”
Mrs. Clair handed him the half-sheet of note-paper,
and he read it twice carefully, then placed
it in his pocket-book. “Simple and complete,
Mrs. Clair, your husband must have had a great
capacity for business. Is there anything else?”
“Nothing, except that he left us all to the care
of Bertie. He’s to be ‘head of the family,’ poor
child;” and Aunt Amy stroked his hair tenderly.
“My husband had great faith in Bertie.”
“Perhaps he was right: we shall see some day.
Now I suggest that you go up to town this evening,
and take those two children with you. Bertie and
I will follow by the first train to-morrow morning.
We will go direct to Fitzroy Square, and I’ll
give all necessary instructions for the funeral.
Mr. Clair was a gentleman and an artist, and
must go to his long rest as such. After that you
may tell me as much or as little of your circumstances
as you please; but always remember that
I am able and willing to help you.”
And then Mr. Murray hurried away, and Bertie
began his duties as “head of the family” by
telegraphing to Fitzroy Square to have fires lighted
in the rooms; but even in that Mr. Murray, who
seemed to think of everything, had been beforehand
with him.
CHAPTER XVII.—PROBATION.
“I am
so glad you have called, Mr. Murray. I
do so want a long chat with you,” Mrs. Clair
said one day, about a month after her
husband’s death. “You have been such a
kind friend, that I feel I may ask your advice.”
“And I’ll be very glad to give it, if you will only
follow it. What’s the matter now?”
“First of all, I’m unhappy about Bertie; he is
worked very hard, and I am afraid his uncle is not
very kind to him; I am grieved to see how thin
and pale he has grown. Then Mr. Gregory declares
Eddie must do something for himself, and suggests
his entering a timber-merchant’s office, as there
is no money to continue his artistic education.
Of course, my husband did everything for Eddie;
and if there is any income from Riversdale after
paying the mortgages, he never heard anything
of it. I ventured to ask Mr. Gregory if he would
pay for Eddie’s classes, and I’m sorry to say he
refused, and declares that the lad must work like
other people. It will break poor Eddie’s heart to
go into that timber place.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Clair; boys’ hearts are tough
things. Is that all your trouble?”
“No, indeed. I am perplexed about myself;
this house is far too large for me, and far too expensive.
My husband was always a poor man:
that is, he lived up to his income; and his health
was such that he could not insure his life. A
few hundred pounds and the lease and furniture
of this house were all he left; but every day I
find bills unpaid, many of them long-standing
accounts, and my stock of money is diminishing
rapidly. I think I should have an auction, dispose
of the lease if I could, and go into cheap
lodgings with Agnes and Eddie; but I fear I shall
not be able to pay for his classes and colours.
Can you suggest anything for me to do?”
“No; I think your ideas are very sensible. But
would it not be better to try to let this house furnished?
I fancy I can find you a tenant, and then
you will have a certain, even if small, income.
Then if both boys are willing to work they will
bring you in something every week.”
“But, Mr. Murray, Eddie is to have no salary
for three years, and Bertie must remain with his
Uncle Gregory,” Mrs. Clair said, sadly. “Oh,
how I wish he could come and live with me! he is
a dear boy!”
“Yes, yes; a good straight up-and-down lad,
with plenty of backbone, though his uncle does not
quite understand him. However, I think Eddie
should do something at once, though I don’t
entirely approve of the timber-yard; still, anything
for a beginning. Now, Mrs. Clair, when would
you like to leave here?”
“As soon as possible; every day only lessens our
little fund.”
“I think I know a person who would take this
house, if he could get it at once. This is Wednesday;
could you manage to leave if I found you
suitable lodgings by next Monday?”
“Quite easily, Mr. Murray; but are you sure
you can let it? I do not want the house to remain
on your hands.”
“Never mind that. In the name of a person
I know intimately, I offer you £180 a year for it:
and it’s cheap too. Of course there are a great
many things you can take away with you, such as
plate, linen, pictures: they will make your lodgings
more comfortable.”
“But the person who takes the house?”
“Has a great many things of his own—unconsidered
trifles—that he must find room for. It’s a
great comfort to give advice to a reasonable
person who is willing to follow it. As for the boys,
don’t worry about them. Just as soon as you are
settled, I’ll have a talk with Eddie, and then go and
see Mr. Gregory.”
Mr. Murray was no half-hearted friend; when
he undertook to do a thing, it was done well and
promptly, so that before a week from her first
mentioning the matter Mrs. Clair was settled in
very pleasant lodgings not far from Hampstead
Heath.
The rooms seemed very small at first, but they
soon became used to that, and the garden, with its
prim walks, edged on either side with old-fashioned
autumn flowers, was delightful. Even
Eddie looked happier, and Agnes declared Hampstead
was nearly as good as Brighton. When
Bertie came to see them, he could hardly keep
from crying, it was all so cosy, pretty, and homelike,
compared with the gloomy grandeur of Gore
House; and, worst of all, his uncle was becoming
more exacting and severe every day. The secret
of Mr. Gregory’s unkindness to Bertie was the
open interest taken in him by Mr. Murray, who,
in spite of many hints, refused to have anything to
do with Dick Gregory, and told his father plainly
that the boy had no taste or capacity for business.
Poor Bertie had to suffer for that disappointment:
he was scolded, overworked, reproved, but he bore it
all patiently; never complained, never answered, but
he was plainly unhappy. And Eddie was a worry
to him too: he should be working for himself and
Aunt Amy, instead of being a burden to them.
As “head of the family,” he said so, and even went
so far as to say he thought Riversdale now a
secondary consideration, and his own savings in
future would not go to the bank, but to buy little
delicacies for his aunt and cousin. When he
heard about the timber-yard, he said at once that
Eddie should accept the situation. “One office is
just like another, Eddie,” he cried; “tea or timber,
what does it matter? one has to go through the
same routine to begin with. Besides, we must do
something to help Aunt Amy.”
So Eddie agreed to accept Uncle Gregory’s
proposal.
“Bravo, Eddie, old fellow! I knew when it came
to the point that you would act rightly and
generously,” Bertie cried earnestly. “And if we’re
both very saving, you may still be able to have
classes in the evening, and when I get a little rich
you shall return to your painting; but we must
both put our shoulders to the wheel now, old boy,
and be as saving as ever we can.”
“I’ve nothing to save,” Eddie replied. “I’ve
no salary for three years. Still, I’ll write to Uncle
Gregory to-night: the sooner I begin the better.”
No one knew what an effort it cost Eddie to give
in; still, in spite of his pride and vanity, he was a
right-hearted, independent lad at heart, and the
idea of being a burden to Aunt Amy was simply
intolerable. When Mr. Murray heard of his resolution,
he puckered up his eyebrows, and talked
to himself for fully five minutes, then he patted
Eddie on the shoulder, and said he was glad he
had sufficient real pride to enable him to put his
false pride in his pocket, and declared that he
would never lose his self-respect and the respect
of others by honest hard work. “But work for
three years you shall not!” he cried, suddenly.
“They must give you a small salary to begin with.”
So Eddie, the lofty, the haughty, the often intolerant
Eddie, went to the timber-yard with a tolerably
good grace, and when, at the end of the first week,
he placed his earnings in Aunt Amy’s hands,
he felt positively happy. Very soon after, owing
to the kind intervention of Mr. Murray, Bertie got
permission to live with Aunt Amy, his uncle paying
ten shillings a week extra for his board and
lodgings, so that in all he had a pound, and it
seemed quite a large sum of money. Of course he
had a long way to go to the City; but what of that,
when loving hands waved him an adieu from the
window? What did any extra amount of labour
matter now that the stiff formal dinners, and the
terribly chilling evenings in the library at Gore
House were at an end for ever.
Mr. Murray often paid a visit to the little cottage
at Hampstead, and whenever he came he was
always warmly welcomed, both by Agnes and Mrs.
Clair.
The tenant of the house in Fitzroy Square was
behaving very well indeed: the rent would be ready
by quarter-day, and there were several things in
the house that he would be pleased if Mrs. Clair
could take away: the piano, for instance; he would
consider it a real kindness if she could remove
that, he had no use whatever for it, and had a case
of rare butterflies that would stand very comfortably
in its place. So the instrument arrived
one day at the lodgings, and gave the children
more enjoyment than anything else, for the
evenings were drawing in, and it was too dark
for a run on the Heath after the boys returned from
the City.
They all sang and played by instinct, and
Aunt Amy gave them a lesson each every
evening, and as the evenings became longer, and
winter crept towards them with “stealthy steps and
slow,” they settled down to a regular course of
study.
Bertie devoted most of his time to music;
Eddie to reading up his French and German—for
he found both those languages would be very
useful to him in the City; while Agnes was busy
over her drawing-board, tracing designs for
Christmas and Easter cards. She declared she
was not going to be the only drone in the hive,
and bade fair to be successful later on, for two
of her little cards had already been accepted
by a great City publishing firm. When Mr.
Murray dropped in of an evening he used to
have a long look from one to the other of their
cheerful, contented faces, and then he would have
a little private conversation with himself in a
corner.
“They’re too happy,” he would mutter, “too content,
too well occupied. Good fortune would only
spoil them now. I’ll wait and watch a little
longer; and yet, people who bear poverty with
such equanimity should bear the accession of
riches with humility; still, I’ll wait a little. My old
friend’s children are bearing their probation
bravely.” For to Mr. Murray Mrs. Clair’s income
seemed absolute poverty: he paid some of his own
servants nearly as much; and the great City
merchant was learning, for the first time, that it is
not the actual amount of income one has, but the
way it’s spent, that constitutes poverty and wealth.
CHAPTER XVIII.—THE FORTUNE FOUND.
M r. gregory
did not consent to
Bertie Rivers leaving Gore House with
a very good grace, and he bitterly resented
the interest Mr. Murray took
in both boys. He wished to keep them entirely
under his own control—as, indeed, he had the power
to do, being their sole guardian since Mr. Clair’s
death; but, on the other hand, he was not in a
position to refuse Mr. Murray a trifling favour, as
he had just begged a very heavy one from him.
Things had been going on very badly in Mincing
Lane for some time, and Mr. Gregory had been
peculiarly unfortunate in his business transactions:
he kept on losing large sums of money without in
the least retrenching his expenditure, and at length
it became painfully clear, even to himself, that
nothing short of a large sum of ready money could
save him from failure and disgrace and ruin, and
that there was only one man in London who could
and would assist him—for Mr. Gregory was more
respected than liked by his brother merchants. Mr.
Murray was willing to do all that he wanted, on
certain conditions. First of all, he wished Mr.
Gregory to give up the guardianship of Eddie and
Bertie Rivers, and that their uncle willingly consented
to, for he feared that when Eddie came of
age there might be some awkward questions to
answer about the management—or rather, mismanagement—of
the property, if he were called to
give an account of his stewardship. Then Mr.
Gregory, Mr. Murray said, was too extravagant:
he should curtail his expenses, and live according
to his income: cut down his establishment, and put
the boys to some profession or work of some sort,
for he declared he had no intention that his
honestly and hard-earned money should be squandered
in unnecessary luxury. Mr. Gregory agreed
to all Mr. Murray’s conditions, and at the time
meant fully to perform his promises, but the
immediate pressure of his difficulties being removed,
he went on in much the same way, and Mr. Murray,
who was observing closely, resolved never again to
advance money to maintain such senseless extravagance.
Though old Mr. Murray had quite made up his
mind what he would do for Eddie and Bertie
Rivers, he determined to make sure first that they
deserved his kindness. It was good to see Mrs.
Clair’s cheerful face, and hear her pleasant voice,
as she recounted many instances of the children’s
kindness and consideration: Bertie’s hearty resolution
not to be daunted by anything; Eddie’s
supreme patience at the office and steady work at
home; and the untiring efforts of little Agnes to
add her mite to the general fund, though of course
she often failed to dispose of her cards, some of
which, nevertheless, were adapting themselves to
other circumstances, and forming a very handsome
screen to keep the draughts from Aunt Amy’s
chair.
“We are not only living within our income, but
saving something for the proverbial ‘rainy day,'”
Mrs. Clair said one evening, when Mr. Murray
dropped in. “We have been here only three
months, and have done ever so much better than I
expected, thanks to your good advice; and we are all
ever so much happier than I ever hoped to be
again, which shows that sorrow is but a short-lived
suffering if we do not nurse and cherish it. And
then Eddie is so polite and attentive to every one
now, and he used to be so proud and haughty. I
really can’t understand the change in him.”
“‘Sweet are the uses of adversity,'” Mr. Murray
quoted, with a peculiar smile. “There was talent
and good sense in Eddie after all, though I sometimes
half doubted it. Some day he will see the
wisdom of his choice, and be glad to feel that he
laboured with his hands to do the thing that
is right.”
Winter came and went; spring broadened into
summer; and still the boys worked on bravely:
Bertie at Mr. Gregory’s office, Eddie at the timber-yard,
Agnes working pretty crewel mats and
toilet-covers, by way of change from painting; and
Mrs. Clair, loving, guiding, counselling them
all. The fund for the “rainy day” had increased
remarkably, so that when November, “chill and
drear,” came round again, the boys were able to
have new warm overcoats and thick gloves, and
even Agnes was armed against the sudden changes
of weather by a nice soft fur cape, and the
whole winter months passed so pleasantly, that
they were all astonished when Christmas was, so to
speak, at the door.
One day, towards the middle of December, Mr.
Murray came bustling in, his whole face full of importance.
“Mrs. Clair, I’ve called to ask you all to spend
Christmas with me at a country house. I’m a lonely
old man, with no near relations and few friends;
but I like young people about me whose hearts are
gay and green, even though circumstances may
have aged their heads a little. I like the boys; I
like the demure little maiden; I like you. Will you
all come and cheer up a lonely old man for a
week?”
“I shall be delighted indeed, Mr. Murray; and I
can answer for each one of the children, if the boys
can only get so long a holiday. It’s such a very,
very long time since I’ve really been in the country.”
“Then promise to meet me at twelve o’clock at
Paddington Station on Christmas Eve: promise me,
Mrs. Clair; I’ll make it all right for the boys. Just
say you will come. I wanted to ask you all last
Christmas; I’m glad I did not now.”
“I will come with pleasure and gratitude,” Mrs.
Clair replied, “if you can make it right for the
boys.”
“I’ll see to that. Remember, twelve o’clock on
Christmas Eve—twelve sharp, Paddington!” and
then Mr. Murray vanished, his face puckered up
out of all recognition.
The probation of Eddie and Bertie Rivers had
lasted a whole year, and Mr. Murray was more
than satisfied with them. He meant to keep their
destination a little secret, and so fairly ran away
before Mrs. Clair could ask any questions.
It wanted just two weeks to Christmas when
Mr. Murray gave his instructions, and during most
of the waking hours of that time the children spoke
of little else. Bertie endeavoured to explain and
describe the grandeur and magnificence of Mr.
Murray’s town house, and of course his country
mansion would be still more splendid.
“I hope there will be plenty of frost,” he said,
with a very grave glance at the sky, just as if the
state of the sky in London ever could be an index
to what the weather might be anywhere else,
“for there’s sure to be a pond, or mere, or something
to skate on.”
Eddie sighed as he thought of the beautiful
lake at Riversdale, and then said he hoped Mr.
Murray might have some ponies, as he was longing
for a good canter.
Agnes wanted some pretty places to sketch, and
Aunt Amy declared she would give anything to see
a good farm and poultry-yard again, just as they
had at home.
“You may be sure Mr. Murray will have everything,”
Bertie said, confidently; “and a Christmas-tree
too, with lots of presents: he always did give
us splendid things,” remembering the steam-engine.
“Oh! I say, auntie, we’re bound to have
a glorious time;” and Bertie tossed his hat in the
air, and skilfully caught it coming down—a habit of
his when unusually excited.
At the appointed time Mrs. Clair and the
children arrived at Paddington Station, and there
they found Mr. Murray pacing up and down, “just
like a lion in a cage,” Bertie whispered irreverently.
He paid the cabman while they got out, and then
hurried them across the platform and into a first-class
carriage that he had engaged; the door was
shut with a loud bang, and in another moment the
engine whistled shrilly, and the train went out
of the station. Mr. Murray held all their tickets in
his hand, and in such a way that even Bertie’s
keen eyes could not detect their destination, but
as they got completely into the country the places
seemed strangely familiar. At last Eddie drew
nearer Bertie, and took his hand. “Look, Bert!
that’s Linkworth Station; the next will be Riversdale,”
he whispered, his eyes filling with tears.
“Oh! I do hope we shall not stop there!” Even as
he spoke the train seemed to slacken speed again.
The engine shrieked, and stopped at dear old
Riversdale.
Mr. Murray sprang out briskly, and assisted
Mrs. Clair; the others followed; and in a few moments
they were all driving along the familiar road
towards the old home of the Rivers’s. As the
carriage turned in at the lodge gate, Bertie cried
out, unable to restrain himself, “Oh! Aunt Amy,
we’re really going home to Riversdale. Hurrah!”
Eddie was perfectly silent: he could not trust
himself to speak. Little Agnes clung to her aunt,
whose eyes were full of tears, and Mr. Murray
chatted away briskly about the weather, the beauty
of the country in its winter mantle—everything, in
fact, but their destination. They arrived at the
hall door, where several of the old servants were
waiting, amongst them Mittens, the housekeeper,
who kissed the children individually and collectively,
and laughed and cried at the same time.
“Come in! come in!” Mr. Murray cried, leading
the way to the library; “it’s too cold to stand
about. And now, children, how do you like your
old home?” he added, as they all stood silent and
confused round the blazing wood fire. Then he
suddenly grew very serious, and turning to Mrs.
Clair, placed his hand on her arm. “This was your
father’s house; now, through the variations of
fortune, it is mine, Mrs. Clair; but one day it will
belong to one of those boys: I won’t say which; but
Eddie is the elder, and I think he will deserve to
be heir of Riversdale. Bertie I know I can trust.
Meantime, Mrs. Clair, it is your home, and the
little maiden’s, and Eddie’s. If he cares to continue
his artistic profession, he can have a master here
to conduct his studies. If he is worthy, he shall
have Riversdale on his twenty-first birthday free
from all incumbrance; till then, Mrs. Clair, the
home is yours, and I know how happy Eddie will
be with you. As for Bertie, he belongs to me for
the present; he is not to return to Mr. Gregory, and
will try how he likes Murray and Co. instead.
Now I wish you all a very merry Christmas and a
glad new year, and welcome back to Riversdale.”
It was a long speech for Mr. Murray, especially
as they were all clinging to him, sobbing, laughing,
trying in vain to thank him; but he broke away
from them, rushing to the dining-room, where
luncheon was waiting, and laughing heartily at
their surprise and pleasure. Then he installed
Mrs. Clair formally as mistress, treated Eddie with
a good deal of consideration as the heir-apparent,
and looked at Bertie for approval.
“I think it is better than waiting till I got rich in
Mincing Lane, sir,” he replied, his eyes sparkling.
“I don’t believe Uncle Gregory’s office is the real
road to fortune, after all.”
“The Road to Fortune, boy, is honesty and
industry, not anybody’s office,” Mr. Murray said,
gently. “However, you will have a try at mine,
and then, like regular City men, we’ll come down
from Saturday till Monday, if they will have us.
We can’t afford to give up work yet, can we?”
“No, sir; and I shouldn’t care to.”
“That’s right, Bertie. Work is worship: that’s
one of Eddie’s favourite author’s sayings.”
“I’ve learned the truth of it, Mr. Murray,”
Eddie said gravely, “and in future I shall practise
it, and, I hope, prove to you that your great kindness
has not been wasted on us. If I had never left
Riversdale and become acquainted with so many
troubles and sorrows, I never could feel as happy as
I am now.”
And in that happiness we will leave Eddie and
Bertie Rivers, trusting that all who bear adversity
so well may find fortune as kind and friends as true.
THE END.
HEDWIG’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.
Supposing
you had two brothers and two
sisters, a father, a mother, and no money,
how would you get Christmas presents
for them all? That is what Hedwig
wanted to know. You see, she was the eldest of
the family, and felt it her duty to look after the
others; and in this case it so happened that looking
after them meant getting them Christmas presents.
You can’t think what a trouble this was to little
Hedwig. The worst of it was, she couldn’t ask
her mother’s advice. It must be kept a dark
secret. At last the twenty-fourth of December
arrived, and in the evening the gifts must all be
ready, and Hedwig had not one.
When evening came, however, Hedwig’s presents
were there, and I will tell you how she managed it.
Little Hedwig was a German girl. She live
in a small village in the north of Germany. Her
father and mother had not very much money.
They could buy black bread and meat for their
children, but there was little money left for playthings.
Though they were not rich, they were a
happy family; and if they had not toys they had
one another, and that was quite enough.
Hedwig was a busy little girl; there were so
many things she could do for mother. The baby
always was happy with his big sister, and his big
sister was very fond of him.
On the morning of the day before Christmas,
Hedwig got up earlier than usual. She dressed
baby, gave him his breakfast, and then, putting on
her things, asked what she should buy in the town.
“Now, Hedwig, get all the things carefully; take
the big basket to carry everything; and be sure not
to forget to take the soup to Aunt Molly.” These
were her mother’s last words.
“All right, mother, dear; I will be back in good
time,” said Hedwig, and, shutting the door, downstairs
she ran and out into the street.
“Now, then,” she said to herself, as she pushed
her way bravely along, “presents I must have;
but how I am to get them I really don’t know.
Auntie is sure to give me a groschen (a penny) for
bringing the soup, and that will buy a cake for
Karl and a cake for baby. But then there are
mother, father, and the twins. Mother and father
might share a present, but how about the twins?”
The twins certainly were rather a trouble. They
were six years old, just four years younger than
Hedwig, and insisted on having everything alike.
It was a very cold day and a long walk from
the village to the town; but Hedwig, trotting along
in her warm cloak and hood, was so busy thinking
of her presents that she was not cold. Just as she
was entering the town gates, she met her playmate
Anna. Hedwig was very pleased, and determined
to tell her dear friend all her troubles.
“Anna,” she began, “I haven’t a present
for——”
But here she was interrupted, for Anna exclaimed,
“Isn’t it a shame. Hedwig? You know our big
barn; well, a cat has made her home there, and
has two beautiful kittens. Aunt Ottilia found it
out this morning, and she says the kittens must
be drowned.”
Hedwig was quite as indignant as her friend.
“I know what I’ll do,” said Hedwig; “we’ll
capture the kittens, and then I will take them
home as my present for the twins.”
“That will do very well, Hedwig. You go and
buy the things for your mother, and then we will
get the kittens, and you can carry them home.”
Hedwig set off and bought all the things at the
shops, and took the soup to her aunt. She seemed
to be very fortunate that morning, for the old lady
at the grocer’s gave her some odds and ends of
ribbon. These she intended to make into a bow
for her mother, but she saved two long pieces to
tie round the kittens’ necks.
Then, her shopping finished, she made her way
back to Anna, who lived at a farm a little distance
out of town. Carefully and slowly they made
their way through the yard. It would not do for
any one to see them, for they might be stopped.
“Come along this way,” said Anna; “there they
are; now, are not they sweet little things?”
For a few seconds Hedwig was lost in admiration,
but then she remembered that she must hurry,
for it was time for her to be home again.
“Now, then, Anna, you take one, and I’ll take
the other; hide it under your apron.”
The two children set out with their burdens, but
it was not easy work getting back again into the
garden, where Hedwig had left her basket.
As they were leaving the barn, they had forgotten
to shut the door, and a curious old hen had
marched in. After some chasing they got the hen
out; but in the hurry to escape from the children,
the bird tumbled into a tub full of water.
Hedwig and Anna both dropped their kittens in
order to rescue the unfortunate hen. Anna
screamed at the top of her voice, “Oh, she’ll
drown! she’ll drown!”
Just then the farmyard gate opened, and Anna,
seeing that her old aunt was coming, called to
Hedwig to run and hide.
Hedwig had only just time to get back into the
barn before Aunt Ottilia appeared, and inquired
what was the matter. She got the hen out of the
water, scolded Anna, and threatened to send her
indoors. After the aunt had returned to the house,
Hedwig came out of her hiding-place. The two
kittens had of course disappeared by this time, and
the two girls had a difficulty in finding them.
After hunting for half an hour they were captured
once more, and carried to the basket. Then there
was another hindrance. There was not room for
both kittens. One was placed in, and Hedwig
agreed to carry the other in her arms.
“Now, Hedwig, you had better be off; it is
getting quite late,” said Anna.
“But can’t you get me something to eat first; I
am so hungry?”
“If I do I shall meet aunt. Haven’t you anything
with you? Why, there is aunt coming; I
must run.” Anna did run, too, without thinking
any more of her friend. Hedwig had to set off
without waiting longer, for it was getting very late.
She determined to spend her money in buying
some bread for herself, hoping to find something
else for the boys. After eating her bread she set
off for home.
It seemed such a long walk now, and the basket
and kittens were very heavy. Twice a kitten
escaped, and she had to give chase, so that by the
time she reached home she was tired and hungry,
for it was getting late in the afternoon.
She took the kittens up into the loft and fastened
them in, after giving them a saucerful of milk.
Then down she went to tell her mother about her
purchases.
“Why are you so late, Hedwig?” said her
mother. “I have been expecting you a very long
time. Baby has been so tiresome, and the twins
have made themselves so untidy. They wanted to
be black people, and I found Gretchen painting
Sophie black with ink. Fortunately they had not
done very much, but I am so tired with the worry
that I think you must get the Christmas tree ready.”
Hedwig was sorry her mother was tired, but
glad to get the tree ready. She spread a white
tablecloth on the little round table in the big room,
placed the tree on it, and then made the other
tables ready. When all was ready, the tree,
decorated with candles and sweetmeats, was
placed in the centre of the room. The little gifts
were arranged on small tables. Then Hedwig ran
upstairs to fetch the ribbon for her mother, and the
kittens. She found the latter scampering about
the loft, and having fine fun. She placed them
in two baskets, and then carried them down.
Now all was ready, and Hedwig felt satisfied. The
twins would have the kittens, mother and father
the ribbon, and she had found two small balls of her
own for Karl and baby. Very pleased with her work,
she locked the door and ran away to get tidied.
Half an hour afterwards the doors were thrown
open, the candles lighted, and the whole family
entered. But what a state of confusion the room
was in! for everything was upset and disarranged.
“Oh, the kittens! the kittens!” cried Hedwig;
“they must have done it.”
Of course, immediately there was a cry of
“Which kittens?”
This was soon answered by Gretchen suddenly
calling out, in a tone of great astonishment—
“There they are, the darlings, fast asleep on my
new frock!”
Hedwig then explained everything. The twins
were delighted with their present; but her mother
had to tell Hedwig how naughty it was of her
to take anything without having first asked
leave.
“But, mother dear, they were going to be killed,
and I could not bear that,” said Hedwig.
“Then you should have asked for them, dearie,”
said mother; “but never mind now, to-morrow I
will walk over with you, and we will explain everything,
and give them back again.”
Hearing this, the twins began to cry bitterly.
They did not want their present to be taken from
them, and they were not quiet until their mother
promised to see what she could do.
Then the whole family set to work to tidy up the
room. Everything was quickly in order, and the
presents were given away. Everybody got just
what they wanted; and Hedwig’s mother was very
pleased with her ribbon, and promised to let father
share it. Next day her mother went over to
the farm with Hedwig, who begged Aunt Ottilia’s
pardon, and received the kittens as a token of her
forgiveness.
So, after all the trouble, Hedwig’s presents were
a great success.
Maggie Browne.
THE LEGEND OF THE REEDS.
hat
are the river reeds whispering,
In music so sweet and low?
Ah, these are the words they murmur,
“My tale would you like to know?”
“O reeds by the shining water,
I’ll listen all day, all day,
If you will tell me your story
Whilst the river rolls away.”
Spake the reed—”I’m a maid named Syrinx,
And there once lived a god named Pan;
He liked me, but I didn’t like him,
So away to the woods I ran.
“I ran very swiftly, but swifter
The rough god Pan did pursue,
Then I cried to the gods, on Olympus,
‘There are none to help me but you!’
“I came to a shining river,
And thirsty I stooped to drink,
And the kindly gods changed me into
A reed on the river’s brink.
“Then Pan grew quite melancholy,
And gathered the reeds, and made
A pipe; and he thought of me ever
When he on his pan-pipe played.”
A FEW WORDS ABOUT TATTOOING.
tattooed new zealander.
Some
of the readers of these pages, I dare say,
saw King Tawhiao, the Maori chief, who
visited England in the summer of 1884. If
so, they could not have failed to notice the
curious designs that were traced upon his face.
These scroll-like marks were the result of an operation
which lasted for six weeks, and which was attended
with extreme pain.
The process is called tattooing,
and a person who
has undergone it is said
to be tattooed. It is practised
very extensively amongst
the natives of New
Zealand and the South
Sea Islands generally,
women as well as men,
whose bodies are covered
with patterns of an
elaborate, or fantastic,
or picturesque description,
though sometimes
the design is of a comparatively
simple sort.
Nearly every British
sailor has tattoo-marks
on his arm—an anchor,
ship, initials, or what
not—and unless I am
much mistaken, some
of the lads now perusing
these sentences have
now and then ornamented (or disfigured) their
hands and arms with similar signs.
In New Zealand the tattoo-marks run in unbroken
lines, while in the South Sea Islands
they are in dotted lines. The pain of the process
in both cases is most acute, especially in the
former. In New Zealand the figures are formed
by driving little chisels, which have been dipped
in some colouring-matter, through the skin. In
the South Sea Islands a series of punctures are
made with a fish-bone, which is, however, sometimes
used as a needle. Every variety of design is
employed—trees, flowers, animals, weapons, and
so forth. It is considered a disgrace for the
person being tattooed to give way to any sign of
suffering, but as the pain is so exquisite, cries of
torture occasionally rise to the lips. In order,
therefore, to drown such cries, and so preserve the
patient’s reputation for bravery, it is usual for a
number of his female friends to sing songs throughout
the operation. Some tattooers acquire great
skill in their art, and will form a design which
shall be beautiful, elaborate, or otherwise, according
to the fee. But in any case it is well to deal liberally
with the artist, lest he should allow the chisel to
slip “accidentally on purpose,” and produce a
permanent disfigurement instead of a fine design.
The colouring-matter in which the tool is dipped
is a thick mixture, prepared
by rubbing down
charcoal in oil or water.
The pattern appears
black on a brown skin,
and dark blue on the skin
of a white man, and is of
course indelible.
Since the process is so
painful, why do the Maoris
and others submit themselves
to it? They
look upon the tattooing
as a kind of personal
adornment; and, you
know, there is no accounting
for tastes.
The ways of savage
and civilised races are
past finding out. Some
wear articles in their
noses, ears, and lips;
others flatten the heads
of their babies. Chinese
ladies’ feet are
compressed to such an extent that they wobble
when they walk. The Zulus and other peoples
arrange their hair in the most extraordinary styles.
These peculiar fashions are no doubt indulged in
under the impression that they add to the beauty
of those who adopt them. And so we find it in
the case of tattooing, though the custom is also
supposed—in the case of men—to mark the
transition from youth to manhood, being performed
usually at that period. To a small extent it is
also believed to be employed as a badge of mourning
or sign of respect for a departed friend. The
tattoo is regarded as an honour, and is reserved for
free men only, slaves in New Zealand not being
permitted to undergo the operation. Oddly
enough, those who are accustomed to see tattooed
people think that natives without it look bare and
“unfinished.” Tattooing is said to be on the wane.
If it be so, it is quite possible that Macaulay’s famous
New Zealander may present none of those marks
which distinguished the features of King Tawhiao.
THE CHILDREN’S OWN GARDEN IN DECEMBER.
The
present month undoubtedly
presents fewer floral attractions
than any other in the whole
year. Everything is in a torpid
state of existence, and the
combined forces of frost, snow,
wind, and rain render December
unpleasant both indoors
and out. The only kinds of
vegetation which seem to flourish just now are the
insignificant, but wonderfully beautiful, mosses and
lichens which everywhere clothe the rock and tree
and hedge with their diverse forms and hues. Unlike
flowering plants, they do not require culture of
any sort, their beauty being wholly of a more or
less microscopic nature, and their nourishment is
derived from the atmosphere rather than by
means of roots.
|
* * * |
It is during such dull and lifeless months as
December that our attention becomes more
engrossed with individual floral beauty, than it does
when the display is both extensive and varied.
To obtain even a few flowers at this time of
the year much previous care and attention must
have been expended. Where one plant is detected
in making more headway than others
its flowering-period may be greatly facilitated
by carefully guarding it from the evil effects of
excessive rains and strong winds; this may be
easily done by placing an inverted bell-glass over
the plants, invariably lifting this off on fine
and warm days, and whenever there is no fear
of damage from sudden winds or rains. Stifling
hardy plants by keeping them in a confined atmosphere,
whether indoors or out, is the worst possible
plan to follow in order to procure early blooms.
* *
*
An important feature in connection with next
summer’s display must now be considered, and the
preliminary arrangements carried out as far as
possible during the present month; it consists in
the formation of new shapes of beds, and a general
reconstruction of design. But, as we have
previously intimated, it is most undesirable to
have a small garden chopped up into a number
of beds, as then the greater part of space
will be needlessly taken up by walks. Too
much uniformity is just as undesirable as an excess
of irregularities. No change of any sort should be
carried out without well considering whether such
would be for the better, and also whether the
garden in its altered state would yield a correspondingly
greater amount of real pleasure, tantamount
to the time and trouble involved in effecting the
change. Presupposing that some change or other
is to be done, great care must be taken not to
destroy the roots of various perennials, which may
be hidden beneath the surface, as many a rare and
beautiful plant is in this manner often destroyed.
* *
*
The amount of planting to be done now is by no
means extensive, but it should only be done in dry
weather. Narcissus, crocus, hyacinths, and tulips
should be all in the ground by the end of this
month at the very latest, and will produce bloom in
very desirable succession to those planted a
month or two previously. A surfacing of cocoanut-fibre
refuse, which may be obtained from most
seedsmen or nurserymen, will be found an excellent
protection against frosts, and also against the
ravages of slugs. The curious roots of ranunculus
should be at once planted; these roots consist of
small, fleshy, spindle-shaped claws, which are
united at the crown. In planting, the claws should
point downwards. Few late spring flowering
plants excel the ranunculus in richness of colour;
and to be grown with any degree of success a rich
soil is essential, one of light loam, leaf-mould, and
spent hot-bed materials forming the best compost.
A distance of six inches apart each way, and a
depth of about two inches will suffice for these
plants, and a warm sunny spot is most suitable.
The roots are very cheap, a dozen of various colours
costing only threepence or fourpence.
* *
*
Anemones constitute a race of very pretty,
delicate, and showy spring flowers, having varieties
of nearly every hue, both single and double, but
the former class is much preferable. They thrive
best in good loamy soil, which has been well manured
the year previous to planting. Roots should be
obtained and planted—at about 4 in. apart—as soon
as possible, the sooner the better, so that the plants
will be sturdy and well grown before the very
severe weather commences. Roots cost about nine-pence
or one shilling per dozen. Unless the charming
lily of the valley be already an inmate of our
Children’s Own Garden, a few “crowns” should be
now purchased and placed in almost any part
of the garden, but thorough drainage is most
essential. Whilst thriving in any ordinary soil,
they produce very fine bloom when in a rich porous
compost. The roots should be taken up, divided,
and replanted separately once in every four years.
A RACE FOR A CAT.
A FAIRY STORY.
“a cat was lying … upon a chair”
oo
small!
too small!”
so the birds
sang, so the
roses whispered,
so the
bees hummed.
“She will
creep in at
the window,”
said the mother,
who was
kneeling beside
a little
child. “Only
a small child
can do that.”
But the
window shut
down suddenly
with a bang, and the house to which it
belonged began to move away, slowly at first,
then quicker and quicker, until it was out of sight
altogether. The child began to sob, and said—
“Nan will run after it.”
Ah! such a flutter among the roses, and such
a twittering amongst the birds, whilst the bees
hummed—
“Too small, too small!
She should be tall,
If she would catch the house at all.”
And the birds sang—
“She must grow,
We all do know;
And that’s a process very slow.”
“It will be years,” said the mother, “before she
grows tall.”
“Pooh! porridge!” said a toy dog that was
lying on the ground.
The mother turned round.
The little dog was standing upright, and had
pricked up his ears.
“Porridge, porridge!” he said, and he kept
saying it over so many times that at last the mother
thought there must be something in it.
II.
So the mother made some porridge, and Nan
began to eat it.
At the first plateful she could look over the table;
at the second she reached up to her mother’s
shoulder; at the third she was taller than her mother.
“Stop! stop!” said the mother, as Nan began
upon the fourth plate; “you’ll be a giantess; and
your legs are so thin, I am afraid they will break
in two. You look as if you were on stilts.”
“One must have long legs,” said Nan, “in order
to run fast. It was the woolly dog that thought
of it,” she added, and she would have stooped
down to pat the toy dog, with its red morocco
collar, but she was so high up that she found it
a difficult matter to bend down. “I am as stiff as
a poker,” said she.
The woolly dog, however, understood what she
wanted, and he jumped upon a chair, then upon
the table, and finally into Nan’s arms.
She would have given him some porridge, but
her mother said—
“No; if he should grow as tall as you, we should
not know what to do with him.”
Then the little dog laughed.
“Perhaps he will run away with the spoon,”
said Nan.
But no; he was an honest little dog, and did not
think of doing anything of the kind.
III.
On the opposite side of the house was an old
gentleman in a velvet cap. He had a paper in his
hand, and was trying to teach something to a boy
who was on the other side of the trellis. But the
boy was not attending to him, though he kept his
eyes fixed upon the paper.
No; he was muttering—
“The little cat was in the house, and the house
moved away. It must have been an enchanted
house and an enchanted cat.”
“What are you saying?” asked the old gentleman.
“That is not on the paper.”
Then the boy looked up and said—
“If I’d seven-leagued boots, I’d go after them.”
“That is certainly not written down there,”
answered the old gentleman. “Of what are you
thinking, Ulick?”
“Of the house that stood close by this house.
I had a dream last night that it moved away, and
that the little cat with which I played had also
gone, and I want to go after them.”
“You talk nonsense, Ulick. How can a house
made of bricks and mortar and heavy beams of
wood move away?”
“That I know not; but it is gone. I hear it
now rumbling away in the distance, as if it were
on great wheels—I do really,” answered Ulick.
The old gentleman, who often came to chat
with Ulick, and to try to teach him various things,
felt quite vexed, and he folded up his paper, and
shut up his camp-stool and went away.
When he had gone an old hen turned round and
spoke to Ulick.
“You can hear us, for you have the right sort
of ears, but the old man cannot. It is quite true:
the house has gone.”
“Where?”
The rabbits were listening, with their long ears
erect.
“That I cannot tell, but Nan is going after
it.”
“Nan! but she is so small.”
“Is she?” exclaimed the hen. “You should see
her now that she has eaten the porridge: she is
much taller than her mother, and her legs are so
long that she can skim over the ground like an
ostrich.”
“Then she will get the cat.”
“Perhaps. One does not know,” answered the
hen.
“I hope she will,” said a young rabbit.
“I hope she won’t,” said an old rabbit, “for then
she will bring her back here.”
There was a groan amongst the rabbits and the
poultry. And then the Virginian creeper, that was
twisting and turning and throwing its leaves about
all over the trellis, began to quiver and shake as if
it were trying to say
something, and at last a
very tiny voice came from
one of the shoots, and
said—
“Should Nan the flying house o’ertake,
She will with it long journeys make,
And come back here no more.”
The fowls and rabbits
were glad to hear this,
but Ulick said—
“Nan shall not overtake
the house; Nan
shall not have the dear
little cat.”
IV.
“Nan will soon be
tired,” said Ulick; “besides,
she does not know
where to go.”
“Do you?”
Ulick
started, for he could see no one.
Still he was not surprised, for
since the rabbits and fowls
and Virginian creeper had
begun to talk there was no
reason why other things
should not also. It must
have been some sensible
creature; and he began to
consider the point.
No, he did not know
where the house had gone;
he did not suppose that
even the top of the tallest
chimney would be visible, or
even the smoke from it.
The house might have gone
along the straight road, or
have turned to the right or
left, he could not tell. And
Ulick sat down upon a large
moss-covered stone, and felt
very despondent.
“What’s the matter, little
man?” asked his big brother
Ben, who happened to come
up at the moment. And
Ulick told him of his difficulty.
“Oh! if that is all,” said
big Ben, “I will start you on your journey, for I
know which way the house went. I saw it rumbling
along the road, and then it turned off to the right
and kept a straight line over the country; nothing
stopped it, hedges, ditches, or anything else.”
And he took Ulick’s hand, and went out upon
the road with him. Ulick half turned and kissed
his hand to his own home.
“What is that for?” asked Ben.
“For ‘good-bye,’ if I don’t come back again. The
house might take me away altogether, you know.”
Ben laughed.
“Well, then, boy, start off,
for there in the distance over
the corn-fields you can just
see the house. There, there—do
you see it—moving
along?”
“No—yes—no—yes, yes I
do. But what is that?”
V.
“What is that? why, a pole
with a flag on the top,” said
Ben.
“No, no,” said Ulick, “that——”
“Why, it’s Nan flying along.
What long legs she has! She
goes so fast that she seems as
if she were in two places at
once.”
“There are two girls running,”
said Ulick, “and one
seems to be overtaking the
other all the time.”
“No, there is but one,” answered
Ben, “but she is here
and there so quickly that you
seem to see her in two places
at once—you understand what
I mean. And it looks exactly like two people.”
“I don’t know,” said Ulick; “I am sure there
are two Nans. What long legs!”
“Yes, porridge has done that. You should
have had some porridge. You’ll never overtake
her.”
But Ulick started off. Ben watched him out
of sight, and then went home.
VI.
Now, all this time a cat was lying comfortably
upon a chair in the house that was running away.
The chair was covered with red velvet, and
there was a bright fire in the room, that sparkled
and glowed and made all the furniture in it shine.
The cat looked up and then she purred, saying—
“Till there is a place
Where gamekeepers are not,
My house shall not stay
In any spot.”
And the house with the cat in it went on and on,
until it came to a far-off place where there were no
houses and no gamekeepers, and no fear of traps.
Then it stopped with such a jerk that the front
door flew open, and a woolly dog, with a red
morocco collar and very stiff legs, came in,
crying out—
“She is coming, she is coming,
She will like a cup of tea.
She must be quite hot with running,
She is coming after me.”
“Who is she?” asked the cat.
Then said the dog—
“Little Nan, she ate the porridge,
And she grew quite tall,
But when she has reached your cottage
She will be quite small.”
“Why?” asked the cat.
“Because the effect of the porridge only lasts
whilst she is running.”
“Oh!” responded the cat.
Upon which Nan herself came running in, and
she was no larger than when her mother was
kneeling beside her in the garden.
“O my dear, dearest, darling, little pussy-cat! I
have found you again, and we will live together
always, and you will let me play with you. I am
so glad to see you again.”
The cat purred and rubbed her head against
Nan, as much as to say “Yes.”
And the woolly dog barked for joy.
So Nan had won the race.
Nan looked out of the window and nodded to
Ulick, who was panting in the distance. She also
held up the cat for him to see.
There was no longer any need for Ulick to run,
for everything round him was shouting—
“Nan has won the race!”
Yes, he knew that she had, and he wept bitterly
and went home again. Perhaps if he had also
eaten the porridge he might have outstripped Nan.
No one ever saw the house again, though once it
returned to the spot upon which it had stood near
Ulick’s home. It did not stay long there, only just
long enough for Nan’s mother to pack up her
clothes and join her little girl, who was too small
to live by herself.
Then the front door shut quite tightly, and the
house fled away faster than ever, and never
stopped until it had reached a beautiful island far,
far away in the middle of the sea. There it
paused, for no gamekeepers, or traps, or cruel boys
were to be found there. And in the house on the
beautiful island Nan and her mother, and the cat,
and the toy dog lived peacefully and happily for
ever and ever.
Julia Goddard.
ETHEL’S PINK PLANT;
AND WHAT HAPPENED TO IT.
E
thel
was always trying to write
poetry, but it was so hard to
find rhymes. When the cat
killed the big pink begonia, she
did manage to find a rhyme;
and she thought the epitaph
looked beautiful printed in violet
ink on a piece of paper—
“Here my poor begonia lies.
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes.”
These were the only verses Ethel ever made.
Perhaps we are beginning near the end of the
story. You may want to know what the big pink
begonia was, and how the cat killed it.
The beginning of this sad story was a red ribbon
bow with a kitten behind it: the bow was so big
and the cat was so little, that the ribbon looked
much more important than the kitten that wore it.
Ethel called the kitten Kafoozalum: Tom talked
of the bow with the cat behind it; to which Ethel
retorted: “The ribbon becomes her very much,
Tom. Boys have no taste.”
Early in the summer—about the time that the
kitten was a weak little squeaker in a basket of
straw with the cat of the house next door—Ethel
was given a plant as a present. There had never
before been a begonia in her mother’s greenhouse;
and Ethel knew very little about it, except that
any rough treatment would kill it. The begonia
grew very fast. It became a tall plant, with
beautiful large reddish-veined leaves, and it was
covered with a cloud of pink blossoms.
One day Ethel ran out of the conservatory in a
hurry and left the door open; and Kafoozalum—the
red bow with the kitten behind it—ran into
the conservatory in a hurry, as she had never had
the chance before. Tom, coming home from school,
went, watering-pot in hand, to attend to his
geranium-slips; he found the door open, and the
kitten nearly on its head in frantic attempts to roll
in the begonia pot.
A few weeks after, all the pink bloom was gone.
The begonia, branch and leaf, died away. There
was nothing left but a dry brown stump.
“It is dead!” cried Ethel. “A knock or a rub
kills the young shoots. Mrs. Smith told me so.
Kafoozalum rubbed and knocked it enough to kill
it all.”
“Tears! tears for the begonia!” laughed Tom.
“Why, Ethel, I thought nothing but the death of
Kafoozalum would reduce you to tears.”
“Ah! Tom, but you don’t know how fond I was
of that plant. It was the only one I ever had. I
feel almost as if it was really alive once, and dead
now! I shall make it a grave and bury it.”
Tom seemed very much amused at this idea—because
the begonia was buried already in its own
pot—and Ethel could not bear his making fun about
it. So she ran away to her mother’s room, with
tears in her eyes.
“Mother, how do you spell ‘begonia’?”
“Why, dear? who are you writing to?”
“My poor begonia is quite dead,” sobbed Ethel,
with a gulp of grief. “I want to write its epitaph.”
“You mustn’t cry about it now, Ethel dear. It
could not feel. I shall get you another next
summer.”
But the only consolation Ethel could get was the
writing of the epitaph. She worked at this for
half an hour, and smeared herself very much with
violet ink.
“Here is laid my pink begonia,” was her first
attempt.
Tom came into the room to learn his lessons
at the other side of the table.
“Tom,” she said, “please don’t say your verbs
out loud. I can’t write poetry when you do. Tell
me a rhyme for begonia. ‘Here is laid my pink
begonia.'”
“‘Toss it over the wall, or let it alone-will-you?’
That is the only rhyme in the English language,”
said Tom.
“You are very unkind,” said Ethel, leaning her
cheek on an inky hand, and rubbing her hair till it
was a wild black mane. Then she tried what
would happen if she began in quite a different
way. At last she read out in sad tones:—
“Here my poor begonia lies,
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes.”
To which Tom only answered in a jaunty tone,
throwing his penknife out of his pocket.
“Here’s my knife to bury your roots,
Lock the greenhouse, and wipe your boots.”
Ethel’s mouth gave a little twitch; but she would
not laugh when Tom made fun of her poetry.
She went into the greenhouse, carrying a piece
of black stuff and a pair of scissors, the penknife,
and her verses printed in violet.
Then she dug a hole in the earthen floor, under
the greenhouse shelf, in a warm corner near the
pipes. Next she dug her begonia root out of the
pot, popped it into the hole, and covered it up, and
left a bit of stick standing upright, holding in a
notch the wonderful epitaph.
Tom found her there, drying and smearing her
face with an earthy corner of her pinafore.
Tom had Kafoozalum peeping out from under
his jacket-front; but Ethel sobbed afresh at the
sight of the red bow with the kitten behind it.
“Come and take care of my geraniums with me,
Ethel,” said Tom.
“Oh! boo-hoo-no-no! You are very unkind.”
“Why, what have I done? I didn’t roll on my
head in the begonia pot, did I, pussy?”
“Oh! boo-hoo—go ‘way!”
So Tom went away. But the next time Ethel
went into the greenhouse with a bright face, she
could not help laughing at Tom’s addition to her
verses. She read:—
“Here my poor begonia lies,
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes—
The door was open—if you had locked it,
The bow with the kitten couldn’t have knocked it.”
The winter passed; and Ethel’s birthday came
in the spring.
“Here is a silver pencil for you to write poetry
with,” said Tom, mischievously. Poetry or not
the silver pencil was worth having, and Ethel felt
that teasing Tom was fond of her. Ah! what
could she do without Tom, or without the teasing
either? “Come into the greenhouse,” he said;
“there’s a begonia for you.”
“Is there? I thought I had all my presents.”
She went racing to the greenhouse, and came back
with a disappointed face. “Why do you cheat me,
Tom? This is not the first of April.”
“Come and see.” He led her into the greenhouse
to the pink begonia’s grave.
They both stooped down to the corner of the
earthen floor near the hot pipes.
There was a dark red folded leaf growing above
the earth.
“Oh, Tom! it is my own dear old plant.”
“Yes—it is growing up again for another
summer,” he said. “I found it a week ago; but
I kept it for a birthday surprise.”
“Tom,” said Ethel, seizing his arm in her delight,
“put my poetry in your pocket, and let us go and
ask mother if we should put it in a pot.”
“What? put the poetry in a pot? Whatever for?”
“Oh! no, I didn’t mean that at all—I mean——”
“Never mind—here go the verses, though they’ve
served their turn.”
So the pink plant went into a pot again, and
grew more beautiful than ever; and the only
poetry Ethel ever made went into Tom’s pocket.
STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
By Edwin Hodder (“Old Merry“).
VI.—THE MONUMENTS.
A
s
we walk round the building once more,
I shall not attempt even to name the
greater number of the Monuments, but
confine myself to telling you something
about the more remarkable ones. The earliest
monuments were really the tombs of persons
buried here; many of the modern ones simply
commemorate illustrious men and women buried
elsewhere.
We will first make the round of the chapels, and
begin with that of St. Benedict, where once an
indulgence of two years and forty days could be
obtained by hearing mass at the altar. But the
altar has gone, and in its place rises the stately tomb
of Frances Howard, Countess of Hertford, whose
effigy lies where once stood the candlesticks and
sacred host. Close by is the tomb of Archbishop
Langham, who was buried here in 1376, with his
head towards the altar, little dreaming that that
altar would ever be displaced to make room for the
tomb of a heretic lady.
Through an ancient oaken screen we enter the
adjacent Chapel of St. Edmund. Here is the
once beautiful tomb of William de Valence, Earl
of Pembroke, and half-brother to Henry III. Some
of the monuments in this chapel are of great
interest as examples of ancient art, but there is
not much to say about their occupants. Frances
Hokes, who died in 1622, is represented in Greek
costume, and Horace Walpole and others have
highly praised this statue. Close by lies Lady
Knollys, who attended Anna Boleyn on the scaffold.
In the monument of Elizabeth Russell we have
the earliest of the sitting figures, which have been
so strongly condemned by many who maintain that
a recumbent or bowed figure is the only proper
one for a tomb. Her marble finger points to a
death’s-head at her feet, and hence arose the
story that she died from a prick of a needle, and
some chose to add that it was a judgment upon
her for working on Sunday. But we must leave
the men and women “of high degree” who throng
this chapel, and the tiny alabaster babies of
Edward III. in their little cradle, and pass on
to the Chapel of St. Nicholas. This chapel is rich
in monuments of the Elizabethan era, and was
once bright with gold and colouring.
Of the royal tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII.
I have already spoken, but there are some others
of great interest. One bay, or chapel, is nearly
filled by the monument of James I.’s favourite
“Steenie”—George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham,
who was assassinated by Felton at Portsmouth,
in 1628. In another bay are two beautiful
modern monuments, harmonising well with their
surroundings: the one of the Duke of Montpensier,
brother of Louis Philippe, the other of the late
Dean Stanley. The Duke of Richmond and his
beautiful Duchess, “La Belle Stuart,” occupy a
bay with their colossal canopied tomb. Of the
other tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII., we should
specially mention that of General Monk in the
south aisle. He had a splendid funeral. For the
three weeks that he lay in state forty gentlemen of
good family stood as mutes with their backs
against the wall, twenty each day alternately.
In the Chapel of St. Paul is the once gilded tomb
of Lord Bourchier, the standard-bearer of Henry V.
at the battle of Agincourt. The altar has given
place to the tomb of Frances Sydney, the wife of
Ratcliff, Earl of Sussex, who figures in Scott’s
story of “Kenilworth.” Near at hand is the tomb
of Sir Thomas Bromley, the Lord Chancellor, who
presided at the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots.
But the chief feature of this chapel is the colossal
marble effigy of James Watt, the celebrated improver
of the steam-engine—a splendid monument,
from the chisel of Sir F. Chantrey.
The adjoining chapel, dedicated to St. John the
Baptist, contains the tomb of one of Cromwell’s
officers, Colonel Edward Popham. Where the
altar once stood stands the loftiest monument
in the Abbey—the tomb of Queen Elizabeth’s
Chamberlain, Lord Hundsdon. The old statesman
had waited long for an earldom, which
the queen had granted and revoked three times
over. She came at last to see him, and lay the
patent and the robes of a peer on his bed.
“Madam,” said the old man, “seeing you counted
me not worthy of this honour whilst I was living,
I count myself unworthy of it now that I am dying.”
Visitors are not admitted into the beautifully
sculptured, but dark, little chapel of Abbot Islip.
Just beyond it we enter what is now called the
eastern aisle of the south transept, formerly the
separate chapels. Here we find the celebrated
tomb of Sir Francis Vere. Above the warrior’s
effigy, supported by four kneeling knights, is a plain
canopy, upon which lies his helm and breastplate.
Looking round, we see many interesting memorials:
Admiral Kempenfelt, who went down in the Royal
George; Sir John Franklin, who perished among
Polar icebergs: Telford, the engineer; Sir Humphry
Davy, the philosopher: all these and many others
are commemorated in this aisle.
Emerging now into the north transept, we find
ourselves amongst what has been termed “the dead
Parliament of Britain.” Famous statesmen look
down upon us from their marble pedestals, and
beneath the central pavement are the graves of
Chatham, Pitt, Fox, Castlereagh, Canning,
Wilberforce, Grattan, and Palmerston. The
magnificent monument to the great Earl of Chatham
cost £6,000. Close beside it stands the huge
pile of sculpture by Nollekens, in memory of the
three captains who fell in Rodney’s famous victory
over the French in April, 1782. Nearly opposite
to Chatham’s monument is Chantrey’s fine statue
of Canning. On each side the transept, and
in the contiguous western aisle, the eye rests
upon sculptured marble bearing honoured names—Warren
Hastings, Richard Cobden, Palmerston,
Beaconsfield, and others whose lives are part of our
country’s history. As we stand here we may well
remember the words of Macaulay: “In no other
cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so
narrow a space. High over these venerable graves
towers the stately monument of Chatham, and from
above, his effigy, graven by a cunning hand, seems
still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid
England to be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance
at her foes.”
From the north transept we pass to the nave
along the north aisle of the choir. Here we enter
what has been termed a “Musicians’ Corner;”
amongst a few other organists and composers lies
Henry Purcell, whose epitaph (written by Dryden)
declares that he has gone to “that blessed place
where only his harmonies can be excelled.” The
sitting figure of the great philanthropist, William
Wilberforce, a little farther on, is not generally
admired.
Passing through the gate into the nave, we see
against the choir screen on our left the monument
of Sir Isaac Newton, with a tedious list of his discoveries.
Proceeding along the north aisle we see to
the left the new pulpit for the Sunday evening
services, and near it is a brass of life-size on a slab
covering the grave of the eminent engineer, Robert
Stephenson. Another slab close by shows the
Victoria Tower and a ground-plan of the Houses of
Parliament. This is the grave of the great architect,
Sir Charles Barry. The famous African explorer,
David Livingstone, lies in the centre of the
nave. Turning again to the north wall we see
about the centre of the numerous monuments one
to the Right Hon. Spencer Perceval, First Lord of
the Treasury, who was shot in the House of
Commons by Bellingham, in the afternoon of May
11th, 1812. In this aisle I was going to say lies,
but more correctly stands the body of Ben Jonson,
who is buried in an upright position.
At the end of the aisle are the monuments of a
few famous statesmen. Among them are Mackintosh
the historian, Tierney the orator, Lord
Holland, Zachary Macaulay, friend of Wilberforce,
and father of the great historian; and Charles
James Fox. The great rivals, Fox and Pitt, as we
have seen, are buried near each other in the transept.
Their monuments are also near together—that
of Pitt, by Westmacott, represents the great
orator trampling on the French Revolution, in the
attitude well known to the House of Commons at
that day.
Passing some immense military memorials of
little interest nowadays, and the busts of Canon
Kingsley and the poet Wordsworth, we now turn
along the southern wall of the nave. Here is the
monument of the dramatic poet Congreve, and that
of Admiral Tyrrell, who was buried at sea in 1766,
always attracts the notice of visitors. Many allegorical
emblems surround the representation of
the Admiral’s resurrection from the depths of the sea.
The clouds above are so like pancakes as to have
given the tomb its familiar name of “The Pancake
Monument.” Farther east we reach the monument
of the unfortunate Major André, executed as a spy
by General Washington in the War of Independence.
The monument has been frequently injured
and repaired, as the heads of Washington or André
have been again and again broken off by persons
having strong sympathies for one side or the other.
In the south aisle of the choir we pass on the
left the curious monument of Thomas Thynne,
representing in relief the murder of that gentleman
in Pall Mall. In this aisle also is the monument
of the well-known Dr. Watts. It was erected here
a century after his death; and still more recently
two other great Dissenters were commemorated
close by—John and Charles Wesley—the former
the founder of the religious society that bears his
name, and the latter justly called “the sweet singer
of Methodism.”
Passing the remarkable monument which shows
us Admiral Shovel dressed as a dandy of the
period, and reclining on cushions under a canopy,
we enter the south transept, or Poets’ Corner.
Geoffrey Chaucer was the pioneer of the children
of genius in this hallowed spot. He was buried
here in 1400. Nearly two hundred years passed
on, then Spenser was laid near by. As we gaze
round us we behold such a crowd of honoured
names that it is difficult to select any for special
mention. Just at our feet is the black marble
slab that covers the grave of Charles Dickens.
Close by lie the historians Grote and Lord
Macaulay. Other gravestones cover the mortal
remains of the wit Sheridan, the learned Dr.
Johnson, Old Parr (who lived under ten kings and
queens, from Edward IV. to Charles I.), &c. The
monument of Cowley recalls his grand funeral,
which was attended by about a hundred coaches
full of nobility and eminent personages. Close by
is a noble bust with the simple inscription—”J.
Dryden.” The monuments to Milton and
Shakespeare were erected here by admirers long
after their death, and are quite unworthy of their
fame. Gray, Thomson, Goldsmith, and many
other poets who were not buried here, are commemorated
on the walls and columns. The beautiful
bust of the poet Longfellow is one of the most
recent additions to the interesting features of
Poets’ Corner. A tablet to Granville Sharp reminds
us how that good man exerted himself on behalf
of the slave Somerset, and procured from twelve
English judges the famous decision “that as soon
as any slave sets his foot on English ground he is
free.” The allegorical pile in memory of the
“Great Duke of Argyll” strikes the eye of every
visitor. The monument to Dr. Busby, the famous
Westminster schoolmaster, is a fine piece of
sculpture. Addison represents Sir Roger de
Coverley as standing before it and saying, “Dr.
Busby! a great man; he whipped my grandfather;
a very great man! I should have gone to him
myself, if I had not been a blockhead—a very
great man.” If we turn round we see the statue
of Addison himself, by Westmacott, in the farther
corner of the transept. He was very fond of
meditating in the old Abbey, and in the Spectator
are many beautiful thoughts suggested by his visits
to the place. I will conclude our survey of the
tombs with a few of his words:—”When I look
upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy
dies within me; when I read the epitaph of the
beautiful every inordinate desire goes out;
when I meet with the grief of parents upon a
tombstone, my heart melts with compassion;
when I see the tomb of the parents themselves I
consider the vanity of grieving for those whom
we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying
by those who have deposed them, when I consider
rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men
who divided the world by their contests and
disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment
on the little competitions, factions, and debates of
mankind. When I read the several dates of the
tombs, of some that died yesterday and some that
died six hundred years ago, I consider that day
when we shall all make our appearance together.”
THE BIRDS’ PETITION.
W
e
four little birdies, scarce able to fly,
Are starv’d with the cold of the frosty sky;
Through the trees and the hedgerows the white snow is driven,
And lies around everywhere under the heaven;
It hangs on the woods, it covers the wold,
It spreads over city, and hamlet, and hold.
Happy ye little folk! sheltered at home
From the blasts that over the white world roam;
You are merry and gay ‘mid your plentiful stores,
Oh, think of us ready to die out of doors!
The ground yields no worm, few berries the trees,
Oh, throw us some crumbs, little folk, if you please!
So, when the summer-time comes with the flowers
Decking the meadows, the wild wood, and bowers,
Every garden and grove shall resound with our song:
Oh, hear now our cry, for the winter is long!
The berries are scarce, so deep lies the snow,
But there’s comfort in crumbs for birdies, you know!
“begging for crumbs.” See p. 368.
The Editor’s Pocket-book.
About the Mistletoe.
The mistletoe is a shrub which grows or lives
upon certain trees, such as the apple, pear, and hawthorn.
It is found also on limes, poplars, firs, and
sycamores, and, more rarely, on oaks—contrary to
the popular belief. The white berries are full of a
thick clammy juice by which the seeds are
fastened to the branches where they take root.
The mistletoe has been the object of a very special
regard for centuries, and traces of this high esteem
still survive in the well-known Christmas custom.
One variety of this practice has it that each time a
kiss is snatched under the mistletoe, a berry is
plucked from the bush, and that when the berries
have all been removed the privilege ceases. The
Druids thought that the mistletoe which grew upon
the oak possessed magical virtues, and they valued
it accordingly. One of their priests in a white robe
cut off the precious bush with a golden knife.
Badges of the Apostles.
The painters of the Middle Ages used to represent
the Apostles with special badges which were
generally symbolical of some incident in their lives.
Andrew was depicted with a cross, because he was
crucified; Bartholomew with a knife, because he was
flayed; James the Greater with a pilgrim’s staff
and gourd bottle, because he was the patron saint of
pilgrims; James the Less with a fuller’s pole,
because he was slain by Simeon the fuller with a
blow on the head with his pole; John with a cup
and a winged serpent flying out of it, in allusion to
the tradition that the apostle was challenged by a
priest of Diana to drink a cup of poison. John
made the sign of the cross on the cup, whereupon
Satan, like a dragon, flew from it, and the apostle
drank the cup with safety. Judas was represented
with a bag, because he bare the bag and “what
was put therein;” Jude with a club, because he
was killed by that weapon; Matthew with a hatchet,
because he was slain by one; Matthias with a
battle-axe, because after having been stoned he
was beheaded; Paul with a sword, because his
head was cut off with one; Peter with a bunch of
keys and also with a cock, in reference to the
familiar episodes; Philip with a long staff surmounted
by a cross, because he died by being hung
by the neck to a tall pillar; Simon with a saw,
because he was sawn to death; Thomas with a
lance, because his body was pierced with a lance.
The Yule Log.
Who has not heard of the huge log (or clog) of
wood that is laid in the fireplace on Christmas
Eve amid great pomp and ceremony? It is lighted
with the brand of last year’s log which is always
carefully preserved for the purpose. During the
burning of the log there is much merry-making and
songs and dances and telling of stories. It was
the subject of several superstitions. If it did not
burn all night that was looked upon as a misfortune,
and if a barefooted or squinting person came to the
house while it was burning that also was a bad
omen. The name Yule carries us back to the
far-off ages when the heathen nations of the North
held their annual winter festival in honour of the sun.
The Senses of Bees.
Experiments conducted by Sir John Lubbock
seem to show that bees have a preference for blue
flowers. Besides this curious display of a colour
sense, there is some reason to believe that these
“busy” insects may possibly possess in a very rude
state the power of hearing. Some bees were trained
to come for honey placed on a musical box, on the
lawn close to a window of the house. The box was
made to play several hours daily for a fortnight; it
was then brought indoors out of sight, but close to
the open window, about seven yards from its former
position. The bees did not, however, find the honey,
though when it was once shown to them they came
promptly enough.
Abolition of Christmas Day.
On December the 24th, 1652, there appeared in a
small gazette called the Flying Eagle one of the
most curious statements ever published in connection
with Christmas Day. It told how the House
of Commons had that day been considering the
business of the Navy, and how, before it separated,
it had been presented with a “terrible remonstrance”
against Christmas Day. “In consequence
of this,” the Flying Eagle went on to say,
“Parliament spent some time in consultation about
the abolition of Christmas Day, passed orders to
that effect, and resolved to sit on the following day,
which was commonly called Christmas Day.”
The Dancing Bird.
The forests of Nicaragua are the home of a
dancing bird, variously called “Toledo” from its
whistling note, and “Bailador,” or “Dancer,” from
its curious jumping action. A naturalist has
described their remarkable performances. Upon a
bare twig about four feet from the ground, two
male Bailadors were seen engaged in a song and
dance. They were about eighteen inches apart,
and alternately jumped two feet into the air, alighting
always in the same spot. As soon as one
bird alighted the other bird jumped up, their time
being like clockwork in its regularity, and each
“accompanying himself to the tune of ‘to-le-do‘—’to-le-do‘—’to-le-do,’
sounding the syllable ‘to‘
as he crouched to spring, ‘le‘ while in the air, and
‘do‘ as he alighted.” The performance was kept
up for more than a minute, when the birds found
they were being watched, and made off.
Americanisms.
A few words current in the United States are
being gradually adopted in England. The number
of new words coined in America is said to be very
small indeed, as compared with the number of fresh
meanings which certain words have been made to
bear. Of the former “caucus”—a political committee—and
“Yankee” are examples. Of the
latter “smart” used for “clever,” and “clever” for
“amiable,” are specimens. But even among the
different States of the Union, verbal peculiarities
are found. When the new Englander “guesses,”
the Western “calculates,” and the Southern
“reckons,” but these various terms are all meant
in the one sense—namely of thinking or supposing.
In the New England States, “ugly” is employed
for “ill-natured,” and “friends” for “relations.”
Some of the words in vogue in the Middle States
are survivals of the original Dutch colonists—as
“boss,” an employer or manager, and “loafer,” a
vagabond. As to the Western States, it has been
amusingly observed that “every prominent person
has his own private vocabulary.” Like the Emperor
Sigismund the Great, who was “above grammar,”
the Western States folk are superior to dictionaries.
Peacock Pie.
On the tables of the squires and nobles was
sometimes seen at Christmas and other festive
seasons a peacock pie, but so costly was the dish
that it was only the very wealthy who could face
such extravagance. At one end of the pie the
peacock’s head, in all its plumage and with beak
richly gilt, appeared above the crust, while at the
other end the tail with feathers outspread made
a brave show. The dish, however, was regarded
more in the light of a superb ornament to the table,
for it was not very good eating.
The “Ironsides.”
This epithet applied to the famous soldiers of
Cromwell was at first used as a nickname of
Cromwell himself. Mr. Picton, in his well-known
life of the Lord Protector, quotes a letter from a
Northampton gentleman, written just before the
battle of Naseby. The writer speaks of King
Charles’s army as being much impressed with the
news “that Ironsides was coming to join with the Parliament’s
army.” And when “Ironsides” reached
them the cavalry “gave a great shout for joy of his
coming to them.”
Migration of Storks.
The storks pass the winter in the warmer climes
of Africa. When the time for migration has
arrived, they leave in great flocks, flying at a considerable
height. Their wings are large, and have
a great sweep, and consequently, their flight is
powerful. The company of pilgrims, when at rest,
afford much amusement to onlookers, and as they
have the habit of constantly clacking their bills
together, it will be easily believed that the uproar
thus caused is a terrible nuisance. Colonel Irby
likens the noise to a rattle, and if you will try to
imagine the effect of hundreds of rattles, you may,
perhaps, be able to form some notion of the disturbance
that these storks create at the time when
they are enjoying periods of well-earned repose.
THIRTY-FOURTH LIST OF OFFICERS AND MEMBERS
Officers’ Names are printed in Small Capital Letters, and the Names of their Members are printed beneath. Where a short line, thus “——,”
is printed, the end of an Officer’s List is indicated.
A FEW WORDS ABOUT THE “LITTLE FOLKS” HUMANE SOCIETY.
F
ifty thousand
Officers and Members—such
is the printed muster-roll of The Little Folks
Humane Society. As most of the Readers of
Little Folks are aware, however, this does not comprise
all the names on the Register of the Society—for
since this grand total was reached many hundreds of
Children have enrolled themselves; nor does the fact that
in future the publication of the Lists will be discontinued
(as announced on page 55 of this Volume) signify that the
work of the Society—which has been so enthusiastically
carried on since it commenced in January, 1882—is accomplished.
On the contrary, the Editor earnestly trusts
that his Readers will not only still come forward in large
numbers and become Members, by sending in their
“promises” to him, but will also, in the future as they
have in the past, continue to induce their relatives and
friends to enroll themselves under the Society’s banner.
For it should be remembered that the Dumb Creation
always stands in need of help and protection; and it is
to a great extent by the aid of such associations as The
Little Folks Humane Society—founded for the purpose
of inculcating in the minds of children Kindness
towards Animals—that the claims of the weak and
defenceless creatures around us are recognised as they
should be.
The names of all who fill up and sign the “form of
promise” (which is again printed on the next page), and
send it to the Editor, will, as heretofore, be duly inscribed
on the Register of the Society; and Certificates of Membership
will be forwarded to any who desire to have them,
if stamped addressed envelopes be enclosed for the purpose.
(The limit of age for enrolment is 21).
Members will also be eligible to become Officers of the
Society and receive Officers’ Certificates if they induce
Fifty other Children to join, and send in that number of
“promises” to the Editor, all together; but the small book
and medal hitherto awarded to Officers will, in future (as
stated on page 55), be given only to those who, in sending
up their Fifty “promises,” enclose a certificate from a
Parent, Teacher, or other responsible person, stating
that the collection of such “promises” had been commenced
prior to July 1, 1884.
The wonderful progress made by The Little Folks
Humane Society since its institution in January, 1882,
has, the Editor feels sure, been a source of much gratification
to all who have taken part in its work; and while
tendering thanks to the Officers and Members—comprising
representatives of every rank and station, and
living in all parts of the globe—who have so zealously and
heartily co-operated with him, he can only express the
hope that in the accounts of the Society which he proposes
to give in Little Folks from time to time, he
may be able to record the same satisfactory progress in
its growth during future years as he has in past ones.
The “form of promise” to be signed (which should be
copied on half a sheet of note-paper and forwarded to the
Editor, after being filled up, and attested by a Parent,
Teacher, or other responsible person) is as follows:—
To the Editor of Little Folks.
[Here insert full name]
I ………………….. hereby undertake, as far
as it lies in my power, to be kind to every living
creature that is useful and not harmful to man.
[Full name]
…………………….
[Address]
……………………
……………………
(Age………..)
Witness [of signature]
…………………….
[Date]
…………………….
All communications to the Editor in reference to the
Society should have the words, “Little Folks Humane
Society,” on the left-hand top corners of the envelopes.
TRUE STORIES ABOUT PETS, ANECDOTES, &c.
HOW A WILD DUCK SAVED HER CHILDREN.
D
EAR Mr. Editor,—Our
river is so shallow that in
some parts reeds grow in it, where wild ducks are
very fond of building their nests. Once, shepherds
who were with the cattle, near that river, saw a wild duck,
with eighteen little ones swimming about, and as the little
ducks were so small they thought it would be very easy to
catch them. So accordingly they got into the water, and
were trying to catch the young ones, when they perceived
that the old duck, instead of flying away, as they expected
she would do, was turning over in the water as if she were
hurt. The shepherds seeing this, thought it would be very
well to catch her first, as it seemed a very easy thing to do,
so they went over to where she was. Meanwhile the little
ducks got safely hidden in the rushes, and the old one seeing
that her children were out of their enemies’ reach, flew
into the air and left the shepherds standing with nothing.
The Princess Sophie Gagarine
(Aged 12½.)
8, Place Catharine, Odessa.
THE SAGACITY OF ANTS.
D
EAR Mr. Editor,—A
friend recently told me that
when walking in his garden one day he noticed an
ant seemingly examining a dead caterpillar which
lay on the path. Then it returned to its nest, but soon came
back with several others. These, walking round the caterpillar,
examined it carefully, as did the first. Home they all
went; soon they returned with still more of their companions,
then they formed a long column, very like a rope, and
dragged him to the edge of the path. The nest being in the
flower-beds they had to pull him over the tiles surrounding
the garden, but once over this difficulty on they toiled until
after a quarter of an hour’s hard work they reached their
nest.
Archibald Hurd.
(Aged 15.)
Elmcroft, Tottenham Lane,
Hornsey, N.
A KIND HORSE.
D
EAR Mr. Editor,—The
other day, as I was walking
along the road, I saw a horse do another a deed
of kindness. One poor horse was out in the road
without anything to eat, and the other in a field with plenty
of grass. The horse that was in the field picked a mouthful
of grass and put his head over the gate; the poor one then
took it out of his mouth and ate it up. This was done five
or six times. The horse then neighed, as much as to say,
“thank you,” and walked on.
Arthur W. White.
(Aged 11.)
Stickland School, Blandford.
PRIZE STORY COMPETITION FOR DECEMBER.
I
n
the place of a “Picture Page Wanting Words,” the usual Monthly Prizes are offered for the best Original
Stories on the subject of “A Skating Adventure,” namely—-a Guinea Book and an Officer’s Medal of the Little
Folks Legion of Honour for the best Story; and a smaller book and Officer’s Medal for the best Story (on
the same subject) relatively to the age of the Competitor, so that no reader is too young to try for this second prize.
All Competitors must be under the age of 16. The Stories, which are not to exceed 500 words in length, must be
certified as strictly original by a Parent, Minister, Teacher, or other person of responsible position, and must reach the
Editor on or before the 10th of December (the 15th of December for Competitors residing abroad). In addition to the
two Prizes and Officers’ Medals some of the most deserving Competitors will be included in a Special List of Honour, and
will be awarded Members’ Medals of the Little Folks Legion of Honour. It is particularly requested that each envelope
containing a Story should have the words “December Prize Story Competition” written on the left-hand top corner of
it. (Competitors are referred to a notice respecting the Silver Medal, which was printed on page 115 of the last Volume.)
LITTLE DOCTOR MAY.
Little Daisy playing
‘Mid the ripening corn,
Pierced her plump white finger
With a cruel thorn.
Home she flies, eyes clouded
With a mist of tears;
Little bosom trembling
With vague childlike fears.
Brother Leonard lifts her
Lightly from the ground;
May, beside her kneeling,
Tends the swelling wound.
Softly takes a needle—
Knows what she’s about—
Pricks, and lo! the hidden
Thorn slips safely out.
Daisy’s fears have vanished,
Tears are passed away—
Leonard dubs his sister
Little Doctor May.
A DAY IN THE SNOW.
Words from “Little Folks.”
Music by the Rev. F. Peel, B.Mus., Oxon
1. Come along, bairnies, laughing and singing,
The echoes all ringing around as you go;
Come, for the fairies with chill little fingers
Have seiz’d on the raindrops and turn’d them to snow.
Come along, bairnies, laughing and singing,
The echoes all ringing around as you go.
2. Come, watch the white flakes softly descending,
Still, never-ending, silent, and slow,
Folding a mantle of beauty around us,
A mantle of flickering, fluttering snow.
3. Come, rosy fingers, gather the treasure!
Bright looks of pleasure I see as you go;
Laughing and singing, The echoes all ringing—
Oh, the delight of a day in the snow!
OUR LITTLE FOLKS’ OWN PUZZLES.
double diagonal puzzle
If definitions of the objects and scene shown above be placed one
under the other in the order indicated, the diagonals, left to right, will
form the names of two well-known cities.
MENTAL HISTORICAL SCENE.
A
n
old man is seen in a dungeon, dressed in rags and
covered with mud. A slave enters with a sword,
evidently for the purpose of murdering him, when he stops
suddenly, awed and frightened by the prisoner’s face and
stern voice, as he demands if he has the presumption to kill
him. Then the slave rushes from the cell, declaring it impossible
to despatch such a man. Who is the prisoner?
Nellie Ellis.
(Aged 15¼).
Frost Hill House,
Liversedge, Yorkshire.
SINGLE ACROSTIC.
T
he
initials read
downwards will
give the name of
a great musician.
My first is one of England’s public schools.
My second is one of the continents.
My third is a planet.
My fourth is one of the largest rivers in Europe.
My fifth is one of the Christian festivities.
My sixth is the opposite to rejoice.
Mildred C. Watson.
(Aged 12.)
Harrow-on-the-Hill,
Middlesex.
MISSING-LETTER
PUZZLE.
W
hen
the missing
letters have
been supplied,
the whole will form a verse from one of Cowper’s
poems.
W × e × t × e × r × t × s × w × r × i × r × u × e × ,
B × e × d × n × f × o × t × e × o × a × r × d × ,
S × u × h × w × t × a × i × d × g × a × t × i × n
× o × n × e × o × h × r × o × n × r × s × o × s.
Henrietta Puttock.
(Aged 13¼)
Clevelands, Billingshurst, Sussex.
SQUARE WORDS.
A
volcanic
mountain.
2. A sign of sorrow.
3. A designation.
4. An extent of surface.
1. A sweet-scented herb.
2. A thought.
3. Not distant.
4. An article of pastry.
1. A range of mountains.
2. A trial of speed.
3. A portion of land.
4. A mocking look.
Louie W. Smith.
(Aged 15¼.)
11, Woodside Terrace, Glasgow.
BURIED NAMES OF FLOWERS AND TREES.
T
he
initial letters of the following flowers and trees, if
put together, will form the name of a town in England.
1. That pot is made of iron.
2. To and fro several times he went.
3. You can sit in the porch, Ida.
4. Mamma, please may I have that book?
5. That reel may do for the kitten.
A. K. M. White.
(Aged 15.)
7, Carlton Crescent, Southampton.
CRYPTOGRAPH.
T
he
following will
form a well-known
verse by Wordsworth.
Nzib szw z orggov ozny,
Rg’h uovvxv dzh dsrgv zh hmld,
Zmw vevibdsviv gszg Nzib dvmg,
Gsv ozny dzh hfiv gl tl.
Amy G. Merson.
(Aged 14)
De-la-pole,
Cottingham, near Hull.
RIDDLE-ME-REE.
M
y
first is in ache, but not in sore;
My second is in pippin, but not in core;
My third is in pie, but not in tart;
My fourth is in wheel, but not in cart;
My fifth is in sole, and also in pike;
My whole is a fruit which all of us like.
Janie Wilson.
(Aged 11-½.)
Jessiefield Offerton, near Stockport.
ARITHMOREM.
1. 5 + reri = a piece of water.
2. 51 + egarf = weak.
3. 54 + lye = bright.
4. 56 + e = bad.
5. 11 + as = an imaginary line.
6. 506 + azr = a mask.
7. 104 + li = polite.
Effie E. Bell.
(Aged 14.)
Market Place, Swaffham.
DIAMOND PUZZLE.
A
consonant.
2. A fish.
3. A fragment.
4. To comprise.
5. A celebrated musician.
6. To roll down.
7. Not ever.
8. A large expanse of water.
9. A consonant.
H. Bell.
(Aged 13¾.)
St. George’s Mount, New Brighton, Cheshire.
PRIZE PUZZLE COMPETITION.
WINTER COMPETITION.
T
he
Puzzles given in the November and the present
number of Little Folks form, as announced, the
Winter Competition.
Prizes.
In the Winter Competition there will be a First Prize of
a Guinea Volume; a Second Prize of a Half-Guinea
Volume; a Third Prize of a Five-Shilling Volume, awarded
in Each Division, viz., the Senior Division for girls
and boys between the ages of 14 and 16 (inclusive), and
the Junior Division for those under 14 years of age.
There will also be awards of Bronze Medals of the Little
Folks Legion of Honour to the three next highest of the
Competitors following the Prize-winners in each Division.
Regulations.
Solutions of the Puzzles published in this number must reach
the Editor not later than December 8th (December 12th for
Competitors residing abroad), addressed as under:—
The Editor of “Little Folks,”
La Belle Sauvage Yard,
Ludgate Hill,
London, E.C.
Answers to Puzzles.
Junior [or Senior] Division.
Solutions to Puzzles must be accompanied by certificates from a
Parent, Teacher, or other responsible person, stating that they
are the sole and unaided work of the competitor. No assistance
must be given by any other person.
Competitors can be credited only under their own name.
The decision of the Editor of Little Folks on all matters
must be considered final.
The names and addresses of Prize and Medal winners will be duly
published in Little Folks.
GAME PUZZLE FOR DECEMBER.
scylla and charybdis: a game for four players.
Our readers will all recollect the classical story of Scylla
and Charybdis, the former a maiden changed by Circe
into a hideous sea-monster, who threw herself into
the sea and became a rock, the latter changed by Jupiter
into a foaming whirlpool. Vessels which avoided the rock
of Scylla were oft-times prone to fall into the dangerous
whirlpool of Charybdis.
On this legend our Puzzle this month is based, though
the two classical dangers will be now only two little children
who will try to seize on the argosies which their brothers and
sisters send through the straits.
To begin which, settle a subject on which you will have
your Competition—Botany, History, Geography, Astronomy,
Natural History, or any other you may select—then cut out
a number of pieces of cardboard about this size—
For ordinary subjects you may be able to cut out from the
largest type used in the daily or weekly papers, syllables
that will meet your requirements, but for special subjects,
such as Botany, Astronomy, &c., you will find it better to
write your own pieces of cardboard in a good bold, clear
style.
You will want a considerable quantity of syllables, and the
words in all cases should range from simple ones, easy to be
discovered, to more difficult and puzzling words.
Having got a quantity of syllables, arrange them in three
groups: (1) the simple words, (2) the more difficult, (3) the
most difficult. Keep these groups in separate boxes, and
these separate boxes again in one large box marked with the
subject of the play.
Four players now arrange themselves thus: two as
mariners, one at either end of the table, and two as Scylla
and Charybdis, one on each side of it.
The ship will consist of a little Japanese tray, or lid of a
cardboard box, with a piece of string fixed at either end to
draw it by. In this are placed the syllables forming two
words, and one of the mariners draws it slowly across the
table. As it passes along, Scylla and Charybdis try to discover
the words it contains, and if they can do so ere it
passes they appropriate the cargo, and the ship reaches the
opposite end of the table from which it started empty! It
is again freighted and sent back, this time perhaps its contents
are not discovered. And thus the game goes on till all
the words are exhausted, when a count is made. Suppose
50 words were sent across the straits, the record might read:
| The Mariners gained | 27 words |
| Scylla and Charybdis gained | 23 words |
| —-— | |
| The game won by the Mariners by 4 words. | |
Now we will proceed to give our Puzzle. The syllables
given below will be found, when correctly sorted out and
arranged, to form the names of the characters indicated in
the explanatory notes at the foot.
Senior Division.
| ih | igna | van | so | pe | mor | tius | ba |
| nuc | varn | no | hah | no | car | re | chi |
| lac | hage | delo | to | nn | tt | aca | ll |
| nem | nvon | yola | ense | chi | ann | lla | ca |
1. The “Michael Angelo” of Spain.
2. A cruel Roman Emperor, assassinated by a soldier.
3. He is said to have written the lines—
“When Adam delved and Eve span,
Where was then the gentleman.”
4. A German physician, whose motto was: “Similia
similibus curantur.”
5. A page, soldier, philosopher, and Jesuit.
6. A Swedish philosopher.
7. A Florentine painter; he has a celebrated picture in the
Louvre, called “Charity.”
8. A Prussian statesman, author of various works.
9. A Spanish navigator who assisted Pizarro.
10. A Quaker, founder of a colony, author, &c.
11. A celebrated general in Afghanistan, &c.
12. An Italian musical composer who wrote several
oratorios, operas, and masses.
Junior Division.
| ko | mar | new | yps | th | di | wa | cam |
| po | add | cia | bla | peg | nus | chr | ina |
| nch | gla | ila | pe | ing | rd | ist | gio |
| dst | gate | one | om | nti | ard | ton | ch |
1. An antiquary who left money to the Oxford University
for “a copy of English verses.”
2. Emperor of the East, married the widow of Theodosius
the Younger.
3. French historian and member of Legislative Assembly.
4. A self-taught Ayrshire sculptor.
5. A hospodar of Moldavia and Wallachia.
6. A Bishop of Salisbury, astronomer and mathematician.
7. Author of “Rape of the Lock.”
8. A Speaker of the House of Commons, Premier, and
Home Secretary.
9. A French aeronaut, killed by the explosion of a balloon.
10. The Papal legate who attended the trial of an English
Queen.
11. A Swedish Queen who, having abdicated, abjured
Lutheranism, and was pensioned by the Pope.
12. A Lord of the Treasury, Secretary for Colonies,
Master of the Mint, President of Board of Trade, Chancellor
of Exchequer, Premier, author, &c.
* *
*
In order to gain full number of marks Competitors
must arrange the names in the proper order, placing them as
numbered in the lights.
[The Editor requests that all inquiries and replies intended for
insertion in Little Folks should have the words “Questions
and Answers” written on the left-hand top corners of the
envelopes containing them. Only those which the Editor considers
suitable and of general interest to his readers will be printed.]
Prize Competitions, &c.
X Y Z, Swallow.—[The names of the winners of the
Silver Medals will be printed in the February Number.—Ed.]
Literature.
A Lover of Poetry would like to know where the
following line occurs, and by whom it was written:—
“The league long roller thund’ring on the reef.”
Rags and Tatters wishes to know where the following
lines are taken from, and who is the author:—
“Till the day break and shadows flee away
In that far future dawn that knows not death.”
Ethel writes, in answer to Little Maid of Arcadie,
that the quotation—
“Evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart”—
is from a poem by Thomas Hood, entitled “The Lady’s
Dream.” Answers also received from several other readers.
Work.
Nelly asks if any one could tell her how to make a
pretty and simple lace collar.
Cookery.
Ruby and A Strawberry are informed that full directions
for making toffee appear on page 335 of this number.
General.
Pansy and M. E. would be glad if any one would tell her
how to press flowers, as those she has done have gone
brown.
Gummy would be very pleased if any one could give him
a few hints on satin-painting; has the satin to be prepared
before it can be painted on? if so, how?
Verus would like to know of a very simple way of making
an Æolian harp, if any one could tell her.—[The method
was described in the May, 1882, number of Little Folks,
Vol. XV., p. 319.—Ed.]
The Shamrock of Freiling would be glad to know if
any of the readers of Little Folks could tell them how to
bleach grass for making Markart bouquets.
Daffodil asks if any one will tell her how to paint on
tiles with water-colours.
Natural History.
Edith would like to know what is the best food for
rabbits, and how often they ought to be fed. [They should be
fed twice a day, every time clearing away everything and
giving quite fresh food. The staple diet must be what is
called “dry food,” varied, such as dry crust of bread,
bread soaked in milk and squeezed dry, barley meal mixed
with a very little hot water, oatmeal same way, dry barley
or oats. You need not use all, but vary now and then.
Give beside every day a moderate quantity of fresh green
leaves, kept first long enough to dry off all dew or rain, and
begin slightly to wither.]
Parthenope would be glad to know what would be the
best food for a starling in the winter?—[A sort of stock food
is made of the fine-ground oats called “fig-dust,” made into
a stiff dough with milk and water, adding every day a pinch
of soaked currants or a little fine-shredded raw beef. Give
a little fruit now and then, and a few odd worms, insects, or
snails. A little sopped bread will be taken as a change, but
there must be a little animal food.]
Mary Brazier asks what is the best food for a dormouse.
She knows that a little Indian corn is often given.—[You
should vary the diet with wheat, Indian corn, bits of bread-crust,
bread-and-milk squeezed dry, with any kind of nut
occasionally, and a few blades of grass or field weeds.]
ANSWERS TO OUR LITTLE FOLKS’ OWN PUZZLES (p. 317).
POETICAL ACROSTIC.—Campbell.
1. C hâteaubriand. 2. A lfieri. 3. M ilton. 4. P etraria.
5. B yron. 6. E ulla. 7. L eopardi. 8. L amartine.
MISSING VOWEL PUZZLE.
“Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.”
DOUBLE GEOGRAPHICAL ACROSTIC.
Italy—Garda.
1. I ou G. 2. T arif A. 3. A nadi R. 4. L ichfiel D.
5. Y andill A.
MENTAL HISTORICAL SCENE.
Epaminondas, at the battle of Mantinea.
NUMERICAL ENIGMA.
“O what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!”
1. Lear. 2. Train. 3. Drain. 4. Weep. 5. Character.
6. Brew. 7. Goad. 8. What. 9. Wife. 10. Drove. 11. Wander.
12. Save. 13. Stew. 14. Sleep. 15. It.
FOUR PICTORIAL PROVERBS.
1. “All are not thieves that dogs bark at.”
2. “A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
3. “Count not your chickens before they are hatched.”
4. “When the cat is away the mice do play.”
To My Readers
hat
are you going to give us in the next Volume?” is, I dare say, the question
which is in some of your minds to ask me; so, as usual on reaching the end
of a half-year, I will tell you of a few of the arrangements made for the New
Volume, beginning with the January Number. These include:—
A Serial Story by the Author of “A Little Too Clever,” “Margaret’s
Enemy,” “Maid Marjory,” &c., to continue from month to month; and a Second
Serial Story, by Henry Frith, called “King Charles’s Page; or, Two
Children’s Adventures in the Time of the Commonwealth,” also to run for six
months. The latter is an unusually exciting tale—full of novel incident and
strange adventure. Then there will be
“Legends and Stories of Famous Rivers,” by Edwin Hodder (“Old
Merry”), in which you will be told many curious tales and wonderful legends
associated with a few of the most celebrated of the world’s Rivers.
“Some Notable Pictures and their Story“—telling, in a bright and chatty
style, about a few of the masterpieces of Art, how they came to be produced, and what
fortunes, good and bad, some of them experienced; including interesting anecdotes
and facts concerning themselves and their painters.
“England’s Forests in Days of Old“—a series of papers relating the story of the stirring
incidents of which some of the well-known forests of this country have been the scene.
“Birds and Flowers of the Month“—consisting of full-page Pictures which M. Giacomelli,
the well-known French Artist, has specially drawn for Little Folks. One of these will appear
in each number of the New Volume, accompanied by Verses appropriate to the subject.
“Bible Storms by Land and Sea“—a new series of Scripture Stories for “Our Sunday
Afternoons;” and the usual “Bible Exercises” will appear every month.
“Pages for Very Little Folk.” In response to repeated requests, I am glad to announce
that this department of Little Folks—comprising two pages of bold pictures and simple stories
printed in large type—will be re-commenced in January, and continued every month.
Mr. Palmer Cox, the American Artist, has drawn for Little Folks some more Humorous
Pictures in his well-known style; the Notes and Jottings by a Practical Writer on the subject of
“The Children’s Own Garden” will be given, as well as Fairy Stories, with droll and
laughable pictures, every month; and besides Stories, Poems, Anecdotes, and Pictures of every
kind, all the regular features, such as “The Editor’s Pocket-book,” “Songs with Music,”
“The Little Folks’ Own Pages,” “Questions and Answers,” &c. &c., will be still maintained.
Several New Special Competitions for 1885 have been arranged in addition to the ordinary
Monthly Puzzle and “Picture Page” ones. The most important of these is
A New “‘Little Folks’ Painting Book Competition,” in which, as already briefly announced,
a number of Prizes in Money, Books, and Medals will be offered. It will be open to both Senior
and Junior Competitors, and so arranged that all may have equal opportunities of being successful.
This Competition will be in connection with “The ‘Little Folks’ Proverb Painting Book,”
which is now ready; and the full Regulations and the list of Prizes to be awarded, as well as of
those offered in all the other Special Competitions for 1885, will be printed in the January Number.
In that number will appear, too, the names of the Prize and Medal winners in the Competitions for
1884, also those in the Puzzle and “Picture Page” Competitions announced in the September,
October, and November numbers (including the “Home and Foreign” Competitions).
I am glad to find that the Competitions for the year now closing have been so popular with you,
and I heartily thank you on behalf of the little ones in the Hospitals—among whom the articles of
Needlework, Dolls, Illuminated Texts, Scrap Albums, Toys of various kinds, and the hundreds of
Illustrated Story-books written by yourselves, which you have sent to me, will be distributed at
Christmas—for all the trouble and care you have so lovingly bestowed on your work. You are indeed
amply repaid by the rays of gladness which these your gifts will bring to helpless sufferers!
A Coloured Picture, called “Three Little Kittens,” will be given with the January
Number, and the Frontispieces to all the other numbers will be printed in a bright colour as they have
been in the present Volume. You will also be pleased to hear that it is intended in future to make all
the pages of our Magazine more attractive in appearance, but I need only just allude to this and
leave you to see for yourselves in the January Number in what manner it will be effected.
Having thus told you what is to be done for you in the New Volume, I will only add that I rely
on you all to do everything you can for Little Folks by persuading as many of your relatives and
friends as possible to take it in. Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,
Your very sincere Friend,
THE EDITOR.