Little Folks:

A Magazine for the Young.

NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES.

CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited.

LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK.

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

Contents

[Pg 257]

A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.

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

CHAPTER XVI.—IN LONDON.

“W
hat is the meaning
of this—this
gross outrage?”
stammered Grandpapa
Donaldson,
growing very red
and angry. “By
what right do you
molest peaceful
travellers? Go on,
my dear,” he added,
addressing
Mrs. Donaldson.
“You and Effie
go on; I will join
you directly.”

“We will wait
for you, father,”
Mrs. Donaldson
said, in a sweet, pensive voice. “What do these
gentlemen want?”

“You cannot leave the carriage, madam,” one of
the men said, placing himself firmly against the
door, and drawing a paper from his pocket. “I
hold here a warrant for the apprehension of John
and Lucy Murdoch, who put up last night at the
‘Royal Hotel’ at Edinburgh, and engaged a first-class
compartment by the Scotch morning express.”

“You are making a mistake,” Mrs. Donaldson
said quietly. “Our name is not Murdoch.”

“A mistake you will have to pay dearly for!” the
old gentleman cried irascibly. “It is preposterous,
perfectly preposterous!”

Elsie stood by, listening with all her ears, quite
unable to understand the meaning of this strange
scene, any more than that old Mr. Donaldson was
evidently very annoyed and angry about it. When
the words “John and Lucy Murdoch” fell on her
ear, she gave a little start, for Meg’s remarks came
back to her mind, filling her with curiosity. Fortunately,
no one was observing her, and her momentary
confusion passed unobserved in the gloom
of the carriage. Not for worlds would she have
betrayed Meg.

“Effie dear,” Mrs. Donaldson said sweetly,
“have you the book grandpapa gave you, and
my umbrella?”

“Yes, mamma; here they are,” Elsie returned, as
readily as she could. Never before had it seemed
so difficult to bring out the word “mamma”
naturally.

It was the answer that Mrs. Donaldson wanted.

“Then we are quite ready,” she returned.
“Please do not detain us any longer than you are
obliged,” she said haughtily to the man who held
the carriage door; “my little girl is very tired.”

“Sorry for that,” the stranger said, eyeing Elsie
curiously. The officer had been examining the
various items of luggage, peering under the seats,
taking stock of everything. They seemed a trifle
undecided about something, Elsie thought.

When the man had completed his search, he
turned to Elsie. “What is your name, my little
girl?” he asked kindly, but with his eyes fixed upon
her face.

“Effie Donaldson,” Elsie replied, not daring for
Duncan’s sake to speak the truth.

“How long have you known this lady?” he
asked.

“It is mamma,” Elsie answered, slowly and
timidly, “and my Grandpapa Donaldson.”

The man said a few words in a low tone to the
other, and then turned again to the old gentleman.

“I am sorry to be obliged to detain you,” he
said, more respectfully than he had hitherto spoken.
“My directions are to take into custody a lady and
gentleman travelling from Edinburgh in a specially-engaged
compartment. The little girl is not mentioned
in my warrant, but I regret that she must
be included. No doubt you will be able to set it
straight. I advise you to come quietly, and then
no force will be used.”

“Come quietly, indeed! I refuse to come at
all!” the old gentleman exclaimed. “You are
exceeding your authority, and will get yourself into
trouble. Read me your warrant.”

Elsie listened silently while the officer read out
something about a lady dressed as a widow passing
under the name of Thwaites, and a gentleman,
calling himself her brother, who had left the “Royal
Hotel” that morning, and travelled to London in a
specially-engaged carriage. This perplexed Elsie
very much, for she remembered what Meg had said
of the gentleman she had been told to call Uncle
William, “then he passes himself off as her
brother, and he’s her husband all the time,” which
seemed strangely like what the man had just read,
except for the name Thwaites, which Elsie had
never heard.

“Why, it’s most absurd!” the old gentleman
[Pg 258]
cried. “The only point of similarity is that of my
daughter being a widow. You have not the slightest
ground for identifying us with the description
you hold.”

“Nevertheless, I am compelled to take you before
a magistrate, where you can explain to his
satisfaction,” the officer replied firmly, drawing
from his pocket some strange instruments, looking
like clumsy bracelets, with heavy chains linking
them together.

Mrs. Donaldson uttered a faint scream, and sank
back on the carriage seat. The man, without a
word, proceeded to clasp them on Mr. Donaldson’s
wrists, while the old gentleman fumed and
stamped about the carriage.

A signal brought up several porters and the guard
of the train, who crowded round the door, eager to
see the exciting scene.

“Take this child in your arms and keep before
me,” one of the officials said in peremptory tones
to a porter, who lifted Elsie up, and stood in readiness,
while the “fairy mother” and Grandpapa
Donaldson were assisted to alight.

“That’s a queer go!” said the guard, eyeing the
old gentleman with a broad stare of astonishment.
“It was a gentleman looking quite different that
got in the train at Edinburgh.”

“Are you quite certain of that?” the officer
asked him.

“I’m pretty certain. They, as near as possible,
missed the train. I was just starting her when
they came flying across the platform. I caught
sight of them with the little one between, being
jumped almost off her feet. They couldn’t have
more than got in when we began to move.”

“You didn’t look into this compartment at any
of the places you stopped at, then?” the officer
asked.

“I caught sight of the lady and the little girl
once as I passed along the train at Carlisle,” the
man replied. “I don’t remember noticing the
gentleman, but I fancy he was asleep, with a large
silk handkerchief over his head.”

“Name and address, please?” the officer said,
drawing out a pocket-book, in which he wrote
quickly a few lines.

The lady and gentleman were then conducted
across the station, one of the officers, who were
both dressed quite plainly, walking on either side
of them. They attracted very little attention as
they passed quickly on, only the people close at
hand turning to stare. In less than two minutes
they were inside a cab, one officer accompanying
them inside, another taking his seat on the box.

After a jolting, uncomfortable drive of some
distance, they passed through some gates into a
great courtyard, which seemed to be surrounded by
a huge dark mass of buildings. Here the officer
sprang out and helped them to alight.

Some other men in uniforms came out of a doorway
and crowded round the prisoners. The officer
who accompanied them gave some directions concerning
Elsie, to which she was listening, and trying
in vain to understand, when Mrs. Donaldson burst
out sobbing, exclaiming wildly, “Will you part me
from my child? Anything but that! Do what
you will with me, only let my child be with me.
She will perish with fright. Father, I implore you,
do not let them be so cruel! Effie, my darling, do
not leave me!”

Elsie tried to move towards her, but was held
firmly by the hands of one of the policemen. She
was dreadfully frightened and bewildered, and
would have clung to Mrs. Donaldson, had she been
allowed, in her dread of facing new and unknown
terrors.

But not a chance was given to her. She was quite
helpless in the strong grasp that held her firmly,
though not harshly. Mrs. Donaldson began to
catch her breath quickly, as two men caught hold of
her arms and began to lead her along, while the
one who had charge of Elsie led her away in
another direction. The next moment Elsie heard
a piercing scream, and turning her head, saw what,
as far as she could make out, appeared to be the
resisting, struggling form of the unfortunate “fairy
mother” being carried into the hall by two men.

CHAPTER XVII.—IN A STRANGE PLACE.

E
lsie
was presently delivered into the hands
of a woman, who asked her, not unkindly,
whether she wanted food. Elsie was much
too fatigued and perturbed to think of eating,
so the woman told her she must undress herself and
go to bed. She was taken to a large bare room
where there were other children asleep in small
hard beds. One was apportioned to her, and
the woman stood by while she undressed.

Elsie wondered very much what sort of place this
could be, and why Mrs. Donaldson had not been
allowed to take her with her. She puzzled her
head over it in vain. Only one thing was clear:
that both her companions had been brought here
against their will, and were very angry about it.

Perhaps Elsie would have thought more about
her own discomfort and loneliness if her mind had
been less exercised about Duncan. She wondered
what had happened to him after she had been parted
from him by that shameful trick of the wicked
“fairy mother.” How angry and indignant she felt
when she thought of it! Had Duncan wanted her?
[Pg 259]
She seemed to see him lying up in that dark, stifling
garret, perfectly still, on the dirty, unwholesome
bed. She crept up and touched him. He was
cold and dead. Then her mother came in, with
grannie and Robbie following in slow procession
behind. They were dressed in beautiful white
robes like angels, and as they passed to the bedside
they each in turn looked at her with stern, reproachful
eyes. Then her mother lifted Duncan
in her arms and carried him away, closing the door
after them, and leaving her quite alone. They had
seen her, but would have nothing to do with her.

She started up and rubbed her eyes, scarcely
able to believe she had not seen those faces.
Then she peered timidly round the room, and
gradually recollecting all that had taken place, knew
that it was a dream.

After an uninviting breakfast of dry bread and
water gruel, she was placed in a cab by one of
the men who had accompanied them from the
station on the previous night.

To Elsie he looked like a gentleman, and not
unkind. After some time she ventured to ask
timidly where they were going.

“Well,” the man said, looking rather perplexed,
“it’s rather hard to explain; but you’re going to
see a gentleman who wants to ask you a few
questions; and if you don’t tell the truth, all I can
say is I shouldn’t like to stand in your shoes.”

At this Elsie was very frightened, for if the
gentleman happened to ask her about Mrs. Donaldson,
and such things, she dared not tell the truth.

She was anxious to know whether the “fairy
mother” would be there; but she was afraid to
ask, for if she called her “mamma,” perhaps this
man might know she was saying something untrue,
and if she called her anything else she might
get to know it, and send word for Duncan to be
turned into the streets. Elsie was terrified beyond
measure. She was too frightened to say a word, so
she kept quite silent.

At last they arrived at a building where many
people and some policemen were standing round
the open doors. They passed this entrance, however,
and went round to another. Her companion
then conducted Elsie through some passages into
a great bare, close-smelling hall, where there were
a good many people waiting about, and some
policemen with their hats off, which made them
look much less terrible than they did in the streets,
Elsie thought. She was too bewildered and
frightened to look about her, and see what the
place was like. The gentleman at her side took
her hand, and led her forward. She heard some
one say, “Bring a chair or a stool, and let her
stand on it;” and, looking up, she saw an old gentleman
with white hair sitting at a table, at the end
of which was another younger gentleman, writing.

The gentleman with the white hair bent over,
and spoke to her. “What is your name?” he
asked.

Elsie hesitated, looking up with an appealing
glance at the officer standing by her side. Then
when the question was repeated, she stammered,
“Effie Donaldson, please.”

“Ha!” said the old gentleman. “Effie Donaldson,
is it? Do you know what an oath is?”

“Yes, sir,” Elsie timidly replied.

“Now you must take your oath,” he went on,
“that you will answer me truly whatever I ask
you; and I hope you understand that if you tell a
falsehood after that, you will not only be doing a
most wicked thing, but that you can be kept in
prison for it.”

Elsie began to tremble violently at this dreadful
warning. She took a swift glance round, to see
if Mrs. Donaldson or the old gentleman were anywhere
near, but could see nothing of either.

The officer who had accompanied her, and stood
by all the time, seemed to understand.

“They are not in court,” he said, in a low tone.
“Just you speak the truth, and you’ll be all right.”

He then handed her a Bible, which she was
told to kiss; and he said some words which he
bade her repeat.

“That is the Bible,” the old gentleman at the
table said solemnly, “and you have sworn by
that sacred Book that you will speak only the
truth. Bear in mind what an awful thing it would
be to tell a falsehood after that—ten times as wicked
as any other falsehood. Now tell me who the lady
and gentleman are who were in the train with you.”

Elsie trembled violently. She tried to think
what to say, but could find no answer. There was
Duncan on one side, that terrible warning the
gentleman had given her on the other. She tried
to say “I do not know,” but was so afraid that
that too was a falsehood, that the sentence died on
her lips.

“Speak up,” the gentleman said.

It seemed to Elsie as if ages elapsed while they
stood waiting for her answer. She was conscious
of nothing but the man standing by her side, and
great silence everywhere, which let her hear the
rushing sound in her ears and the beating of her
heart. At last the magistrate spoke again.

“Tell me, is the lady your own mother?”

Another question—worse than the first.

“You must answer,” the magistrate said, sharply;
“and quickly too!”

“Oh, I dare not!” burst from poor Elsie’s
frightened lips. “They will kill Duncan if I do!”

[Pg 260]
Then in a moment she knew she had said too
much. In her fright she had not seen the meaning
of her own words.

“Who is Duncan?” the white-haired gentleman
asked kindly.

“My brother,” Elsie answered, with a big sob.

“Where is he?”

“In Edinburgh; and he’s dreadfully ill,” Elsie
answered, forgetting
every other
thought in her
anxiety for Duncan,
and the generally
bewildered
state of her mind.

“Is he with his
mother?”

“Oh, no! he’s all alone, unless
he’s in the hospital.
I don’t know
quite where he is,
only they promised
he should
go to the hospital.”

“Who promised?”

Again Elsie
was silent; she
could find no
answer to that
question. The
gentleman did
not seem angry,
but asked another.

“Where is your
mother?”

“Which one
do you mean,
please, sir?” Elsie
asked, in a moment of utter bewilderment.

“Then the lady who was with you yesterday is
not really your mother?”

“No,” Elsie faintly admitted. She could hold
out no longer against the questioning, but was
feeling very much like you all do when you are
playing at “old soldier,” and, try as you will, at
last the “Yes” or “No” pops out unawares. She,
too, was very frightened and confused, which you
would not be.

“Come, we are getting on now,” the old gentleman
said, kindly. “Do not be frightened. Did
this lady tell you to call her mamma?”

“Yes, sir, but—I must not tell you anything.”

“she was placed in a cab” (p. 259).

“And she is not your mamma, then, after all?”

“No.”

“Are you frightened of her?”

“Yes,” Elsie exclaimed, with a quick, fearful
glance round.

“Now, I promise you that she shall do you no
harm, if you tell me the truth. How did you
come to be with her? Just tell me how it was.”

The old gentleman
spoke with
great assurance
and kindliness,
but still Elsie
could not cast
off the spell of
fear Mrs. Donaldson
still held
over her. She
had an almost
superstitious belief
that the “fairy
mother” would
find a way to
work out her
threats. For all
she knew, she
might even now
have sent that
message to Edinburgh
which was
to seal Duncan’s
fate.

After the very
mysterious incident
that had
happened in the
train, for her to
know that Elsie
had disobeyed
without hearing
the words she had
spoken seemed
not only quite possible, but very likely indeed.

The gentleman saw Elsie’s hesitation, and spoke
sharply again. “If you are obstinate, we shall
have to use other methods to make you speak.
Have you ever been in prison?”

Elsie’s eyes dilated with horror. “Oh, no!” she
replied.

“But you are very likely to find yourself there,
unless you answer my questions better. Tell me
at once where you met this lady?”

“She was in a carriage; we were on the road to
Killochrie.”

“Stop; how did you come there?”

“We ran away from Sandy Ferguson’s cottage.”

[Pg 261]“Why did you do that? Now, tell me why.”

“He was very bad to us, and robbed us of our
money and our clothes. Duncan thought he
wanted to kill us, so we ran away.”

“What business had you in Sandy Ferguson’s
cottage?”

“He took us in when we hadn’t any place to go
to. I thought he was kind at first, but he wasn’t.”

“Then you had run away from somewhere else?”

“Yes,” Elsie admitted, with a flushed face and
look of shame. “We ran away from home.”

“What made you do that?”

Elsie hung her head. How could she tell this
gentleman all her suspicions? They seemed all so
stupid now.

“We were jealous because mother favoured
Robbie so,” she faltered, very much ashamed, and
conscious that it was one of the most foolish-sounding
reasons that could be.

“Well,” said the gentleman sharply, “you ran
away, and you fell in with Sandy Ferguson, who
wanted to kill you, and afterwards with this lady,
who taught you to call her ‘mamma.’ Was she
kind to you?”

“At first she was. When she first saw us on the
road we were very hungry and tired. She asked us
the way, and said she was a fairy, and would come
back again. She did come back, and brought
beautiful clothes with her, which she gave to us,
and she took us in a train to a house where we had
beautiful and nice warm beds. Then she told us
we were to call her ‘mamma’ always, and that she
was our ‘fairy mother.'”

“This is very interesting,” said the old gentleman,
approvingly. “But what of the gentleman?
Was he there?”

“Uncle William? oh yes! He did not say
much to us; but we did not like him. He called
the driver an idiot, and I was afraid of him.”

Here the magistrate asked some questions of
the officer standing near Elsie. “Then he did not
come in the train with you from Edinburgh?” he
presently inquired, turning again to Elsie.

“Oh yes, he did,” Elsie replied; “but he somehow
changed. Mrs. Donaldson was talking to me,
and the one we called ‘Uncle William’ was
sitting right in the other corner. When I looked
again he had gone, and there was another one
quite old. Mrs. Donaldson said he was my Grandpapa
Donaldson.”

“Then you thought, I suppose, that you had ‘a
fairy grandfather’ as well as a ‘fairy mother’? Tell
me, did she undergo any wonderful transformation?”

“Oh no!” Elsie began; but she suddenly recollected
the change from the smiling, gaily-dressed,
grand lady in the carriage to the sad-looking widow
who had brought them the clothes. “Yes, I had
forgotten. She did change,” Elsie stammered,
growing red and confused with fear. “I didn’t
mean it for a story.”

“Go on; tell us what she was like when you first
saw her.”

“She was dressed gaily, and her bonnet had
feathers and flowers. She had bracelets and
sparkling earrings, and her hair was frizzed out
over her forehead.”

“And you mean to say that when next you saw
her, that is, when she came back as she promised
she would, she was dressed in black, like a widow?”

“Yes.”

“Did you not think that strange?”

“Yes, it was all strange; she brought us clothes,
the frock and hat that I have on now, and a coat for
Duncan.”

“How did you know it was the same person?”

“At first I thought it wasn’t, but when I looked
at her well, I could tell it was, by a funny look she
had in her eyes. I am sure it was the same.”

“You are sure? very well. Now tell me where
she took you? Try to remember the whole journey,
from the time you met her on the country road to
the time you reached London last night.”

“We walked to Killochrie,” Elsie replied, “but
we did not stay there. We got in a train and went
to another place. Then we went in a carriage to a
house, where we had some supper and stayed all
night. The next morning, after breakfast, we went
in another carriage to the train, and we were in
that nearly all day. When we got out it was
Edinburgh.”

“Yes; that is all very nicely told,” the old gentleman
said approvingly. “Now tell me where you
went in Edinburgh.”

Elsie could not repress a shudder as she recollected
that night in the dreary garret, but in
spite of her nervous fear, it seemed a relief to be
able to tell all her adventures to some one. In any
case, she could not help doing so. She only hoped
they would not ask her about Meg.

“Duncan had been very poorly all day,” Elsie
continued. “It poured with rain the first day we
ran away, and he got wet through. We had to
lie on the floor of the loft, with a sack under us,
in all our wet things. Mrs. Ferguson took away
my frock and jacket, and Duncan’s coat, to dry,
but she never gave them back, so I think Duncan
got cold, and he was very frightened and hungry,
so it seemed to make him ill. The lady was very
angry about it, but she said afterwards that it
didn’t matter much, and it would do just as well
if she were to leave him behind in Edinburgh.”

[Pg 262]
“You are not answering my question,” the
magistrate reminded her. “Where did you go that
night?”

“They took us to a shop—a newspaper shop. It
was a very high house, and there were lodgers.
We were taken into an attic up at the top, and left
by ourselves. In the night Duncan was very bad
in his head, and screamed and jumped about, and
in the morning I told Mrs. Donaldson that we
must go to the hospital, for I was afraid Duncan
would die. No one attended to him at all. She
said we should, and we got into a carriage; but
when I got out, and thought we were going to ask
the people to take Duncan in, the other one came
up and pushed me into the train before I knew anything
about it.”

“That is a strange story,” the old gentleman
remarked, looking searchingly into Elsie’s face.
He then asked her a great many questions about it,
as if he hardly believed what she had told him, but
Elsie persisted in her statements.

“Did you hear the name of the man who kept
the shop?” he asked.

Elsie thought a moment. “Mrs. Donaldson told
Meg to tell Andrew to write, and let us know how
Duncan was. I don’t know if she meant him.”

“Ah! and who was Meg?”

Elsie felt ready to cry with vexation. “She
came in the carriage to carry Duncan,” she replied
quickly. “I think she was a servant.”

“Now, can you describe this house into which
you were taken?”

Elsie drew quite a breath of relief to think she
had escaped so well. “We had to go down a lot
of steps before we got to it,” she replied, “and I
remember there was a flesher next door.”

“You mean a butcher, and the house was a very
high one, and the man’s name, you think, was
Andrew. Well, that is very good as far as it goes.
Did you pass the Tolbooth in driving to the
station?”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have known it if I
had.”

“Well, well, it seems you cannot tell us much
about this house. The servant’s name you say
was Meg, and she had your brother when you last
saw him. Where do you think he is now?”

Elsie explained Mrs. Donaldson’s promise, and
her threat that he should be turned into the streets
to die if she displeased her. There was an audible
murmur in the court, which made Elsie conscious
for the first time that there were people listening to
her. “I know she will do it,” Elsie went on,
catching her breath rapidly. “She may have done
it now.”

“You may rest easy about that,” the magistrate
said, kindly. “She is in a place where she can do
nothing of the kind.”

But Elsie was only half re-assured. The next
moment, however, she had a new alarm in the
question, “Did you ever hear the name of Lucy
Murdoch?”

“Yes,” Elsie faltered, very unwillingly.

The old gentleman looked at her suspiciously.

“Where did you hear it?” he inquired.

“In the house at Edinburgh.”

“Well now, who did you hear speak of Lucy
Murdoch?”

“Meg begged me not to tell, and I said I
wouldn’t,” Elsie replied, in much distress. “Meg
was very kind to Duncan.”

“Ah well! you need not answer that question,”
the old gentleman said, with a smile. “Tell me
your own proper name, and where your own mother
lives?”

“Elsie McDougall. We lived on Dunster
Moor,” Elsie replied, with a conscious blush.
“She made me call myself Effie Donaldson.”

“A lovely place, too,” the old gentleman said.
“And you ran away? I hope you like it. Do you
know that children who have run away have before
now disappeared, and never been heard of again?”

Elsie only cast down her eyes in frightened silence.

“And what became of them, do you suppose?”
he went on sternly. “Perhaps they were killed,
perhaps they died of fright, and hunger, and misery.
I should not like to say; only I know they never
returned any more to their homes.”

The stern words were too much for Elsie. The
sense of her own loneliness and danger, her separation
from Duncan, and the misfortunes she had
led him into, came over her with overwhelming
force, and she wept bitterly.

“It is fortunate for you that you have fallen into
the hands of the law,” the old gentleman added,
more kindly. “You will be safe, and will by-and-by
be allowed to go back to your mother. That
will do.”

She was then conducted out of the court by the
officer who had brought her there, put into a cab,
and driven back to the great court-yard, where she
was once more delivered over to the charge of the
woman. She spent the rest of the day in a dismal,
ugly room, with a number of girls, who were rough
and disagreeable and ill-tempered, and could not
possibly have been more wretched. Her experience
had made her distrustful of every one, so that she
was dreadfully afraid of what might happen as the
consequence of all she had betrayed. She was
distracted, too, about Duncan, and altogether could
find but meagre comfort in the promise that by-and-by
she should be allowed to go back home again.

[Pg 263]

CHAPTER XVIII.—HOME FROM MARKET.

“Y
e
seem to be doing right well to-day, judging
by your face,” exclaimed the hearty voice of
Farmer Jarrett, as he encountered Mrs.
McDougall in the market-place.

“Yes, I’m thankful to say it,” Mrs. McDougall
replied. “I was just about to go and buy a thing
or two. Ye’re no waiting for me, are you?”

“No, not that,” the farmer returned. “I’ve a
bit of business myself to be looking after. But
we’d best be on our road before long. The sky
doesna look so very well.”

Mrs. McDougall packed up her baskets one in
the other, and stowed them away in the cart. She
had sold everything but a few bundles of beans,
and was well content. So she trudged off to buy
some yarn and some homespun tweed where she
could get the most for her money.

When she returned, she found the horse harnessed,
and Farmer Jarrett seated in his cart.
She jumped up with a word or two of apology, and
they started on their homeward way.

“I’ve been a bit extravagant,” she said presently.
“I’ve bought a book for Elsie’s birthday next
month, and a pretty silk tie.”

“The wee bit lassie’ll be just wild with delight,”
the farmer said, kindly.

“She’s getting a big lassie, and she’s over-proud
of her appearance,” Mrs. McDougall said, not
without a touch of pride. “It does no good to
encourage vanity, but I wouldn’t have her always
longing for pretty things, so she shall just wear
this tie to the kirk on the Sabbath Day. Her
grannie would just give in to the bairn, and let
her gang her own way altogether.”

“The old are apt to be foolish with their grandchildren,”
the farmer replied. “Yet your mother
was a strict woman, and a good mother.”

“That’s a true word,” Mrs. McDougall replied.

“And the poor old wifie must be just contented
and happy, spending her last days with you and
the bairns. With Nannie dead, and Dugald in a
far land, she might have come to want. You’ve
had your troubles, but you’re not without a recompense.
The brave and industrious find many a
blessing.”

For to a Scottish woman few things would seem
more dreadful than for her mother to come to
want—the tie of relationship is so strong and sacred.

Talking in this sober fashion, the farmer and his
neighbour jogged on until they reached the skirts
of the moor, soon after six o’clock.

“We’ve escaped the rain,” said the farmer; “but
to all appearance, it won’t hold off much longer.”

Presently Mrs. McDougall alighted, and with a
few words of thanks, turned up the pathway
leading to her own cottage. To her surprise, she
found grannie and Robbie standing at the gate,
peering along the road.

“Am I late?” she exclaimed. “You weren’t
thinking I was lost, were you?”

“It’s the bairns we were looking for,” quavered
the old woman. “They’re not home from school
yet, an’ there’s no milk for your supper, for I would
no trust Robbie alone.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. McDougall said, hastily;
“but they should ha’ been home long ago. They
would not loiter on the way all this time, surely.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” the old
woman returned. “Could any harm come to
them?”

“Of course it could. Ye need not doubt that,”
said Mrs. McDougall. “I must go right away,
and see after them; but I am just tired, and that’s
the truth.”

“You’ll sit down, Meg, and have a bit o’ something
first,” the old woman said anxiously, hovering
round in speechless sympathy.

“No, no; I’ll just go at once,” Mrs. McDougall
returned, setting down her baskets.

She tramped off quickly along the dusty road in
the direction of Dunster. Presently some great
drops of rain began to fall, and in a few minutes
it came down in a perfect torrent. Still she
trudged on, her heart filled with dim foreboding
fears. Such a thing had never happened before.
It would soon be getting dark. Could it be possible
they had kept the children at school as a punishment?
If so, it was shameful to leave them to
come along that lonely road at such an hour, and
she would not use mild words in telling them so.

At last she arrived at the school-house. It was
closed and dark. She knocked at the mistress’s
cottage, and then learnt, to her horror and dismay,
that the children had never been to school at all
that day.

The poor creature stood for a moment in utter
bewilderment.

What was the next thing to be done? Ah! that
was a difficulty indeed.

It was not far to the village. She would go there,
and inquire of her few acquaintances if they could
help her. So she turned away and started off again
in the rain, quite forgetting now that she was tired,
and hungry, and wet.

It was dark by the time she reached the village
shop. Her friend who kept it had not seen the
children since yesterday, when she gave them a
piece of pudding. There was nothing for it but to
tramp home, in the hope that they had returned.

[Pg 264]
But only disappointment awaited her. They
were not there. Then she went up into their little
rooms, and found that they had worn their best
clothes, and had taken all their pennies out of their
money-boxes. For the first time then the dreadful
suspicion entered her head that they had run away.

But for what purpose? That was what she
could not make out. The only thing that occurred
to her was that they might have wanted to go and
see the market, and spend their money—that they
had walked there, and perhaps—who could tell?—lost
their way.

The more she thought of it, the more she felt
sure that this could be the only solution to the
mystery.

It was a certain amount of comfort to have
some definite idea to go to work upon, but even then
there were so many possibilities of danger that the
poor woman shuddered as she thought of it.

Well, there was nothing to be done but to start
off again. It was now quite dark, and pouring with
rain. Mrs. McDougall was already very wet, but
she never gave it a thought. She walked briskly
along the road leading in the opposite direction
from the one to Dunster. Every now and then she
stopped and listened intently, peering among the
trees that skirted the road or across the expanse of
moor. She only met one person, an old woman,
trudging along in the rain, and at last she had
arrived at the town she had left only a few hours
before, which lay ten miles distant from her own
cottage.

Only to find fresh disappointment. No one
could give her the least information. They had
not been seen in the place, so far as she could
learn, and so there was nothing to be done but to
tramp back again all that weary ten miles.

Yes, one thing. It seemed a dreadful step, but
it must be done. She was face to face with the
fact that the children were lost, and the chance of
finding them that night was now small indeed.
With a few inquiries she found her way to the
police-station, and there she told her story—told
it with a grim soberness on her face that might have
passed for unconcern with those stupid people, who
think that what they cannot read has no existence.

“They’ll be found, never fear,” said a kindly
policeman. “To-morrow morning the description
will be telegraphed to every town in the country.
There’ll be posters out everywhere, and they can’t
fail to be found by some one.”

“To-morrow morning! And what about to-night?”
Mrs. McDougall asked.

“Nothing can be done to-night! it’s nearly
eleven now,” the man replied. “You just go home,
and don’t worry. They’re safe somewhere, I’ll be
bound—perhaps nearer at hand than you have
any idea of.”

It was true enough: there was nothing further to
be done—nothing but to tramp back with that
heavy load of care and the dread of terrors too
great to put into words.

So she took her way home again. It was long
past midnight when she reached the cottage.
Grannie was waiting up, crooning to herself over
the fire. On the table lay the book and the tie
bought for Elsie’s birthday.

Mrs. McDougall took them up hastily, and put
them out of sight. “Go to bed, mother,” she said;
“they’ll be home to-morrow.”

“I’m glad o’ that; it’s all well, then,” she said,
quite unsuspiciously. “You’re upset, Meg. It’s
been a shock to you.”

“I’m tired. I’ll get a bit of supper and rest a bit,”
Mrs. McDougall returned. Her eyes were red and
ringed, and had a look in them worse than the look
of tears.

The old woman went off to bed, and Mrs.
McDougall sat down by the fire, though not to eat.
All night she sat listening, and many a time she got
up and walked out to the gate, peering through the
darkness, in the fancy that she had caught some
sound.

Still the rain poured down, the night dragged
on, and the children were, as we know, far enough
away.

CHAPTER XIX.—MRS. FERGUSON IS BAFFLED.

W
hen
Robbie awoke next morning at his
usual early hour, and saw no sign of his
mother in the room, he thought he must
have overslept himself, so he jumped up
quickly, and dressed.

He ran downstairs into the kitchen, and found
Mrs. McDougall seated before the empty grate.

She turned her head quickly as Robbie entered.
In a moment the child saw that something dreadful
was the matter. Never in all his life had he seen
his mother look like that.

The child glanced at her wonderingly, then came
close to her, with the quick sympathy which is so
sweet.

“Mother,” he said, “is it Elsie and Duncan?
Haven’t you found them yet?”

“No, Robbie,” Mrs. McDougall replied. “They’re
just lost, and that’s all about it.”

Robbie could not understand how it could be,
but he saw that his mother was in great trouble,
and he did not like to ask any questions.

“This will not do,” Mrs. McDougall said, with a
heavy sigh, as she rose resolutely from her chair,
[Pg 265]
and began bustling about. “You shouldn’t ha’
got up yet, Robbie. It’s over early for you.”

“I thought it was late,” Robbie said. “Mother,”
he added eagerly, “might I—oh! might I run and
fetch the milk for you? Oh, do just let me go!”

“the child glanced at her wonderingly“ (p. 264).

“Dear me! no, child,” Mrs. McDougall replied.
“You’d be lost too.”

“Should I?” Robbie said, very crestfallen.
“Can’t I do nothing, mother?”

“Yes; you shall feed the hens. You know how
to do that, don’t you, Robbie? I’ll just get the
food ready for them.”

Robbie was delighted. He longed to be useful.

Mrs. McDougall bustled about, and got the
breakfast—porridge without milk—set everything
in order, then went up to see to her mother, just as
if nothing had happened. She was not the woman
to sit idly nursing her troubles.

As soon as she had partaken of a little food, she
prepared to depart once more on her anxious
errand, with many an injunction to Robbie not to
go outside the gate, and to keep a watch, in case
Elsie and Duncan might return, but be afraid to
enter.

At the police-station there was no news. Bills
were being printed, she was informed, and would
be widely distributed before the day was out. Any
information they received should be sent to her.

She waited for more than an hour in order to
see the bill. It was some sort of consolation to
her to see the great black letters, and read the
description of the children in black and white.

[Pg 266]
“This cannot fail to find them,” the officer told
her. “Every police office in the country will be
furnished with this description. The children can’t
have got very far away. Some of our men must
come across them.”

“Far enough away to have got beyond our
reach,” Mrs. McDougall said, dubiously. “And
who knows but they may have fallen into bad
hands, or got stuck in some bog in the blackness
of the night?” she added, with a shudder.

“They’d keep fast enough to the road,” the man
said, re-assuringly.

“I’d rather ten times over that they should be
lying dead in the woods or on a mountain side
than that they should fall into the hands of wicked
men and women!” Mrs. McDougall said fervently.
“The mercies of God are a deal more tender than
those of men. I could thank God with all my
heart to know that He had them safe.”

“There are bad enough folk about,” the policeman
assented, “but your children are over young
to get led astray.”

“I pray the Almighty that He’ll grant them a
merciful death rather than they should fall into
bad hands,” Mrs. McDougall said, wearily, as she
rose to go. “Better for them to die of cold than
to be murdered by violence, or made to lie and
steal.”

“You’re taking an over gloomy view of the
matter, good wife,” the man said, cheerfully; “and
perhaps you’ll be getting them back safe and sound
before nightfall.”

But that was not to be. The description of the
children was, truly enough, sent to every town or
village that could boast a police-station, and was
eagerly discussed that very nightfall in many a
remote cottage. Had the children wandered
farther, to even the first village on their road,
they must have been found, but they were safely
hidden from the outer world in the least suspected
place of any—the miserable hovel of one of those
wretched tillers of the land, too poor to deserve
the name of farmer, with which some parts of
Scotland abound. The man was listless, and
apathetic with hunger and poverty, a miserable,
degraded creature, who would have sacrificed anything
or anybody for the sake of the few pounds
that would pay his rent or sow his tiny bit of unproductive
land.

He was the very last sort of person to hear
rumours of the lost children. On that day when
he and his wretched beast had toiled the distance
of twenty miles to fetch a load of fish refuse from
the nearest fishing village in order to enrich his
bit of barren land, the bills about the children were
not yet distributed. Even had they been, he was
little likely to have heard about them, for he was
too dull and dejected to talk with his neighbours.
When he met them on the road, the idea of giving
them a lift would not have penetrated his mind
had not Elsie herself requested it. Yet the man
was no worse than his fellows, and had an element
of unselfish kindness in him, which was shown by
his giving them the old sack to sit upon. Under
happier auspices he would probably have been a
very decent sort of person, but the hopeless hardship
of his existence had gradually wiped out
every ambition and hope, till at last he had sunk
into something scarcely better than an animal.

And, children, let me tell you that there are plenty
of us, now bright and gentle and happy, who in
Sandy Ferguson’s place would have been no better
than he; and I wonder whether we always remember
that God judges every one, even His
little ones, according to the opportunities they have
had?

Sandy had no thought of injuring the children
any more than of assisting them; but his wife, who
was cleverer, and had therefore become cunning
and shrewish under the sordid cares of her life,
saw directly that she might gain something by
keeping them.

She had taken away their clothes, partly
because it angered her to see these ungrateful
runaway children warmly clothed while her own
were shivering in their rags, but far more with
the idea of preventing their escape. Their friends
would come after them, and it would be her
own fault if she didn’t see some of their money,
she told herself. Five of her children had died
from illness, caused by want and cold and misery;
it was little wonder that she had grown grasping
and cruel.

Yet she, too, meant them no harm. She was
anxious enough to get rid of them, for the miserable
food that she gave them had to be stolen from
their own portions. She looked out eagerly for
passers-by, in the hope that the children’s friends
would overtake them, yet jealously kept her secret,
for fear that others might outwit her and reap the
reward.

On that day when she had been occupied in
listening to a long account of a neighbour’s affairs,
and had, as she supposed, got the children doubly
safe, by virtue of the watch she had set over them
as well as the safe custody of their clothes, she
had been startled by hearing from this very neighbour
an account of how two children had been
lost off the moor, and a reward offered for them.
She kept her countenance admirably, and pretended
to be most astonished and interested, but
she sat on thorns, fearing Sandy would betray her.

The neighbours stayed long, having much to talk
of, and when at last they departed, Mrs. Ferguson
went on cleaning, satisfied that the children were
safe, since they were all together, and Sandy with
them.

the song of a little bird (p. 267).

[Pg 267]
By-and-by Sandy came in, and stood staring
hopelessly. Then he began to scratch his head,
and looked altogether so stupid that Mrs. Ferguson
administered him a good shaking, and demanded
of him what he meant by it.

“Where be the bairns?” Sandy asked, in his
rough Gaelic.

Then Mrs. Ferguson flew out, and when she
could see none of them her wrath knew no
bounds. Young Sandy and Jamie, her two boys,
were discovered under the cart, and when dragged
out and cuffed, declared that Elsie and Duncan
had beaten them, and then run as fast as they
could down the road; that they had called as
loudly as they could, but were unable to make any
one hear; and plenty more tales, that their mother
knew were made up to shield themselves.

Having called them every bad name she could
think of, and dealt them some stinging blows, she
flew along the road to seek them. The road
wound about pretty much, and as they were nowhere
in sight, she concluded they must have
gone by it. She came back furiously angry and
disappointed, and continued her search till nightfall
in the immediate neighbourhood of the croft,
but without success. Sandy and Jamie were not to
be envied that night.

Thus it happened that the police were quite
baffled in their endeavours to find the children,
and after they had fallen into Mrs. Donaldson’s
hands the description given was not accurate.

(To be continued.)

THE SONG OF A LITTLE BIRD.

hough I’m but a small bird,
I may often be heard

These evenings in dreary November,
And my sisters and cousins

Come listening by dozens,

To songs they can learn and remember.
No nightingale I,

Yet when light’s in the sky

It seems to go through me and through me
Till I’m overflowing

With music, scarce knowing

What wonder is happening to me.

Oh, Spring-time is sweet,

When loving birds meet,

But Autumn’s the season for singing,
When all the dear swallows

Come out from the hollows,

And over the ocean are winging.

We stay where we are,

While they voyage afar,

But the parting leaves us tender-hearted,
And we sing the more clearly

Of those we love dearly

When scores of our friends have departed.

A. M.

A FEW WORDS ABOUT THE DYKES OF HOLLAND.

Of
all the wonderful countries in the world,
and there are many, I do not think there
is any one half so wonderful as Holland.
We have a saying here that “God
made the country, but man made the
town,” but in Holland it is said “God made
the world, but man made Holland,” and “God
made the sea, but man made the shore.”

Ages ago Holland was a wild desolate place in
the midst of seas and lakes, with here and there a
forest of trees. The first people to settle here were
some German tribes, and a hard time they had of
it. First of all they had to build strong dykes or
embankments round the place in which they were
going to encamp, so as to keep out the sea and
the waters of the rivers, which wandered where they
would, without proper channels; and after that they
built rude huts and hovels for themselves. Sometimes
they would be able to hold their own for a
long time, but it often happened that there would
be storms and high tides, and then their settlements
would be swept away. Then they moved
off somewhere else, living in the meantime as best
they could on fish and game and sea-birds’ eggs.

At length many of these tribes joined together to
see if they could not find some place where they
would be more protected, and where they might
unite in building great dykes which should be able
to resist the seas and the wandering rivers. So
they first entrenched themselves; then they spread
[Pg 268]
out farther afield and enclosed larger tracts of
land; then they built dykes big enough to protect
whole provinces, and at last they made a great sea-wall
or embankment round the whole land.

But why was all this labour necessary? you will
ask. Well, it was because the country lies so low
that the waters could sweep over it; and even
to-day, although there are beautiful towns and
cities in Holland, with hundreds and thousands of
people, and thousands upon thousands of cattle,
the land is lower than the sea; the cities are
built upon piles driven into the sand; the river-beds
are higher than the tops of the houses, and at
any moment, if the dykes were to burst, or the
rivers to overflow, the whole country with all its
inhabitants might be swept away. It has been
well said that “Holland is a conquest made by
man over the sea. It is an artificial country. The
Hollanders made it. It exists because the Hollanders
preserve it. It will vanish whenever the
Hollanders shall abandon it.”

The dykes or embankments have been made in
this way: first of all secure and massive foundations
had to be laid, the ground being compressed
to make it very solid. Then walls, or dykes,
were reared of earth, sand, and mud, so tightly
compressed as to be quite impervious to water.
The whole was bound with twigs of willows interwoven
with wonderful care, and the spaces filled
with clay so as to make them almost as hard as
stone.

a landscape in the neighbourhood of the hague, holland.

Then the dykes were planted with trees, which
throw out a network of roots, and help to hold
the whole structure firmly together. On the
dykes there are over 9,000 windmills always at
work, pumping up water to keep the land dry;
and there are in the whole country nearly 1,150
miles of canals, for diverting the waters, a good
many of their bottoms being higher than the land
they drain.

Every dyke in the land is under constant inspection,
and every three years the network of
willow-twigs is renewed. It is one of the strangest
sensations in the world to stand at the foot of one
of these outer dykes at high tide and hear
the angry breakers of the sea dashing against the
other side of the wall, at a height of 16 ft. or 18 ft.
above your head.

From the beginning of their history until the
present time the Hollanders have had to fight the
waters, and they will have to do so as long as their
country exists. There are two great sources of
danger—the sea and the rivers; and either left
neglected would very soon lead to hopeless ruin.
There is therefore a great institution, or society, in
the country, called the Waterstaat, for watching
and controlling the water. Everybody in the land
is obliged to obey its commands. If any one see
the water threatening to pour in, he must at once
give the alarm, and all the people of the district,
and of all the districts round about, must be summoned
by the ringing of the alarm-bells, and by
the booming of cannon, and then old and young,
rich and poor, soldiers and public servants, must all
set to work together and fight the common foe.

Notwithstanding all the constant vigilance there
are terrible stories told in Holland of inundations.
It is recorded that during thirteen centuries there
[Pg 269]
has been one great inundation, besides smaller
ones, every seven years. When that great flood
came, in the end of the thirteenth century, which
formed the Zuyder Zee, 80,000 persons were
drowned; in 1421, in one night 72 villages and
100,000 persons were swept away, and even so
recently as the year 1855, there was a great inundation
which invaded the provinces of Gueldres and
Utrecht, and covered a great part of North
Brabant.

coast scene in holland, with dyked marshes.

Most of these catastrophes occurred from the
sudden rising of the waters and the bursting of the
dams; but it is not from these causes only that the
safety of the country is threatened. If you go into
the Museum at Leyden you will see some pieces of
wood full of little tiny holes. These once formed
part of piles and sluice-gates, and they are very
memorable to the Dutch people, for they call to
mind a terrible danger which befell them once, and
might do so again at any time. A ship returning
from the tropics brought with it, it is supposed,
some tiny little shell-fish, the Teredo navalis.
These increased and multiplied with marvellous
rapidity, and swarmed the waters. One day every
inhabitant of the land was seized with terror, for
it was found that these little creatures had nearly
eaten away the sluice-gates of the dykes, and had
it not been that night and day an immense body of
men worked with the energy of those who
were trying to save the lives of themselves and
their wives and their little ones, the sea, their great
enemy, would have been let loose upon them. “A
worm,” says the historian, “had made Holland
tremble.”

Once the dykes were cut and the country flooded
purposely. It was when Leyden was holding out
against the Spaniards, led by Valdez. For four
months the people had been besieged, and at last
provisions had failed. But when Valdez summoned
them to surrender, Vanderdoes, the burgomaster,
replied “that when provisions utterly failed, then
they would devour their left hands, reserving their
[Pg 270]
right hands to defend their liberty.” One day,
when the people were reduced almost to their last
extremity, a carrier pigeon was seen flying into the
beleaguered city, and it brought the joyful news
that the Prince of Orange was coming to their deliverance,
having cut the dykes and flooded the
country in order that his flotilla of 200 boats laden
with provision might reach them. But the water did
not rise high enough, the flotilla got stranded, and the
poor starving people could see the supplies in the
distance, but could not get at them, and it seemed
so hard to die of starvation with plenty of food in
sight. At last relief came in an unexpected
way: the wind arose and a violent storm drove in
the flood through the broken dykes, and onward it
poured with increasing volume and power, sweeping
away the cruel Spaniards, and bearing the
flotilla to the very gates of the city. It is no
wonder that in commemoration of this almost
miraculous deliverance on the 3rd October, 1574,
the citizens hold an annual festival.

There is a story told all over Holland—and it
has been retold in almost all languages—of a boy,
the son of a dykeman, who once saved the country,
but whose name, strange to say, has not been
preserved. He was only a little fellow eight years
old, but like every child in that country, he knew of
the danger in which he lived, and how at any time
if he should see any sign of water coming in
through an embankment, or a sluice-gate, where it
ought not, it was his bounden duty immediately to
give the alarm. One day he asked his father’s
permission to go to a village not far off to carry a
little present to a blind man who lived there, and
who had often talked very kindly to him. He did
not stay long at the village, for his father had
bidden him to hurry home, but being only a very
little boy he walked on and on, thinking of the
words the blind man had spoken to him, and of a
hundred other things, and paying very little heed to
the way in which he was going. After a long time
he found that he had taken a wrong road, and was
in a desolate part of the country close up by the
dykes. It was in the month of October, and night
was just coming on, so he climbed up the embankment
to try and see the nearest way he could take
to reach his home. As he was descending he
passed by one of the great flood-gates of the dyke.
Pausing for just a moment before making a
scamper off towards home, he heard a sound which
filled him with dismay—it was the sound of water
falling and trickling over stones. He knew it was
his duty to find out where it was, and very soon he
saw a hole in the wood-work through which the
water was coming pretty freely. Examining it
more carefully he saw that the pressure was
threatening to open up a wide crack in the gate;
and, child as he was, he knew that if it were not
stopped that little stream would soon become a
cascade, a great sheet of water, a torrent, and
then a terrible inundation which would end in
desolation and death. So the little fellow did not
hesitate. He determined to try and prevent the
mischief. Reaching up to the hole he placed his
finger in it, but soon he found that the wood was
rotten, and that the small hole would soon become
larger. So he took off his jacket and, tearing off a
sleeve, he inserted part of this in the hole, and for a
time it resisted the water. But not for long. He
found that the pressure was not strong and even
enough, and that there was nothing for it but to tear
away the edges of the decaying wood and then to
put his arm, encased in the other sleeve of the
jacket, into the hole. To his delight he found that
it exactly fitted and effectually stayed the water.
Meanwhile the night was growing darker and he
was far from home. But the brave little man
would not leave his post. He called at the top of
his voice, but there was no one to answer, and his
only hope was that some of the dykemen going
their rounds might hear his voice and come to his
relief. But no one came. Hours passed away
and still he was alone, and still the water was
resisted. He was in terrible pain, however, for in
that chill October night the water was very cold,
and his hand and arm and shoulder were so
benumbed that he knew not how he could endure
it. Then he thought that if he did not persevere
the waters would come in and drown perhaps his
father and his mother and the neighbours, and he
knew not how many others besides, and so he
determined, however great the pain might be, to
bear it, God helping him. Very long and very
terrible were those dark hours of the night, and the
poor child cried bitterly with the pain and the
terror, but he did not remove his arm!

At last, in the early morning, he heard what
seemed to be the sound of footsteps, and raising
his voice to its highest pitch he soon had the joy of
seeing that some one was approaching. It was a
clergyman who had been spending the night by the
bedside of a dying man, and was returning home
with the first gleams of the morning. He was
horrified to see a little child, pale, jacketless,
shivering, with eyes swollen with tears, and a face
contorted with pain.

“Why are you here, my boy? What are you
doing?” he asked anxiously.

“I am holding back the sea!” said the little hero.

And it was literally true—that child’s arm had
held back the enemy that would have come in
with a flood, carrying death and terrible destruction.

[Pg 271]

“WHISTLING FOR IT.”

T
he
“it” was his supper. Dinner had
been a movable feast that day, tea
indefinitely postponed, and Patch was
beginning to fear that supper also was
fading away beyond his grasp.

“And I may go on whistling till that flute
bursts itself before I get a halfpenny,” he
remarked to himself in a tone of intense
injury, eyeing the “flute” (which was really a penny
whistle) anxiously as he rubbed it on his wet sleeve
with a view to improving the notes. “All this day
and not a——”

“I say, Patch,” broke in a mournful voice from
behind, “couldn’t you lend me twopence just till to-morrow?
It’s to get some supper; I haven’t sold a
single box since morning.”

“Supper!” echoed Patch, turning sharply on
his supplicant. “Do you think I’d be blowing away
here if I didn’t want a supper myself? You’d better
go on to the bank and ask them.”

“I’ve asked everybody, and it’s no use,” was the
weary answer.

“Well it’s no use here either, Mike; if I get any
I’ll want it myself.”

Mike listlessly wandered on a few steps farther
up the dingy road, and then collapsed, a mere
bundle of rags, under the shadow of a doorway.

“You’ll not get much of a supper sitting there,”
commented Patch, setting off himself in quest of a
more appreciative audience.

At the corner of the next street was a big hospital,
and Patch betook himself thither. He had
received stray coppers occasionally from the visitors
who came and went through the ponderous iron
gates, and what had been once might be again.
Fortune was going to favour him at last, he thought,
for coming down the steps was a gentle-faced old
lady in a curiously-shaped bonnet and grey gown.
Patch realised that it was a case of “whistling for
it” now, and no mistake; so he put on his most
dejected expression and piped out “The Last Rose
of Summer” with truly startling emphasis.

Unhappily there chanced to be a shaggy-haired
dog waiting outside the gate whose taste for music
had evidently not been cultivated. At the very
first notes he raised his head with a long howl of
disgust that spoilt the effect entirely. It was
trying, for Patch saw his prospects vanishing into
thin air unless his rival could be promptly
silenced; so slipping cautiously behind, he dealt the
animal as vigorous a kick as the dilapidated state
of his shoe would permit.

“Oh, thee should not have done that! the poor
creature meant no harm,” cried the lady reproachfully,
hastening down the steps to console the
sufferer; and Patch discovered, with confusion, that
the dog belonged to her. Truly it had been an
unfortunate day.

“He looked like a poor dog; I didn’t know it was
yours,” he stammered out. “It’s the first chance
I’ve had to-day, and he was spoiling the music.”

The old lady looked gravely down at his pinched
face and ragged figure.

“Thee looks ill.”

“It’s enough to make a fellow ill—hungry like
this all day long.”

He looked as if he were speaking sorrowful truth.
The old lady opened her bag—”There is sixpence
for thee to get some food with,” she said kindly,
“and try and remember another time, friend, that if
thee art poor thyself there is the greater reason
why thee should’st feel for others who are poor
likewise.”

Patch looked from the coin to her face, almost
too much astonished to be grateful. Donations to
him usually consisted of pence or halfpence flung
into the gutter, or carelessly dropped on the roadway.
That a lady—and a very beautiful old lady she
seemed to him, in spite of the old-fashioned dress
and speech—should stand to talk to him in a civil,
pleasant voice was something new indeed, especially
after that unfortunate blunder about her dog.

“We are none of us so poor that we cannot help
each other in some little way,” she went on gently,
perhaps mistaking the cause of his silence.

“There ain’t anybody poorer than me,” Patch
answered; and his appearance certainly justified
the statement. “Much I could help other folk!”

“Try and find out; it only needs a word sometimes.
Good-night, friend, do not stay here longer
than thee can help in thy wet clothes.”

Patch received all the injunctions respectfully
for the sake of the sixpence, and proceeded to carry
out the first of them straightway. As quickly as
his battered shoes would allow he was out of sight
on his way to a certain well-known cook-shop.
There, in all the assurance of conscious wealth, he
planted his elbows on the window-ledge and critically
surveyed the contents. Great joints of meat,
slabs of suet pudding, dotted here and there with
currants, one—but that was a very superior compound—with
raisins, cakes and pies in abundance.

A mingled odour of coffee and tea floated through
the open door; and Patch, sniffing up the delightful
fragrance, went through a rapid mental calculation
of the glorious possibilities within his reach.

[Pg 272]

whistling for it. (See p. 271).

[Pg 273]
“Coffee twopence, a fine big cup too, bread and
sausage twopence, and a lump of the currant pudding
to wind up; something like a supper that.”

Poor hungry Patch! as he lifted his arms from
the ledge a sudden recollection of Mike under the
dark archway came back to his mind. He wished
it had not obtruded itself just then; he had quite
enough trouble to get food for himself without
looking after other people, and yet something made
him hesitate on the threshold and presently go
back to his old position, elbows on the window-ledge,
while he solemnly debated the matter in his
own mind.

It was a subject he had never considered before
in all his solitary selfish life; kindly words or
deeds had not been his portion, and the gentle-faced
woman who had given him a sixpence instead
of a scolding was a new feature in his experience.

The debate ended in his walking soberly away
from the bright visions in the window to the
humbler shop he usually favoured with his custom,
and there laying out the precious sixpence in bread
and cold meat. He took his purchase, the bread
under his arm, the meat in a piece of newspaper,
and carried the feast to the doorway where Mike
still sat crouching in the chilly darkness.

“Wake up, Mike; see here what I’ve got.
There’s some for you as well; sit up and begin.”

Mike lifted his head from his arm in utter
amazement. “You ain’t joking about it?” and
then—he was but a little fellow, and hunger is hard
to bear—at the sight of the provisions Patch was
laying out on the newspaper wrapper, he began to
cry for very gladness.

“Stop that!” ordered his host, peremptorily.
“It’s damp enough without you beginning. Eat
away, there’s plenty of it.”

“Did they trust you at the shop?” queried Mike
when the banquet was well in progress. “You
said you’d no money.”

“Did they ever trust you at the shop when
you’d no money?” demanded Patch, scornfully.
“I paid for it, that’s all you need bother yourself
about.”

“It isn’t that,” explained his guest, hastily;
“you never had anything to spare before, and I
was wondering how you afforded to give me such
a lot now.”

Patch wondered too; then he crumpled up the
paper table-cloth, and flung it into the gutter. “I
never wanted to give anything away before,” he remarked;
“but perhaps—if you couldn’t get it anywhere
else—I might give you a bit another time.”

And presently in the dark a dirty hand stretched
out and timidly stroked his sleeve.

Patch went home down the wet streets with his
flute. He looked poor and ragged as ever, but he
had at least taken the first step upward that
night in finding out the possibility even for him
of helping another.

Sarah Pitt.

LITTLE TOILERS OF THE NIGHT.

III.—YOUNG GIPSIES.

“D
o
we work at night! yes, I
b’lieve yer; and afore daylight
too, leastways, as soon
as ever there’s light enough
to see by. Not always we
don’t, but when the old
man comes back, an’ says
we must do a spell of
peggin’ there ain’t no time
hardly to get our vittles, except perhaps a tater,
or a bit o’ bread and bacon; but that’s ever so
much better than it used to be when poor mother
was alive, and she and me and Aunt Ann and Ben
used to work the dolls and windmills, an’ the fly-ketchers,
an’ the flyin’ birds.”

She was a tall thin girl, with a flat dirty face,
that would have been pale, if it had not been burnt
to a yellowish brown with the sun, till it was only
a shade lighter than the old battered straw hat
that had let a wisp or two of yellow hair through
a great slit in the back just above the brim. She
wore a tattered cotton frock that had nearly all the
pattern washed out, which must have been a long
time before, because it was so stained and worn,
so thin that it would bear no more washing.

The girl was trudging along in a pair of broken
boots, two sizes too large for her, and trying to keep
pace with a dark-haired sharp-eyed little woman,
wrapped in a frayed shawl, and with a bonnet that
looked as though it had been picked up from a dust-bin,
as perhaps it had, and while the woman carried
half a dozen long sticks, such as are used to prop
up the lines upon which clothes are hung to dry,
the girl held in one hand a bundle of the wooden
pegs with which laundresses fastened the clothes to
the lines, and in the other hand a coil of the line
itself.

All these things together could not have been
worth much, but it would be a hard day’s work
to cut the pegs, and a still harder day’s work
[Pg 274]
to the girl and the woman to sell them all.
A good many miles of streets would have to
be walked over, a good many area doors
knocked at, a number of cross people, or people
who were afraid of having something stolen,
would shut those doors in their faces, and perhaps
when they had trudged back again to Stratford, a
long, long way on the other side of Whitechapel,
they would only have earned a shilling or two, and
would have eaten nothing but a bit of bread, unless
somebody were kind enough to give them some
food on purpose to get rid of them, when they
stood whining and saying, “Buy a clothes-line, buy
clothes-pegs, please to buy a clothes-prop,” over
and over again.

“They takes us for thieves, I s’pose,” said the
woman, “and I don’t know that it’s to be wondered
at, for they reckon us all one with gipsies, and
though our people ain’t really gipsies, you know,
they’re not unlike ’em, and often we live much
the same, and it can’t be denied that there’s
them amongst us as would lay their hands on anything
they see about; but none of my people would
take what don’t belong to ’em either from a passage
or behind a door or a street stall—no, not if we was
ever so badly off we wouldn’t, would we, ‘Liza?”

“I should think not, aunt,” said the ragged girl.
“Neither you nor poor mother nor father ever
taught us that. It was hard enough, sometimes, as
hard as it was yesterday, and is likely to be to-day,
and there wasn’t nothing to look forward to, except
when I went out once or twice with father, or when
he came home after a pretty good day, and we had
something for supper, and then we often had to
sit up at night to look over all the old clothes
and the rags and bottles that he’d got in change
for the dolls or the win’mills, and now we get
more of the country in summer-time, and I ain’t
left off goin’ to the Sunday-school, have I aunt?”

“No,” said the woman, looking down and speaking
in a low voice; “I shouldn’t leave that off if I
was you, and I often wish you could get to be in
some place of service with a family, or do something
better than live in this rough sort of a way.
I a’most wish I’d never took you away after your
mother died; but your father went away and little
Ben was gone to sea, and I couldn’t leave a little one
like you to work night after night and day after day
at the match-box-making along with other children,
but with nobody to look after you.” Here the
poor woman held down her face, and I thought I
saw a tear drop on to the back of the brown grimy
hand that leaned upon the bundle of clothes-props.
“But it’s no good now,” she said, rising from the
bench where we were sitting. “What must be done
to-day is to sell these props and pegs, and to-morrow,
if Uncle Dick comes back, and has been
pretty fortunate with the cart, we shall get our eggs
and bacon, and our beef stew again, ‘Liza, and most
likely shall have a week or two in Epping Forest,
with enough to eat, at all events.”

“Stop a minute,” said I; “perhaps I might find
you a customer for your props and pegs, and I want
to hear about the doll-making and the windmills.”

The woman and the girl sat down again. It was
on a bench upon an open space of ground known
as Hackney Downs (a few miles out of London),
a great bare-looking waste, where nearly all the
grass has been worn off, and there’s not much to
look at; but where a fine air blows, and where
there are a few benches for people to sit upon.

“Well, you see, sir, ‘Liza had better tell you
about the doll-making,” said the woman, “becos
she begun to speak of it: not that they was what
you’d call dolls, but only a sort of rough flat shape,
of a head an’ body cut out of match-wood, with
eyes and mouth painted for a face, and bits of
cotton print, or more often wall-paper, pasted on
for a dress, and another bit for a cap; they was for
poor people’s children, don’t you see, as could only
afford a ha’penny or a farthing.”

“And what about the windmills and the birds?”

“Well, don’t you see, sir,” says ‘Liza—”the windmills
was made of just the same bits of flat match-wood,
that father brought home and cut into thin
strips like. The windmills was like the spokes of
a wheel joined together, with folded bits o’ wall-paper,
and fastened with a round French nail to
the end of a stick, so as when the wind took ’em,
they used to go round and round. The flying birds
was this way—the wheel was a little sort of a hoop,
with two wooden spokes to fasten it to the stick,
and all the other spokes was made of strings with
bits of feathers tied on to ’em, so that when the
wind took it they looked like birds flying; as to
the fly-ketchers, they was round and square bits o’
coloured wall-papers and tissue—put together in
strings till they looked like a sort of big Chinese
lantern, to entice the flies to settle on ’em. You
must have seen such things, sir; but then ours
was common ones, of course, to sell for a penny, or
a bottle or two, or some old rags.”

“Oh, that was it, eh?”

“Yes. You see father’d bring home the wood,
and Aunt Ann would cut it out to the shape—wouldn’t
you, aunt?—and poor mother’d cut out the
paper or the cotton print for the dolls clothes, or
the windmills, and I’d stick ’em on, or nail ’em on,
and any of us ‘ud paint the eyes an’ mouth, even
little Ben could do that. We used to live over
beyond Bethnal Green, in a place called Twig
Folly, and there was plenty of us children that
[Pg 275]
used to work at lucifer match-box making about that
part. When father took to the dolls and mills he
bought his own wood and bits of wall-paper and
that; but we worked night and day very often, so
as to get a lot ready for him, when he used to go
out with a barrow and all the dolls stuck up, and
the mills going round, and the birds fluttering, and
take ’em through the streets, for miles, selling them
for ha’pennies, or givin’ one for an old wine-bottle
or a bundle o’ rags, or old metal and such like.
When he had money to spare, he’d buy old clothes,
and then when he came home, we used to look
through ’em to see which was to go with the rags,
and which we could sell to the second-hand dealer.
I don’t work no harder now than I did then.”

“What do you do now, then?”

“Well, you see, when poor mother died, and Ben
was put aboard a ship to be taught the sea, father—he—he—went
away and aunt went back where
she’d been once before, to her brother-in-law’s—which
belongs to the gipsies,—not the real
gipsies, that lives in tents, and goes about all over
the country, but the London gipsies like, that lives
down Stratford and Plaistow way. It’s at Stratford
that we lives, and there we cut these pegs out of
the wood that Uncle Dick brings home; and he
brings the props too, and buys the line. There’s four
of us gals, and when we ain’t cuttin’ the wood for
the pegs we’re basket-makin’ or straw-plaitin’; but
there’s times when we go out a good bit, one or
the other of us, I mean me and aunt and Uncle
Dick’s children, because he’s got a share in a cart—one
o’ them big sort of carawans that’s all hung
round with baskets and mats, and cane-work and
brooms and brushes and cradles—and it’s a rare
change too, to go along with it, though the walkin’
makes your feet sore. But it’s more change still
when we go nearer to Epping Forest in summer-time,
and live out there in the country in a covered
wan and a tent or two, and learn to plait baskets
out of osiers, and to cane chairs, and to make straw
plait and all manner o’ things, and only cut clothes-pegs
at odd times. We don’t work much at night
then, but we’re often up pretty early in the morning,
I can tell you; but at Stratford—it’s a close bad-smellin’
sort of a little place is our lane, and we’re
pretty often hard at it by candle-light, or else lamplight,
making up baskets and clothes-pegs and things
ready for the trade in the summer. One thing
is that when Uncle Dick makes a good week he
don’t stint us in food, and, as poor mother used
to say, beggars mustn’t be choosers, and I haven’t
got nobody to be good to me but Aunt Ann.”

“There, don’t take on that way,” says the
woman, rather roughly, though I can see another
tear in her eye. “We’ve all got somebody to look
after, and you was left to me, so up you get, ‘Liza,
and let’s thank you kindly, sir, for—I don’t like to
take money for nothink, sir, and—perhaps, if you was
livin’ near here and had the washin’ done at home,
you’d like me to take home a prop or two, and
half-a-dozen pegs, sir.”

Thomas Archer.

A GAME FOR LONG EVENINGS.

Those
who learn drawing will find the
game of “Positions” a particularly pleasant
pastime for the long evenings. Any
number can play the game—the more the
merrier. All the players seat themselves round
the table, and each one must be supplied with
small pieces of white paper, about two inches
square, and a pencil—or, better still, a pen and
ink. All the players, except one, then silently
resolve on some position in life which it is possible
for them to fill, and each makes some sign of
their “Position” by sketching a little picture of some
article connected with their proposed trade or business
on one of the blank pieces of paper. The name
of each sketcher should be written on his paper.
Five minutes are allowed for the sketching, the
time being kept by the player who has not selected
a “Position.” All the illustrated papers are then
passed in order round the table, so that each may
view the others’ pictures; but no one is supposed to
criticise them aloud. Lastly they are handed to the
“Guesser” (who, up to this point, has taken no
active part in the game, except to time the five
minutes), and he ranges them in order before him
according to the order in which the players are
seated at the table. He looks at them attentively
and then proceeds to guess from the pictures what
are the intended “Positions” of each person.
Supposing that there were three players, and each
one drew a sketch, say of a house, a pear, and
a crown respectively. The Guesser looking at
them would have no difficulty in pronouncing
(1) landlord, (2) greengrocer, (3) king. If she fail
to guess any of the “Positions,” the first person at
whom he or she stopped is chosen Guesser for
the next time; if there has been no failure, the
player on the right hand of the Guesser takes the
privilege. The principal object of this game is for
each player to try who can make the best sketch in five
minutes, and the next object is to puzzle the Guesser.

[Pg 276]

THE RIVAL KINGS.

(A FABLE IN FOUR SITUATIONS.)

SITUATION FIRST

“I
have
only one ambition in this world,” said
King Albus, addressing the feathered members
of his household, “only one ambition.”

“And what is that?” said the oldest and the
fattest hen, sidling up to him.

“My ambition is,” replied the king, strutting
about the yard, and looking as haughty and as
full of fight as only a Spanish cock can, “to
see my detested rival over the fence yonder
humbled in the dust.”

“You’ve often said that,” remarked the old hen.

“Yes,” continued the king, “I mean to do it,
too; and his lifeless body shall float down the
mill-stream as helpless as a ball of worsted. I
have said, and I will do.”

“Well, dear,” the hen said; “don’t forget that
King Crèvecœur is a powerful big bird.”

“King Crèvecœur! Crève cur I call
him. Deprive him of his diphthong,
when speaking of him to me, madam,
please.”

“Well, diphthong, or not diphthong,”
sang the old hen, picking up a small
pebble, and swallowing it, “he is big,
and he wears a pair of frightfully long
spurs.”

“And what a charming plume he has
on his head!” cried a young hen; “he
looks quite soldierly. Belongs to the
dragoons, I suppose.”

“Hold your tongue,” exclaimed the
king; “and go about your business.
Plume, indeed! spurs forsooth! The
plume, madam, is an airy nothing; the
spurs have neither strength nor substance.
Now, look at me,” this proud king went on,
as he flew up on top of an old hurdle,
“behold me well. Am I not as white as
the driven snow? Is not my comb as
red and rosy as crimson daisies, or the
sunset’s glow at dewy eve?” “Cock-a-doodle—doodle—do—o!
Did ever you
hear such a crow as that before?”

“Never,” said the old hen.

“Except——” said the young one.

The king looked at her, and she was
silent. But just at that moment came a
voice from the other side of the old fence,
that fairly startled every hen in King
Albus’s household. Shrill, defiant, terrible!

“Cock-a-doodle—roaro—ro—o!”
went the voice.

“That is he!” cried the king. “That is more
of his audacity! It is unbearable. I will stand it
no longer. I will instantly give him battle.
Farewell, and if for ever—still for ever, fare-ye-well.”

“Stay with us, stay with us, stay—stay—stay,”
cried all the hens in cackling chorus.

“Never,” cried the king; “while Crève cur
lives! Cock-a-doodle—do! Death or victory!”

He sprang over the fence as he spoke.

“the king had crossed the rubicon.

SITUATION SECOND.

The king had crossed the Rubicon. There was no
going back with honour now. He was fairly over
the fence, and in the domains of the rival king.

King Albus bent his wattles to the ground, and [Pg 277]
gazed at his rival with one eye. His rival’s back
was turned towards him, and he took not the
slightest notice of the king.

“I wonder if he’ll fight!” said the king to himself.
“For my part I hope he won’t, for I don’t
feel half so full of courage on this side of the
fence as I did on the other. I daren’t go back,
though. How the young hens would giggle if I
did, and how the old ones would cackle! No!”

All this time King Albus never moved; he still
held his wattles close to the ground, and still looked
at his rival with one eye, only sometimes he turned
his head and looked with the other.

“He is pretending
not to see me,”
he continued.

“He is afraid. I’ll
wager my wattles
he’s afraid. But—what?—do
my eyes
deceive me? No,
he really has two
lovely pure—white
hens lying beside
him. That seals
his fate. If any one
in the world ought
to have white hens
as companions, it
is myself, because
I am pure white.
So he must die.”

Now, although King Crèvecœur’s back was
turned to his rival, he could see him with the side
of his eye, and besides, his two hens told him
what the silly old Spaniard was doing.

“He’s afraid to come on, I think,” said one.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” said the other.

“A deal depends,” replied Crèvecœur, shaking
his head. “I have never insulted him; I can’t help
being bigger and handsomer and richer than he is;
he has no right to go on envying me as he does.
He deserves to be punished. He is mean, that is
what he is. Stop, I’ll give him a little encouragement—Cock-a-doodle-do-o!”

“It needed but that,” cried King Albus.

He advanced speedily as he spoke, along by the
side of the mill lead.

“Run away, my dears,” said the Crève to his
two hens, “the battle is about to commence.”

One hen went; the other declared she would
stand by him as long as she lived.

Now, it was a very remarkable thing, but no
sooner had King Albus got close up behind King
Crève, and was just about to strike the blow, that
might or might not have both begun and ended
the fight, than all his courage at once oozed out at
his toes, and he really didn’t feel he had pluck
enough to raise his foot to strike, or even to keep
his tail erect.

“I feel very faint,” he said to himself, “I think
I’ll just take a run home and have a few crumbs of
food, and then come back again.”

He turned as he spoke and began to move off.

“Cock-a-doodle-do-o-o!” roared the cock with
the plumes.

he began to move off. (p. 277).

SITUATION THIRD.

Now, this was more than the meanest-spirited cock
that ever crowed
could stand.

He raised his
tail again, wheeled
suddenly round and
faced his foe. The
other cock or king
also wheeled round,
and so with ruffles
raised and wings
half spread, and
with fire flashing
from their eyes, the
two confronted each
other.

But courage now
deserted the heart
of the white hen,
and she fled.

“Cray—cray—cray,” she screamed; “there’ll be
bloodshed, cray—cray—cray!”

“Have you made your will?” cried the white
king, fiercely. “Are you prepared for a watery
grave?”

“As to my will,” replied the dark king, “there’ll
be plenty of time to think about that when you’re
dead. As to the watery grave, I’m quite ready for
it, as soon as I meet any one who has the strength
and courage to send me there. It won’t be you.”

“You may imagine yourself dead already,”
roared the white king. “Your body will go
floating down the mill-stream, and there won’t be a
feather of you left together an hour after this—the
frogs and fish will eat you.”

“come on and fight if you dare.”

“Fish and frogs!” cried King Crève, “fiddlesticks!
Come on and fight if you dare. I’ll give
you leave to strike the first blow.”

Then the white cock grew very sentimental.

“I don’t really want to kill you,” he said; “it
seems a pity.”

[Pg 278]
“Now just look here,” said the dark king. “What
are you talking about? If you mean to fight—fight.
If you don’t mean to fight—go over the
fence again.”

“But I want to have something to say to you,”
cried King Albus.

“Well then, out with it. I’m not going to stand
here palavering all day, with my feathers up like a
ruffed grouse. I’m catching cold, I am. I’ll go to
work to warm myself presently, and it will be a bad
thing for you when I do.”

“What d’ye mean by being bigger than me,
then?” said the white cock.

“Oh! that’s your
grievance, is it?”

“Yes, and what
d’ye mean by crowing
louder every
morning, and wearing
that silly old
plume on top o’
your poll, and those
stupid long spurs
on your heels, eh?”

“Anything else?”

“Ye-s—What
d’ye mean by having
more oats to
eat than me? And
more hens to walk
about and sing to
ye, eh?”

“Oh! You envious
silly old thing, you,” cried King Crève.
“Go home at once, and learn to live a better life, do.”

“Not till I’ve killed King Cur.”

SITUATION FOURTH AND LAST.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

They were at it now spur and bill. The sound of
the blows went echoing all over the farmyards
where they lived. Whack! Whack! Whack!
Dear me, how the feathers flew!

“My brave!” cried the fat old hen, “I never
thought there was so much courage in him before!”

“Wait a bit,” cried the saucy young one.
“Plumes will give him a lesson presently.”

“Plumes won’t,” shrieked the other.

“Plumes will” roared the young one. And lo!
and behold those two hens got fighting behind the
fence—so foolish of them—and thus there were two
battles raging at one and the same time.

Now sometimes, right is might, but in this case
right and might were both on the same side. For
King Albus had no business to be so envious and
jealous of his neighbour, simply because he was
better than he; and he was certainly very wrong
to invade his territory. If he had only stayed
at home, and been content with his own surroundings,
he might have lived and been happy for
many a long day.

To do the white king justice, however, he fought
well. Though a coward at heart, now that he
found himself really engaged, he knew that to
give in would mean being trodden to death under
the feet of his foe. So he fought on and on.

Both shortly paused for breath, and the white
king began turning over the gravel with his bill,
as if looking for a
grub or two. This
was merely a pretence,
in order to
gain time, and the
dark king knew
that well enough.

“Don’t be silly,”
he said, tantalisingly,
“grubs don’t
grow in the gravel.
I don’t believe you
could swallow a
grub if you had
one. Go home now,
and come back
again when your
poor old head is
healed.”

“I’ll heal you!”
roared King Albus, “I’ll grub you!”

Then the battle re-commenced with re-doubled
fury.

But it did not last much longer. The dark
king watched his chance, and bringing all his
strength to bear on one blow, sent his adversary
sprawling and roaring for mercy right into the
mill-stream.

“roaring for mercy.”

Then he jumped nimbly on top of him and
crowed.

His weight sank his foe, he gave a gasp or
two, then away he floated still and quiet enough,
while the dark king jumped on shore, and coolly
began to re-arrange his ruffled plumage, his two
hens soon returning to admire him.

“I told you,” cried the young hen, “that
Plumes would kill him.”

“Ah! well,” said the fat old hen, “such things
will happen, you know. It can’t be helped. It’s a
pity, of course. But he was always rather haughty
and overbearing, and envious too; and if there is
one feeling more distasteful to me than another it
is Envy.”

Arion

[Pg 279]

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

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

“H
ow
clear and bright the fire is,
Mary,” said Margaret, when she
came into the kitchen, and found
Mary already busy setting plates
and dishes to warm, rubbing the
gridiron, and placing everything in readiness
for the lesson in Cookery.

“Yes, Miss Margaret, it is bright, and
I made it so,” said Mary, with pride in
her voice. “Mistress said we were to learn to
broil to-day, so I came here in good time, cleared
away the dust, put on some coal, and swept up the
hearth; and now how hot and clear the fire is;
exactly the fire for broiling, I know.”

“You seem to know all about it before you are
taught, Mary.”

“I am not so clever as that comes to, miss. But
I know that for broiling you need a bright hot fire
without blaze, and that you need to have everything
quite ready before you begin to cook at all,
because when you have once made a start you
cannot leave the broil to attend to anything; so
I thought it was as well to be prepared before-hand.”

“Why are you rubbing the gridiron so hard
then? Was it not cleaned the last time it was
used?”

“Of course it was cleaned; but aunt says that no
matter how clean a gridiron looks, we should
always give it an extra rub before using it, ‘for
safety,’ and that then we should make it hot over
the fire, and afterwards rub the bars with mutton-fat
to grease them, and keep the meat from
sticking to the bars. But here comes mistress.”

“You appear to be cooking without my help to-day,”
said Mrs. Herbert, smiling, as she looked
round and saw what had been done.

“No, ma’am. I have finished all I know,” said
Mary.

“Then let me tell you a little more. Broiling
is a very convenient way of cooking meat, because
it is very quick, and it makes meat very tasty and
very wholesome. I should like you to understand
it, therefore. It is only suitable, however, for
small things, such as chops, and steaks, and
kidneys, and fish. To-day we will broil a steak.”

“The gridiron is greased ready, ma’am,” interrupted
Mary.

“Quite right. I am glad to see it, Mary. This
should always be done. But now notice. This
steak, though I call it small, is still cut fairly thick—it
is nearly an inch thick. If it were cut in a thin
slice, to broil it would make it hard and dry, and we
wish it to be brown and well cooked on the outside,
and tender and juicy inside. I wonder if you
recollect what I said when we first began these
lessons in Cookery about making a case on the
outside of the meat to keep the goodness inside?”

“I recollect it quite well,” said Mary.

“So do I,” said Margaret. “We put the leg of
mutton into boiling water for five minutes to cook
the albumen on the outside of the meat, which is
like white of egg, to form a sort of case; and when
the case was formed we drew the meat back and
let it simmer till it was gently cooked all through.”

“Excellent, Margaret. I think my small
pupils do me great credit. As in boiling meat we
put the meat into boiling water, to harden the
albumen, so in broiling meat we put the meat near
a fierce heat to harden the albumen; and we turn
the meat quickly so that the albumen may be
hardened on one side as well as the other. Now
you know what we have to do. Shall we begin?”

“Yes, please,” answered the little girls, both together.

“You are quite ready? Because when once we
have begun to broil we must not try to attend to
anything else till we have finished.”

“We are quite ready,” replied the children.

“Then, Mary, as you have done so much in
preparing for us, you begin. Put the steak on the
hot greased gridiron—never mind the flare which
comes almost at once; it will not hurt us at this
stage. If later it gets unmanageable we will
sprinkle a little salt on the fire, and that will keep
it down.

“May I turn it, mother?” said Margaret.

“Yes, dear. Stop, stop, though; what are you
about, child? Surely you are not going to put a
fork into the lean part of the steak.”

“I was, though, mother. How shall I take hold
of it if I do not?”

“With the steak-tongs. Or if they are not at
hand, use a spoon and the flat side of a knife. But
on no account stick a fork into the lean. We are
taking ever so much care to keep the juices in, and
if you stick a fork in you let them out most abundantly.
It would not be so mischievous to stick
the fork into the fat, but to stick it into the lean!
Oh, Margaret!”

“I am very sorry, mother, I will never do it
again.”

“Never do it, dear, no matter how you are
cooking the meat, that is, of course, unless you wish
[Pg 280]
to get the goodness out; that will alter the state of
the case altogether.”

“Is it time to turn the steak again, mother?”

“Yes, dear. Turn it quickly, because by so
doing you make both sides brown, and that keeps
in the juice. It is very curious how people who
are clever in Cookery differ about whether or not
meat which is being broiled should be turned. I
say most decidedly, turn it frequently. First make
one side brown as quickly as you can, then the
other, and after that turn it every two minutes.”

“You have to keep on watching it, though,” said
Margaret.

“Of course you have. I told you so at the beginning.”

“It begins to smell very deliciously,” said Mary.

“So it does, Mary. I think broiling is one of
the most perfect ways of cooking, though it is so
simple and easily managed, and so quick also.”

“Is it quick, mother? How long does it take?
A quarter of an hour to the pound?”

“No, dear, you cannot count the time in that
way, it is not safe. You must learn to know by
the look and the touch of the meat whether it is
done or not. This steak takes about twelve
minutes you will find, but then Mary had taken
care to have the fire clear and fierce, and the steak
was cut evenly. Press the meat with the flat
blade of a knife to find whether it is done. You
will, after trying once or twice, know how it feels
when it is sufficiently cooked. It should be nearly
black outside and the inside should be red all the
way through. There should not be a blue line of
raw meat in the middle—that is quite wrong.

“I don’t like red underdone meat,” said Margaret.
“I cannot eat it.”

“A broiled steak is not red because it is under-dressed;
it is red because it is full of gravy. Now
our steak is done, I think. Press it with the knife
that you may know how it feels.”

The little girls pressed it, and looked very wise.

“The plates have been warming for such a long
time, that I cannot take hold of them,” said Mary.

“That is as they should be. They ought to be
very hot indeed for a broil.”

“Mother, how many more lessons in Cookery
have we?”

“Only one, dear. Your holidays are almost
over.”

“May we choose what we will make next time,
mother?”

“I am rather afraid to promise for fear you
should choose something unlikely—a wedding-cake
for instance.”

“We were going to choose a wedding-cake,
mother.”

“I would rather you dismissed it from your
thoughts, my little daughter. A wedding-cake costs
a good deal to begin with; it is not particularly
wholesome food. I could not let you eat more than
an inch or two, for fear you should be ill. Think
of something else.”

“Very well, mother. We will think it thoroughly
over; and if we choose something reasonable, and
not unwholesome, may we make what we wish, just
to finish up well?”

“Yes, that I will readily agree to,” said Mrs.
Herbert, and the children went away contented.

(To be continued.)

LEGENDS OF THE FLOWERS.

THE SUNFLOWER.

here
hollyhocks lift their blossoms gay,
And dahlias show their velvet dyes,
The Sunflower in its flaming pride
With them in gorgeous beauty vies.

Proudly it turns towards the sun,
And lifts aloft its golden shield,
As in the day when first its bloom
To wondering Spaniards was revealed.

For, when the Spaniards found Peru,
A marvel there they did behold,
The fields with Sunflowers covered o’er
Seemed like a living sheet of gold.

No wonder that Peruvian priests,
Who worshipped the Sun-god, should take
The Sunflower for their chosen flower,
And hold it sacred for his sake.

Each holy priestess of the Sun
A glittering golden breast-plate wore,
Fashioned to semblance of the flower,
That also in her hand she bore.

And though in lands far from Peru
A home the Sunflower bright hath found,
It worships still the sun, as when
The Spaniards trod Peruvian ground.

[Pg 281]

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

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

CHAPTER XIII.—MR. GREGORY’S OPINION.

“W
hat
do you generally have for your luncheon?”
Mr. Murray said, as he led the
way to the dining-room. “Something good, I’ve
no doubt. Now, just you tell me what it is.”

“Well, sir, a Bath bun and a glass of milk,”
Bertie replied, looking vainly round the enormous
table in search of his favourite dainty.

“Then I’m afraid you must manage with a cutlet
to-day,” Mr. Murray said, with one of his peculiar
smiles, “or some cold roast beef, or ham and
chicken,” glancing from one to another of the
dishes that adorned the table. “Really, boy, I’m
afraid we have not such a thing as a Bath bun
in the house, or within a quarter of a mile of
us; but a glass of milk I dare say James can find
you, unless you would prefer some claret and water.”

“No, thank you, sir; but plain water will do
very well,” Bertie replied, feeling a little confused.

“Do you never drink wine of any kind at your
Uncle Gregory’s?”

“he turned his bull’s-eye on bertie.” (p. 285).

“No, sir; papa made Eddie and I promise we
would never even taste it till we grew to be men,
and we never have. He said that then we would
like it so little that we would not care if we never
tasted it a second time.”

“He was quite right, boy. And now tell me why
you refused my invitation. Were you afraid of
offending your uncle?”

“No, sir.”

“What, then?” Mr. Murray said, looking stern.
“Tell me just the truth.”

“I don’t think my cousins wanted us to go; I
felt that they wouldn’t have been kind to us; and
[Pg 282]
I am sure Aunt Gregory would have been displeased.
I did not think we should have been
happy, sir, I’m sure Eddie would have been
miserable after what he said.”

“What did Eddie say?” Mr. Murray asked.

“If you please, sir, I’d rather not tell you: he
wouldn’t like it,” Bertie replied, looking quite
troubled at the turn the conversation was taking.

“But I want to know, and I must know; tell me
this moment what Eddie said. Am I not your
father’s old friend? Go on, boy.”

Mr. Murray looked so angry, and his eyes flashed
so under his shaggy knitted brows, that Bertie was
quite frightened.

“Eddie said he did not like being poor or seeing
people who knew him when he was rich; and he’s
so clever and so proud; and he would be so
miserable if the boys treated him as they do me.
So I thought if I came back to town they
wouldn’t go without me,” Bertie said hurriedly.
“And now, sir, please may I go back? Uncle will
be so angry; he says all office time belongs to
him, and any one who wastes a moment of it,
or is late, or leaves before the clock strikes, is a
thief!” Bertie’s voice fell to an awed whisper,
and his ruddy cheeks grew quite pale at the bare
idea of being thought dishonest, and yet he knew
that Mr. Gregory would not spare him a bit more
than any one else; and it was half-past two, and
Bertie was due back at one o’clock.

“Do you think your time belongs to your
uncle?” Mr. Murray asked suddenly.

“Yes, sir, of course; he pays me,” Bertie replied.
“Please may I go now?”

“One moment. Tell me what reward you
expect for having brought that bag here to-day.”

“Reward!” Bertie stammered, looking the very
picture of confusion. “I don’t know what you
mean. The bag was not mine, and I managed to
give it back to the person it belonged to: that’s all,
sir. Why should I be rewarded? But the cabman
was so grateful, he said, ‘Heaven bless the gentleman!
he’s done a better turn than he knew to-day;’
and he kissed the sovereign, sir; and I’m sure
there were tears in his eyes, because he said——”
Bertie stopped suddenly; perhaps he had no right
to repeat the cabby’s words, spoken under the
influence of sudden and joyful excitement; but
Mr. Murray commanded him to go on. “Because
he said, ‘My poor wife is dyin’, and this ‘ere
precious sov will let me go right ‘ome, and spend
the rest of the day with her. Heaven bless the
gentleman!’ Oh, he did look so happy!” and Bertie’s
own eyes filled with sympathetic tears, though his
lips smiled. “I don’t think I shall mind Uncle
Gregory’s scolding a bit when I think of the poor
cabby’s happiness,” he added.

“Bertie, a truly good and honest action is like a
pebble thrown in a pool of water: at first it makes
a little splash that is not of much account, but the
tiny circle widens and widens, till the whole surface
is influenced. Life is a limitless pool. Do you
know where the circle you started to-day may end?
No; neither do I; no human being knows, but
God does. Already it has benefited me a little,
that unhappy clerk who lost the bag a great deal,
that poor cabby with his dying wife a great deal
more. Who knows how many more innocent
and perfectly unconscious people may have been
influenced by the accident, if, indeed, there is such
a thing as accident in this world of ours. Just
think for one moment what would have been the
result if you had carried that bag to your office, put
it in your desk, and never said a word about it till
to-morrow morning, when there would perhaps
have been an advertisement in The Times, offering
fifty pounds reward. You might have got the
money and been happy, and five thousand people
might have been miserable for life. Such was the
importance of those papers. Now, my carriage is
at the door, and I’ll set you down in the City. Tell
your uncle the exact truth, and always act, Bertie
Rivers, as you did to-day, honestly and promptly:
not because it may benefit yourself, but because it’s
sure to have a beneficial influence on every one
else. Remember the pebble and the pool.”

Mr. Murray did not speak another word till they
reached the top of Mincing Lane; there the carriage
stopped and Bertie got out, but in spite of all the
kind things the old gentleman had said, in spite of
the consciousness of having done quite right from
one point of view, in spite of his real pleasure on
the clerk’s and the cabby’s account, he felt positively
nervous about entering the presence of his
uncle, and actually loitered outside for fully five
minutes before venturing to push back the swing
doors, and enter the outer office of Gregory
and Co. He fancied all the clerks were looking at
him in surprised compassion, though in reality not
one of them had noticed him, and if they had, they
would only think he had been sent on an errand by
his uncle. With a loudly-beating heart he entered
his uncle’s room fairly trembling in every limb,
the ominous silence of every one having completely
terrified him.

Mr. Gregory was writing, and only raised his
eyes for one moment as Bertie took his seat, but he
looked very stern, and without doubt there would
be a storm in a few moments, for Bertie was not a
stranger to the rigid rules of the office. At the end
of ten minutes the busy pen was laid aside, a heap
[Pg 283]
of letters pushed into the basket, and by a motion
of his hand Mr. Gregory summoned his nephew to
stand before him.

“You are just two hours and a quarter late,” he
said, glancing at his watch. “Will you kindly
explain to me where you have been and what you
have been doing?”

“Yes, Uncle Gregory;” and in a very quavering
voice Bertie recounted every incident that occurred
from the moment he left the office for luncheon till
he returned, dwelling least on his interview with
Mr. Murray and most on the necessity of overtaking
the gentleman who had lost the bag. He
then explained what he had heard in the train in
the morning, and how important it was that the
papers should be signed at once. But Mr.
Gregory’s face grew graver and sterner as he
listened, and instead of praising Bertie, he looked
as if he could have cheerfully given him a good
thrashing.

“You should have brought that bag to me, sir;
you should have remembered that during office
hours your time is mine. I am very angry with you,
Herbert Rivers, and, what is still worse, very much
disappointed. I imagined that you were a steady,
straightforward boy, who meant to profit by the
exceptional opportunities given you. I fancied you
were worthy of the kindness I have bestowed upon
you, and I find you a clever, artful, designing
creature. Why did you say you preferred to come
back to business instead of going with your
cousins? why did you come, boy? To cross, thwart,
annoy me? In my opinion, you came simply to
ingratiate yourself with Mr. Murray, and your
conduct to-day has proved it. Why should you
find his papers? Why should you take them to
him instead of to me—your uncle and guardian, as
well as your master? I tell you again that it’s my
opinion you are a bad, artful designing boy, and
I’m very sorry I ever set your foot on the high
road to fortune, for I’m sadly afraid you will turn
out a disgrace to me some day!”

“Not so bad as that, Gregory, I hope,” Mr.
Murray said, entering the room; he had been standing
in the doorway unnoticed for some minutes,
and overheard a good deal of the conversation.
“Your nephew is not going to disgrace you, because
he did what was clearly his duty in a very clever
way. Cheer up, Bertie; your uncle will have a
better opinion of you presently.”

For answer, Bertie hid his face amongst the
circulars on his desk, and burst into a passionate
fit of crying, none the less bitter because his
uncle sternly commanded him to be quiet, and
carry a note to a gentleman in Threadneedle Street,
and wait for an answer. Meanwhile Mr. Murray
sat down, as if he meant to have a long conversation
with Mr. Gregory, who looked as if he most
cordially wished his visitor sixty miles away, as
he thought him in reality to be, before he had
heard Bertie’s curious story.

CHAPTER XIV.—BERTIE IN DIFFICULTIES.

W
hen
he left the office on his uncle’s
errand, Bertie Rivers felt very
miserable. For a minute he seemed
almost stunned by his uncle’s words,
“A disgrace!” Was it possible that merely doing
right ever could bring disgrace to anybody? if so,
what was the good of doing right at all? But then,
Mr. Murray had commended him, had said right
always helped the largest number of people, though
one might sometimes suffer; but even in a good
cause to be called artful, designing, to be suspected
of trying to make friends with Mr. Murray, and
leading his uncle to suppose that he did not want
to even accept his invitation, was too bitterly hard,
and for the first time in his life Bertie felt as if he
must throw himself down by the wayside, and sob
his sorrow out to some one.

“Oh, if I could only see Aunt Amy!” he said
aloud as he toiled up the stairs to the address on
the note in his hand. “If I could only tell her
all!” and then, as the gentleman was out and he
was desired to wait, he sat on a form on the landing,
and while seeming to watch the never-ending
crowd of passers-by in Threadneedle Street, he
was really thinking, “I must see my Aunt Amy.
I must, I must, I must!”

The passing cabs attuned themselves to the
words, the newspaper-boys, crying “Evening
Paper, fourth edition,” the flower-sellers, the sellers
of mechanical toys, revolving purses, performing
mice, and other living and dead monstrosities that
haunt the vicinity of the Stock Exchange and
Bank, all seemed to “cry” the same thing to
Bertie, “I must see Aunt Amy. I must, I must,
I must!“

Till four o’clock Bertie sat patiently waiting for
an answer to his note, then the commissionaire
came and told him that there was no chance of the
gentleman he wanted being there that day; so he
went back to Mincing Lane, only to find the office
shut up, and then, for the first time, he glanced at a
clock, and saw that it was a quarter after four. He
had no very definite idea of how the time had gone,
but the one uppermost idea still in his mind was to
get to Aunt Amy, and tell her all his troubles, and
ask her if she thought he had been so very much to
blame.

“bertie was in her arms in a moment” (p. 288).

At length Bertie started to walk home; he had
[Pg 284]
no ticket, for he had gone to the office with his
uncle before his holiday; and he had no money: his
last penny had been spent at Brighton, and Mr.
Gregory had not remembered to give him his usual
weekly allowance; but there was the savings’
bank: he could get some of his own money and go
to see Aunt Amy at once. But the “book” was at
Kensington, he remembered, and he called to mind,
too, that the people at the Post Office wanted
notice before paying any deposits, so that would
not do. In his sore trouble and impatience he
wanted to rush off to the station that moment, and
even an express train would be far too slow for his
wishes. As he walked towards Kensington he
kept thinking all the time how he was to get the
money. Whom could he ask to help him? But he
did not ask any one, and at last, weary with his
walk and his troubled thoughts, hot and dusty, he
turned into the Park, and threw himself on the grass
in the quietest spot he could find. He was close
to Kensington Gardens, and a few minutes would
bring him home; but Bertie felt as if he must have
a rest before the duties of the evening commenced.
For the first time in his life his work seemed distasteful
to him, and the idea of being shut up alone
with his uncle in the library after what had taken
place was almost unbearable. If he only could
get away to Aunt Amy and tell her all, it would be
such a comfort. Once he pulled out his watch,
and for a moment thought of selling it, then with a
start he remembered that it was his dear father’s
last present. Above all things, he could not part
[Pg 285]
with that. It really seemed as if there were no
resource but to wait till he got his money from the
savings’ bank, and by that time Aunt Amy would
be just about returning to Fitzroy Square.

“I suppose I may as well wait, and be as
patient as I can,” he mused; “besides, Uncle Gregory
may think differently after what Mr. Murray
said to him to-day;” and then he turned over lazily
on the grass, pulled his hat over his eyes, and in a
very few minutes was sound asleep. He was very
tired, and fairly worn out with the excitement as
well as the fatigue of the long summer’s day, and
he slept heavily. How long he did not know, when
he started to his feet suddenly, to find himself quite
damp from a heavy dew, chilled, stiff, sore, and,
worst of all, hungry. The park was quite deserted
and very dark, still he knew his way tolerably well,
and hurried towards the gate, shivering partly with
cold, partly with nervousness, at finding himself
quite alone in the dark—everything was so gloomy
and weird. When he reached the gates he was
really frightened to find them locked, and to see by
the lamplight that it was just eleven o’clock.
What would Uncle Gregory say when he got
home? How was he to get home unless some one
came and let him out? for though a tolerably skilful
climber, Bertie felt that great swing gate was
beyond him; he did not like to venture over the
sharp spikes at the top, even if he could get so high.
For a few minutes he called loudly, but no one took
the least notice, and he was becoming more and
more frightened when he saw the friendly gleam of
a policeman’s lantern. It was some time before he
could attract his attention, and when he did the
man spoke quite gruffly, and threatened him with
all sorts of pains and penalties for being in the
park after hours.

“I couldn’t help it, indeed!” Bertie cried,
earnestly. “I was so tired that I fell asleep, and
uncle will be dreadfully anxious about me. Oh, do
please find some one to let me out!”

“Who’s your uncle? and where does he live?”
the policeman said, a little less gruffly, for as he
turned his bull’s-eye on Bertie he saw he was not a
common offender, but a handsome young gentleman,
who looked in real, not sham, trouble.

“My uncle is Mr. Gregory, and he lives in Gore
House, just close by. Oh, do please, get me out!
he will be so anxious!”

The policeman hesitated for a moment, and then
directed Bertie to a part of the railing tolerably
easy to climb, from which he assisted him carefully
to get down, and walked with him to Gore House.
There was light in the library and dining-room, but
there did not seem to be any fuss or confusion, and
it just struck Bertie that perhaps he had not been
missed at all. His uncle had seemed very preoccupied
all day; perhaps he had forgotten all
about him since the time he had sent him to
Threadneedle Street. As it happened, that was
just the case. Mr. Gregory did not come home
till late, when he was accompanied by Mr. Murray;
and immediately after dinner both gentlemen went
into the library, and had remained there ever since.
It was as James the footman opened the door, and
the policeman and Bertie entered the hall, that Mr.
Gregory and Mr. Murray entered it too from the
library.

“I wish you would let me order the carriage,”
Mr. Gregory was saying, when he stopped suddenly
and hurried forward. “What’s all this?
Bertie Rivers and a policeman! What has he been
doing?” he asked, in a tone that made the hearers
think he was almost glad to see his nephew in
difficulties.

“There’s not much amiss, sir,” the policeman
answered respectfully. “This young gentleman says
he was tired, and fell asleep in the park. Of course
he got locked in, and I helped him out. That’s
all, sir; unless he has got cold from sleeping on the
grass.”

“Why were you in the park? why did not you
come straight home? Give an account of yourself,”
Mr. Gregory said sternly.

“I went to Threadneedle Street, sir, and waited
for an answer, as you told me, but the gentleman
did not come in; then I went back to Mincing
Lane, but the office was shut, and I walked
home.”

“Why did you walk?” Mr. Gregory interrupted.

“I had no money, sir,” Bertie replied defiantly;
“and I thought I was to return with you, but
you were gone.”

“Well, why didn’t you come straight home?
Why did you loiter in the park? I don’t believe a
word you have said!”

“He was in the park right enough, sir. I seed
him there and helped him out; and any one as
walked from the City might fall asleep without
much blame on an afternoon like the one to-day,”
the policeman said, feeling a little indignant at
Bertie’s reception, and perhaps disappointed at the
poor prospect of reward for himself.

“Get about your business!” Mr. Gregory said
shortly, and the man turned aside with a muttered
exclamation, but Bertie seized his hand
and thanked him warmly, and Mr. Murray just
then contrived to slip a more tangible reward into
his other hand. Then the old gentleman turned
to Bertie, and patted him kindly on the shoulder.
“Why, dear me, boy! you are quite wet,” he cried,
starting back, “and you are as white as anything.
[Pg 286]
Had you any dinner? of course not; nor any tea?
how very tiresome of you! But then you had no
money, and you came up from Brighton this morning,
and had a tiresome, exciting day. Better you
went in the yacht, boy, far better and pleasanter;
and your uncle could have done very well without
you;” and Mr. Murray frowned and chuckled in
the most extraordinary way as he pushed Bertie
before him into the dining-room, and rang the bell
just as if the whole place belonged to him, while
Mr. Gregory immediately followed, looking very
dark and stern.

“James, get this boy a cup of hot cocoa and
some cold meat directly, and tell some one to prepare
a warm bath for him; and you must give him
a holiday to-morrow, Mr. Gregory. He should stay
in bed all the day if he’s to escape a violent cold.
Now I must be off. Good night; good night, boy;
take great care of yourself, you are very fortunate
that you didn’t have to sleep in the park all
night.”

And with another friendly pat on the shoulder,
Mr. Murray departed, leaving Bertie drinking his
cocoa with evident enjoyment, and Mr. Gregory
frowning with annoyance.

In more ways, and more seriously than he knew,
Bertie had caused his uncle loss and disappointment
that day, and Mr. Gregory was not inclined
to forgive him very easily; least of all was he disposed
to overlook the sudden interest taken in him
by Mr. Murray, and the conversation that afternoon
at the office, and in the evening at Gore
House, had been chiefly about the two boys whom
fortune had thrown on the world so young, and so
little able to help themselves. Mr. Murray asked
persistently if something better could not be done
for them. Mr. Gregory maintained that they were
both well and generously treated, but Bertie’s white
woe-begone face and evident fear of his uncle
spoke little for the happiness of his life in Gore
House; and as he walked home in the quiet, sultry
August night, Mr. Murray sketched out a plan
which he thought would please the boys, and make
life more pleasant for the sons of his dead friend,
but it would take some time and trouble to mature,
and then both boys would have to be fully tried
and tested before the idea was made known to
them. “I have no fear about Bertie: he’s a brave,
bright, truthful lad; even the vague suspicion of
being false cuts him like a knife. No man should
say he doesn’t believe a boy like that without
positive proof. As for his brother—well, I’m afraid
he’s a difficult youngster to manage, but he’s all
right at the bottom. I have no doubt he will stand
the test too; and the sooner we get poor Bertie
out of his difficulties the better it will be for him.”

CHAPTER XV.—BAD NEWS FROM BRIGHTON.

When
Mr. Murray left the dining-room
at Gore House, Mr. Gregory followed
him as far as the hall door, then
he returned for a moment, and
looked at Bertie angrily. It seemed as if he were
going to say something of importance, but suddenly
checked himself with a hasty stamp of his foot;
then he said, more quietly, “Get to bed as soon as
possible, and be down in good time in the morning,
and see that you don’t fall asleep out of doors
again,” and left the dining-room.

Bertie was not very long after him, and though
he felt much better for his supper, he was still
so stiff and chilled that the warm bath was a
real luxury. His head was scarcely on the pillow
before he was sound asleep, but he was troubled and
restless, and awoke in the morning feeling dull and
unrefreshed, and with the uncomfortable sense of
something having happened that he vainly tried to
recall. However, he got up and was downstairs
before his uncle.

Mr. Gregory spoke to him coldly, without looking
up from his pile of letters, and Bertie ate his
breakfast in silence: that is, he drank his coffee, but
food seemed to hurt his throat strangely, and in
spite of the brilliant sunshine, he shivered nervously
once or twice. Just as breakfast was finished there
came a telegram for Mr. Gregory, which, when he
had read it, he handed over to Bertie.

The message was from Aunt Amy, saying that
Uncle Clair was ill, and wished to see Bertie,
if his Uncle Gregory would permit him to go. The
paper fell from his trembling fingers as he looked
at the unconcerned features of his uncle, and he
gasped, rather than asked, “May I go, sir?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” was the cold reply,
“though I fail to see what possible good you can
do. You can come into the City with me, and go
down by the noon express; telegraph to that effect
when you reach the office.”

“Thank you, Uncle Gregory; and if you please,
will you let me have some money?” Bertie faltered,
blushing, and looking very much confused. “I’m
afraid it would take me too long to get my own out
of the savings’ bank.”

Mr. Gregory took a sovereign from his pocket.
“That will be sufficient for your expenses. Watts
shall get your ticket;” and Mr. Gregory rose from
the table, and rang for his hat and gloves. The
dog-cart was already at the door, and presently
Bertie was beside his uncle driving City-wards.

Mr. Gregory looked very stern and angry, and
once or twice seemed on the point of asking Bertie
some questions, but always checked himself. The
[Pg 287]
fact was, Mr. Gregory felt very curious as to what
Mr. Murray had said to Bertie, whether he had
made him any fine promises, or, in short, shown the
lad himself the keen interest that he took in him,
and how resolved he was to do something to alter
his condition. Mr. Gregory had very confidently
hoped that one of his own sons would have been
the old gentleman’s favourite, and but for the unfortunate
encounter with the Rivers’ lads, he felt
quite confident that such would have been the case.
Then the finding of the papers and the immediate
return of them annoyed Mr. Gregory very much.
If he could have kept them back for one day it
would have been considerably to his interest; and
though he liked and fully appreciated a boy who
was quick to think and prompt to act, he liked the
quickness and promptitude to be for, not against,
himself. In fact, though he would not acknowledge
it, even to himself, Mr. Gregory’s business affairs
just then were in a very critical condition: during
the summer many of his ventures had failed; many
large firms with which he did business had also
failed; and though the credit of his house was as
yet above suspicion, trade was very dull, and
matters generally looked threatening. It was that
that caused Mr. Gregory to court an alliance in any
shape with the firm of Murray and Co., that
enjoyed a reputation second only to the Bank of
England. With one of his sons in the office, and
treated as the adopted child of the head of the firm,
Mr. Gregory felt as if he could face a financial
earthquake; therefore he did not care to see Bertie
rendering important services, did not care to hear
him praised for exceptional business capacity, least
of all did he like to hear his old friend Mr. Murray
almost reproach himself for the lad’s dependent
position, and say sadly that in a great measure he
was the cause of their father’s ruin. Such a statement
from an enormously wealthy, Quixotically
generous man meant possible reparation; there was
really no telling what he might not do for Bertie
and Eddie Rivers; so Mr. Gregory determined
very prudently, as he thought, to keep the boys as
much as possible out of the old gentleman’s way.
Therefore he allowed Bertie to go to Brighton, with
permission to remain as long as his uncle and aunt
required him, and telegraphed to his wife to send
his second son Dick up to town without delay.

“Harry must go to Oxford and get into Parliament,”
he said to himself, “and I must sacrifice
Dick to his interest and advancement.” It was a
singular thing Mr. Gregory never thought it the
least sacrifice to place Bertie Rivers in his office,
even when he was younger and worse educated
than his own son. “Bertie is a smart, industrious
lad, with better business capacity than Dick,” he
reflected, as he watched Bertie go through his
morning’s work, apparently oblivious to everything
outside, forgetful of his stiff limbs, sore throat, hard
words, and, worst of all, the terrible telegram from
Brighton; he simply crushed the thoughts down
and did his work steadily, till his uncle told him
it was time to go to the station.

“Good-bye. I hope you will find Mr. Clair
better,” he said, ungraciously enough. “Watts,
get a hansom, and be quick.”

Bertie needed no second bidding to go, and as
he left the office it was with an earnest wish that
he might never have to enter it again. He little
knew that his uncle’s thoughts at the same moment
were, “I hope he may never come back; or if he
does, I hope Dick will be with Mr. Murray.”

That gentleman meantime had driven round to
Gore House about eleven o’clock, with the intention
of taking Bertie out for a couple of hours, and so
studying his manners and temper, but to his
astonishment, he learned the boy had driven into
town with his uncle, and was going down to
Brighton to see his other uncle, who was dangerously
ill. James had consulted the telegram he
found on the breakfast-table, and from it and
the fragments of conversation he picked up, knew
pretty accurately what Master Bertie’s movements
were going to be. “He’s going down by the
twelve train, sir, but he looks more fit to be in his
bed,” James continued. “I believe he’s caught
a violent cold: he was that hoarse to-day, and his
face as white as milk; and he had no breakfast.”

Mr. Murray listened in silence, only nodding his
head gravely every few seconds, then he told his
coachman to drive him at once to London Bridge
Station; there he would find out the truth as to
whether Bertie was ill or going to Brighton, and act
accordingly. But the City was very crowded, his
carriage frequently got blocked, and he only
reached the station in time to jump into a carriage,
where he fancied he caught a glimpse of Bertie’s
head in a corner. He had not even time to get a
ticket or give his servants any instructions; but
then, Mr. Murray was known to be eccentric, and
he always paid most liberally for his whims.

Bertie, who was alone in the carriage, looked
first surprised, and then very pleased. He was
terribly low-spirited, his head ached, his throat
was sore, worst of all, he was cold, and would probably
have sobbed the whole way to Brighton had
he been alone, and so made himself very ill. But
Mr. Murray cheered him up wonderfully, chatted
briskly all the way about everything a boy could be
expected to take an interest in, and in fact made
the time pass so pleasantly that they were at
Brighton long before Bertie thought they were half-way.
[Pg 288]
When they reached the house (for Mr.
Murray went too), the blinds were all down,
and that gave Bertie a sudden chill; and as
he knocked at the door he glanced with terrified,
appealing eyes at Mr. Murray, who drew a step
nearer, and took Bertie by the hand. It was a
firm, reassuring clasp, and the boy glanced at him
gratefully, and when the door was opened, thus hand
in-hand they went upstairs, and were met just at the
drawing-room door by Mrs. Clair. One glance at
her face was sufficient to tell them something dreadful
had happened. Bertie was in her arms in a
moment, while Eddie and Agnes—white, wild-eyed,
terror-stricken—clung on either side. It was a
heartrending picture of sorrow and despair, and
Mr. Murray could not witness it unmoved. He
just shook hands with Mrs. Clair, whispered a few
words that he would telegraph at once to Mr.
Gregory, and would call again in a few hours, to
ask if he could be of any service.

“Remember, my dear Mrs. Clair, you are not
alone here. I will see to everything for you: Rely
on me, command me, and remember I was your
brother’s dearest friend. I will call as soon as I
get Gregory’s answer. By the way, that boy Bertie
is very ill; he has a violent cold, he has eaten
nothing to-day, he is very unhappy; if you can,
forget’ your own sorrow for an hour in comforting
him;” and then Mr. Murray hurried away, having
left a ray of sunshine in a very shady place, and
cheered and comforted Mrs. Clair, who was alone,
helpless, bewildered, in her terrible and sudden
affliction. Surely Heaven had sent her a friend
in her direst distress, and she was truly grateful.

(To be continued.)

THE FOX AND THE FROG.

Afrog
had made himself
a home in what he considered
a very desirable
situation. It was beside
a river far away from
any human habitations,
so that he had no occasion
to fear the incursions
of rude boys, of
whom, owing to their
stone-throwing propensities, he had a natural
horror.

It was also a very pleasant spot, where reeds and
bulrushes and water-plants protected him from
the glare of the sun, whilst before him the water-lilies
spread their broad leaves upon the water.
Food was plentiful in the vicinity, and he congratulated
himself upon having found a place where
he could dwell without being subject to constant
alarms.

A fox had on very much the same principle
taken up his residence in a wood near. There
were plump young pigeons and hares and rabbits
to be had, and very often he came in for waterfowl
by the river.

“And no fear of traps here,” said he, “or of boys
and men with guns. It is far too wild a place for
them.”

So he made himself as comfortable as possible in
his den, and enjoyed himself to his heart’s content;
never finding it necessary, excepting in winter-time,
to make an expedition to more populated parts,
though at such seasons he was obliged through
hunger to journey to the remote villages for poultry,
through scarcity of provisions in his own parts.

One fine day, as he was sauntering along, he
happened to observe a movement among the rushes,
and to hear a strange cry that he had not heard
before.

He paused to listen, and still the sound went on,
and still the reeds swayed to and fro.

“Doubtless a bird,” said he. And he cautiously
advanced to where the noise proceeded from.

Now it happened that the frog was splashing
about and performing rotatory movements that
caused the swaying of the rushes, and that he was
making a curious singing noise on which he prided
himself as showing his fine voice. Looking up he
perceived the great sharp face of the fox peering
down upon him. Not that the fox was looking at
him, for he had not perceived him, his thoughts
being occupied with the fine young waterfowl he
hoped to find there.

The frog, however, made up his mind at once
that the fox had come after him.

“Such a fine young frog as I am,” he exclaimed,
“is never safe for a moment,” and with a loud croak
of terror he plunged into the water and swam away,
determined to put a safe distance between himself
and his pursuer.

The fox looked over the rushes, and seeing the
frog swimming as for life, laughed quietly to himself.

“How people magnify their own importance!”
said he; “as if I were troubling myself to come
after him! I was hoping to find prey of a very
superior description.”

J. G.

[Pg 289]

the fox and the frog. (See p. 288).

[Pg 290]

THE CHILDREN’S OWN GARDEN IN NOVEMBER.

N
ovember
is a month of very
great dulness in Gardening
matters, from a practical point
of view, and will probably fully
justify the epithet of “gloomy”
so often applied to it. Familiar
floral faces which have been for
the past several months brightening us with their
cheerful looks have now vanished, and we once more
witness Nature in her winter aspect. “A garden,”
says Douglas Jerrold, “is a beautiful book, writ by
the finger of God; every flower and leaf is a
letter. You have only to learn them—and he is
a poor dunce that cannot, if he will, do that—to
learn them, and join them, and go on reading
and reading, and you will find yourself carried
away from the earth by the beautiful story you are
going through.”

One of the best occupations which we can
recommend to our young readers during winter
evenings is the perusal of various elementary books
on gardening, and a few of the best seed catalogues
which are issued every spring. Those containing
plenty of illustrations should be preferred, as a
figure, even if badly executed, will convey a far
better idea of a plant than the most elaborate of
descriptions. We would, however, remark that mere
reading, no matter how wide and varied, will by
no means constitute any one a good or even
indifferent gardener where experience and knowledge
are not acquired by practice. It is probably
true that a poet must be born such; but the case
is just the reverse with a gardener, who must in
fact be made one.

*   *
  *  

The present month is one of the best for making
additions to our little folk’s gardens in the matter
of nearly all sorts of hardy perennials, and dwarf-growing
shrubs. We would especially name the
Christmas rose; if planted now in a light loamy soil
close to an east wall, plenty of flowers will be produced
in succession from the latter part of December
until February, and in order to secure pure white
blooms, the plant, when just commencing to flower,
should be covered over with a bell-glass. If grown
exposed to winds and rain the flowers will be of a
very dirty white. The roots of the winter aconite,
or, as it is sometimes called, “The New Year’s
Gift,” should now be planted in, if possible, a rather
damp and shady situation; its bright yellow
flowers will be most welcome throughout the dull
months of December and January. It may be
grown successfully under the shelter of trees and
shrubs.

*   *
  *  

Secure nice specimens of the forget-me-not,
and plant in any damp, shaded situation. A
plentiful supply of flowers from early spring onwards
will amply repay any small amount of
trouble entailed in their cultivation. As the true
forget-me-not (Myosotis palustris) grows in most
damp, boggy meadows throughout England it will
cost nothing to obtain it—except, perhaps, a pair
of wet feet. The winter aconite is likewise a
native plant, but is rarely seen in a wild state.
Such spring-flowering perennials as the white
arabis, herbaceous candytufts, aubretias, primulas,
and polyanthuses, should now be placed in situations
where it is desired for them to flower. The
majority of those just named thrive very well in
almost any moderately good garden soil, and
under ordinary treatment.

*   *
  *  

The hardy annuals required for spring flowering
which were omitted to be sown during the previous
months should now be done so with all speed;
the most suitable position will be in a box of light
soil, and the young seedlings may be protected from
the severity of winter by the box containing them
being placed in a cold frame, which should be
covered by straw or other litter during very hard
frosts. Although the majority of annuals are of a
very ephemeral character, few things are more showy
or more floriferous. Among many others we may
particularise the fragrant white-flowered alyssum,
the blue, dark purple, spotted, and white varieties
of nemophila, white and pink virginian stock, and
the large yellow buttercup-like flowered limnanthes.
Batches of the annuals sown in August and
September can now be placed in warm spots in the
open border, where, in all probability, they will withstand
the winter and flower duly in spring.

*   *
  *  

The planting of flower-roots may be still carried
on with vigour. As regards the general work to
be done now in the garden, we may mention that
in dry weather all walks and pathways should be
swept and rolled, which latter operation, like that
of digging, ought to be done by a labourer,
although dragging a garden-roller has been
described as an excellent gymnastic exercise. Grass
should be mowed on every favourable opportunity;
and where turf has been much worn
away, or where it is uneven, the objectionable
portions must be removed and replaced by better.

[Pg 291]

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

By Edwin Hodder (“Old Merry“).

V.—THE SANCTUARY, CLOISTERS, AND CHAPTER-HOUSE.

T
he
Westminster Hospital and
National Schools occupy the
site of an important portion of
the precincts of Westminster
Abbey as it was in the olden
times. This was the Sanctuary
to which certain classes
of wrong-doers could flee for
safety and escape the arm of
the law. The privilege of sanctuary had its uses
in those troublous times; for it enabled the innocent
to take refuge where the tyrant dared
not molest them; but it also gave shelter to
crowds of the lawless and depraved.

The Westminster Sanctuary was one out of about
thirty attached to the great English monasteries;
in form it was a strong Norman fortress, whose
privileges were considered to be guaranteed by
King Lucius, King Sebert, and the apostle Peter
himself. The Danes cared nothing for sanctuaries,
but Edward the Confessor re-organised the institution
with the Pope’s aid.

There was great excitement and even consternation
in London and Westminster when in 1378 the
privileges of the Abbey were tragically violated.
John of Gaunt had imprisoned in the Tower two
knights who had offended him. They escaped and
rushed into sanctuary at Westminster, but were
soon pursued thither by the Constable of the Tower
and a company of armed men. The two knights
were in the choir of the Abbey attending high mass,
and the deacon was just reading the words “If the
good man of the house had known what time the
thief would appear”—when the service was interrupted
by the clash of arms. One of the knights
escaped, the other was chased twice round the
choir till he fell dead, pierced with twelve wounds.
His servant and one of the monks were killed at
the same time. In consequence of this desecration,
the Abbey was shut up for four months; the chief
assailants were heavily fined and excommunicated.

In the fifteenth century, Edward the Fourth’s
Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, was twice an inmate
of the Sanctuary. On the first occasion Edward V.
was born here; on the second in 1483 her second
son the little Duke of York was torn away from her
to share the captivity and dark fate of his brother
Edward V. in the Tower. Among other noted
persons who sought shelter here were Owen Tudor
(uncle of Henry VII.) and Skelton, the first Poet
Laureate. The latter from his safe retreat in the
sanctuary sent forth against Cardinal Wolsey
invectives so bitter and so forcible that his death
would have been certain had he ventured outside the
Abbey precincts. The rights of the sanctuary were
in full force till the time of Elizabeth, who restricted
the inmates to debtors; but under James I. all the
English sanctuaries were suppressed.

Near the Sanctuary was the Almonry, with its
chapels and charitable endowments, but deriving
its chief interest to us as being the scene of the
early labours of Caxton. Margaret Richmond, the
mother of Henry VII., the gifted woman who
founded St. John’s and Christ’s Colleges, and who
saw the signs of the coming changes, specially
protected in the Almonry, which she had re-endowed,
the great pioneer printer and his presses.
Here the infant art grew up and flourished, and still
in the word “chapel,” which is used to signify a
meeting of the compositors of a printing establishment,
preserves a memento of its early connection
with the chapel of St. Anne in Margaret Richmond’s
Almonry.

We will pass on, now to the Cloisters, begun by
Edward the Confessor, but rebuilt in the fourteenth
century. Looking back four or five hundred years
we see the monks pacing to and fro, gossiping or
transacting the petty details of their daily life, and,
as the time came, digging graves for one another
in the central grassplat. Here the monks shaved
each other’s heads—an art in which they were
expected to be very skilful, and here the novices
carried on their studies. Rough mats took off the
chill of the stone benches in some degree, and the
floor was littered over with hay and straw in
summer, and with rushes in winter. But in cold or
stormy weather it must have been a desolate place
at the best, for the lower parts of the windows
opening on the central court were never closed.

Along the South Cloister lay the magnificent
refectory, an upper hall of the time of Edward II.,
with arcades of the time of the Confessor beneath
it. Very strict were the rules of behaviour in this
great dining-room. No monk might speak, and
guests might only whisper. There were particular
rules against leaning on the elbows, sitting with the
hand on the chin, or cracking nuts with the teeth.
The beautiful and commodious hall of the refectory
was occasionally used for various secular
gatherings. In 1244, Henry III. held a great
Council of State in it. Here Edward I. met a large
gathering of clergy and laity, and demanded half
[Pg 292]
their possessions. The Dean of St. Paul’s, in his
consternation, fell dead at Edward’s feet. The
King took slight heed of this occurrence, and persisted
in his demands, till he obtained all he
wanted. Several of the early assemblies of the
Commons of England took place in this hall.

The dormitory of the monks was over the East
Cloister; there is a gallery still remaining, opening
into the south transept of the Abbey, by which they
came to their midnight services.

In the Eastern Cloister you see an ancient door,
leading to what is now called the chapel of the Pyx.
In it is the Box or Pyx, containing specimen
standard-pieces of all the gold and silver coins of
the realm. Once in five years this strong room is
opened, and coins newly issued from the Mint are
compared with the standards, to make sure that
the coinage is not degenerating. But in ancient
days this chamber was the treasury of England.
Here the sovereigns kept their money in hard coin,
as well as the regalia, and many priceless relics,
such as the Holy Cross of Holyrood, the sceptre or
rod of Moses, and the dagger that wounded Edward
I. at Acre. In 1303, whilst Edward I. was invading
Scotland, news was brought him that his treasury
had been broken into, and his vast hoards carried
away. The abbot and forty-eight monks were
sent to the Tower, and after a long trial, two of their
number were proved to have been concerned in the
robbery. Amongst the iron-work of the door there
are fragments of human skin, which in all probability
once pertained to these robbers, and ever
after remained as terrible warnings to the monks,
as they walked along the Cloisters. The king’s
money was henceforward kept elsewhere, the
regalia after a time sent to the Tower, and the
relics disappeared at the Reformation.

From the Cloisters we can readily reach the
Chapter-House, the octagonal building so conspicuous
on the left hand before entering the Abbey
at Poets’ Corner. It was founded by Edward
the Confessor, and rebuilt by Henry III. This
beautiful building was at first the meeting-place of
the convent, in which all difficulties were adjusted
and satisfaction made for faults. The abbot, with
his three priors and sub-prior, occupied five richly-decorated
stalls at the eastern end. Above them
rose a great crucifix to which the monks bowed on
entering. Then followed complaints, confessions,
judgments, punishments—such monks as were
thought to need it were stripped to the waist, and
publicly scourged at the central pillar.

When the Commons began to meet apart from
the Lords they met a few times in the refectory, as
I told you just now, but they soon settled down in
this Chapter-House. It would be too long and
tedious a story for me to attempt to recount the
important acts that were passed in this memorable
edifice. The Commons sat here till the last day
of Henry VIII’s life; their next meeting was in
St. Stephen’s Chapel in the adjacent Palace.

From 1547 to 1863, the Chapter-House was used
as a storehouse for the public records. A special
building for these has since been erected in Chancery
Lane, and by a grant from Parliament this beautiful
and time-honoured building has been redeemed from
the miserable condition resulting from centuries of
neglect.

A little way from the Chapter-House stands a
small square tower known as the Parliament Office.
It is thought that this tower was once the convent
prison, but however that may be, it was sold by
the Abbey to Edward III., and was for many years
the royal jewel-house. Its present name arose
from the fact of all acts of Parliament being
deposited here, till they were moved to the Victoria
Tower in 1864. From the jewel-house, in the days
of the abbots, there used to be a path leading to a
stream that ran down to the Thames. Hereabouts
lived the hermit of Westminster, in what was called
“The Anchorite’s House.” From age to age, a
succession of hermits dwelt here, how chosen for
the post we do not know, but we hear of Richard
II. visiting the hermit in 1381, and of Henry V.
doing the same at the time of his father’s death in
1413. It is said that one of these “holy men” had
been buried in a leaden coffin, in a small chapel
adjoining his cell. The keeper of the palace,
William Ushborne, paid a plumber to dig up this
coffin and bring it to his office, after throwing the
bones down the cloister well. Tradition says that
the plumber fainted and died in Ushborne’s house.
Ushborne was guilty of other crimes; he managed
to steal a piece of the convent land and made it into
a garden with a fish-pond in the middle. He was
supping with his neighbours one evening on fish
from this pond, and had taken two or three mouthfuls
of a large pike, when he shouted “Look! look!
here is come a fellow who is going to choke me.”
He died on the spot, killed by the fish he had
reared on the scene of his sacrilege. Adjoining the
land stolen by Ushborne was the Infirmary,
(now College) Garden, where sick brothers took
exercise. Of the infirmary, only a few fragments
of arches remain—but these undoubtedly date from
the time of the Confessor. Here the sick monks
dwelt, visited at times by the long procession of the
healthy brethren. Here also lived the “playfellows”—the
monks over fifty years of age—who
were told nothing unpleasant, were freed from the
ordinary rules, and were permitted to enjoy the
privilege of censuring anything they heard or saw.

[Pg 293]
The Infirmary Chapel (in which, by the way, the
young monks were privately whipped to spare
them from the more public floggings in the
Chapter-House) was dedicated to St. Catherine.
Many bishops were consecrated and many church
councils held in this building, of which only a few
arcades and pillars forming part of modern buildings
now mark the site. A curious scene was
enacted here, at a church assembly, in 1124, when
the Archbishops of York and Canterbury quarrelled
about precedence. Richard of Canterbury took
his seat on the right-hand side of the Pope’s
Legate, whereupon, Roger of York, who claimed
that place, went and sat down in Canterbury’s lap.
He was speedily pulled off by Canterbury’s servants,
and much knocked about. Severely bruised, and
with his cope torn, York rushed into the Abbey,
where he found the king, and told his wrongs.
The king bound over both the archbishops to keep
the peace for five years, and the Pope issued an
edict that Canterbury should be Primate of all
England, and York Primate of England.

In the next century, St. Catherine’s Chapel
witnessed a stirring scene, when Henry III., holding
in one hand a Gospel, in the other a lighted
taper, swore to uphold Magna Charta. The king
and all the great dignitaries present threw their
candles on the ground, then holding their noses
and shutting their eyes, they exclaimed “So go out
in smoke and stench the accursed souls of those
who break or pervert this charter.” No voice was
louder than that of the king’s in shouting “Amen
and Amen!” and yet somehow, in future years, he
did not seem to bear in mind his solemn covenant.
It was quite as well for England that he did not,
for out of the resistance to his perfidious folly
sprang the English Parliament.

Having mentioned now the most important of
the convent buildings, I shall conclude my stories by
telling about the monuments to be seen in the Abbey.

THE MAGIC MUSIC AND ITS MESSAGE.

A FAIRY STORY.

“It
was the nightingale singing to the rose,”
said the girl, bending over the flowers. “I
heard it all through the night, when the
moon was shining into my room.”

“No, it was not.”

And the brook danced by—such a tiny little
silver streak, winding through the ferns
and mosses, that the girl could scarcely
see it. But she certainly heard it, for no
other voice could be so sweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Did you see the lilies in the
moonlight?” continued the voice;
“they looked like pearl and
ivory.”

“Then, does the nightingale
like the lilies best?” asked the
girl.

“I do not know. But what
has the nightingale to do with
it?”

The girl looked down at the
lilies, and one of them seemed
to nod to her, and its perfumed
breath rose up, until a delicate
cloud, like incense, spread around
her.

And suddenly the same sweet
strain of music that she had
heard in the night sounded from afar off. Yes, it
was the same tune: she was sure it was; she knew
it quite well; she had been humming it over and
over as she stood beside the flowers.

As if moved by a sudden thought,
she stretched out her hand, and
gathered the lily that had nodded to
her. And as she did so the music
grew louder and louder, and instead
of the tiny brook dancing through
the ferns and mosses, she
saw a great sea, that shone
like glittering gold in the
sunlight. And in the distance
was a shadowy purple island, all
indistinct in the golden haze around
it. She could not clearly make out
its outlines, but she fancied she
could trace the towers and
turrets of a stately castle. And
as the music grew clearer and
clearer the island appeared to
move towards her, and the
waves of the golden sea came
dashing up towards her feet.
The waters already covered part
of the garden in which she was
wandering, and some of the
roses were beginning to disappear,
and the girl felt afraid
lest she should be drowned.

She threw down the lily, and as she did so she

heard a sudden
cry, and the
music died away
in a low wail,
the purple
island
and the glittering
sea vanished,
and the little
brook again danced
along.

She wondered
whatever it could
mean.

The girl
fancied it
was saying—

“Alas!
alas!”

Then she fled home, without stopping to pick
up the lily.

II.

The girl lay sleeping in her little bedroom; she
had left the window open, because the night was
warm. The moon was shining in, but it did not
wake her; neither did the little wood-elves, who
had climbed up the great vine, and had swarmed
in at the window. Such numbers of them! Some
were sitting on the pillow stroking her hair, and
whispering into her ears, “Sleep, sleep, sleep,” and
others were holding her eyelids fast closed, so that
she could not open them to see what was going
on.

Some of them were dancing round in rings upon
the soft white coverlet, and others playing all sorts
of pranks about the room.

The girl neither saw them nor heard them: she
was too fast asleep for that.

She did not even dream of them, but was dreaming
of something very different from wood-elves,
or mountain-elves, or any other sort of fay or fairy.

No; she dreamed that she heard some one singing—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Up the stairs, if you will go,
You’ll hear a tapping, tapping
At a door, for there you know
A little child is rapping,
Rapping, tapping, all the time,
Tapping, rapping, tapping.”

“No, I don’t know anything of the kind,” said
the girl, moving so suddenly in her sleep that a
score of wood-elves fell, heels over head, from the
bed to the floor.

“If you don’t, if you’ll go up
The staircase, you will find her;
She won’t look round: she never does,
So you can get behind her,”

went on the song.

“And what will be the use of that?” murmured
the girl in her dream.

“Why, you will help her, I suppose,
To reach up to the knocker.
You must not startle her, for that
Most certainly would shock her.”

“It was the sea and the castle in the sunlight,”
said the girl, “and now it is something quite as
ridiculous: a little child standing at a door knocking.
That comes in the moonlight. And the music is
going on all the time.”

She was speaking quite loudly now, and she
suddenly opened her eyes, in spite of the wood-elves,
who crept down from the bed and hid themselves
in the folds of the curtains, for they did not want
the girl to know that they were there.

“It’s the music that has waked me,” said the girl,
getting up in bed and listening; “it’s the same
song over and over again, only I can’t make out
the words, excepting, ‘Come, come, come,’ and then
something about the sea. But that is very absurd,
for there is no sea near here. The moon knows
that as well as I do, for the moon looks down, and
sees that there are only fields and woods and
orchards, and beautiful gardens full of flowers. I
wish I were not dreaming all the time. The music
is a dream too; I thought it was the nightingale:
and I dare say it is, and that if I looked out of the
window I should see about a dozen nightingales
sitting in a row, for it would take a dozen quite
to make such loud music as I hear in the moonlight.”

And the girl shook back her long hair, and
jumped out of bed and went to the window; but
she could see nothing, for pressed tightly against the
window was a great white lily, just like the one she
had thrown down, only instead of being of the
ordinary size, it was so large that it covered all the
[Pg 295]
panes of glass and also the open part of the window,
so that it was quite impossible to look out. The
stalk was towards her.

“I’m like an umbrella white,
Keeping off the sun or rain;
Keeping out the bright moonlight,
Keeping in the wood-elves’ train,

said the lily. Then it continued—

“Yes, you threw me down in fright,
But I’ve come to you to-night.
Take me in your hand, and see
What will then my purpose be.”

The girl was silent for a moment; everything was
so strange: the beautiful music, the talking brook,
and now the talking flower.

“I will not have anything to do with any of you,”
she said, giving the flower a push to send it away
from the window.

But no sooner had she touched it than the flower
shrank to its natural size, and remained in her
hand, which was so tightly closed that she could
not open it again.

“Away, away,
Each elf and fay!”

murmured the lily; and there was a soft rush as
of many tiny wings, and the girl felt herself carried
through the air.

This was the work of the wood-elves, who were
there to help the lily. But the girl scarcely knew
what was happening; she was listening to the music,
which was so grand and beautiful that she forgot
everything else.

“she held the lily in her hand”

III.

Was the girl the fairy
queen? She began to
think that she must be, as
she sat on some marble
steps in the wood. She
was dressed in white, and
had long silk stockings;
and a veil of shining
gossamer was fastened on
her head with a gold
band, and it fell down to
her feet, and wrapped her
round like a glittering
cloud, and she held the
lily in her hand. And the
music pealed on like a
grand triumphal march,
and made the girl feel very
proud and joyful.

Not very far off there was
a carved chair, with some
velvet cushions upon it.

“Perhaps for me to be crowned in,” said the girl,
tossing her head. “I wonder where my crown is?”

And as she said this she heard a burst of laughter,
as if a thousand grasshoppers were chirping. And
an owl seated not far off said—

“Only queens are crowned, little girl.”

“How do you know I am not a queen?” asked
the girl, angrily. “Look at my dress and my veil.”

But the owl only said—

“Tu-whit, tu-whoo! tu-whit, tu-whoo!” and
laughed so loudly that all the wood-elves began to
laugh also; so did the birds and the frogs, and
even the flowers. And the echoes answered back
again.

There was so much noise that a troop of little
sailors came running up from the shore to see what
was the matter.

“Are you ready?” said they to the girl; “the
boat is waiting

With its silken sails,
The moon shines clear and bright;
There is no fear of stormy gales
Upon the sea to-night.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,”
answered the girl. “There is no sea near here, and
if there is I am not going upon it.”

But the sailors had wheeled the carved chair
close to the marble steps, and they went on speaking—

“To-night upon the sea we go,
And you with us must sail.
Step in; the tide is up, and we
Must start off without fail.”

[Pg 296]
And the girl found herself in the chair, which the
sailors pushed down to the beach.

On the sea was a fine boat, with silken sails and
a crimson flag.

The boat had a gilt figure-head, and its sides
were painted blue and gold. A red velvet carpet
was spread upon the deck, and the sailors, having
hoisted the girl in the chair up the side of the
vessel, placed her upon the velvet carpet, and she
found herself sailing fast away from the land before
she had time to think of how she had got there.

The sailors were all standing at one end of the
deck playing upon various musical instruments,
and the tune they played seemed to answer back
the beautiful music that she had heard for so many
days floating in the air. Also the sailors sang—

“Away it sails, the music-ship,
Over the moonlit sea,
And the trumpet that the captain blows
Is the only rudder the vessel knows,
As we sail so merrily,
The fiddles, and fifes, and drums, and horns
All carry the ship along,
It shapes its course by the cymbal clash
To the land of music and song.”

“on a couch lay the master of the castle” (p. 297).

The girl did not quite understand what the sailors
meant by their strange song. It did not seem to be
altogether sense to her, but she supposed that they
knew where they were going. Still she asked—

“Whither are we sailing?”

“Don’t you hear the music calling to us from
the castle?” said the captain: “the castle on the
purple island in the golden sea. We are sailing
there; the music has spoken to us many times, but
we did not attend to it until now.”

“Has it called me?” asked the girl.

And she thought of the beautiful tune that had
seemed to say “Come, come.” And now, as they
sailed beneath the castle walls, the tune issued forth
very clear, sweet, and strong from an open window.

“It is the master of the castle: he plays night
and day, and is always inviting those who love
music to come and dwell with him.”

The girl looked up at the stately castle.

“If I had known that I should have come here
before.”

“No, you would not.”

“Why?”

“Because no one would have brought you. You
can only come at the right time. Hush!”

IV.

“Hush!” said the captain; “we must not make
any noise. Do not speak again.

Go like a mouse
Into the house.
Up the stairs creep
Though they are steep.
[Pg 297]
There you will find,
If you’re not blind,
A little child who’s softly tapping,
Tapping, rapping, rapping, tapping,
Rapping, tapping at the door.
Though the knocker is so high,
Yet she still doth try and try;
You must knock, and it will fly
Open—little girl, good bye.”

“Why, that was in the dream; and if you please,
captain, tell me where I am, and who is the child,
and——”

But the captain had gone, so had the sailors, so
had the ship.

The girl went slowly up the steps to the castle
door, which being open, she entered in, and found
herself in a great hall, from which a staircase
wound up and up through a great many storeys.

“I must go,” she said; for the music that
sounded through the castle seemed to speak to her,
and bid her come.

And on and on she went, and on the seventh
storey she paused; for at a door she saw a child
tapping and rapping, and trying to reach the
knocker.

Softly the girl went behind the little one, who
never turned round, but clutched in her hand a lily
similar to the one the girl herself held. She
reached above the child’s head, and knocked
loudly. And lo! a bugle-blast answered, and the
door flew open, and the girl and the child entered
in together. They wandered through beautiful
rooms, listening ever to the music, and at last they
came to one where on a couch lay the master of
the castle playing upon a lute.

If the music had sounded sweet in the distance,
it sounded far sweeter now, and the two paused on
the threshold.

But the master said—

“Welcome to the Castle of Song, for none but
true musicians find their way here.”

And then the child knelt down beside him, and
said to him—

“I tried to come, but I could not knock loudly
enough.”

And the girl said—

“I do not think I tried to come, though the music
was so beautiful. Did you send for me?”

The master of the castle smiled, and answered—

“The music brought you.”

Then the girl remembered that the boat sailed
by music, and as she looked through the open
window and saw it sailing away in the distance,
she asked—

“Will it bring others, too?”

And the master of the castle replied—

“In time, in time.”

Julia Goddard.

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

IX.—THE KANGAROOS.

T
he
famous navigator,
Captain Cook, was the
means of introducing
Kangaroos for the first
time to the notice of
Europeans. In 1770,
during his great voyage
of discovery, his
ship lay off the coast of
New South Wales undergoing
repair. One
day some of the crew
were sent ashore to
procure food for several sick sailors. The men
saw a number of animals with small fore legs, big
hind ones, long and stout tails, which bounded
away with incredible speed, clearing the ground
by a series of extraordinary leaps. You may be
sure that on their return to the vessel the amazed
seamen did not fail to talk of the curious creatures,
and their description induced the captain and Mr.
(afterwards Sir Joseph) Banks—the naturalist of
the expedition—to start next day for a sight of the
strange animals. They, too, were fortunate enough
to witness the antics of the kangaroos; and so one
of the most important of the natives of Australia
became known to the civilised world.

Since Captain Cook’s discovery (June 22nd, 1770)
these creatures have been imported alive into this
and other countries. They thrive in captivity,
though the variable climate of England tries them
at times. At the London Zoological Gardens they
seem to enjoy life in a moderate way, though probably
they miss the freedom of the immense plains
of Australia. They are not much run after by the
visitors, though the “sheds” in the Regent’s Park
collection are always quite accessible. Why this
should be so it is difficult to explain, for the
kangaroos have many points of remarkable interest.
Their keeper tells me that he does not agree with
the opinion that they are unintelligent creatures.
Though not so docile and smart as other inmates
[Pg 298]
of the Gardens, he has succeeded in training the
great kangaroo to perform several tricks. They
all recognise him readily, and do what he tells them.
He entered the shed for the purpose of fetching the
female kangaroo out of the house, so that I might
see the baby kangaroo in its mother’s pouch. But
it so happened that the father was standing against
the door-grating, and he had to be reasoned with
before he would retire to allow the gate to be
opened. But he ultimately obeyed his keeper’s
instructions. Then he was bidden to seat himself
upright upon his huge tail; and this he did, remaining
quite motionless till he was released by
word of command. The keeper then affected to
bestow upon him a gentle cuff on the head, but
each time the hand approached, the head was
smartly ducked under, and the blow thus avoided.
On his part, he attempted to give the keeper a kick,
quite in a playful way, but the latter held himself at
arms’ length, and so the kangaroo’s legs merely
brushed the keeper’s coat. On going into the
house at the back of the shed, the mother kangaroo—addressed
familiarly “Now, old lady”—was
ordered to come out into the open, and in a few
moments the big animal in two or three graceful
bounds appeared in front of the shed, her little one
popping its head out of the pouch, and looking
supremely indifferent about its mother’s hops.
The kangaroos are not costly animals to support,
and, though their food consists of grain and some
kinds of green stuff, they are rather partial to the
bits of biscuit and bun which visitors offer indiscriminately
to every animal in the Zoo—under the
notion that this is the staple food of the various
inmates, of flesh-eaters and grain-eaters alike.

Sydney Smith hit off the distinguishing features
of this creature in his own peculiar style. By a sort
of happy exaggeration he described it as “a monstrous
animal, as tall as a grenadier, with the head
of a rabbit, a tail as big as a bed-post, hopping
along at the rate of five hops to the mile, with three
or four young kangaroos looking out of the pouch
to see what is passing.” Though not an aggressive
animal, the kangaroo when at bay is one of the
most formidable of opponents. This element of
danger it is, probably, which lends so much zest to
a kangaroo hunt.

Mounted on horses and accompanied by a number
of trained dogs, the huntsmen chase their prey
for miles ere a capture is effected. Before the
kangaroo takes to its heels, it usually raises itself
up and makes a hurried survey of the country—to
see its enemies and the quarter to which it could
with greatest ease escape. After this hasty look
round it runs off at a marvellous pace, very soon
leaving the dogs far behind. It maintains its great
speed unimpaired for at least three or four miles,
after which it begins to go more slowly, and an
attack at close quarters may soon be looked for. A
single dog has no chance at all. With a stroke of
its powerful hind leg, the kangaroo attacks, and
lays it dead at its feet, or, seizing it with its fore
limbs, it hugs the dog, and leaps off with it to the
nearest water-hole, where it plunges it underneath,
holding it down until the dog is drowned. A man
is just as completely at its mercy. The kangaroo
is a capital swimmer, and has been known to
swim for a mile against a strong head wind, but
under favourable conditions as to weather it can
cover a much longer distance; consequently when
pursued it always makes straight for a river or other
water, should it be within reach. Both hind feet
are armed with a singularly dangerous weapon.
The fourth toe is prolonged in some cases to an
enormous size, forming a claw, which is used either
for stabbing or striking an antagonist. When a
kangaroo has been brought to bay, therefore, great
care has to be observed in approaching it. The
plan adopted is to set several dogs on it, and while
one makes a show of assailing it, and so engages its
attention, the rest rush in upon the gallant animal
and kill it. The natives employ another mode of
warfare. Surrounding gradually a herd of kangaroos,
they close in upon them with yells and
shouts, and generally succeed in spearing several of
them. But the rifle places the animal at a manifest
disadvantage, and by the use of this weapon the
kangaroos have been entirely driven off the settlements.
No doubt it had become necessary to
resort to some effectual method of dislodging them,
for many of the pastoral districts had been stripped
of every blade of grass by their ravages.

The kangaroo, however, serves a useful-enough
purpose in its native country. Its flesh is considered
by those who have partaken of it to be
very good eating; and it is quite within the range
of possibility that kangaroo venison may become
as popular as Australian mutton. Kangaroo-tail
soup is said to be a renowned delicacy, decidedly
superior to ox-tail. Some species of the tribe
are hardier than others, and stand the English
climate well; indeed, we have the authority of
Dr. Sclater for the opinion that Bennett’s kangaroo,
“with very little attention, would rapidly
increase in any of the midland or southern
counties, where the soil is dry, and the character
of the ground affords shelter from the north and
east.” It goes without saying that these active
creatures would not be at all out of place in
some of our English parks, and, along with the
elegant deer, would lend them an additional attractiveness
and charm.

James A. Manson.

[Pg 299]

MAB, THE WOLF, AND THE WATERFALL.

“Now,
Mab, here’s father’s tea piping hot;
take it and run along. You know the way:
go along by the river, and round by
Jerry Smith’s cottage; then turn to the
right, and the sound of father’s axe will
guide you.” So spoke Mrs. Lester while Mab,
her little daughter, donned her hat and cloak,
with all a child’s eagerness at the prospect of a
long sunny walk through the woods.

“Mind old Jerry’s ghost doesn’t catch hold of
you,” cried her waggish brother Jack, as she
crossed the threshold, tea-can in hand.

“There are no ghosts. Mother says they don’t
live in our days,” quoth Mab, disdainfully.

“Wolves do,” said Ben, who was just nine, a
year older than Mab. “Take care you’re not
another Red Riding Hood.”

“I shan’t take care, because Red Riding Hood
isn’t true, any more than fables are true: so father
says; and we know fables are not true,” dissented
matter-of-fact Mab, out of her eight years’
experience.

“Oh, more things are true than you and father
know of,” observed Jack, with a wink at Ben.

But the little maiden was now out of hearing; once,
twice she waved her hand to them as they watched
her from the doorway—how and when would they
meet again? Then she went trip-tripping along by
the brook. The brook ran into the wood; here it
joined another stream, wildly turbulent, although
narrow, then together rushed on like two
prankish schoolboys out for a frolic; not long after
joining hands, as it were, they leaped down an
embankment, laughing, as one could fancy, listening
to the babble the waters made, watching the sparkling
of the flying spray. Ah! many a rainbow
shimmered about the waterfall; right dangerous
was the whirlpool above and below the fall. Deep
down in the ravine the waters meandered, calmly
tranquil: very like mature thoughtful manhood,
after the prankish follies of youth are past.

Well, along by the side of the brook trudged
Mab, saying aloud, as if to re-assure herself, “There
are no ghosts and no wolves,” for only her parents’
words could render the imaginative child brave,
strong, handsome girl of eight though she was.
But ah! ah! what was that?

She was nearing Smith’s cottage now, and
surely something was stirring among the bushes
and undergrowth. Ah! yes, and a formidable
something was to be seen; her eyes scarce took it
in ere it had quite vanished. She met a little old
woman a minute after, carrying a bundle of sticks.

“Please; ma’am, did you see anything like a dog
or a wolf as you came along?” she asked, half
ashamed of her question.

“La! child, no; and I hope I shan’t, for I likes
no such creatures;” so saying, the old woman took
to her heels and ran, sticks and all.

Poor little Mab wished she had not scared the
old soul with her fancies, for of course they were
fancies, when oh, horror! the child’s heart seemed
to leap into her throat; there, almost close to her,
was a hideous creature, which her startled imagination
conjured up into something terrible to behold,
snorting, growling, and bearing down upon her.
Poor, impulsive, silly Mab: before she well knew
what she was doing she had sprung aside, anywhere
to be out of the way of the beast—a wolf she
thought it was—and that anywhere was into the
brook, the prankish brook, just where it joined
hands with its wild companion. The very trees
seemed to rustle with consternation as her shriek
rang around; ay, she may shriek, but who would
hear her? Not her father, chopping at and felling
the giant trees some distance away.

Now two lads rush up to the edge of the brook:
they are Jack and Ben. Jack drops a something
very like a skin, and leaps in after poor, screaming,
struggling Mab, borne away, borne on to be
hugged and embraced in the arms of both streams,
and hurried forward to the waterfalls.

Alas! alas! will Jack save her? He has reached
her; she is clinging to him; but those two frolicsome
watery playfellows are tossing them hither
and thither as in rude sport. Ben takes it all in
with his quick boyish eyes, and rushes away, like a
very hare for swiftness, to where his father is chopping
in the calm afternoon glory, little dreaming
of what is happening not a mile away. How
sweetly pitiful is the calm wondering sky, watching
overhead, as one may fancy, the struggle for
dear life going on in those wild gurgling waters.
Ah! the two streams in one have them in their
embrace; they will not let them go. Mab lies a
senseless weight in Jack’s arms as they are borne
on towards the whirlpool; once there, their fate will
be sealed.

Jack’s senses are leaving him; if Mab was not
clinging to him as with the grasp of death, he
would let her go; his strong young arms are
waxing weak; and oh! a black terrible monster
is upon him. Is it a wolf? The river clamours
and laughs—ha-ha! Jack, Mab, and the terrible
monster are mingling together; then Jack’s
senses are quite gone, and he remembers no more.

[Pg 300]
Meanwhile, Ben sweeps on like the wind, hearkening
even in his haste for the welcome “thwack,
thwack” of his father’s axe. It is a sweetly tranquil
scene he bursts upon at last—a knot of toiling men
lopping off the limbs of a huge tree but newly laid
low—the lad heard the crash of its fall as he ran.
The warm afternoon glow was about them, the
little birds hopping and peering among the wide-spreading
branches of the trees around, half
startled, half curious, as if to see all. A terrible
shock to John Lester was the tale the panting boy
had to tell, and then he too ran like the wind; his
companions in full cry behind.

Only the exultant river, all flecked with lights
and with afternoon colouring, met the eyes of
the eager men when they reached the spot; the
struggle was over. Two lives had gone out or
had been saved; the father wrung his hands as he
rushed madly here and there, and peered over at
the plashing waterfall, Ben at his side, and both
seeing nothing of the dear ones they sought.

“And it all came of Jack’s putting on old
Shag’s skin and playing wolf to frighten Mab; and
she saw him, and jumped in before he had time to
speak,” wailed Ben, as the river swept on and the
waterfall clamoured. John Lester groaned.

“Well, Master Lester; I have ’em safe enough—I
and old Jowler. ‘Twas a miracle of savin’, but
’tis done; they’re both in bed and asleep like two
tops already.” So spoke Jerry Smith, the owner
of the cottage in the woods, and of a ghost to
boot, if the lads of the neighbourhood could be
believed, coming up behind the distracted father,
and speaking over his shoulder.

“Then Heaven be praised!” returned he out of
the depth of his heart, turning and grasping the old
man’s hand.

“Ay! I have ’em all safe—ha-ha!” laughed the
old man, glancing up at his chamber window,
which looked westward, where stood a wooden
figure of a miniature North American Indian all in
his war paint, and brandishing his knives like a
very brave, as the wind caught him and whirled
him round.

“And see, Master Lester, I’ve mounted my
savage to amuse them when they wake—my ghost
the youngsters about here call it, and keep clear
of my house. Ghost, indeed! there are no
ghosts.”

“No; the world is getting too wise to believe
such nonsense in our days, Jerry. But I’d like to
take a look at my youngsters,” quoth John Lester.

The old man led him in—Ben following on tip-toe—and
up to his quaint chamber—ah! yes, it
was very quaint and pretty, full of wonderful surprises,
what with curious stones arranged here,
a stuffed squirrel there, and a dormouse elsewhere.
Then in one corner was a fleet of tiny ships—ah!
Jerry had been a sailor in his youthful days—which
sailed round and round a centre one and stationary
by using an apparatus not unlike small bellows.
And there in the west window stood the warrior
Indian, chopping and cutting at imaginary foes
among the sunbeams. But the father’s eyes sought
his children. Ah! yes, he was thankful to see,
there they were, both sweetly sleeping, Mab in the
old man’s bed, a stray sunbeam flitting over her
face, like a smile from somewhere, Jack wrapped
in blankets on the floor.

The sweet after-glow was about the house ere
they awoke, and then peals of laughter from both
children brought old Jerry up his creaking stairs.
Nay, Jack was out on the landing, hurrying out of
his blankets and into the dry clothes Ben had
brought him from home.

When the two children had dressed and descended
the stairs, there, in the cosy little kitchen,
stood tea ready for them—bread-and-butter and
blackberry jam, and such old-fashioned china cups
and saucers for the three young ones to drink from.
What is more, there was a pair of curiously-worked
bead slippers for Mab, and a bow and arrow for
each of the boys.

“Ingins’ work,” the old man told them when
they thanked him.

“You are a clever man, Jerry, if you made that
dancing old thing—did you?” cried Jack.

“What, made my Ingin? In course I did.”

“Phew! why, all the fellows said ’twas a ghost
you kept in your window,” said admiring Jack, now
outside the house, and looking up at the window—”why,
I half said so myself.”

“Well, lad, ghosts are but whims and fancies,
and this individual is good solid wood, you see,”
replied Jerry, looking up, and chuckling at his
own handiwork.

Mab soon stood beside Jack, and Ben came out
ready to depart.

“Children,” said the old man, as they thanked
him and bade him “good-bye,” patting Jowler on the
head as he stood by his master, “children, keep to
the good, right, honest truth from this day, even in
fun; the wolves and things ye have conjured up to-day
out of nothing have gone nigh to costing ye
dearly, lads. And you little maiden, take an old
man’s warning, and look before you leap, as
mayhap I and Jowler may not be anigh next time.
And there’s a many leaps to be taken in life, and a
many waterfalls and things about ye.”

“Wow, wow, wow!” said Jowler to this,
springing up, and licking his master’s hand, and so
ends my story of Mab, the wolf, and the waterfall.

[Pg 301]

mab on her journey. (See p. 299).

[Pg 302]

“WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY.”

A TRUE STORY.

This
is a very old proverb, and a very true
one. Sometimes we forget it, though, and
say “I can’t,” before we have really tried
at all. Now I should like to tell you the
true story of two little Irish sweeps who had the
will to learn to read, and found the way, although
it was a very difficult one.

Some years ago a few kind people made up their
minds to try to get hold of all the chimney-sweeps
in Dublin and give them an education.

One day a little fellow came who was asked if
he knew his letters.

“Oh, yes,” he answered.

“Can you spell?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Can you read?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What books did you learn from?”

“Please, sir, I never had a book.”

“Then who was your schoolmaster?”

“I never went to school at all.”

The gentleman stared, for it seemed very strange
that a boy should be able to read and spell, and
yet never had a master.

“Then however did you learn?” he asked.

The little boy smiled, and linked his arm in
that of a sweep somewhat older than himself.

“Please, sir, Jim taught me the letters over the
shop doors, as we went to our work, but now I know
all the words by heart, and if you’d kindly let us
have some books to read and teach us to do sums
and writing, we’d be very thankful.”

Can’t you fancy what good pupils those two
boys became, and how they delighted in reading
in books instead of making their necks ache by
peering up at the shops?

E. M. W.

“HOME, SWEET HOME;”

OR, LOST IN LONDON.

M

iles
and miles away in the country,
where not even a train ever came,
lived a family of children, of whom
the eldest was a big lad of eighteen,
the youngest a little thing of five.
They led a peaceful, happy life
among the fields and lanes and wild flowers, yet,
like many others, they took but little heed of the
beauties around, and some of them at least spent
a great deal of time in sighing for things they had
not got.

Jennie, the eldest girl, had a great deal to do with
that. She had a habit of fancying every one more
fortunate and happier than herself. She was
always wishing for some impossible thing. If by
any chance one of her wishes were gratified, she was
always disappointed, and began to want something
else.

The children had often heard and read about a
wonderful place called London. Jennie, who was
a very kind sister, was always talking to them
about it, and the wonderful stories she told them
made them long to see this enchanted city. That,
indeed, was one of Jennie’s unfulfilled longings.
She had read a great deal, and imagined a great
deal more, till she set all the children longing too.

Their big brother Donald heard Phyllis and Effie
talking together one day, and he burst in upon
them with a laugh, and told them that all the houses
were palaces and the streets paved with gold, that
marble fountains played in them, and that golden
carriages drawn by milk-white steeds rolled incessantly
along; that trains rushed in every direction,
and that if you just stepped inside one it would
take you anywhere, like a flash of lightning; that
there was a church so high that you could not see
the roof, and a needle so big that twenty men could
not lift it. Then Donald went away laughing,
and the children held their breath with wonder,
and agreed that they should never be happy till
they had seen this fairyland.

Not very long after their mother came down to
breakfast with red eyes, and their father looked
grave. They knew something was the matter, and
sat waiting in sorrowful dread.

“Children,” said their mother, with a shaky voice,
“you will have to leave this beautiful, peaceful
home. You must say ‘good-bye’ to all your pets,
for soon, very soon, we must leave them all. You
must be good children and not fret; but oh! it is
very sad. Father is obliged to go and live in
London.”

How strange! A ray of sunshine seemed to
have passed round the table, changing apprehension
into eager excitement. Phyllis clapped her
hands. “London, mamma? Oh, how lovely!”

[Pg 303]
Their mother sighed, and said, “Well, darlings, I
am glad you take it so well; but I am afraid it will
be a long time before you feel as happy as we are
in this dear old home.”

At last came the morning when they were to
start. They were wild with delight, and thought it
splendid fun at first. But when the train with a
shrill scream flew into a dark tunnel, several hearts
beat very wildly, and several little faces would
have looked white enough, could they have been
seen.

At last several heads began to ache, and a good
many legs seemed to want stretching; but the several
hearts could not for worlds have owned that they
were not enjoying themselves immensely.

And when the enchanted city was reached, it was
dark, and they saw nothing but a confused medley
of lights and figures, and walls with big letters all
over them.

Then they were jolted through some noisy,
busy street, and were at length deposited safely
in the house where they were to lodge until their
new home was ready.

There was so much noise outside while they were
at tea, that Phyllis and Effie wondered what could
be the matter, until they saw that their father and
mother did not seem to be in the least alarmed
at it.

When they went to bed, it was a long time before
they could go to sleep. But being very tired, they
did manage it, though they dreamed very queer
things about a great many people, and horses and
carts tumbling on the top of each other, with a noise
like thunder.

The next morning, when they were having breakfast
in a dark little parlour, their father said to
their mother, “You and I must go and look about
to day;” and to Donald he said, “You may take
your two sisters for a walk on the Embankment,
and show them the river, and the Temple, and
Cleopatra’s Needle, but be very careful of crossings,
and ask a policeman when you don’t know the
way. Phyllis and Effie must stay at home, and
amuse themselves with their dollies till our return.”

At this Phyllis felt greatly injured, but she said
nothing, for she knew she must obey.

Their mother went and fetched them some toys
and books, and before she went out charged
Martha, their little attendant, to do her best to
amuse them; but Phyllis was not in a mood to be
amused.

“Martha,” she said, “it’s horrid in here! Let’s
go in the garden.”

“Lor, miss! there isn’t such a thing.”

Then Phyllis went and looked out of the window,
but the air was so thick that she could see nothing
but a few chimney-pots, and people moving like
shadows in the street below.

Phyllis soon grew tired of the window. She
wondered very much what Donald and her sisters
were seeing, and how far off London was.

“Martha,” she said presently, “we must go for a
walk; of course we must. We always do at
home.”

“Oh, dear dear!” cried Martha, with something
like a sniff, “I wouldn’t do it for worlds. I’d lose
my way for certain, and be run over in this dirty,
foggy place.”

“Why, you’ve only got to be careful of the crossings,
and ask a policeman the way,” Phyllis
replied, crossly; “and it is so dull here.”

The morning dragged on. At last Martha went
downstairs to the kitchen to see about something,
but when it was seen about she could not refrain
from having a gossip with the landlady’s servant,
never dreaming that the children could get into
mischief; but they did.

Directly she had gone, Phyllis thought she would
take just a peep out of doors. The enchanted city,
with its streets of gold and untold marvels, could
not be far off. She would try to get just one
glimpse.

In a moment she had fetched their hats and
jackets, popped them on, and was leading her
little sister downstairs. It happened that the
outer door was open, so they slipped into the street
unobserved.

Phyllis ran quickly along, and soon came to a
turning. Just at this moment a gleam of sunshine
shone out, dispersing the murky haze.

“Ah!” thought Phyllis, “this is the right way. I
know we shall see some of the beautiful sights
presently.”

So she dragged Effie along as quickly as she
could. Sometimes people bumped against them,
and frightened them very much; but Phyllis soon
saw they meant no harm, so she kept on.

Presently they turned into a broad street, where
there were, oh! such numbers of people, walking so
fast, and the road was full of carriages and horses
and waggons, and the noise was just deafening.

Phyllis pulled Effie into a doorway, and thought
she would wait till the people had passed, but she
waited and waited, and still they kept on coming
backwards and forwards, just for all the world like
a number of busy ants swarming about an ant-hill.
There was no end to them. They hustled and
jostled, and ran and pushed, and talked till Phyllis
was utterly bewildered, and said to herself she had
better go back again.

But where was the turning? It had gone. She
could not see it. She peered out of her retreat.

[Pg 304]
The street, the people, everything
was hidden, except just close
at hand. They were enveloped in a
thick, dark, steamy cloud, which covered all,
except the noise. Phyllis ran first this way, then that,
trying in vain to find the turning. Effie grew frightened,
and began to cry, which attracted the notice of a policeman.
Phyllis remembered what her father had said to Donald, so
she asked, “Please will you show us the way home?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“I don’t know the name,” Phyllis faltered; “it’s in a
street full of houses, joined on to each other all in a row,
and no garden.”

“Well, that isn’t much help,” he replied, kindly;
“where might you be going to?”

“We were trying to find London,” Phyllis said.

“Trying to find it; this is London.”

“Oh, no!” Phyllis cried, eagerly; “I mean the
golden streets, and the fountains, and the palaces, and
the trains, and the church you can’t see the roof of, and
the needle twenty men can’t lift, and the golden
carriages, and——”

The man burst into such a laugh that Phyllis stopped
short, and stared at him angrily.

“My big brothers and sisters have gone to look at it. They
are doing it now,” Phyllis added.

The policeman paused a moment, and then he said, “Well,
look here. That needle ain’t so far off; I’ll just take you to see it, and
you may see your brothers and sisters too. Call out directly if you do.”

So he took them each by a hand, and trotted them along through the
fog. It was an alarming journey, although the policeman was kind, and
Phyllis felt sure there was no other way of getting home.

When he took them across those dreadful streets, Effie in one arm,
Phyllis hanging on to his other hand, Phyllis shut her eyes in terror.

But presently they got away from this confusion into a broad paved
place, with trees to be seen here and there. That was much nicer. Their
kind companion told Phyllis to look out for her friends.

“There’s the needle,” he said, all of a sudden. Phyllis looked up,
and saw a great stone column before them.

“But it’s a needle I mean,” Phyllis exclaimed, uncomprehendingly,
“something you work with. That isn’t a needle.”

“Well, I don’t know whether a giant ever worked with it,” the policeman said, with a comical smile;
“anyhow, that’s what they call the needle. It’s come a long way to England, and belonged to a
lady called Mrs. Cleopatra. What she did with it isn’t exactly known; but I reckon she didn’t make
her gowns with it.”

Phyllis looked at it with a very great feeling of disappointment. She didn’t think it looked nice at all.

“Them other things you talked of, too,” said the policeman, “there’s most everything to be found in
London; but not quite that neither. The church comes the nighest——”

Phyllis uttered a cry of joy, and darted away: opposite her stood Donald, Jennie, and Grace.

“Phyllis, you naughty, naughty child! what is the matter? and Effie too! Why, what does it
mean?” Jennie cried.

“They were pretty nigh to being lost, miss,” the policeman said, gravely. “‘Tis a good thing you
happened to come this way.”

Donald thanked the man very heartily, and took charge of the children. He had not the heart to
scold them yet.

Phyllis walked home with a heart full of tumult. Directly she was safely indoors she burst out crying,
and said, “I do not like London: it is a horrid, dreadful, ugly place, and no beautiful things at all;
and, oh, I do want to go home!”

“Be quiet, little stupid!” Jennie said, shortly, giving her a push and a shake.

“It’s horrible,” persisted Phyllis. “We can’t live here. We must go home.”

Jennie threw herself down on a chair by the bedside, and began to cry too. “It isn’t half as
bad for you, Phyllis, as it is for me,” she cried, crossly; “and we can’t go back. We must live in
one of these pokey, dingy houses for ever and ever. If only
I’d known what it was like!”

By-and-by their mother came home, and was amazed to
see the change that had come over the children. Still, she was
able to console them a little by telling them that London would
look very different when the fog was gone, and that they
would have by-and-by a nice quiet house, with a little garden;
but their old home was out of the question. That was gone for
ever. They must learn to be cheerful and content.

What a hard lesson it was at first! but dear me, after a while
the children grew quite happy, although they never found the
enchanted city.

But they found something better, after a short time,
and that was a kind, bright, happy, cheerful home, and that is
what can make any spot in the world beautiful, while without
it, even an enchanted city would be but drear and lonely.
No wonder Phyllis and Jennie felt miserable during those first
days in London. Their parents
were feeling it much more keenly,
though they said nothing.

Dear children, can you see what I
mean by this little story? If you
have a good, kind home, try
to be very happy in it, for
the time may come when
you would give everything
you possessed
to be back in
it—”Home,
Sweet Home.”

[Pg 306]

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

A DREAM FOR ALL AGES.

T

he
sun was fast sinking in the
west; and the shades of night
were spreading a deep gloom
overall, as a poor, lone traveller,
foot-sore and weary, looked
around him for some place
of rest. His face wore its
saddest expression, for his
heart was nearly bursting with grief;
and, as he rolled along a big stone
for his pillow, and laid his weary
head upon it, it was watered with his
tears. But only the fair moon and the
twinkling stars seemed to see his grief;
and, as he thought of his loneliness, he heaved
a deep sigh, and wept afresh.

Far behind him, in the lovely and peaceful Beersheba,
he had left the home of his youth, the mother
whom he loved so dearly, the old sheep that he
had so fondly tended, and the little pet lambs that
had nestled in his bosom and gambolled by his
side. There was his aged father, too, who lay
stretched on his death-bed, and whom he might
never hope to see again. And still fresh in his
memory were all the old familiar scenes to which
he might never again return: the soft green pastures,
where, morning and evening, he had rested
with his sheep, the great rock behind which he
had led them to hide them from the noonday heat,
and the quiet waters to which he had taken them
that they might slake their thirst.

From one loved spot to another his thoughts
would wander; and he shivered, as from cold, while
he thought of the land all unknown to him to
which he was journeying, of the strange faces that
he would have to meet, and the strange voices that
would fall upon his ear.

But saddest of all came the remembrance of the
cause that had led to his banishment, the deep sin
that he had committed, the cruel deceit that he
had practised upon his father, the great wrong
that he had inflicted upon his brother, the grief of
the dying Isaac, the wrath of Esau, and the consequent
necessary parting with all he held dear.

If he could only undo the past; if he could only be
as he was a short time ago, clear of this guilt, how
thankful he would be! But there it was, staring
him in the face, and he could not blot out the
memory of it. He fancied himself again getting a
kid from amongst his flock; giving it to his mother
to dress, so that his father would not know it from
venison; stooping down, while she put on the back
of his neck small pieces of the kid’s skin, that it
might feel, to the blind Isaac, like the hairy skin
of his brother Esau; carrying in the smoking-hot
dish; telling, one after another, gross falsehoods,
in reply to the questions put by his puzzled father;
repeating oft his assurances that he was indeed
Isaac’s very son Esau; and bowing his head to
receive the blessing intended for his elder brother.
Once more, in imagination, he was hurrying out of
his father’s apartment; and the loud and bitter cry
of his wronged brother was ringing through the tent,
never to die away or be forgotten. He saw again
his brother white with rage, and heard him take
the solemn oath, that, as soon as the mourning
for his father was over, he would be avenged. He
heard his frightened mother plead with Isaac, that
he might be sent away to her brother in Padan
Aram. He heard his father’s consent, and saw his
mother packing up the few things that he needed,
and sending him away with her blessing and with
floods of tears. He remembered how, when he had
turned round to take a last look at his home; she
was still standing in the door of the tent, watching,
as far as she could see him, the son of her love,
and wiping her streaming eyes.

And now he was lying on the bare ground, with
only a cold, hard stone for his pillow: all that he
loved left far behind; an unknown future before
him; and wild beasts prowling about in the distance,
in hungry search of prey. How heavily on
his conscience lay his deep sin! And how the pure,
bright moon and the peaceful stars seemed to
be reproaching him!

He thought upon his father’s God, and his grandfather’s
trusting obedience, that had gained for him
the title of the friend of the great Ruler of the
universe. And, as he contrasted with Abraham’s
faith his own wicked conduct, he felt miserably unworthy
to bear his name. Gladly would he have
closed his eyes in repose, and thankfully would
he have forgotten, for a time at least, his heavy
sorrows; but—

flies from the guilty conscience; and there was no
rest for Jacob.

Oh! Why had he so easily and so weakly
yielded to that strong temptation to obtain by
fraud the coveted blessing? Why had he not, like
Abraham, patiently waited for the fulfilment of the
[Pg 307]
sure promise made on his behalf? Why had he not
waited till God Himself had brought it about—that
the elder should serve the younger—instead of
faithlessly and sinfully hurrying it on himself, and
bringing down upon himself and his home all this
misery?

There was no book of sweet Psalms to comfort
him and assure him of forgiveness; but, as he
turned uneasily on his hard bed, and looked up to
the quiet heavens, something of their peace stole
into his heart. He thought of the great God who
dwells above; of the kindness which He had shown
to Abraham and Isaac; of the gentle, loving way in
which He had drawn near to them; and of the
gracious promises which He had made to them.

And he felt sure that such a God must be merciful
and compassionate to a poor erring wanderer
like himself; and that, enthroned in glory as He
was, He would listen to his cry, as He had listened
to the outcast Ishmael’s before him; and forgive.
He would tell Him how sorry he was for what he
had done, and ask Him to take away the load that
was weighing him down.

So the restless young man arose; and, kneeling
upon the bare ground, and raising his beseeching
eyes to the star-lit heavens, he poured out to Him
who reigns above them the tale of his griefs, and
asked Him, in mercy, to forgive the sins that he
had committed against Him.

And there, as he knelt, his prayer was heard; the
weight of guilt was lifted from his oppressed spirit;
and he breathed more freely than he had done
since he committed that dark sin. He could not
now go back to his old home. Early on the
morrow he must go forward on his long journey,
and endure all that he had brought upon himself;
but his mind was at ease; his heart was at rest.
The God of his fathers had heard him, and with
His forgiveness and blessing he could be happy.

So he lay down again, not to toss uneasily about
as before, but to sleep the sleep of those who are
at peace with Heaven.

And the pitying Father above, who, as the Bible
assures us, does not deal with us after our sins, nor
reward us according to our iniquities, not only put
away Jacob’s transgression, but drew near to the
poor, erring, but repentant wanderer, lying out
there in the lone desert, to comfort him.

A peaceful smile now rested on the face of the
sleeper, reflecting the deep happiness which filled
his breast; and soon over his countenance was
spread an expression of joy that it had never worn
before.

He saw in his sleep a great ladder of light, the
one end of which rested on the earth, while the
other reached right up to heaven. Beautiful,
bright-winged angels, with faces shining like the
sun, were going up and coming down it. And the
Lord of Glory Himself, to whom he had just
prayed, stood above it. No words of anger or
stern rebuke were on His lips. No ominous frown
darkened His face. Only a look of tenderness and
love lighted it up; and the pardoned Jacob, unworthy
as he knew himself to be, did not shrink
from looking up to Him, who in His gracious compassion
had deigned to appear to him.

“I am the Lord God of Abraham thy father,
and the God of Isaac,” He said; “and I am with
thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou
goest.”

Oh, how glad and thankful Jacob was thus to
be assured that, though he had so sinned, yet
God had not left him, but was still with him!
How deeply thankful he was that he would not
now have to go on his journey alone, as he had
feared, but that the God of his fathers would go
with him, to take care of him, wherever he went!
His bosom swelled with joy, and his face grew
still brighter; for this was the happiest moment
in all his life.

There, lying on that cold stone, he felt nothing
but joy. With the good and Holy One so near,
with His peace and gladness in his heart, he
could smile at all outward miseries.

But the gracious and gentle voice did not cease
yet. “I will not leave thee,” it went on to say, “until
I have done that which I have spoken to thee of.
The land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give
it, and to thy seed. And thy seed shall be as
the dust of the earth; and thou shalt spread
abroad to the west, and to the east, and to the
north, and to the south; and in thee, and in thy
seed, shall all the families of the earth be
blessed.”

So he, who was all alone, was to become the
father of innumerable people; and the one who
had deserved only cursing was not only to be
blessed himself, but to be made a blessing to all
the earth!

The vision passed away, and Jacob awoke,
astounded at God’s goodness and mercy. For he
knew that the dream was no idle thing, but that it
told of present and future realities. And as he
meditated on it his joy increased. He took the big,
hard stone, that had afforded him so sweet a resting-place,
and setting it up for a pillar, in grateful
remembrance of his happy dream, poured oil on
the top of it. The sweet perfume of the precious
oil filled all the air, and rose up like an offering of
glad thanksgiving, well-pleasing to Him who looked
down upon it.

“Surely God is in this place, and I knew it not,”
[Pg 308]
Jacob said. For he could never have imagined, as,
with tearful eyes, he first lay down on that lone
spot, that God would have revealed Himself there;
and this was the first great lesson of love and
mercy that he had ever spelled over. “I knew it
not; but now I know, and will go on my way with
gladness, fearing nothing.”

So sacred had the spot become to him, that he
called it Bethel, the House of God. And he vowed
a vow, that if God would indeed be with him, as He
had promised, and prosper him, and bring him back
again to his father’s house, then he would serve
Him faithfully all his life, and would give Him a
tenth of all that was bestowed upon him.

He went on his journey no longer lonely and sad;
for the God of his fathers was with him; and His
presence brightened up the dreary wilderness, and
made the solitary place glad.

In the new land to which he went Jacob had
much to endure; but the vision of the bright
ladder that he had seen in his dream rose up
again and again to comfort him; and his heart
grew stronger and braver as he thought of the
abiding presence of God.

Years afterwards, when he came back to the
land of Canaan, he visited the spot where, on that
memorable night, he had lain down in such sorrow,
and risen up in such joy. He had then rosy
children, and numerous possessions. And as he
thought of all the unmerited goodness and mercy
which had followed him in the strange land, and
of the faithfulness which had brought him back,
he built another altar, and praised God anew.

But, though Jacob was so comforted by his
dream, it is scarcely likely that he could see, as we
can, the full meaning of it; for the vision of the
bright ladder was intended to comfort God’s people
in all ages, and to grow brighter and brighter as it
came to be understood.

So, we, who know how the glorious ladder is
Jesus Christ, through whom all blessings come
down from heaven to us, and through whom, also,
we may mount up to the very throne of “our
Father,” in the highest heavens; we, too, will raise
up our altar of thanksgiving, and go on our way,
rejoicing in the God of Bethel, who is still with His
people, and who, from the top of the ladder, holds
sweet communion with them, cheering them on
their way, till He brings them into the goodly land.

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

49. Who were the first to apply to Jesus the title of
King of the Jews?

50. Where is wisdom set forth as better than strength
or the weapons of war?

51. Which of the four Evangelists has preserved to us
an account of our Lord’s being sent by Pilate to Herod
for trial?

52. Who tells us in the Old Testament that death and
life are in the power of the tongue?

53. Which of the New Testament writers speaks of the
tongue as “a little member,” and tells us that the one
who keeps it in order is a perfect man?

54. Which of the Epistles tells us that he who is a
friend of the world is an enemy of God?

55. Where in the Book of the Revelation do we see
the redeemed and glorified saints ascribing praise to
Jesus, as having made them kings and priests unto God?

56. Where are we told that to be guarded in our speech
saves us from trouble?

57. On what occasion is Saul of Tarsus first called Paul?

58. Where, after the Ark of the Covenant was removed
to the new Tabernacle at Jerusalem, did the original brazen
altar remain?

59. Of what colour was the lace to be upon which was
placed the golden plate worn on the forehead of the
High Priest?

60. Show that the last cry of Jesus on the Cross was
one of triumph.

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (37-48. See p. 216).

37. The woman who had touched His garment (St.
Matt. ix. 22; St. Mark v. 34; St. Luke viii. 48).

38. In Rev. xxi. 8, 27, xxii. 15.

39. Isaiah (Isaiah lxi. 6).

40. In Rev. v. 6, 9, 12, xiii. 8.

41. Prov. xx. 11.

42. In Prov. xxix. 25.

43. Herod Antipas (St. Luke xiii. 31, 32).

44. The ants, the conies, the locusts, and the spider
(Prov. xxx. 24, 28).

45. In Deut. xxi. 6-8; Ps. xxvi. 6.

46. Solomon (Eccles. ix. 8); St. James (James i. 27).

47. Nebuchadnezzar (Dan. ii. 47).

48. In Ps. cxii. 4.

[Pg 309]

The Editors Pocket-Book.

A Product of the Soudan.

It is said that the Mahdi, of whom so much has
been printed in the papers for months past, has
been the means of increasing the price of gum
arabic. This material, which is obtained from the
Soudan, is largely used in the making of sweet-meats,
while the Government envelope factory in
the United States uses one ton every week. Owing
to the war in the Soudan, the supply, amounting to
ten millions of pounds yearly, has been stopped
for more than a twelvemonth. The price has been
gradually rising, and it will be not a little odd if we
have to blame the Mahdi, among other things,
for dear jujubes.

The Vallary Crown.

The old Romans were before all things a military
people. Consequently, they took care to confer
rewards upon soldiers for bravery and other forms
of service, so as to preserve proper spirit among
the men. One of these rewards of valour was
called the Vallary Crown, and was bestowed upon
the soldier who was the first to mount the enemy’s
rampart (vallum). It consisted of a circle of gold,
with palisades attached to it. One can imagine with
what zeal an attack would be made, and how hotly
the foremost place would be struggled for, so that
the crown might be won.

Supposed Relic of Trafalgar.

While a diver was engaged off the coast near
Gibraltar in the search for the whereabouts of a
recent wreck, he discovered at the bottom from
eighty to one hundred large guns, mostly 24- and
32-pounders, and two big anchors. As no appliance
for raising them was at hand, they were not brought
up, and their nationality has not been ascertained.
It is supposed that they belonged to a line-of-battle
—-—File: 159.png—-\micmac999\Clog\Joe Cooper\raindrop\Oopsadoodle\—-—-
ship, which sank in the Peninsular war, possibly
after the battle of Trafalgar.

The Founder of Ragged Schools.

John Pounds, a poor shoemaker of Portsmouth,
was the originator of this well-known method of
educating city arabs and other very poor children.
For twenty years before his death in 1839, he used
to collect around him the ragged children of the
district in which he lived, and teach them while he
worked at his cobbling. He taught them for nothing,
and his class was well attended. His success at
length attracted general notice, and systematic
effort was in due course made for the establishment
of such schools in other towns and cities
throughout the kingdom.

Tallow Trees.

In different parts of the globe are found various
sorts of trees that yield a thick oil or resin, that,
like tallow, is used for making candles, and hence
the trees are popularly styled tallow trees. The
substance is commonly extracted by making a cut
in the bark, from which the oily matter exudes. In
other cases the seeds are boiled, from which a fine
white tallow is obtained. The candles and soap so
made are beautifully white.

A Saucy Sparrow.

One day a boy picked up a young sparrow, which
he brought home. His father put it in a big cage,
and in course of time it became thoroughly
domesticated. It used to fly about the garden and
perch upon the heads and hands of the family.
After a while it would venture upon an oak and
carry on a very voluble conversation with its
fellows who also patronised the tree. It soon
grew as impudent and pugnacious and ravenous as
most sparrows. It was always hungry and talkative.
[Pg 310]
Though it had the freedom of the neighbourhood,
it came down daily before sunset and
roosted on a perch in its cage, the door of which
was left open for its convenience. It was let out
the first thing in the morning, but returned about
six times a day for food, usually taking care to
attend all the family meals, and often breakfasting
with the master of the house, with whom it struck
up a firm friendship. Sometimes it brought home
a friend or two, but as they lacked its faith they
invariably remained outside while it feasted
indoors. It generally watched the boy’s father
as he left home every morning, chirping “good-bye”
from a gutter-pipe. Its appetite continued healthy
and its taste accommodating. Latterly it started
a home of its own, but did not give up its old
friends, looking in upon the household almost as
often as ever.

“Sansculottes.”

This term—in allusion to their poor and mean
attire—was applied, during the earlier stages of the
great French Revolution, by the Court party to
those democrats of Paris who were foremost in
urging the demand for reform. The epithet given
in scorn was accepted with pleasure by the people,
and it soon came in their eyes to indicate a
patriot, and some even affected a ruder mode of
dress as if to show they gloried in the title. However,
after the lapse of a very few years, the name
fell into disuse, as it had been connected with so
many scenes of bloodshed and revolting cruelty.

Fresh-water Springs in the Sea.

There is a hot region on the Persian Gulf where
little or no rain falls. At Babrin, though the dry
shore has no fresh water, the people obtain a supply
from springs which burst forth copiously from the
bottom of the sea. The fresh water is got by diving.
The diver winds a large goatskin bag round his
left arm, his hand grasping the bag’s mouth. He
next takes a heavy stone to which a stout line is
fastened, and then plunges in. As soon as he
reaches the bottom, he opens the bag over the
strong jet of fresh water, ascends with the upward
current, shutting the bag the while, and is helped
on board. The stone having been pulled up and
the driver refreshed, he plunges in again. These
submarine springs are believed to take their source
in the hills of Osman, some 500 or 600 miles
distant.

Feathered Thieves.

It is very well known that jackdaws are accomplished
thieves, and their evil fame in this respect
has been humorously pictured in the story of “The
Jackdaw of Rheims,” in the “Ingoldsby Legends.”
It seems, however, that other birds besides jackdaws
may be occasional robbers, and may cause much
mischief. Not long ago, a gentleman on going to
his letter-box discovered that a letter containing a
cheque for £10 had been tampered with, and that
the cheque was missing. He immediately came to
the conclusion that human thieves had been at
work, and gave information to the police at the
nearest station. On his return home, however, he
examined his letter-box more closely, and then
found several tomtits in it; and on further search,
he discovered the missing cheque lying twenty-six
yards away on the turnpike road, whither it was
evident it had been carried by a tomtit, since it
bore abundant marks of the bird’s beak.

Carlyle’s Birthplace.

The house in Ecclefechan, in Dumfriesshire,
where Carlyle was born, and which was purchased
by a niece, has been restored and has had some
interesting relics placed in it. It will no doubt be
the scene of many pilgrimages. In carrying out the
alterations, the old doors and the like have been
scrupulously preserved. The room where the
young Carlyle lived contains the philosopher’s easy-chair,
a mahogany table well stained with ink, an
old-fashioned bookcase consisting of a series of
shelves supported by pillars at the side and hung
upon the wall, besides appropriate photographs and
other articles.

Memory in Dogs.

Several years ago a gentleman was presented
with a black-and-tan terrier. One evening he
went to St. John’s Wood, London, to fetch it to his
own home, some five miles on the south of the
Thames. For the greater part of the way the dog
and his new owner travelled (in the dark of course)
outside an omnibus. The terrier was confined for
a week and then set at liberty. Next day it disappeared,
and it was afterwards learnt that it
arrived at its old home—ragged and starved—six
or seven days after effecting its escape. As the
dog had been taken on a vehicle right across
London, over the river, and in the dark, to a
strange district nine miles from its home, its finding
its way back to St. John’s Wood must be regarded
as a remarkable instance of canine intelligence.

Anecdotes of Apelles.

Some interesting anecdotes have been preserved
about Apelles, who flourished during the latter half
of the fourth century before Christ, and who was
considered to be the most famous painter of the
ancient world. Alexander the Great once visited his
studio, and exhibited so much ignorance of art that
Apelles desired him to be silent, as the boys who
were grinding his colours were laughing at him. He
painted an ideal portrait of this celebrated king, of
[Pg 311]
which Alexander said, “There are only two Alexanders—the
invincible son of Philip, and the
inimitable Alexander of Apelles.” The painter’s
disposition was so generous that he purchased a
picture of an artist whose talents were not recognised
as they deserved, and spread a report that he
would sell it again as one of his own. His industry
was such that he never allowed a day to pass without
painting one line—a habit which has become
proverbial in the Latin phrase, nulla dies sine
linea (“No day
without a line”).
Apelles was not
above criticism.
When his
paintings were
exposed to the
public view, it
is said that he
used to conceal
himself near
them so that
he might hear
the comments
of onlookers.
A cobbler finding
fault with
the shoe of one
of his figures,
Apelles at once
corrected it.
But next day
when the cobbler
ventured
to criticise the
legs, the painter
came forth
from his hiding-place and recommended the
cobbler to stick to the shoes—advice which in
the words of the Latin version of the story also has
been adopted as a proverb, Ne sutor ultra crepidam
(“Let not the shoemaker overstep his last”).

Drawing the Badger.

Badger-baiting was a brutal sport at one time in
vogue in this country as a kind of “attraction” in
public-houses of the lowest class. The animal was
kept in a tub or barrel and was attacked by dogs.
Yielding at last to superior numbers, it was dragged
or drawn out. The badger was then set free and
permitted to return to its tub until it recovered
from the effects of the struggle, after which it was
again baited. It had to submit to this barbarous
treatment several times a day. The verb “to
badger,” now often applied to persons, was originally
used in direct reference to this cruel practice.

A Gallant Rescue.

Not many months since some boys were sitting
on the banks of the River Devon, near Tillicoultry
(Scotland), when one of them, aged ten, waded
into the stream in search of an article. He had
hardly entered the water when he walked into a
deep pool, in which he was whirled about quite
helplessly, like a cork. Fortunately, a lad named
James Henderson happened to be passing at the
time, and observing the imminent peril of the poor
boy, plunged
into the river
at the risk of
his life, and
brought him
to the bank,
where, after
treatment, he
recovered. The
painful screams
of the boy
created great
excitement in
the neighbourhood,
and there
seems no doubt
that but for the
gallant rescue
here recorded
he would have
been drowned.
It would be a
great advantage
if the
teaching of
boys and girls
how to swim
were made a necessary part of their education.

a modern war elephant.

War Elephants.

From time immemorial elephants have been
employed in war in the East and in Africa,
though the Indian kind is more familiar to us
in this respect. At first they were equipped with
a huge tower, in which fighting-men were carried—a
practice of which we are reminded in the sign of
the “Elephant and Castle” still in vogue in some
inns—and were even trained to use swords with
their trunks. In the present day, however, the
creatures are found more useful in assisting the
transport of artillery in hilly or marshy districts.
The “castle” has been replaced by a howdah,
from which the soldiers use the modern weapons
of war. Military service may, therefore, be regarded
as being a good deal easier than it once
was—so far, at least, as elephants are concerned.

[Pg 312]

in safe hands. (See p. 313).

[Pg 313]

POOR PUSSY.

t
was early morning, near eight of the clock,
And all might hear the milkman’s knock,
When a wandering stranger strolled the street,
Well clad in fur, but with nothing to eat.
Poor Pussy!

She had passed by the houses of ladies in silk,
But no response to her quest for milk,
And while beginning to feel “dead beat,”
The passers by she would entreat.
Poor Pussy!

No food whate’er could Pussy buy,
And travellers passed her. I’ll tell you why:
They thought, of course, “It’s only a cat,
And nothing much to be marvelled at.”
Poor Pussy!

In vain, dear Puss, was thy appeal,
No hammer could reach those hearts of steel,
And in this world, so full of strife,
A plaintive mew won’t save a life.
Poor Pussy!

Ill did it seem thy tabby grace,
The woes of London streets to face,
Cold glances, or a kick for thy fur,
And none to list to thy murmuring purr.
Poor Pussy!

But pussy, strolling down the street,
Chanced a child’s kind glance to meet,
And soon her troubles all were passed,
And love and plenty came at last
To Pussy.

The “Little Folks” Humane Society.

THIRTY-THIRD 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.