Little Folks:

A Magazine for the Young.

NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES.

CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited.

LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK.

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

Contents

[Pg 193]

A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.

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

CHAPTER XII.—AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND.

For the first time
since she had
left home, Elsie
felt thoroughly
frightened and
miserable. Even
when she had
stayed in the
crofter’s cottage
she had not felt
worse. For this
little attic, right
at the top of a
tall house full
of people, seemed
even more
dreadful than
the bare wretched
loft in Sandy
Ferguson’s hovel. The height of the house, the
noises of loud angry voices, banging doors, hurrying
footsteps coming and going on the stairs, the
continual roar of traffic in the street below, were
all things strange and terrifying to the moor-bred
Scottish lassie. Besides this, she had begun to
realise to the full extent how greatly she had been
mistaken in all her ideas when she formed the
plan of running away. She had thought it would
be a fine adventure, with some little difficulties to
encounter, such as would quickly come right, as
they did in the books of running-away stories,
which she had always believed to be quite true.
How could she have known it would happen so
differently to them? And above all, who could
suppose that Duncan, who was so strong and
hearty, should fall ill just at such a time as this?

That was the worst thing about it, and the one
that frightened Elsie most. She didn’t like the
look of Duncan at all. He had been getting worse
all day while they were in the train, and now he
did not seem to notice anything or anybody. His
eyes were closed, and he never spoke a word, but
only gave a sort of little moan now and then. He
was burning hot too, and he moved his head and
his limbs about restlessly, as if they were in pain.
Elsie wondered whether he was really very ill, and
what ought to be done for him. No one seemed
to take any notice or think that he required any
attention; and what could she do?

I do think that when children run away from a
good kind home and watchful loving guardians,
God must be very angry with the hardness of heart
and wilful ingratitude that can lead them to do
such a wicked thing, and I have no doubt that He
purposely let all these difficulties and terrors fall in
Elsie’s path in order to punish her. Children, even
big ones, have little idea of the dreadful dangers
there are waiting for them to fall into, or how soon
some shocking disaster would happen to them if
they had not such careful, kind protectors. I am
afraid, too, that people who write books often hide
such things, and only tell of the wonderful escapes
and marvellous adventures that runaway children
encounter, although they know that really and
truly the most dreadful things have happened to
children who have run away from their homes—things
too dreadful for me to tell of. We know
that the Gentle Shepherd has a special care for
little lambs of His flock, but we can never expect
God to take care of us when we have wilfully
turned away from Him to follow our own wrongdoing,
and refused to turn back. If the lambs
will not listen to the voice of the Shepherd, but will
stray far away from Him, they are likely to be lost.

Now, He had already spoken to Elsie many times
since she had left home. Her conscience, which is
really His voice, had told her frequently that she
was doing wrong, and that it would end badly; but
she had refused to hear. Even now, when she had
really begun to wish she were back again, it was because
of the discomfort she was suffering, much
more than on account of any belief that she had
done a very wicked thing. But God is never content
with such a grudging, half repentance as that, and
so it was that Elsie fell into worse trouble still.

I wish I could describe to you how utterly forlorn
and miserable Elsie felt, standing there by poor
Duncan’s bed, watching him toss about, and not
able to do anything for him, or even to call any one
to his assistance. I am afraid the little children
who are in their own happy homes cannot imagine
what it would be like, and I only hope they never
may experience anything so dreadful.

Elsie could not tell any one how she felt, for
there was no one to listen. She was not a child
who had ever cried much; but do what she would,
she could not help shedding some very bitter, angry
tears now.

Presently Duncan lifted his heavy eyelids, and
asked for some water. Elsie jumped up and began
searching in the room; but there was neither basin
[Pg 194]
nor jug, and such a simple thing as a drop of water
was not to be had.

She told Duncan there wasn’t any; but he did
not seem to understand, and kept on asking for it.
Elsie, in her indignant anger, beat furiously at the
door to attract some one’s attention, but in vain.
No one came near.

It drove her almost mad to hear the child
moaning and groaning, and calling out incessantly
for water in a peevish, whining voice. Where
was Mrs. Donaldson? and why had she left them
in this cruel way, without food or even a drop of
water, although she knew that Duncan was ill?

After a long time, Elsie heard some one coming
up to the attic; the door opened, and the girl who
had brought them upstairs put her unkempt head
in at the door.

“Just to have a look at you,” she said, with
a broad grin upon her face, which was a very
stupid-looking one, and frightfully begrimed. “I
sleep up here, just next to you.”

“Will you get us a little water?” Elsie cried.

“Why, yes!” said the girl, good-naturedly.
“There’s a pitcher full out here. I’ll bring it in.”

She came in, bringing it with her, and then went
up to the bedside, where Duncan lay tossing and
moaning. “Is it for him to drink?” she asked.
“I’ll go fetch a mug.” And she sped away, bringing
back an old gallipot, which she filled, and held to
the child’s lips.

“But he is just bad,” she said, looking at him.
“Ain’t he hot? He’s got the fever! Is that the
reason you was brought here?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Elsie replied, wondering
how much she dared say to this girl, and with
a recollection of the “fairy mother’s” threats.

“Do you know where mamma is?” she asked,
cautiously.

The girl burst out laughing. “You needn’t come
that here,” she said. “We know her and him well
enough, both of them. They wasn’t always such
grand folk, I can tell you. Why, Lucy Murdoch
is as well known down Stony Close as ever I am.
Her mother lived next to mine, and does to this
day, and holds her head so high, on account of her
daughter, that she’d like to pass mother in the
street if she dared. If you belong to her, it’s news
to me, and I’ve known her all my life.” All this
was said with the quaint expressions and broad
northern dialect that Elsie very well understood,
although none but a Scottish lassie would do so.

“I don’t think you like her much,” Elsie said.

The girl made a wry grimace. “I like any one
so long as they don’t do me no harm,” she replied
evasively. “She wouldn’t stand at that, either, if
she had the mind. How did you get with her?”

Elsie pondered a moment, and then decided she
would tell this girl everything, and trust to her
being a friend.

“She found us on a road by the mountains, oh!
ever so far away from here; and she seemed so
kind, and brought us clothes, and took us to a nice
house to sleep, and brought us in the train all this
way,” Elsie said.

“H’m,” the girl said, looking rather puzzled.
“Well, she’d got her reasons,” she added presently.
“I don’t know what they might be, but it wasn’t
done for any good to you. What did they bring
you here for?”

“I don’t know,” Elsie replied.

“You see, master’s in all their secrets. He’s
one with them, and does a lot of business with
them. To tell you the truth—which you needn’t
let out, unless you want to have your head smashed—he’s
master’s brother, only he goes under another
name. Now, what did he tell you his name was?”

“I was told to call him Uncle ‘William,'” Elsie
replied, “and the lady ‘Mamma.'”

The girl laughed to herself heartily—a sort of
suppressed chuckle, which could scarcely have
been heard outside the door. “Well, that’s a
queer dodge! I suppose she made out that she
was his sister; and she was dressed like a widow,
and he’s her husband all the time, which I know
very well. She passes, then, as a widow with two
children, does she?”

“I suppose so,” Elsie replied, scarcely understanding
what the girl was talking about.

“She’s deep, she is,” the girl continued; “and
lots of money always, hasn’t she? rings too, and
bracelets, and all sorts of things.”

“She had at first all those things, and I’ve seen
a lot of money in her purse.”

“Well, would you think she once lived in Stony
Close along of us, and was only a poor girl like me,
though always a dashing one, with a handsome face
of her own?” the girl asked. “They think I’m so
stupid, but I ain’t quite so stupid as I look. I
don’t forget. I wasn’t as old as you are when
Lucy Murdoch was married, but I remember it.
What were you doing on that road when she
found you?” she asked suddenly.

“We had run away from home,” Elsie replied
falteringly, for at the thought of home she felt
ready to cry.

“My goodness! you can’t be the two children
what was lost off a moor somewhere up Deeside.”

“How did you know it?” Elsie cried eagerly.
“Has mother been here?”

“Oh, no! It’s posted up at the police station,”
the girl replied. “They always have all such
things up there: a description of you, and everything.
[Pg 195]
Your mother goes and tells the police,
and they has it printed, and sends it about everywhere.
Lucy Murdoch is after the reward, I’ll be
bound!”

All this was quite unintelligible to Elsie, who
knew nothing of rewards or police regulations.
Only one thing she learnt, and that was that they
were being sought for, and she hoped some one
would find them. A slight misgiving crossed her
mind as to whether the police could take her
to prison for having run away; but this did not
trouble her very much, for she felt sure that Mrs.
MacDougall would never let any bad thing befall
them, and no one else could have told the police to
search.

“I suppose I should just get it if I was found in
here,” the girl said presently. “You won’t go
telling, I suppose; for if they thought I knew too
much, they’d——” the sentence ended with a
grimace and expressive shrug of the shoulders.

Again the girl held the jar to Duncan’s parched
lips. “I dursn’t stay,” she said, kindly; “but if
you knock at this wall I shall hear, and I’ll come if
you want me. We’re up at the top, so there’s no
one to pry down the stairs. He do seem real bad,
poor little chap! but maybe he’ll be better in the
morning.”

With these words she departed, locking the door
after her; and Elsie somehow felt that, in spite of
her rough looks and miserable appearance, she had
found a friend.

CHAPTER XIII.—A DREADFUL NIGHT.

T
he pangs of hunger which Elsie was feeling
pretty sharply were nothing compared to the
pain of mind she was enduring; for although
she was the child of poor people, and had
lived all her life in a cottage, with plain fare and
plenty to do, she had been accustomed to perfect
cleanliness, and a good deal of simple comfort.

After a while she undressed herself, and crept
into the not too clean bed with a feeling of disgust.
It was so different from the coarse cotton sheets—bleached
white as snow, and smelling sweet of the
fresh, pure air—that covered her own little bed.
The room, too, was hot, close, and stifling.

Still this was nothing to the fear she felt for
Duncan, lying so ill and wretched in this miserable
attic, without mother, or granny, or any one
to see after him.

The candle burnt out, and they were left alone in
the dark. There was no chance of sleeping, for
Duncan tossed and plunged about, trying to find
some cool resting-place for his fevered limbs. The
moments dragged slowly away—so slowly that poor
Elsie thought the dreadful night would never go.

About the middle of the night Duncan began to
mutter rapidly to himself. He spoke so quickly
and incoherently that Elsie could not make out
what he was saying. She jumped out of bed, and
felt about for the water, thinking he was asking for
it. He drank some eagerly, and then went on
chattering again.

Suddenly he raised himself up in the bed, and
caught hold of Elsie, clinging to her with a grasp
that made her utter a cry of pain. “He’s killing
me! he’s got a knife! Mother, he’s got me!” he
shrieked out; then with a dreadful cry he fell back
on the bed, catching his breath in great spasmodic
sobs that shook the bed.

“It’s all right, darling!” Elsie cried, her teeth
chattering with fear, so that she could hardly
speak. “There’s no one but me—Elsie.”

Presently he went on talking to himself again.

Elsie put her head close to listen, but could only
catch a word here and there. “So cold—so tired—do
let us go home, Elsie—can’t walk—hurts me,
it hurts me!” he kept on repeating over and over
again, his voice rising almost to a scream of terror
sometimes, then sinking into a moan of pain.

Suddenly he jumped up again and screamed,
“They are lions, Elsie! they are not sheep. Lions
and tigers and wolves! Run, Elsie, run, faster!
Come, come, come!” He caught hold of her, and
bounded off the bed, dragging her with him on
to the bare hard boards, where he pulled and
tore at her with such a strength that Elsie could not
free herself from him for many minutes. When she
did, he flew across the room, coming with a
terrible crash against the wall, and sinking in a
heap on the floor.

Elsie groped her way after him to pick him
up, but she could not move him. He lay there
like a weight of lead. She knocked furiously at the
wall.

Presently the door opened, and the girl came in.
“I can’t think what’s the matter with Duncan,”
Elsie cried, in an agonised voice. “He’s been going
on dreadfully. I think he keeps on having nightmares.
He says there are lions and tigers, and
men with knives, and now he’s jumped out of bed
and hurt himself. Oh! whatever shall I do with
him?”

The girl struck a match and bent over the child;
then she went and fetched a scrap of candle
from her own garret. She lifted him up carefully,
and put him back on the bed, then took water, and
poured it on his face. Elsie stood by quite helpless,
watching her. After a long time he began to make
a little moaning noise, but his eyes did not open,
and he lay perfectly still.

“Has he hurt himself much?” Elsie asked.

[Pg 196]
“I don’t know, but I think it’s more the fever
than the hurt,” the girl replied. “Poor little lad!
he ought to be with his mother. He wants a lot o’
care and nursing.”

“Is he very ill?” Elsie asked.

“I should just say he was. I had the fever
when I was a bit bigger than you, and my head
wandered. They said I chattered and screamed,
and had to be held down in the bed. I should
have died for certain if I hadn’t been taken to the
hospital, for I was awful bad; and so’s he. Can’t
you see he is?”

Elsie began to cry and to tremble. “They must
take him to the hospital,” she cried. “They shall!
I’ll make them! If only Duncan was back home
now, I wouldn’t mind anything.”

“You was a stupid to run away if you’d got a
good home,” the girl said. “Catch Meg running
away from any one who was good to her! They
think her an idiot, but she’s not quite so stupid as
that.”

Elsie was beginning to think very much the
same thing. Her trouble had completely driven
from her mind the high hopes of future grandeur
with which she had started. They scarcely even
came into her head, and when they did for a
moment pass through her brain, everything seemed
so altered, that there was little comfort or attraction
in the thought.

If she had known, she told herself again and
again, she never would have done it. To-night she
could not help admitting to herself that she would
give anything to be back in her old home, with
Duncan hearty and well, and all the old grievances
about Robbie, and the fetching and carrying, and
what not, into the bargain. How trifling and insignificant
they seemed in comparison with her
present troubles!

Suppose he should die for want of attention and
comfort! That dreadful “fairy mother,” as she called
herself, would do very little for him. She did not
care. She had pretended to be kind, and sweet,
and good when any one was near at hand to see
her, but when they had been alone in the train
she had taken no notice of Duncan, except to scold
him, and tell him he was shamming. This new
mother was a poor substitute for the old one, who
had nursed any of them day and night when they
had been ill, with gentle, untiring care, although
she was strict, and would, have them do all sorts of
things that Elsie did not like when they were strong
and well.

The girl Meg stayed with them for some time
longer; but Duncan seemed to lie so quietly,
that after a while she said she would go back, if
Elsie didn’t feel so timid now. The little fellow
seemed better, and she did not think he would
make any more disturbance that night. The poor
creature was tired out with a hard day’s work, and
could ill spare her rest. She was ignorant, too,
and did not know that this quiet that had fallen
upon the child was not the healthful peace leading
to recovery, but only the exhaustion after the
terrible frenzy the poor little disordered brain had
passed through.

Still it was a merciful peace, for Elsie’s fears
grew fainter as he lay there so quietly, and at
last she fell asleep, thinking that he too was
sleeping.

She was awakened by Meg’s presence. There
was a glimmering of light in the room, but so little
of it that she was astonished to find how late it
was—past seven o’clock.

“I don’t so very well like the look o’ the bairn,”
she said, surveying him carefully. “It strikes me
you won’t find it an easy matter to get him dressed.
Here, Duncan, are you ready for something to eat
now?” she cried, bending over him, and raising
her voice.

But the child did not answer. He lay there as
motionless as though he had been carved out of
stone, scarcely moving an eyelid at the sound of
Meg’s words.

Elsie jumped up, and began dressing herself
quickly.

“I’ll go myself and tell them how ill he
is,” she said, “and ask them to send him to the
hospital where they cured you, and I’ll go with
him.”

Meg said nothing, but she knew very well that
this last, at any rate, was quite out of the question.

“You’d better go straight down into the shop if
you want to speak to the master,” she said, as she
left the room.

Elsie found her way down the long flights of
dark stairs as soon as she was dressed. She
pushed open the door leading into the shop, and
went in boldly. The man who had received them
the night before was busily sorting over heaps
of papers, but no one else was near. Elsie went
up to him.

“Donald’s ill; he’s got the fever, and he
must go to the hospital,” she said, in a voice of
decision.

“Ha!” said the man, not looking up from his
work. “I thought he didn’t seem quite the thing.
Your mother’ll be round by-and-by, and then you
can tell her about it.”

It was not said unkindly, but the complete
indifference angered Elsie, who was burning with
impatience for something to be done very quickly.

[Pg 197]“She’s not my mother,” Elsie said, sharply, “and
she is not kind to Duncan. We can’t wait; we
must go to the hospital directly. Meg ‘ll show me
the way, and then I’ll tell the people how bad
he is.”

“What does Meg know about it?” the man
asked, looking into Elsie’s face with a searching
glance.

Elsie was sharp enough. “He was very bad
in the night, thinking there were bad men and
beasts in the room after him, and he jumped
out of bed and hurt himself. When I banged
the wall, Meg came, and picked him up and put
him into bed. She said he’d got the fever like
she had when she went to the hospital.”

The man called out, “Meg, come you here!”

“‘what did she say?’ the man asked sharply.”

CHAPTER XIV.—A FAIRY TRICK.

T
he
girl came shuffling along with a look
of mingled stupidity and terror on her face.
It was scarcely the same one that had bent
over the fevered child.

“This girl called you in the night. What did
she want you for? Now tell me at once,” he said,
in a stern voice.

Meg looked all round her in a blank, stupid sort
of way, letting her eyes travel over Elsie’s face in
their wandering.

“What did she say?” the man asked, sharply.

Elsie was in dreadful fear. She had not dared
to look at Meg, and let her know that she had said
nothing that could harm her.

And so she waited, with a rapidly-beating heart.

[Pg 198]
“She called me to pick up the boy. He’d fallen
on the floor, and he was wandering in his head like.
She asked me who’d look after him, and I said
he’d have to go to a hospital—leastways, that was
where they took me when I was bad. She asked
me a lot o’ questions, she did: what sort of a place
this was, and where her mother had gone. I did
say there was lodgers in the house,” she said,
beginning to whimper like a terrified child.

“Stop that, you dolt!” the man cried. “Her
mother’ll be round presently, and you’d better not
let her know you’ve been interfering. You were
told to keep the door locked until the morning, and
yet you walk in in the night.”

“She made such a noise banging and kicking,
I thought she’d wake up the other people,” Meg
said, casting a scowling glance at Elsie, which
Elsie quite believed was put on to deceive her
master, just in the same way as Meg had, she supposed,
put on an appearance of terror, under which
she had hidden all that was really important most
cleverly.

Meg was then allowed to make good her retreat,
and Elsie was taken by the man into a little room,
where a tin coffee-pot and a loaf and butter were
put ready.

She was glad to eat heartily, for she was famishing
with hunger. She devoured as hastily as she
could several thick slices of bread-and-butter, and
then asked what she had better take to Duncan,
since no one seemed to be troubling their heads
about him.

“A drop of hot coffee,” the man said, unconcernedly.
“If he can’t eat bread-and-butter he
don’t want anything.”

“He didn’t have a bit scarcely all yesterday,
and he’d had next to nothing for three days before
that,” Elsie said indignantly. “Perhaps he’d eat
some bread and milk if I could get it for him. I’d
soon do it if I might go in the kitchen.”

At this moment a customer began to rap on the
counter, and the master of the shop hastily jumped
up and went away. Elsie stood waiting impatiently,
but as he did not return, she took up the milk-jug,
and emptied its contents, about a table-spoonful
of bluey-white milk, into the cup she had used.

Duncan was still lying motionless, with closed
eyes, when she re-entered the attic. He took no
notice when she spoke, so she lifted his head up,
and put the cup to his lips. With great difficulty
she succeeded in making him swallow a few drops at
a time. The raging thirst that had consumed him
in the night had passed away. He had got beyond
that. While she was still holding his head on her
arm, the door opened, and Mrs. Donaldson, as she
had told Elsie to call her, put her head inside.

“They tell me Donald is very ill this morning,”
she said, in her sweetest tones. “Poor little fellow!
what is the matter with him?”

“Meg says it’s the fever, like she had when she
was little,” Elsie answered.

“Fever!” Mrs. Donaldson echoed in alarm.
“Tell me quickly, is he red all over?”

“Oh no! he’s quite white, except just a patch on
his cheeks,” Elsie replied.

“How dare that stupid idiot frighten me like
that?” Mrs. Donaldson cried, angrily. “He’s got
no fever, only a feverish cold through being out on
that moor too long.”

“He was wet through, and had to sleep in his
wet things. He hadn’t anything dry except that
canvas jacket Mrs. Ferguson gave him,” Elsie cried,
remorsefully. “I was wet too, but my things
seemed to dry quicker. Do you think that’s what
made him ill?”

“Of course it is,” Mrs. Donaldson replied. “And
there’s no one here to see to him, poor child! He
wants a good hot bath, and wrapping up in blankets,
but we can’t get it here, nor at an hotel.”

“Meg says they’d take care of him at the
hospital,” Elsie eagerly interposed. “Please let
us go there.”

“You can’t go,” Mrs. Donaldson began; but
Elsie interrupted her. “I must go,” she said,
promptly. “I can’t leave Duncan. I wouldn’t
do that for anybody. It’s through me that he’s ill,
and I won’t go away from him.”

“Then you wouldn’t like to come to London
with me?” Mrs. Donaldson said, in her most
fascinating manner.

“Not without Donald, thank you, ma’am,” Elsie
replied at once.

“I thought you wanted to find your father,” Mrs.
Donaldson said, kindly; “and Donald should come
as soon as he is well. For the matter of that, I
would come myself, or send Uncle William to fetch
him.”

“I couldn’t go without him,” Elsie doggedly
persisted.

Then Mrs. Donaldson grew impatient; her
voice was no longer sweet and persuasive. “I will
do nothing more for you,” she said, angrily. “You
can give me back the things I brought you, and I
will leave you to die of hunger and cold, as you
would have done before this but for me. Get that
child’s things on, and you shall go at once to the
hospital, and see what they will do for you.”

Elsie did not mind at all about the ungraciousness
of the consent, so long as she had won her purpose.

The prospect of getting to London even was
nothing in comparison to the hope of seeing Duncan
nursed and tended back to health. She would
[Pg 199]
cheerfully have given up the frock and hat that
had so pleased her; but this, it seemed, was only a
threat, for Mrs. Donaldson said no more about it,
but went away, and sent Meg to help put on
Duncan’s things.

“He ain’t fit to be dressed, and that’s the truth,”
Meg said compassionately, as she used her utmost
exertions to put the poor child’s clothes on without
hurting him. “They’d better have rolled him in a
shawl.”

“He’ll be all right when we get there,” Elsie
said, with a sigh of relief. “I hope it won’t be far.
Do you think they’re sure to cure him, Meg?”

“If it’s to be done, they’ll do it,” Meg returned,
confidently.

At last the poor little fellow was dressed, and
Meg, taking him up in her strong arms, carried him
downstairs, Elsie following. They found Mrs.
Donaldson talking rapidly to the man in the shop.
Both stopped short when Meg and Elsie entered,
and Mrs. Donaldson beckoned Meg to follow her
into the room behind, where she talked for some
minutes in low tones to the girl, who presently
propped Duncan up in a chair, and called Elsie
to hold him there while she went and fetched her
hat and tidied herself up.

Soon after a fly drove up to the door, into which,
by Mrs. Donaldson’s directions, Meg carried
Duncan, Mrs. Donaldson and Elsie following.
The next minute they drove off, but slowly, on
Duncan’s account.

As they went along Mrs. Donaldson gave Meg
many directions. “You must say the child is
homeless,” she said kindly, “and wait till you have
heard what the doctor says. I dare not take him
in myself; I cannot spare the time. If they will
not let Effie stay, take her back with you, and let
her go every day to see him. Be sure to tell
Andrew to write and let me know how he gets on.”

All these things Meg promised, and Elsie began
to think that, after all, she had thought too badly
of the “fairy mother.” Perhaps Meg had herself
made up the tale she had told about Lucy Murdoch,
and was not to be trusted. When once they were
in the hospital, Elsie had made up her mind that
she would tell the people there the whole truth,
and beg them to write to Mrs. MacDougall. Perhaps
she would come to Edinburgh and fetch them
home. That would be the end of all their troubles.
How glad she would be to come to the end of
them, even though it meant going back to the
old quiet hum-drum life. After all, Duncan had
been really the wiser when he wanted her to
write to their father instead of going to find him.
She wished now she had done it.

While she was thinking of all this the carriage
stopped in a busy street. “Effie and I will go first,”
Mrs. Donaldson said to Meg. “I will just speak
to the man, and when Effie comes to you, get out
and carry Donald into the hospital.”

“You will ask them to let me in, won’t you?”
Elsie asked, earnestly.

“I will ask, but I don’t know whether they will,”
Mrs. Donaldson replied, kindly. “Follow me,
Effie.”

Mrs. Donaldson went quickly down a narrow
covered way, which Elsie, supposed led to the
hospital. She had no idea what sort of a place
it was, and everything here was bewilderingly
new and strange to her. Meg had told her that
there was a great bare room, where people
waited their turn. Into such a room they seemed
to have passed. There were several people running
about, the friends, Elsie supposed, of those
who were ill. “They are just going to shut the
doors. Look how every one is running!” Mrs.
Donaldson hurriedly exclaimed. “We shall be too
late. Come, Effie.”

She took Elsie’s hand, and ran hastily across the
great room. In a moment, before Elsie knew what
was being done, a gentleman had seized her other
hand, dragged her across a short space among a
heap of people, thrust her into a carriage just as a
whistle sounded, the door was banged to, and the
train—for Elsie knew directly that she was in one—began
to move off. She flew to the door directly
they released their hold of her, but immediately
two strong arms forced her back and a soft gloved
hand was held over her mouth.

“That was a near shave,” the gentleman said
when they had passed out of the station.

“And would have been worse than useless if I
had not engaged a carriage to ourselves,” Mrs.
Donaldson replied, setting herself back comfortably.
“Now, my dear, you may scream or knock
at the door as much as you like,” she said smilingly;
“not a soul will hear you. To-night you will be
in London!”

CHAPTER XV.—A MYSTERIOUS MATTER.

E
lsie was beside herself with rage. She had
not naturally a very even temper, but never
in her life had she felt in such a passion.
Directly her two companions loosed their
hold upon her she jumped up, and struck the
door of the carriage, screaming loudly, “Let me
out! let me out!” She caught hold of the wooden
framework, and shook it till it rattled again, while
Mrs. Donaldson, well knowing it was locked, sat
calmly smiling at her impotent wrath.

Then the child turned furiously upon her tormentors.
Her passion knew no bounds; she felt as
[Pg 200]
if she could have torn that wicked “fairy mother” to
pieces. It was such a fit of passionate rage as
blinds reason and takes away the power of thinking—such
a mad, ungovernable fury as would have
led an older stronger person to some desperate
deed.

“she … struck the door of the carriage” (p. 199)

Elsie caught hold of Mrs. Donaldson’s arm, and
screamed at her. “You bad, wicked thing! let me
out! I’ll kick you! I’ll bite you if you don’t! Let
me go to Duncan, I tell you, you wicked creature!
I’ll get out of the window!” and Elsie flew at it,
and began tugging away at the strap.

The gentleman took her up in his arms and
flung her down on the seat, where Elsie lay screaming
and sobbing, and beating the cushions with
her hands, grinding her teeth, and flinging herself
about like a mad thing.

They let her go on as she would for a time.
After a while the gentleman bent over her, and,
catching hold of her wrists with the firm grasp of
his powerful hands, made her sit upright. “Listen,”
he said, putting his head close to her face, and
looking so ugly and evil that Elsie felt as if she
could have struck him; “we have had enough of
this. If you are wise you will behave properly,
then no harm will come to you. If you make a
disturbance, you will bring down upon yourself a
fate that you will not like.”

It was not so much the words themselves as the
menacing way they were hissed in the child’s ear
that made them so terrible.

But Elsie was not then thinking of herself, and
no threat against her took any hold upon her mind.
She returned him a sulky glance of defiance, which
made him scowl.

Then Mrs. Donaldson came and sat on the other
side of Elsie, and began speaking.

“So long as you do what we bid you, your
brother is safe,” she said, in a voice of quiet decision.
“He is quite at our mercy, and will be
well cared for, if you are good. Any naughtiness
on your part will only injure him. The moment
you misbehave he will be turned into the streets, to
find his way home as best he can. He will be
brought to you in a week if you have not been the
cause of his being lost in the meantime.”

“I don’t believe you,” Elsie said sulkily; “you
are too far from Duncan to hurt him.”

Mrs. Donaldson smiled. “You can do just as
you like,” she said. “I only warn you. Duncan
[Pg 201]
is in the hands of my people. I can send them a
message all the way from London in five minutes,
and before you know anything about it they will
have done with Duncan whatever I tell them. You
forget that I am the ‘fairy mother.'”

Then flashed through Elsie’s mind something
she had heard her mother and granny talking
about, which granny would not believe. It was
about a wire which took messages all over the
world as quickly as you could write them. Her
mother had tried to explain it, but granny declared
it sounded like some wicked thing done by evil
spirits, and she wasn’t going to believe it. Elsie
was inclined to feel very much like poor old
granny, who thought the world was turning topsy-turvy
since her young days. But although she
could not understand it, Elsie had a dim uneasy
feeling that there was too much likelihood of Mrs.
Donaldson’s words being true ones for her to disregard
them.

She could think of nothing else now but Duncan.
If any one hurt him, whatever should she do? If
only they gave her Duncan back again it seemed
as if no trouble would be great.

Mrs. Donaldson’s words had brought Elsie to a
more reasoning frame of mind. “I will do everything,
if you promise me you will fetch Duncan or
take me back to him,” she said eagerly. “You
will take care of him, won’t you?” she cried entreatingly.
“Promise me nothing bad shall happen to
him. You will send a message about what they
are to do to him, won’t you? but oh! I do wish
you would let me go back to him before a week.
He will be so frightened and lonely, and perhaps
he will call me like he did in the night when he
was frightened; and he’s never been with strange
folk before. He’s real timid, too, when people are
bad to him, and dursn’t say a word, only he’s
scared like all the time.” Elsie could not help
crying at the thought of poor Duncan’s terror in
Sandy Ferguson’s cottage, and the way he had
hidden it till they were away out of hearing.

Mrs. Donaldson turned away her head uneasily.
Something in Elsie’s love for her brother had
touched a tender chord. It reminded her of a
little brother she had loved, and who had died.
She had been a different creature in those days,
and perhaps for a moment she wished that she
were a child again, with the innocent love for her
little brother to draw her away from a bad, wicked
life. Perhaps the recollection of him made her think
for a moment of the life beyond the grave, in which
he was peacefully living, but which could only be a
terror for her.

But an angry glance from her companion dispelled
the passing softness. “You shall both be
safe so long as you obey me,” she said. “Duncan,
I will tell you now, is safe in the hospital. At a
word from me Meg will fetch him away. At
present he is well tended, with kind doctors and
nurses to give him everything he wants, and he
will soon be well, for it is only a bad cold he has
taken.”

Elsie sank back with a sigh of relief. She
pictured poor little Duncan lying on a soft white
bed, with kind people bending over him, as Mrs.
MacDougall had done when she was sick. It
brought a great feeling of peace to her mind. She
would do anything they wished her, to be sure that
Duncan was safe. The only thing that troubled
her now was whether Mrs. Donaldson had spoken
truly; for children are quick to find out who may
be trusted, and Elsie had no faith in either of these
two people.

Elsie believed herself that Meg would take
Duncan if it depended at all upon her, for although
her behaviour had been strange, Elsie could not
forget her kindness in the night, when there had
been no one near. Nothing would ever make
Elsie think that it was not true and genuine. It
was, indeed, her faith in Meg’s goodness that
was her one consolation. She clung to that much
more than to all Mrs. Donaldson’s statements.

Presently the train stopped. “Uncle William”
came, and sat very close to Elsie on one side,
Mrs. Donaldson on the other, and each took one
of her hands with an appearance of great affection.
Elsie sat perfectly still. She had no intention
of making any more disturbance. If Duncan’s
safety depended on her being quiet, no mouse
should be more quiet than she was.

Mrs. Donaldson seemed pleased. “I see you
are a sensible little girl,” she said. “Now, you
must mind what I tell you. Remember, I shall
not tell you when I send the message, but directly
you are troublesome it will go. I may not tell
you till the week is gone; but you may feel quite
sure that it will not be sent unless you disobey
or are naughty. Do you quite understand?”

Elsie replied that she did, and Mrs. Donaldson
continued—

“Do not mention Duncan again, not even to
me when I am quite alone. He is always Donald.”

“I will not forget,” Elsie replied.

“And you will have no Uncle William when you
get to London. This gentleman is your Grandpapa
Donaldson. Now, I have seen that you are clever
enough when you choose. Do not forget.”

The train had again started on its way, and was
rushing along at a tremendous rate, being an express.
Mrs. Donaldson had got Elsie’s hand in
hers, and had kept the child’s attention fixed upon
[Pg 202]
herself. The gentleman was now seated in another
corner. When Elsie next turned her head towards
him, he had utterly changed. In the place of a
dark-looking man with a small moustache was an
elderly gentleman, with a face quite bare, except
for some small grey whiskers and a bald head.
He was lounging back most unconcernedly in the
carriage, looking through his spectacles at the
objects so swiftly flying past them.

Elsie uttered an exclamation of wonder. “A real
fairy has been at work, you see, Effie,” Mrs.
Donaldson said laughingly.

“Hey, what, my dear?” the old gentleman said,
bending over as if a little deaf. “Did you speak?”

“Effie wants to know where her uncle William
has gone,” Mrs. Donaldson shouted.

“Uncle William? what, has she got an uncle
William, Mary? Who is he? Here Effie, my dear,
will you have a bun?”

Elsie went over to him in a state of the most
complete bewilderment, and took from him the
tempting bun that he held out to her. As she did
so she had a good look at him. Certainly it was
not the same person who had called himself Uncle
William.

His face was quite changed. In place of the
black hair was a small fringe of iron grey locks.
This man was years older. His very coat was a
different colour.

“Won’t you give grandpapa a kiss for that nice
bun?” the old gentleman said in a quavering old
voice. Elsie went timidly, and gave him a small
hasty kiss on the cheek.

He caught hold of her, and made her do it over
again. “What, you puss!” he cried, “are you
frightened of grandpapa, who gives you all the
nice things? Dip your hand in my bag, and take
out what you like.”

He opened a small black valise, and disclosed
delicious fruits and cake. Elsie drew forth a large
mellow pear. “If Duncan could have it,” she
thought as she bit a juicy mouthful.

“Do you like grandpapa better than Uncle
William?” Mrs. Donaldson whispered in her ear.

“I do not know,” Elsie answered; “but I
couldn’t dislike him any more,” she added, with a
little shudder.

Mrs. Donaldson laughed most good-humouredly.
“Then you must like him better,” she said, “and
that is a good thing. Grandpapas are always kind,
you know. Go and talk to yours, but you must
speak loud, because he is getting a little deaf.”

Elsie obeyed. The old gentleman looked round,
and smiled. It was a very gracious smile, but
somehow not one that Elsie liked. “That’s right,
come and talk to grandpapa,” he said. “Can you
read nicely? Here is a pretty book with pictures,
out of a fairy pocket grandpapa keeps for his
children.” As he spoke he drew out a book in most
brilliant binding of scarlet and gold. It was full
of pictures, and altogether charming. Elsie grew
more and more bewildered.

What had become of that dreadful man who had
hissed his threats in her ear? He had quite vanished;
there was no doubt about that. No one
could be more different than this mild old man,
who kept on saying kind things in his cracked
voice. Elsie, watching him very narrowly, thought
she saw something that reminded her of the Uncle
William who had so mysteriously disappeared, and
wondered whether this might be really his father.
Yet that did not make his presence there any the
less mysterious.

One effect this incident had on Elsie’s mind was
to make her stand more than ever in awe of her
strange companions. She could not get rid of a
half belief that they could do really whatever they
liked with both her and Duncan. Although she had
not any real faith in their goodness, she had certainly
a great dread of their strange power.

The journey was a long one, with few stoppages.
The train flew on at a frightful pace through the
hill country, where from the windows could be seen
the bare bleak peaks of Cumberland, varied with
nearer slopes of soft green grass and verdant
valleys. On, on through the great grimy towns of
the manufacturing counties; on and on through
dark tunnels, swinging round curves, over rivers,
skirting woods, still rushing on, with an occasional
shriek and scream, as of relentless fury; still on
and on, long after the day had closed and the stars
had begun to twinkle in the sky, till at last the
great goal of London was reached.

There is now a gathering together of parcels and
packages. The old gentleman, Grandpapa Donaldson,
sets them down on the seat, and fumbles at
the door. “Why doesn’t that idiot unlock it?” he
mutters, in a tone that brings strangely to mind the
adventure on the lonely road where she first saw the
“fairy mother.”

“Don’t be impatient, father,” Mrs. Donaldson
exclaims in a wavering voice; and Elsie, looking
up at her, sees that her face is pale and her lips
tightly set.

She draws a long black veil over her face as
she stands waiting. Presently a porter comes.
The door is opened. Two men spring into the
carriage, and close the door after them.

“The game is up! you are my prisoners!” falls
in dreadful tones on poor Elsie’s frightened ears.

(To be continued.)

[Pg 203]

HOW TO MAKE PRETTY PICTURE-FRAMES.

“Your room looks so pretty, Nellie,”
sighed my cousin Bella; “you
should just see mine at home; it’s
as bare as a barrack.”

“Why don’t you improve it,
then?” was my practical rejoinder.

“Why, it costs such a lot,” answered
Bella.

“My decorations are very inexpensive,
I assure you,” said I.
“Now these frames, for instance——”

“Oh, they are sweet! they are really,” interrupted
my cousin.

“Cost next to nothing,” I continued. “Shall we
make a pair for you to take home? That would
be something to start with, at any rate.”

Bella was delighted at the idea, which we forthwith
carried out; and now for the benefit of little
folk, who may like to know how to make something
pretty for their rooms, at a small cost, I will
proceed to relate what these said frames were
made of, and how we made them.

First of all, we got a good stock of materials,
such as small fir-cones, oak-balls, tiny pieces of
bark, beech-nuts, bits of silvery lichen stolen from
the trunks of trees, the little crinkly black cones of
the alder, in fact everything of the kind that we
could pick up in our rambles about the lanes and
woods.

Bella called our gleanings, “the harvest of a
roving eye;” and children who live in the country
will have no difficulty in gathering in such a
harvest, as will suffice for the making of dozens
of frames. Of course, autumn is the best time to
get them.

The next thing was to decide upon the pictures,
for it is always better to make your frame to fit
your picture, than to be obliged to hunt for a picture
the right size for your frame. Christmas-cards
do very nicely; those with a light ground look the
best, as the frames are dark. I happened to have
two of those fancy heads that are seen in picture-shop
windows nowadays (cabinet size).

For these, I first cut out a paper pattern of the
frame, an oval about 8½ inches long, and 6¾ inches
broad; then I drew a line inside the oval, about
1¾ inches from the edge, and cut the middle out.
When I had succeeded to my satisfaction in
making a correct pattern, I laid it on a sheet of
thin millboard, traced the outline inside and outside
the oval with a pencil, and cut it out. Of course,
when once you have the pattern in cardboard, it
is very easy to cut any number of frames, but it
is always a little difficult to get a perfect oval just
the exact size for your picture.

My cousin and I then bound both edges with
strips of old black stuff, about an inch wide, cut
on the cross. I then rushed for the glue-pot, and
let me here remark that very strong glue is an
absolute necessity, or the cones will continually
drop off.

We began to stick on the cones, &c., as fast as
we could, while the glue was hot, and for this part
of the work I can give no special directions.

All that is wanted is a little taste and dexterity,
for of course you must try to avoid making your
frames look stiff. Begin at the top of the frame,
and make it higher and more imposing than the
sides; put first a fir-cone, and then a couple of
beech-nuts, and then an oak-ball, or a piece of
lichen, and so on.

Cones which are too large and heavy for these
small frames are very useful to pull to pieces, to
stop gaps with, for no bare places should be left;
and the black alder-cones are capital little fellows
to stick in here and there, for you will nearly always
pick them up two or three together on a tiny sort
of black branch, which will fit in nicely between the
other cones. With anything round like oak-apples,
it is a good plan to slice off a piece and to glue the
flat side to the cardboard.

When we had finished sticking on the cones, we
left the frames to get dry and firm, and the following
day we finished them; and this is the way it
should be done.

Put the frame on an old cushion, or something
soft, cone side downwards. If you decide to have
a glass over your picture, you must get a piece
beforehand at a glazier’s, about the same size as
the picture. Rub if bright with a leather, put a
small dab of glue in each corner, and place it in the
frame.

But before you do this, you should slip a narrow
strip of ribbon through a small ring—like those
which umbrellas are fastened with—and glue the
ends on to the millboard, in the centre.

This is, of course, to hang your picture up by.

Now put your picture face downwards on to the
glass, and be careful to see that you have it straight.
Then glue a small strip of paper across each
corner to keep it in position.

The last thing to be done is to gum a piece of paper
all over the back; and this makes a neat finish to
your frame. You must leave it for a few hours to
get thoroughly well stuck, and then it is quite ready
to be hung up.

Sheila.

[Pg 204]

HIS FIRST SKETCH.

eneath a cottage window,
Upon a summer day,
Two little ones are whiling
The sunny hours away.

A portrait of his sister
The boy draws on the wall;
The little maid remonstrates,
She likes it not at all.

At first she sits there pouting—
A tear is in her eye;
But peals of merry laughter
Burst from her by-and-by.

What cares the budding artist?
He plies his brush with zest;
He is in downright earnest,
Though she is but in jest.

Art-fire is in his spirit,
For Nature lit the flame;
The first step he has taken
Upon the road to fame.

In childhood’s early morning,
Ere opened yet the flower,
Within his soul is dawning
The future artist’s power!

Astley H. Baldwin.

SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

By Henry Frith.

III.—THE “FLYING SCOTCHMAN.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ne minute, sir; just let my
mate brush up the dust a
bit, and sprinkle a drop o’
water on the foot-plate, and
we’ll be all right and comfortable.”

So said an engine-driver on
one occasion to the writer,
and we are reminded of it
when we step up to the “eight-foot”
engine which is to carry
us from King’s Cross Station to York.
To pull the fastest train in Great
Britain, or indeed in the world, for
one hundred and eighty-eight miles,
at more than forty-eight miles an
hour, is first-rate running. “Scotchmen”
run also from the Midland Station at St.
Pancras, and from Euston, but the quickest one is
that on the Great Northern, and it is also the most
punctual.

Now, what do you say to a journey of one
hundred and five miles, to Grantham? We will
leave King’s Cross, if you please, at ten in the
morning—a nice comfortable time. We have had
our breakfast, and the engine has had its meal of
coal and plenty of water. It will want something,
for it will travel fast.

Here we are puffing up the incline, between the
walls, and through the little tunnels which abound
near London, on our way to Barnet. We could
tell tales of Barnet, had we time. We could give
you a long—perhaps much too long—description
of the place near which the Yorkists and Lancastrians
contended on that fatal fifth of April, when
the Great Warwick was slain and Edward made
king.

But our engine-driver does not care for history
much. He would rather tell us of his terrible
winter journey a few years ago (in 1880), when he
had to keep time, and did keep time, through snow
and wind, the bitter blast making icicles on the
engine out of steam, and hanging inches long from
the carriage roofs.

Now our “Flying Scotchman” runs through
Peterborough—the Proud, as it was once called,
when its monastery flourished, and where is now
the splendid cathedral on which the Ironsides of
Cromwell laid such hard hands. Shame upon
them who destroyed the beautiful chapter-house
and cloisters! Perhaps you do not associate your
history at your school with the actual places you
see, young readers, but a little time bestowed upon
the history of the places you pass in a holiday trip
will very greatly assist you in gaining a good knowledge
of the past.

Look at Peterborough. Here lies Queen
Katherine, and here lay Mary, Queen of Scots, for
[Pg 205]
you a long—perhaps much too long—description
a while, till James buried her in Westminster; and
Scarlett, the sexton, who buried both queens, lies in
the nave. But we cannot pause at Peterborough,
though we should like to do so, for our iron steed
is steaming along, and our driver is thinking of
the ice and snow which he had to contend
against. The Midland line runs overhead near
here, and after a rapid run we pull up at Grantham.

“his first sketch.” (See p. 204.)”

[Pg 206]During our stay we hear a little tale from our
“fireman,” who remembers on one of his trips an
engine getting loose in front of the up express, and
how he and another man got on a fresh engine,
and ran after it on the other line. Oh, what a
chase they had after the runaway! and at last they
caught it in time to prevent a serious accident. It
was a brave, but rash act, to set off after a “mad”
engine, which had run away, no one knew how,
out of the siding on to the main line.

From Grantham to Doncaster the railway opens
up so many memories. We pass Newark, near
which the ruins of the old castle may be seen.
King John died here; Cardinal Wolsey lodged here,
and James I. also stayed within its walls; the
whole place teems with memories of Charles and
his Parliamentary foes. We pass on near Sherwood
Forest, where Robin Hood and his merry
men lived, and fought, and stole the king’s deer;
and then past Doncaster, where the engines and
carriages of the Great Northern Railway, which
ends near here, are made and repaired.

Doncaster was a very important place in olden
times, and a whole volume of adventures might be
written concerning the personages who visited it.

While we are talking, the “Flying Scotchman,”
the quickest of all the Scotch trains, goes tearing
along to York. We have heard of Dick Turpin’s
celebrated ride to York on his bonnie “Black
Bess,” but we have a finer horse—a green-painted
steed—to ride on. In the “good old times”
which we read about so much it took four days to
get to York, sleeping on the road; now our trains
run the distance in less than four hours! Coaching
is very pleasant as an amusement, but for
business we must have our Iron Horse.

We can lunch at York. Our train waits for no
one, but if we like we can eat our sandwich on the
platform, and look over old York city, with its
dear old Minster, its river, its red-roofed houses;
and if we close our eyes for a few minutes, our
mental vision will show us many stirring scenes
here.

We can imagine the Scots hovering around old
York, assisted by the Britons, attacking the gouty
Emperor Severus, who afterwards built one of the
great walls across Britain to supplement Hadrian’s
rampart from the Solway to the “Wall’s End”—a
name now “familiar in our mouths as household”
coals. Do you remember what the old worn-out
Roman Emperor said at York when he was dying?
He looked at the urn of gold in which his ashes
were to be carried to Rome, and remarked,
“Thou shalt soon hold what the world could
scarcely contain!” Then we can see the end of
the great Roses’ Wars, the heads on the grim
spikes of the city gates, while a long procession of
kings and queens files out from the cathedral
doors, on whose site a church has stood ever
since Easter, 627 A.D.

If we had only time to sit and recall all the grand
events which have happened in York Minster, we
should have to wait for the next “Flying Scotchman,”
and perhaps for the next after that.

“Any more going on?” “Yes, we are.” “Quick,
please; all right.” The train can’t wait while we
dream about the past; and have we not Darlington
in front of us? Ah! there we must stop a little.
Here are the cradles of all the “Flying Scotchmen,”
“Wild Irishmen,” “Dutchmen,” “Zulus”; of
the four hundred expresses of England, and the
thousands of other trains, fast and slow, which traverse
the United Kingdom and the world. Yes,
Darlington was the nursery of the locomotive
railway-engine, and Mr. Pease the head nurse
who taught it to run on the Stockton and Darlington
line in 1825. To the Darlington Quaker
family Stephenson’s success was due, and the
success of Stephenson’s locomotive was owing to
Hadley—William Hadley—who has been rightly
called the “Father of the Modern Locomotive.”

We are now on the North-Eastern line, which
ends at Berwick-on-Tweed—for the true Great
Northern, though its carriages run over the whole
route, does not work the traffic all the way. The
North-Eastern hurries us along towards Newcastle-on-Tyne,
over Robert Stephenson’s high-level
bridge, and then over the North British line at
Edinburgh.

What do we see from this breezy elevation? “Oh,
earth, what changes hast thou seen!” What does
a writer say of this? “The mountain stream
beneath us, once a broad shallow, now affords
depth for the heaviest ships. Away on the northern
bank the Roman wall lies hid, its arrowy route
just marked by a burial heave of the turf. Before
us stands the massive keep, with sturdy Norman
walls—the trains of the North-Eastern are scrunching
on the curve within a yard of it. Stephenson’s
engine looks down on Elizabethan gables;” and
so on. Near Newcastle—at Wylam and Killingworth—the
first locomotive engines were born which
changed the country and revolutionised travelling.

The warders at Berwick no longer look out from
the castle walls to descry the glitter of Southern
spears. The bell-tower from which the alarm was
sounded is now silent—the only bell heard within
the precincts of the castle being that of the railway
porter, announcing the arrival and departure of
[Pg 207]trains. The Scotch express passes along the bridge,
and speeds southward on the wings of steam. But
no alarm spreads across the Border now.

We shall cross the Tweed presently, and pass
through the country of the Moss-troopers and the
territories of the Lords Marchers, the scene of so
many conflicts and fatal raids. We first cross the
Coquet, “the stream of streams,” the poet calls it:—

We get a view of the Cheviots; and Tweed-mouth
passed, we cross the “Royal Border Bridge,” and
run into Berwick.

What a record of battle has Berwick! In these
peaceful times at home we can hardly picture the
old walls on which we walk manned with armoured
soldiery, and King John within his house, a burning
torch in his hand, setting fire to the town, or
hanging up the people by the feet till they told where
their money-bags were hidden. In those days and
in Edward’s time, the “Flying Scotchmen” were
Highlanders who were dispersed by the English
king. Wallace avenged the slaughter, and seized
Berwick; Robert Bruce and Douglas climbed into
the town with their trusty men. Half Wallace’s
body was sent here as a trophy, and the Countess
of Buchan was hung out from the walls in a cage!

Beacons again burn in the bell-tower, and
Edward and Bruce again engage, and Berwick was
only finally deprived of its warlike appearance
when James the First united England and Scotland.
These are some of the tales the old stones tell us
as we pause in Berwick, which within our own
memory was so specially mentioned in all forms
of national prayer and thanksgiving, as being a
kind of neutral ground upon the Border.

Now puffing through Dunbar, past the Field of
Preston-pans, and through a district ever memorable
in the history of Scotland, we reach the modern
Athens “Auld Reekie”—Edinburgh the Beautiful—where
the “Flying Scotchman” folds his wings and
“flies” no more. His work is done this journey!

A FORAGING EXPEDITION IN SOUTH AMERICA.

By the Author of “How the Owls of the Pampas treated their Friends,” &c.

On the branch of a gigantic tree in one of the
South American forests a young ant was
reposing; he had
been working hard
all day, being a brisk,
spirited fellow, and so he
was rather tired, and he
lazily watched an old relation
of his own, who was
slowly climbing the trunk
towards him, his fine white
polished head glancing
against the bark.

“Well, Long-legs,” cried
the young cousin, as his
elder approached, “where
are you going at this late
hour? I should have fancied
that you would have
been asleep after all the
trouble you had in marching
to-day.”

“he … executed a little war-dance.”

“My dear Shiny-pate,”
said the old warrior, as he
settled in a little crevice and
stretched out his tired
limbs, while he rolled up a tiny, tiny blade of grass
for a would-be cigar, “I am the bearer of news.”

“Why, what is the matter?” cried Shiny-pate
anxiously, jumping up so suddenly that he hit his
poor little head sharply
against a projecting knob.

“Silly goose! nothing is
the matter,” answered his
friend, “only you are a
little grander than you
thought you were: you
are promoted to be an
officer—a lieutenant, in
fact; so now you can assist
me on our marches.”

“Oh! Long-legs, is it really
true?” exclaimed the young
ant. “Am I to be an officer,
to march the men about, to
lead them to glory?” and
he tried to shout “hurrah,”
but did not know how, so he only
executed a little war-dance on the
branch of the tree, while his old
friend looked on, smiling grimly.

“Now I hope you will distinguish
yourself, my child,” said he paternally,
when Shiny-pate was tired
of skipping about. “You will very soon have an
opportunity of showing your valour, for to-morrow
[Pg 208]
we are to undertake a dangerous expedition to a
distant country, and your courage will be tried.”

So saying, he began creeping down the tree, disregarding
the entreaties of his young companion,
to stay a little longer and tell him where they
were going. “No, no,” he muttered; “that will
be time enough to-morrow; go to sleep and be
strong.”

Very good advice, certainly; but when children
are put to bed before the sun has set in the
long summer evening, while the birds are still
singing, and the bats have not begun to come out,
and they feel desperately inclined to play a little
longer, I am afraid they don’t relish it much.

However, Shiny-pate was a good, sensible little
creature, and he went off very meekly, but he
awoke early in the morning, ready for the fray.

“Breakfast first,” said he to himself; but no: the
older officers said they had to fight first, and eat
afterwards; so they soon began to arrange their
marching order.

A column of ants, at least a hundred yards in
length, but not very wide, was soon formed; each
leader had charge of twenty workers. The officers
were not expected to march in the main line, but to
walk outside their company, and keep it in order;
and great was our hero’s pride and delight when he
surveyed his own particular men, and thought what
an example of bravery he would set them.

At last all were ready, and the army moved off in
beautiful order. The officers ran up and down the
ranks, inspecting everything, their white helmets
glistening in the sun, and as Shiny-pate’s position
was well to the front, he had great opportunities.

“the army moved off.”

After they had proceeded for some time
with great gravity and care, they came to a
tree from which hung a couple of nests
belonging to the large wasps of the country,
and after a moment’s discussion it was decided
that the ants should mount and rifle
them as a first move, so the obedient soldiers
hastened on, and Shiny-pate, who knew
nothing of the enterprise, joyfully waved his
sword at the head of his troops. How astonished,
how disgusted he was, when he felt
the first wasp-sting he had ever experienced!

He almost fell from the nest with amazement,
but he would not give in—”No, never, die
first!” he thought, so he rushed on, and was
among the foremost to enter the cells where
the young pupæ were carefully walled in, and
tearing them from their cosy cradles, the ants
proceeded to devour them.

“saluting his commander.” (p. 209).

However, though the nests were large, and the
grubs many in number, there were not half or
quarter enough for the army. More and more
ants came trooping up the tree, trying to squeeze
into the places where there was no room for them,
and mournfully calling out that they also were
very hungry. So as soon as the pasteboard
domicile was empty, the little creatures descended
from their elevation, and again pursued their line
of march, this time without any incident occurring
until they saw in the distance the figure of a man.

Now most of the ants had never seen a human
being before, but what did that matter? Their
ardour rose, their eyes sparkled, their long slender
limbs raced over the
ground, and soon the
[Pg 209]
person who had been silly enough to stand and
watch the advancing host was covered with the
nimble insects, who quickly ran up into his coat-pockets,
down his neck, and, in fact, wherever
there was any aperture, inserting their sharp fangs,
and injecting their poison, until he yelled with fear
and pain. He had not been very long in the
country, and did not understand the habits of the
creatures, so at first he remained in his absurd
position, capering
about,
and trying
to brush off
the ants. But
as he found
that their
numbers so
increased
every moment,
he
began to get
really alarmed,
lest he
should soon
be “eaten up
alive,” and
so he ran
away very ignominiously,
being pursued
for some distance by
the host of insects; but as
soon as he had outrun them,
the difficult task of trying
to detach those already fastened
to his person began.
The fierce little insects preferred
being pulled to pieces
to letting go their hold, and
their hooked mandibles remained
securely fixed in
poor John Lester’s skin long after their bodies had
been torn off.

Fortunately for himself, Shiny-pate was not included
in the number who lost their lives. When
the onslaught began, Long-legs commanded him to
keep his detachment quiet, as their services were
not required; so the steady little ant obeyed orders,
and though he stood on tip-toe with impatience, and
trembled with excitement, he kept out of the fray.

“Now it is all over—march!” cried Long-legs
authoritatively, as John’s flying coat-tails disappeared
round a tree.

“Shall we not wait for the others?” inquired a
young officer very politely, saluting his commander
with the back of his tiny foot in true military style.

“an army of ants.” (p. 210).

“None of them will ever return,” replied the
colonel sternly. “Do your duty, and obey orders.”

So the army again started off, and after a long
and dusty march the pioneers came in sight of a
pretty little cottage; but I must relate who the inhabitants
were before I go any farther.

The house belonged to an Irish gentleman of the
name of Wolfe, who, after emigrating to South
America, and building a house for his family, a few
months before
this
story opens,
brought out
his wife, four
children, and
their old and
faithful servant,
called
John Lester,
to keep him
company,
and help him
in the new
life he had
chosen for
himself.

Mrs. Wolfe
was rather
an inexperienced
young
lady, and the
manners and
customs of
the place and
people, particularly
those
of the coloured
servant,
Chunga, astonished
her
immensely.
The white lady had a great horror of creeping
things of all kinds; she could hardly bear to get
into her bath, for she sometimes found a centipede,
as long as her hand, drowned in it.

At night, when the lamp was lighted, cockchafers
and insects of all kinds buzzed and flew round it,
until their wings were singed; then they danced
hornpipes on the table over Mrs. Wolfe’s work or
writing, falling most likely into the ink-bottle first,
and then spinning about with their long legs,
smearing everything with which they came in contact,
till she used to run away and implore her
husband to “kill them all and have done with it.”
The children thought it was rather fun, except
when a scorpion stung them. They had a play
[Pg 210]
about the lizards, which were pretty and harmless,
and they used to count how many different kinds
of beetles were killed each night.

Sometimes the baby screamed when a particularly
large spider walked across its face; but these
little trials had to be borne.

On the morning of this memorable day, as Mrs.
Wolfe was employed in some household duties,
Chunga rushed into the verandah, joyfully crying—

“Oh, missie! oh, missie! de birds are come!”

“What birds?” inquired her mistress in amazement,
wondering what new object was going to be
exhibited to her, but almost expecting to see a
creature with three legs, or two heads.

“De pittas, missie; de ant-thrushes, you call
them,” said the black woman, gleefully. “Now
missie’s house will be clean; massa is away, all de
tings will be turned out,” and as she spoke, she
seized her mistress’s dress, and, gently drawing her
to the open door, directed her attention to several
dark-coloured, short-tailed birds which were hopping
from tree to tree in the neighbourhood.

“I don’t see anything extraordinary about them,”
said Mrs. Wolfe, in a disappointed tone; “they
are only small ugly birds.”

“But look dere, missie,” persisted Chunga,
pointing towards the forest, from the dark shades
of which Shiny-pate and his battalions were
emerging.

“Why, it is an army of ants!” cried the Irish
lady. “How curious! how pretty!”

“Dey is coming here,” remarked Chunga carelessly,
as she watched the procession.

“the warriors dashed in.”

“Here!” echoed Mrs. Wolf in horror; “what
for? What shall we do? They will eat all the
things in my store-room, they will bite my children!”
and she flew to the
nursery as she spoke.

But the advancing host
moved steadily along, the
officers gave orders to
enter the house, and our
young hero, though quite
a novice in the work, was
one of the first to creep
through a slit in the walls.

“Now,” cried Long-legs,
“first kill the cockroaches
and other small game.
Come on; don’t be afraid.”

So the warriors dashed
into the principal room,
mounted the rafters, and
began a fierce battle. The
sleepy cockroaches, fat and
heavy from good living,
sprawled about, but made
a very poor fight. Shiny-pate
and two or three of
his men would seize one
of the kicking old fellows,
and either push him or pull him to the edge of the
rafters, whence he would fall with a dull thud
on the floor, when he was generally too much
stunned to make any more resistance, but even if
he did he was soon overpowered, bitten, and
dragged out of the house.

When the rafters were cleared, our hero was
running swiftly across the floor, when a choky
voice called him, and he saw his old friend’s head
protruding from an aperture in a large wooden
chest.

“Come here! come here!” cried Long-legs.
“There are loads of them inside, and I want help.”

“Loads of what?” inquired Shiny-pate, rather
incredulously.

“Of all kinds of food,” replied the colonel;
“but unfortunately it is very hard to get at them;
they are hidden among the folds of some white
stuff that almost suffocates me.”

Shiny-pate at once proceeded to crawl into
the chest, but fortunately Chunga, who knew the
[Pg 211]
habits of the little insects, had been going round
the house opening every press and box, and now
she flung aside the cover of the great linen-chest,
and in darted the little marauders, and speedily
drew forth hundreds of the hideous cockroaches.

But soon all the small game was cleared
off, and yet the attacking
party cried
for more, and cast
hungry eyes at Mrs.
Wolfe and the children,
who had been
skipping about on the
floor, trying not to
stand on anything, for
foraging ants are not
to be trifled with; and
Chunga said, solemnly—

“If missie kills any
ants, they kill her.”

So the fear of touching
any of them had
greatly impeded the
lady’s movements;
she had to step gently
on the points of her
toes whenever she saw
a clear space. She
had to rescue her baby
from the cradle, and
her other children
from different parts
of the house; and
then each child, as it
was carried away, began
to cry for some
particular toy that had
been left behind, so
that getting them safe
and sound into the
garden was a work of
time. However, at last
they were all seated
round their mother, only dreadfully hungry, and
longing for their breakfast, while the house remained
in undisturbed possession of the ants.

At last, even Chunga thought it wise to beat a
retreat, so she came gliding gently out, bringing
the welcome news that she had seen several ants
carrying off an immense scorpion, which “must
have been de one dat stung massa, and made him
so ill a few days before;” and that the ants were
now attacking the rats and mice.

“Rats and mice!” screamed all the children
in delight. “Will they kill the horrible things?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The rats that fought poor Kitty,” pursued
George, for this had been a sore trouble to the
children. Mrs. Wolfe had brought a fine handsome
tortoise-shell cat from Ireland with her,
thinking how delightful it would be to have her
house quite free from vermin, only, unfortunately,
they were so very
numerous that poor
“Lady Catherine,”
as the children
named their pussy,
though she did her
best at first, could not
by any possibility keep
their numbers in check,
and she now lived a
miserable life, being
afraid of moving from her
master’s protection, and
growing daily thinner and
weaker from the combined
influences of fear, and being
unable to perform her usual
duties; and as the children
loved her dearly, and treated
her like one of themselves,
they all set up a howl of
dismay when their darling’s
name was mentioned
to them.

It was answered
by a fearful burst
of caterwauling
from the interior
of the
house. The
shrieks and
yells were
really terrific,
and the
whole party,
regardless of
their enemies
inside,
rushed back again to the door, and peeping in,
beheld a sight which was almost ludicrous.

There was a shelf near one of the children’s beds
at a great height from the floor, and to this Lady
Catherine (the cat) had mounted, but now she was
surrounded, and her retreat completely cut off.
There were ants to right of her, ants to left
of her, and ants in front of her; and as the little
creatures, led on by Shiny-pate the valorous,
attacked her with determined precision, the cat,
with every hair bristling up on her body, stood with
glaring eyes, lifting first one foot and then another
]to escape her tormentors. Sometimes
she stood on her hind
legs and frantically tore the
insects from her coat, but
she wanted courage enough
to make the very high
jump from the shelf to
the floor.

Mrs. Wolfe and
the children
were so
distressed
at
the sight, that kind-hearted Chunga offered to try
and save their favourite, and she crept cautiously
into the house, trying to avoid standing on the ants
with her bare feet. Lady Catherine’s screams redoubled
when she saw a friend approaching, but she
did not treat the black woman very kindly, for as
soon as she stood under the shelf the cat made one
frantic leap to her shoulders, and inserting her
sharp claws, held on tenaciously.

It was now Chunga’s turn to scream, which she
did in good earnest; and as she found she could
not detach the cat, she fled from the house with
her burden clinging tightly to her copper-coloured
shoulders, and ran almost into the arms of John
Lester, who was returning home. He was quick
enough to see what had happened, so, snatching
up an old broom with one hand he seized Lady
Catherine with the other, and gave her such a
sweeping as she had never experienced before, and
which, indeed, she strongly objected to; but her
cries were disregarded, and she was soon free from
the insects, and the children joyfully clutched hold
of her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But meantime Shiny-pate had been carried off
in a coil of Chunga’s hair, whence he had crept
from the cat’s fur, and very uncomfortable he felt.
He knew that his single arm could never overcome
the Indian woman; he was deserted by his troops,
and he had no one to direct him. He thought he
had better try to alight from his precarious position,
and endeavour to rejoin his men; but when he
moved, Chunga—whose nerves were a little upset—cried,
“Oh! Massa John, brush me too, brush me;”
and began tearing her hair down to make ready for
the performance. But just at that moment another
insect dropped from the tree above her down
on her arm, and administered such an electric
shock that a thrill ran up to her shoulder, her
hands fell, and Shiny-pate, seizing his opportunity,
ran swiftly down her back and
rushed towards the house, where the
scene of confusion was but little abated.

The ants had by this time slain every
living thing which had occupied the
dwelling, and dragged them into the
long grass outside; and the soldiers,
after their hard fighting, were endeavouring
to satisfy their hunger.
This, however, the officers objected
to, for they knew by experience
what would happen; the pittas had
not accompanied them on their
march for nothing. The ugly black
birds had their eyes wide open,
and knew what they were about;
they had been waiting and watching
all this time, hopping about on the neighbouring
trees, and now at last their turn came. The ants
gorged with their prey could not escape: down
pounced the pittas, and they certainly made the
most of their opportunity. The hardened veterans,
the most agile warriors, were gobbled up in a
moment, and the officers in despair ran here and
there, seeing the carnage, but being quite unable
to prevent it.

At last, by the time Mrs. Wolfe and her family
ventured back to their clean and well-swept house,
Shiny-pate by frantic exertions had managed to
collect his own troop—he had only lost two of his
twenty soldiers.

So our little insects again set out. They were
dreadfully tired, and they lagged behind, though
their leader longed to overtake some of the advance-guard,
which had already gone on. Poor little
fellow! his first day’s fighting had certainly been
an arduous one, and it was not over yet; his exertions
to keep his men in order were wonderful. But
[Pg 213]after marching some distance the ants saw before
them a little stream of water, running merrily
along, but presenting a serious barrier to their
progress.

Shiny-pate at first thought the water might not
extend far, and led his company along the bank;
but as he found to his dismay that the stream grew
wider instead of narrower, his fertile little brain
began to devise a plan, and soon he had hit upon
a very ingenious one. He selected a shrub with a
long branch, which extended across part of the
stream, and having marched his men to the very
extremity of this bough he caught hold of it with
his fore-legs and hung down, ordering one of the
soldiers to creep down his body and hang on to the
end of it; another followed and clung to the second
ant, and so on. By this means the living chain
of insects, when long enough, was wafted by
the wind to the other bank of the stream, where
the foremost ant caught a firm hold, and the
brave Shiny-pate then swung off his bough, and
followed by all the others crept carefully across
their companions’ bodies, until the foremost ant,
who had been holding on all this time by his hind
legs, being relieved from the weight of his comrades,
was able to twirl
round and obtain a safer
footing.

The danger was surmounted,
and the officer now inspected
his little troop with
triumph; indeed, he spoke
a few encouraging words
which actually caused his
soldiers to salute in a body,
as they could not cheer, and
cry with one voice that they
were not afraid to go anywhere
with him.

This was, of course, very
gratifying to such a young
officer, and our hero was
beginning to thank his
enthusiastic followers when
a slight noise attracted his
attention, and he suddenly
remembered that the time
for vigilance was not over:
for in the tree above them
he beheld a little ant-eater
slowly uncoiling itself before
beginning its nightly excursion.

Shiny-pate saw its long
slimy tongue being uncoiled
like a piece of ribbon when
the animal yawned; and well he knew that any
ant who was unfortunate enough to touch that
sticky object would never return to tell the tale;
he therefore instantly determined on flight.

So our hero ordered a stampede, but he kept
last of all the party, ready to sacrifice himself
for the general good if need be; and after a little
time his exertions were rewarded, for he happily
overtook the main body of ants under the guidance
of old Long-legs, and the worthy veteran was so
pleased at seeing his young companion safe that
he actually fell on his neck and hugged him; and
there is no saying what might have happened next
if two twinkling lights had not appeared in the
distance. They were only fire-flies that an Indian
had tied to his feet in order to illumine his path,
but the sight made the friends restrain their transports
until they reached home.

Then, after all their labours and adventures,
they gave themselves up to enjoyment. Long-legs,
Shiny-pate, and other distinguished officers who
had done their duty for their home and relations,
were chaired by their admiring soldiers and carried
round the nest, while the fire-flies lit up the
triumphal march, and the beetles sang in chorus.

We leave Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe enjoying
for the first time a house
cleared of both reptiles and insects,
and Lady Catherine purring
her delight at being relieved
from her enemies. No
doubt, if she could have
given us the benefit
of her thoughts,
she would have
joined the
bipeds in saying—

“It’s an ill
wind that
blows nobody
good.”

“a little ant-eater slowly uncoiling itself.” (p. 210).

[Pg 214]

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

THE DREAM OF PILATE’S WIFE.

fortress of antonia, jerusalem
(called pilate’s house).

t was early
morning, not
yet seven o’clock.
Yet Pontius Pilate,
the Roman Governor
of Judæa,
was astir. For the
Paschal Feast of
the Jews was fast
approaching, and
having heard rumours
of strange
things going on
amongst them, he
anticipated some
serious disturbance.
He was, therefore, in no pleasant humour, and
his dark brow was contracted, his teeth were
firmly set, and in his stern and somewhat fierce
eyes was a look of mingled anger, scorn, and
disgust.

How weary he was of these perpetual riots!
How he despised the conquered Jews and their
pretensions of religion, while their actions were
mean and vile. They professed a sanctity superior
to that of any nation upon earth. And yet he
knew that every day they indulged in flagrant sins,
and were influenced by motives that others would
scorn to yield to. Oh! if he dared but show them
what he thought of them and their hollow professions.
But he must restrain his feelings. Several
times already, in his impatience of their ways, he
had given vent to his wrath in actions that, he
knew too well, would not bear the examination of
his master, the emperor of Rome.

The Roman emperors, bad as some of them
were, liked to know that all their provinces were
well governed, that the people had no just cause
of complaint; and that their customs, religions,
and prejudices were respected. And they would
punish severely any governor who, by misrule,
brought dishonour on the name of Rome.

Pilate knew that he had wilfully trampled upon
the religious prejudices of the Jews, and that when
they had risen up against him he had massacred
them by the thousand. He remembered how he
had once brought some Roman eagles from
Cæsarea to Jerusalem, where no heathen ensign
could be suffered; how he had also placed there
some gilt votive shields, dedicated to the Emperor
Tiberius; and how, to bring water from the pools
of Solomon into the city, he had taken money from
the sacred treasury. He remembered, too, how,
when the Jews had rebelled against these proceedings,
he had sent disguised soldiers amongst
them, to stab them with daggers concealed beneath
their garments; how he had once massacred 3,000
of them, and how at another festal season, 20,000
dead bodies had strewed the courts of the Temple.
And up before his mind there came also the recollection
of how, at one of their feasts, he had
killed some Galilæans, and mingled their blood
with that of their sacrifices upon the altar; and
how he had also attacked the Samaritans, as they
worshipped upon Mount Gerizim.

Yes, he had given the Jews just cause of complaint;
and if he vexed them further, they might
report him to Rome, and have him banished or
put to death. So he would have to be careful how
he treated them for the future.

The knowledge of this in nowise calmed his
perturbed spirit. And as he wondered how, in
case of another riot, he should manage to curb his
wrathful and impatient disgust, he paced uneasily
the Hall of Judgment.

This was an apartment in a splendid edifice—which
was known as the fortress of Antonia—in
which he resided when at Jerusalem, an old palace
of Herod the Great. Its floors were of agate and
lazuli. The ceilings of its gilded roofs were of
cedar painted with vermilion. The bema, on
which he sat to administer justice, was probably
the golden throne of Archelaus. In front of the
Hall of Judgment was a costly pavement of
variously coloured marble, called by the Jews
Gabbatha. Yet amid all this splendour he was
but ill at ease.

And now suddenly the Roman procurator stopped
and listened. Hooting and yelling, there were the
wild cries of a dreaded mob, as he had anticipated.
Yes, it was even so. They had begun early
enough, those Jews. What could it be all about?

Nearer and nearer came the ominous sounds.
He went to the door of his apartment, and looked
out. There, coming across the bridge that spanned
the Tyropœon Valley, was an infuriated crowd,
venting their spleen upon some poor victim, whom
they were evidently bringing to him. His arms
were fast bound to His side. A rope was round
His neck. And they were dragging Him along, as
if He were some wild beast that they had caught
in the act of making ravages amongst them.

[Pg 215]
After Him came the chief men of Jerusalem,
the Sanhedrists, with, perhaps, the High Priest at
their head, followed by the chief priests and scribes,
and a great crowd of people.

Now they reached the Hall of Judgment;
and the foremost of them were dragging the poor
Man up the noble flight of stairs.

The Roman knight scowled as they approached,
and darted at them a look of bitterest resentment.

What faces they had! Did ever any one see
features so distorted by wicked passions? How he
would have liked to drive them all away! But he
must not. They were evidently in a fury; and what
might they not do, if he opposed them?

He turned to look at their prisoner, expecting to
see some murderous-looking fellow, who had been
taken in some act of wicked outrage. But what a
different sight met his view!

Instead of a defiant thief or murderer, a pale and
weary Man stood before him. A world of suffering
was in His sorrowful eyes; but there was no trace
of violence there. He had the purest, noblest,
most open countenance that Pilate had ever beheld;
and the governor’s attention was arrested. In the
face of that poor, worn-out sufferer were expressed
the meekness and gentleness of a lamb, the deepest
tenderness and pity, the most ineffable sweetness
and perfect calmness, the majesty of a king, the
perfection of a god. Who could He be? Was He
really only human? Or had the spirit of some of
the Roman gods come down and taken up its abode
in Him? Pilate could not tell; but he was amazed
and confounded; and in his contemplation of that
wondrous countenance he forgot for a while his
trouble and vexation.

All too soon, however, he was recalled to the
business before him. The Jews were clamouring
outside the Hall to have sentence of death passed
upon their Victim.

But it was not so easy to gain their point as they
had expected. The Roman knight, who had not
hesitated to order his soldiers to fall upon the
ignoble Jews, could not condemn, without trial,
that Man who was undoubtedly the one perfect type
of the human race. And he sternly demanded,
“What accusation bring ye against this Man?”

Then came a storm of bitter invective and false
accusations. He had been stirring up the people
against the Roman government, they said. He had
been forbidding them to pay tribute to Cæsar; and
proclaiming Himself a King.

As Pilate looked upon Jesus, he felt that there
was no sedition in Him. They were rioters, he
knew too well; but as for that Man—well, there
might be some truth in His kingship, there was
something so noble, so majestic about Him. And
entering the hall, into which Jesus had been led,
he asked, “Art Thou the King of the Jews?”

“I am a king,” Jesus, acknowledged, as He
thought of the myriads of bright-winged angels
who in the Better Land had flown to do His bidding,
and of the thousands upon thousands of
faithful followers, not yet born, who would some
day share His throne. “I am a King, but not of
this world.” And at His simple words Pilate’s
heart misgave him still more.

Who could this strange man be, who was so
far above all other men? Where had He come
from? And where was His kingdom? Was He in
some mysterious way connected with the heavens?

Oh, how he wished that those Jews had
settled the matter amongst themselves, and that
he could avoid having anything to do with it!
They were resolved, he could see, on having His
blood; and he dared not go altogether against
them. Yet how could he condemn a Man like that?

But, suddenly, his face brightened. Some one
in the crowd said that Jesus belonged to Galilee.
Then he could send Jesus to Herod, the tetrarch
of Galilee, who was then in Jerusalem, having
come up to the feast. By doing so he should
throw the responsibility on to Herod, and should
then not be compelled either to vex the Jews, on
the one hand, and thus bring about his own punishment,
or to crucify this Man, who was so great a
mystery to him, and, perhaps, bring down upon
himself the anger of the gods.

Pilate heaved a great sigh of relief, as Jesus was
led away to Herod. Now he was free, he thought,
and, if that more than innocent Man were put to
death, as He would be, he, at least, would be guiltless
of his blood, and very cleverly he had
managed it, without stirring up against himself the
wrath of the Jews.

But it was not to be so.

Before long the dreaded mob returned. Herod
had sent Jesus away, finding no fault in Him. And
the Jews brought him again to Pilate.

Heavily as lead the hooting and the yelling fell
upon the governor’s ears. What should he do?
What could he do? Oh, if only he had not acted
so wrongly in the past, he might have dared to do
right now! If only he had not violated the Roman
law he might now have vindicated its majesty!
He might have told the Jews that he, a Roman
governor, could not think of so gross an injustice
as condemning such a Man, and that they were only
actuated by envy and hatred. Oh, if he could
only wipe out his past offences, and stand clear
concerning the Jews, he might, also, stand clear
concerning this Jesus, who was called the Christ!

But his hands were stained with crime; and,
[Pg 216]
like a child who tells a second falsehood to get
out of the trouble of having told a first, he must
make the guilt of a still deeper dye.

But could he not in some way conciliate the
Jews, and save Jesus as well? he wondered. Yes;
he would pretend to look upon Him as guilty; but
would remind them of the custom of releasing some
prisoner at the Passover; and try to persuade them
to have Jesus set free. But they preferred
Barabbas; and Pilate tried another plan. He
would inflict upon Jesus the painful and humiliating
punishment of scourging and let Him go.

But what right had he to do that to an innocent
Man? How fast he was yielding! And what a
coward a guilty conscience had made of him!

But much as he was to blame, there was sent
to him a warning that could not be despised.

That morning, a troublous dream had come to
Claudia Procula, Pilate’s wife, who was a Jewish
proselyte. And now, messengers from her came
running out of breath, and standing before the
golden bema, delivered the message she had sent;
“Have thou nothing to do with that just Man; for
I have suffered many things this day in a dream
because of Him.”

This troubled Pilate more and more; and his face
paled, and his strong limbs trembled. He remembered
how, not very long before, when Cæsar’s
enemies were plotting against his life, a dream had
come to his wife, Calpurnia, who had sent to warn
him not to go to the meeting of the senate, on the
Ides of March. But he went in spite of the dream,
and was murdered! And now, a similar warning was
sent to him to strengthen him to do right. Should
he heed it, and let the innocent Jesus go free? It
was still in his power to refuse to crucify Him;
and what remorse he would save himself? and
what bitter anguish! But notwithstanding the
warning dream, he took the last fatal step.

“Ibis ad crucem,” “Thou must go to the cross,”
he said to Jesus, and to the attendant, “I miles,
expedi crucem,” “Soldier, go prepare the cross.”

Unable to shake off that ominous dream, he
called for water, and washed his hands, saying,
“I am innocent of the blood of this just person.”
But he could not wash away his responsibility, or
that last greatest crime of giving up to the fiendish
malice of a cruel mob the Innocent One about
whom he had had such misgivings and such a
warning.

From that day all peace of mind fled from him;
and before long he was pining away in bitter exile
and poverty; the very punishment having come
upon him that he had tried to avert.

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

37. Who was the only woman to whom it is recorded
that Jesus used the tender word “Daughter”?

38. Where does St. John tell us that those who are
untruthful shall have no part with the people of God in
the holy city?

39. Which of the greater prophets prophesied that
God’s people should be “named the Priests of the Lord?”

40. Where, in the book of the Revelation, are we
shown that Jesus still appears in heaven as the Lamb
once slain?

41. Where are we told that children, as well as grown-up
people, are known by their works?

42. Where are we assured that if, in difficult circumstances,
we are influenced by the fear of man, we shall
bring trouble upon ourselves, while, if we trust in God,
we shall be safely kept?

43. About whom did Jesus use the only word of
unmixed contempt that He is recorded to have
spoken?

44. What four things does Solomon speak of as being
“little upon the earth, but they are exceeding wise”?

45. Where is the custom, followed by Pilate, of washing
the hands as a sign of innocence of crime, spoken of
in the Old Testament?

46. What wise man exhorts us to keep our garments
always white; and who tells us that a part of pure
religion consists in keeping ourselves unspotted from the
world?

47. What great heathen king called God “a revealer
of secrets”?

48. Where are we assured that, to the upright, light
arises in the darkness?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (25-36.—See p. 156).

25. Twice. In St. Matt. vi. 9-13 and St. Luke xi.
2-4.

26. In Job xxviii. 28.

27. From the words, “I went into Arabia” (Gal. i. 17),
coupled with his speaking of Sinai in iv. 24, 25.

28. In Prov. xvi. 32.

29. In Ps. lvi. 8.

30. Only in the New Testament (Acts vii. 60;
1 Cor. xv. 6, 18; 1 Thess. iv. 13-15; 2 Pet. iii.
4).

31. As giving up the ghost, and being gathered to
their people (Gen. xxv. 8, xxxv. 29, xlix. 29, 33; Numb.
xx. 24, 26, xxvii. 13, &c).

32. St. Matthew and St. Mark (St. Matt. xxvi. 36—45;
St. Mark xiv. 32-41).

33. In the genealogy of our Lord, given by St.
Matthew (St. Matt. 1. 6).

34. Seven (Gen. vii. 7-10). God himself (Gen. vii. 16).

35. Ten (2 Sam. xviii. 15).

36. It was first placed in David’s tent, and afterwards
in the Tabernacle at Nob, whence it was given again to
David (1 Samuel xvii. 54, xxi. 1, 9).

[Pg 217]

CONTENTMENT.

” … in the home-garden our dear little may
sits calmly at rest on this beautiful day.”

weet Summer-time dawns with a flush o’er the skies,
The bees and the butterflies come in her train,
While the dear little children, with joy in their eyes,
Stand watching the lark as he mounts to the skies,
While singing his joyous refrain.

The meadow is sprinkled with beautiful flowers,
The hedge with its sweet-scented blossoms of snow.
How bright is the sunshine! how fresh are the showers!
How happy the children, these holiday hours,
As shouting and singing they go!

But Summer (who stole on the footsteps of Spring)
Is driven in turn far out of our view,
When ruddy-hued Autumn her mantle must fling
O’er meadow and orchard, till each growing thing
Is transformed to a beautiful hue.

Then the little ones, laughing, must hie them away
To the blackberry wood and the nut-growing ground;
But in the home-garden our dear little May
Sits calmly at rest, on this beautiful day,
Contented with what she has found.

D. B. McKean.

[Pg 218]

LITTLE FÉ.

So he was left an heir at the age
of ten years—heir to all the fortune
of his dead aunt, which
consisted of two shillings and
fourpence, a flower-basket, a
pebble with a hole drilled
through it, and a dying woman’s
blessing. “Truly,” you will
say, “he was rich.”

He was small and thin, this
little heir, and one poor leg was drawn up three
inches higher than the other, which obliged him
to walk with those wooden things called crutches.
He was called Fé; but his name was of very little
use to him, as he could neither read nor write it.

An old woman had promised “to see after him
for a bit” at his aunt’s death. She lived in a room
in the same wretched lodging-house which had
sheltered Fé and his aunt for the past six years.

I have not told you yet that my heir did not live
in London, but in a large busy town in the south
of England.

Fé’s temporary guardian, Mrs. Crump, was short
and cross, and not very young; her nose was
slightly hooked, her eyes were black, and rather
sharp. She wore a jet black frizzled wig, which
contrasted well with the primrose-tinted skin; her
voice showed her bad temper, for it was sharp and
harsh, like the creaking of a door.

After having settled and arranged everything, she
bade Fé follow her into her black little room, and that
was the last he ever saw of his poor little old home,
where for ten long grown-up years he had lived,
to go to rest weak, hungry, and ill, and to rise more
weak, hungry, and miserable still. Yet in that little
home there had also lived a thin, worn-out woman,
who had never spoken a harsh word to him, but
had often tried to stay his tears with her kisses.
And Fé knew now—and the knowledge was agony—that
he would never rest his eyes upon that sweet
mother-face again.

Mrs. Crump earned what she could get by selling
flowers in the streets. She thought she could not
turn poor Fé to better account than by making
him sell them too, so she arranged half her
bunches in Fé’s basket, and tied it round his neck.
Then she took him with her, and while she went
round to the houses Fé stood in the principal
streets, and offered his flowers to the passers-by.

Old Mrs. Crump soon made the discovery that
“the heir” sold many more than she did during
the day, but such was her vanity that she could
not at first bring herself to believe that people preferred
to buy of the pale-faced cripple boy than of
her, with her jet black wig and creaking voice.
When she found it was really the case, she was
very angry. But besides being a very jealous old
woman, she was naturally avaricious in the extreme,
and she kept all Fé’s earnings, and only gave
him very scanty food in return.

She did not care to give up “seeing after him for
a bit,” yet she allowed a strong dislike to grow up
against the boy in her own old cross heart.

One day, as Fé stood by the side of the street,
with his basket hanging from his neck, and a bit of
sunlight shining straight into his eyes, he felt
some one touch his arm, and when he turned his
head, he saw a young lady leaning towards him.
She had long shining hair and blue eyes, there
were dimples and bright pink on her cheeks; she
slipped sixpence into his hand, whispering something
about keeping it quite for himself, and then
passed on, walking very quickly.

When Fé looked up to thank her, he saw only
the flowing shining hair under a round black hat in
the distance. Fé thought about the money for a
long time: it was the first gift he had ever received,
and he wondered if he might really keep it for himself.
He thought how often, when he was so hot
and thirsty, he might buy a little milk, and it
seemed refreshing only to think of it. Then he
remembered that Mrs. Crump took all the pence
he earned, and he felt sure that she disliked him
very much, and would take away his sixpence the
moment she saw it. So at last he twisted it in a
leaf out of his basket, and pushed it through a
hole into the lining of his cap, for safety.

When he went back with Mrs. Crump in the
evening, and she asked him for his earnings,
that little sixpence in his cap felt like a stone,
seeming to weigh him down to the ground; and
when he went to the corner where he slept,
he lay down on his little ragged bed, cold and
miserable; and though he was tired out, he could
not sleep for thinking of his great wickedness in
concealing the sixpence.

Then he looked round the room, and thought
how much whiter and sweeter his old home was;
he remembered, too, how his kind aunt used to
kiss him if he cried, and he held up his little pale
wet face, almost hoping he should feel that kiss
once more; he longed so intensely for a little love,
poor little “heir!”

Mrs. Crump’s room was, like herself, dirty and
ugly: perhaps it may be silly to say so, but I do
think that rooms generally resemble their inmates.

[Pg 219]
The ceiling of this one was brown and peeled,
the walls were covered with old newspapers,
with here and there a scrap of brown wrapping-paper,
making unsightly and hideous patterns;
the whole was splashed with dirt and mildew; the
floor was rotten at places, and black, and quite
slippery with grease and dirt; the window had
four panes, two of which were stuffed with rags.

As little Fé’s tired eyes wandered round this
dirty room, they fell upon the figure of Mrs. Crump
sleeping in a bed in the opposite corner of the
room. She was breathing heavily, and after Fé
had listened for some time to her short snores, he
felt so miserable and lonely and wicked, that he
formed the brave resolution of arousing her, and
confessing to her the history of the sixpence.

It was strange that what Fé would have trembled
to confess in the broad daylight he felt strong
and brave enough to acknowledge by the light of
the pale moon. He crawled up, after a few minutes’
thought, and after diving about his ragged bed, he
found his cap, and took from the leaf his precious
sixpence; then he crept to the side of Mrs.
Crump’s bed, shivering, but determined. But
suddenly he halted, and gave a scream of fright; a
band of moonlight fell across the bed, and certainly
there lay Mrs. Crump, but her nightcap had
slipped off, and her black wig lay on a chair by her
bedside. Poor Fé, in his childish ignorance, had
never had a doubt about the wig; in fact, he had
never understood that people wore such things.
When he saw Mrs. Crump without hair, and the
moonlight making her still more awful-looking, he
was quite overwhelmed with fear.

The old woman rose up hastily at the scream,
and she saw only little Fé quite motionless, with a
wild, strained look of fright in his eyes. When she
made out in a half-asleep way that it was the child
she detested who had dared to disturb her, wigless
and asleep, her wrath boiled up, and when the
same moonbeam showed her the shining silver
clasped in the little hand, it fell hissing and
spluttering and burning hot on the poor child’s head,
as he knelt speechless and trembling with fright.

She made up her mind in one instant that it
must be some money he had taken for the flowers,
and had kept back from her. “You wicked,
thievish boy!” she shrieked. “I’ll teach you to
thieve, and then pry about arter people be a-bed;
so good as I’ve been to ye, too. Ye jest leave my
door for good to-night.”

And in a fit of passion she rolled out of bed,
scolding and shaking poor Fé the while. She
pulled him down the three creaking steps and out
into the cold wet street—and there, with one
more cruel push, she left him, friendless and alone.

With a sob and a gasp he saw her shut the door,
but the fright and shaking had been too much for
his weakened frame. He seemed for a few
moments to feel again all the dreadful pain and
anguish he remembered having felt when he was
very ill once long ago. His aching, weary little
head seemed too heavy for him to bear, and
with a moan of pain he fell forward, and lay where
he fell insensible.

and sorrowed for the little heir, and for her own
unkindness in throwing the beams of her light
just across old Mrs. Crump in her bed, and she
stooped and kissed the poor boy as he lay on the
hard cold stones, and tried in vain to warm him
with her silvery light.

Bad old Mrs. Crump slept late on into the next
morning, and this was the reason that she knew
nothing more of what happened to the poor friendless
little heir.

A doctor set out very early next morning to see
a poor invalid woman who lived in the same street
as little Fé’s cruel guardian.

He was a short, plain little man, but his beaming
smile hid the ugliness, and made the face tell that
he was true and kind and good, and the eyes
seemed to think it best to tell their own tale, in
case the smile alone might not be trusted, and they
glistened and shone, and told of every kindly
thought and feeling of which the little man carried
a big heart-full.

He was a clever doctor, and this woman he
knew was poor. He did not expect payment from
her, neither did he from the white-faced, crippled
boy lying in the street, with mud on his face and
clothes, and clinging to his brown hair. But he
lifted him into his carriage tenderly and lovingly,
and ordered his servant to drive quickly to the
hospital.

As he raised Fé’s helpless little form, something
fell with a chink on the stones; but he did not wait
to see what it was then.

There in the hospital lay little Fé, and he was for
many days unconscious, and they whispered that
his life must be very short, and that he would never
be strong again.

The kind little doctor, who attended him most
regularly, was speaking to a young lady one day
of the poor little heir. He said, “The boy has consumption,
and the cold of the streets added to his
weakness, and some sudden shock, has so increased
the disease, that I fear his days on earth
will be few.”

The young lady begged the doctor to take her to
see the boy as soon as he was able. And one day,
when Fé was better and well enough to sit up in
[Pg 220]
bed, to his great joy he saw once more the pretty
face with the pink and dimples, and shining curling
hair; and the sight seemed to refresh him, and
make him stronger and happier.

Before she went away she told him that he
should go away soon, and be made quite well again
in some beautiful country place.

This girl with the shining hair spoke in a low
sweet voice to the doctor about him; she said,
“Move him to my home, doctor; don’t let him die
in this hot town, where there is no air.” And the
doctor said, “We will try it, but he cannot last
long.”

So after a few weeks my little heir was tenderly
borne away from this hot, noisy town, where he
had lived but to suffer; and on the day he left a
poor starving woman found his sixpence on the
muddy pavement, and she cried for joy, and prayed
over it, and bought with it bread which helped to
save the life of her poor half-famished child. So
even little Fé’s sixpence brought a blessing with it.

And now Fé, who had never heard the song of
the birds, or smelt the sweet country air before,
was well nursed and cared for at the home of this
girl with the shining hair. He faded gradually day
by day, but he felt at rest and happy, though his
weakness was very great. At last, one day he
begged for more air, as he was faint; and they
carried him out into a hay-field, and there, with his
head pillowed on the hay, with the soft blue sky
above him, and the scent of flowers in the air,
with the low of cows and hum of bees in the
distance, and the sweet scythe music sounding near
him, and the touch of the girl’s fair soft hand on his
brow, my little heir passed away without even a
moan, only a little sigh of relief, of happiness, and
rest.

Then a grand sweet smile fell upon his face,
which there had never been room for during his
life.

Over his little grave (the heir’s grave) the
beautiful girl placed a small grey stone cross, and
the only inscription upon it—

In loving memory of Fé.

THE PRINCE AND HIS WHIPPING-BOY.

Whether or not it is a bad thing to
get punished will largely depend upon
the punishment, but when you deserve
to be punished, and some one else is
at hand to receive it in your stead, then
punishment is apt to become a farce. Just consider
this: I deserve the whipping, but you are
hired to take it for me. Perhaps you think
this is a joke, but I am really in earnest. I am
alluding to a practice which was actually once in
vogue—though never to a great extent—in this
and other countries. By whipping one boy instead
of another it was hoped that the feelings of the
offender would be so worked upon, that he would
refrain from doing wrong rather than have an
innocent lad punished.

Well, the long retinue of servants in the households
of kings usually included a whipping-boy,
kept to be whipped when a prince needed chastisement.
What a funny occupation! D’Ossat and Du
Perron, who ultimately rose to the dignity of cardinals
in the Roman Catholic Church, were whipped
by Pope Clement VIII. in the place of Henri IV.
And there stood for Charles I. a lad called Mungo
Murray, whose name would seem to show that he
was of Scottish birth. The most familiar example
of whipping-boy is mentioned by Fuller in his
“Church History.” His name was Barnaby Fitzpatrick,
and the prince whose punishments he bore
was Edward, son of bluff King Hal, who was
afterwards Edward VI., the boy-king of England.

The scene which the picture on the next
page brings vividly before us represents one aspect
of the use of whipping-boys. It tells its story
well. The young prince would seem to have
incurred his tutor’s displeasure, and the birch
is about to be employed upon the person of the
unfortunate Fitzpatrick. But Prince Edward
cannot bear to see poor Barnaby flogged instead,
and is interceding with his grave guardian on
behalf of the lad. By all accounts which we have
the boy-king was a clever and amiable youth,
and his untimely death in his sixteenth year would
appear to show that he stood much more in need
of the tenderest care than of the birch. It need
hardly be added that as soon as he mounted the
throne the services of Fitzpatrick could no longer be
in request. You may whip a prince, but when that
prince becomes king, even while still a boy, the
rod must be banished forthwith. Shakespeare says
“uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” and
this must be especially true in such a case as
that of the hapless young Edward, who had to
discharge all the kingly duties without being old
enough to feel much, if any, interest in them. His
courtiers spoke of him as if he were a boy Solomon,
and he cannot have needed much castigation,
even through the medium of Barnaby Fitzpatrick.

[Pg 221]

“prince edward’s whipping-boy.” (See p. 220.)

[Pg 222]

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

By Edwin Hodder (“Old Merry”).

IV.—CURIOUS CUSTOMS AND REMARKABLE INCIDENTS.

I
n my recent talks about the Coronations
and the Royal Funerals, the scenes
that passed before us were intimately
connected with the history of England.
The matters upon which I shall
touch to-day are to a large extent
more particularly connected with the
Abbey itself. No mean personages
were the abbots of the “West Monastery,”
or Westminster, in early times.
They were independent of any English
bishop, and therefore once in two
years had to present themselves at
Rome. Some of the abbots were old, and some very
fat, and were perhaps tempted to think their independence
dearly purchased by a journey so long and
toilsome. The monastery was exceedingly rich—it
had possessions in ninety-seven towns and villages,
seventeen hamlets, and 216 manors. William
I. gave the Abbey some lands in Essex, in exchange
for one of its manors, to which he took a
fancy, and upon which “Royal Windsor” has
since risen.

The Abbots of Westminster claimed a tithe of
all the fish caught in the river between Gravesend
and Staines. When St. Peter (according to the
legend I have already told you) consecrated his
own church on Thorney, he said, on parting with
Edric the fisherman, “Go out into the river;
you will catch a plentiful supply of fish, whereof
the larger part shall be salmon. This have I
granted on two conditions: first, that you never
fish again on Sundays; secondly, that you pay
a tithe of them to the Abbey of Westminster.”
And as long as it was possible the monastery
kept its grasp on the Thames fisheries. In 1282,
the abbot, in defence of his claim, defeated the
Rector of Rotherhithe in the law courts, and the
original grant by St. Peter was put forward as
authority for the rights of the convent in the
matter. Almost to the end of the fourteenth
century it was the custom for a fisherman once
a year to take his place beside the prior, bringing
a salmon for St. Peter. The fish was carried in
state through the refectory, the prior and all the
brethren rising as it passed.

The Abbey and its precincts for a long period
comprised a vast group of buildings, quite cut off
by pleasant meadows and gardens from the neighbouring
city. From King Street the approach was
under two grand arches and past the Clock
Tower, where once hung and swung Great Tom
of Westminster, now in St. Paul’s Cathedral.
The entrance to Tothill Street marks the site of
the gatehouse or prison of the monastery, in
which many illustrious prisoners were confined
before its demolition, in 1777. Amongst them may
be named Sir Walter Raleigh, John Hampden, and
Lilly the astrologer.

There is so much that is interesting connected
with the sanctuary, the cloisters, and the chapter-house,
that I shall devote my next talk specially to
those buildings. The abbot’s house, now the
deanery, saw many notable scenes in the Middle
Ages. Especially was it so with the Jerusalem
Chamber, of which the low rough wall runs off
from the south side of the western portal of the
Abbey. There is an entrance to it from the nave.
It was in this chamber that Henry IV. died. He
was purposing a journey to the Holy Land, when,
in 1412, fearfully afflicted with leprosy, he came up
to London for his last Parliament. Soon after
Christmas, he was praying at St. Edward’s Shrine,
when he was taken so ill that his death before
the shrine seemed probable. He was, however,
carried to the Jerusalem Chamber, and on learning
its name, praised God that the prophecy that
he should die in Jerusalem would be fulfilled.
His son, the gay and dissolute Prince Harry,
attended his father in his last moments, and then
retired to an oratory, and spent a long day on
his knees. Henceforth the latter was a changed
character, and every one was astonished at the
way in which he shook off the past, and devoted
himself to his new duties as an English king.

Round the shrine of St. Edward are several
small chapels, but of their dedication or the special
devotions originally carried on in them very little
seems to be known. We know that there were
altars with perpetual lamps burning, and venerated
crucifixes, and an abundance of relics. Those
placed here by Henry III. I have already spoken
of; besides these, there was a “Girdle of the Virgin”
and other fragments of holy dresses, given by
Edward the Confessor. Good Queen Maud gave
a large portion of the hair of Mary Magdalene;
and amongst other relics deposited here at various
times were “a phial of the Holy Blood” and
the vestments of St. Peter. At the porch of the
Chapel of St. Nicholas was buried, in 1072, a
Bishop Egelric, who had been imprisoned for two
years at Westminster, but who by his “fastings
and tears had so purged away his former crimes as
to acquire a reputation” for sanctity. His fetters
were buried with him, and his grave was a place
of great resort for pilgrims in the time of the early
Norman kings.

“little fé’s friend.” “little fé“ (p. 218)

[Pg 223]
But it was the shrine of Edward the Confessor,
with its beautiful surroundings, its grand musical
services, and its abundant holy relics, that formed
the chief attraction to pilgrims, and yet only the
barest hints and allusions have come down to us as
to what was going on for centuries in the great
centre of English religious life.

Of one event that took place at the beginning of
the sixteenth century we have full particulars.
Islip (under whom Henry the Seventh’s Chapel
was completed) was abbot when the red hat of a
cardinal was sent from Rome to adorn the head of
Wolsey. The Pope’s messenger rode through
London with the hat in his hand, and with the
Bishop of Lincoln riding on one side of him and
the Earl of Essex on the other. A grand escort of
nobles and prelates accompanied. The Lord
Mayor and Aldermen on horseback and the City
guilds were ranged along Cheapside. The hat was
carried triumphantly at the head of the procession
to Westminster, and received at the Abbey door by
Abbot Islip and several other abbots, all in their
robes of state. For three days the hat reposed on
the high altar, and then came Wolsey with a grand
retinue from his palace at Charing Cross to the
Abbey, and a goodly company of archbishops,
bishops, and abbots, performed a solemn service.
Wolsey knelt on the altar steps, and the Archbishop
of Canterbury put the hat on the new
cardinal’s head. “Te Deum” was sung, and then
the assembled nobles and prelates rode back in state
to a grand banquet at Wolsey’s palace.

In 1539 the monastery was dissolved, and as the
Reformation advanced, various changes took place
in the Abbey services. Instead of an abbot, a
dean now bore sway. Much of the property of
the Abbey was transferred to the great city cathedral,
which gave rise to the proverb of “robbing
Peter to pay Paul.” The hallowed relics disappeared,
as well as Llewellyn’s crown and other historic
mementoes; monuments were damaged, and
Edward’s bones ejected from their ancient shrine.
For a time the Abbey was in real danger, and
some of the outlying property was given up to
Protector Somerset to induce him to spare the
sacred edifice. We read in the convent books of
twenty tons of Caen stone being given him from
some of the ruined buildings. A few years afterwards
it seemed as if the old order of things were
going to be restored, and the Spanish husband of
Queen Mary attended a grand mass of reconciliation
in the Abbey, to signalise the return of England
to her ancient faith. Six hundred Spanish
courtiers, in robes of white velvet striped with red,
attended the king from Whitehall, and the Knights
of the Garter joined the procession. The queen
was absent, from indisposition. After the long
mass, which lasted till two in the afternoon, the
king and courtiers adjourned to Westminster Hall,
where Cardinal Pole presided over a solemn reconciliation
of the English Church with Rome. Soon
afterwards King Edward’s Shrine was restored and
his body replaced therein, several altars were
re-erected, and masses and processions went on as of
old. But Abbot Feckenham—the last mitred abbot
in England—had only ruled for a year when Queen
Elizabeth came to the throne, sent Feckenham to
prison, threw down the stone altars and transformed
the Abbey into the “Collegiate Church of St. Peter,
Westminster,” which is still the lawful name of the
edifice.

Henceforth the Abbey was academic as well
as ecclesiastical, and Elizabeth was very proud of
her Westminster College.

The old Abbey witnessed some strange scenes
in the times of the Puritans. The ecclesiastical
vestments had been already sold, the tapestries removed
to the Houses of Parliament, the college
plate melted down, and Henry VII.’s Chapel
despoiled of its brass and iron, when, in 1643, the
Abbey was subjected to actual desecration. The
Royalist stories of soldiers smoking and singing
round the communion table, and playing boisterous
games about the church and chapels, have not
been proved. But Sir Robert Harley, who had
taken down the Eleanor crosses at Cheapside and
Charing Cross, destroyed the richly-ornamented
altar erected in memory of Edward VI. The
crown, sceptre, and coronation robes were brought
out of the treasury, and Wither, the poet, was
arrayed in them for the amusement of the party
engaged in the affair. Soon afterwards these historic
national treasures were sold.

For nearly six years the celebrated Westminster
Assembly of Divines sat in the Chapel of
Henry VII. and the Jerusalem Chamber, compiling
catechisms and confessions of faith, which are
still of authority amongst the Presbyterians.
Whilst the assembly was sitting, Bradshaw (who
sentenced Charles I. to death) was living at the
deanery. He used to be fond of climbing up into
a solitary chamber in the south-western tower,
which was long reputed to be haunted by his
ghost.

At the Restoration the Protestant services, of
[Pg 224]
course, replaced the Presbyterian ones, and we
catch a glimpse of Charles II. conducted round
the Dean’s Yard by the famous Westminster
schoolmaster, Dr. Busby. On this occasion, as
the story goes, the doctor kept his hat on his
head for fear his boys should think there was
a greater man than himself in the world. The
Stuarts had learned nothing from adversity, and
on May 20th, 1688, an occurrence in the Abbey
shows us what was the feeling of the nation. On
that day Dean Sprat began to read King James’s
Declaration of Indulgence. Immediately, there
was such a tumultuous noise in the church that
nobody could hear him speak. Before he had
finished, the congregation had disappeared, and only
the officials and Westminster scholars remained
gazing at the dean, who could scarcely hold the
proclamation for trembling.

I want now to call your attention once more to
the Chapel of Henry VII., in which the banners
of the Knights of the Bath form a conspicuous
feature. We first heard of these knights in connection
with the coronation of Richard II. They rode
in the coronation processions till the end of the
seventeenth century. It was originally the custom
at each coronation for a number of knights to
be created before the royal procession started
from the Tower. For a long time they were not
connected with any special order, but as the
bath formed a conspicuous feature in the ceremonies
of their creation, they gradually assumed
in consequence the name of Knights of the Bath.
The king used to bathe with them, all being
placed in large baths and then wrapped up in
blankets. In 1725 the order was reconstructed;
membership in it was henceforth to be the reward
of merit. William, Duke of Cumberland,
afterwards known as the “Butcher of Culloden,”
was the first knight under the new rules. He
was only four years of age, and was accordingly
excused from the bath, but presented his little
sword at the altar. To suit the number of stalls
in the chapel the number of knights was limited
to thirty-six. After the installation ceremonies
the royal cook stood by the Abbey door with a
cleaver, and threatened to strike off the spurs of
any unworthy member of the order. Extensive
alterations were made in the order in 1839, and
no banners have since been added to those
hanging in the chapel. The banner of Earl
Dundonald was taken down in 1814, and kicked
down the chapel steps in consequence of charges
of fraud brought against him. In after years
these charges were disproved, and on the day of
his funeral in 1860, the banner, by command of
the Queen, was again placed in its ancient position.

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

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

CHAPTER X.—EDDIE’S ENEMY.

Mr. clair was very much surprised
the next morning by a
visit from Mr. Murray. Bertie
had quite forgotten to mention
anything about his meeting
with him till he heard the visitor
announced, and then it was too
late for explanations. It was quite
enough for Uncle Clair and Aunt
Amy to know that he was a friend of
the boys’ to ensure a kindly and cordial welcome,
but Eddie looked rather black at the visitor, and
greeted him coldly.

As the children were on the point of going out,
Mr. Murray said they ought to be off, and not lose
another moment of the morning sunshine. “The
sun and fresh air you get before noon, and the
sleep before midnight, are what make strong,
healthy, wealthy men and women of you,” he said;
“so be off, and perhaps I shall find you on the
beach later on.”

Rather reluctantly Eddie followed Bertie, who
was already half-way down the stairs. “I wonder
what he wanted?” he grumbled, when they reached
their favourite haunt beside an old boat just above
high water mark, where Agnes almost directly afterwards
joined them. “To see how badly off we are, I
suppose. I don’t like meeting any one who ever
knew us at Riversdale.”

“Why, Eddie?” Bertie asked, in open-mouthed
wonder. “I thought you would be delighted to see
an old friend. I was, I can tell you, when I met
him yesterday.”

“Oh! you saw him before? I suppose you asked
him to come and see us,” Eddie cried angrily.

“No, I didn’t; he said he would come himself,
and asked for Uncle Clair’s address; and he was
always very good to us, Eddie: he gave me a steam-engine,
don’t you remember? and you a box of paints.
[Pg 225]
He used to call you a little genius when he came
to Riversdale. He’s a dear old man, Agnes,” Bertie
added, turning in search of sympathy from his
brother’s gloomy face.

“I don’t like any one who knew us when we
were rich to see us now,” Eddie cried suddenly.
“They must despise us!”

“Eddie,” Agnes cried, a world of reproach in
her voice, and sudden tears in her soft eyes,
on hearing what he had said, “Eddie dear, how
can you say so? how can you ever think such
dreadful things? as if it matters a bit whether
people are rich or poor, so long as they do
right!”

“agnes … afterwards joined them” (p. 224)

“But we’re not poor,” Bertie cried exultantly:
“that’s the fun of it! Why, we have everything
we want, haven’t we? Everything,” he repeated,
with a comprehensive glance all round, and an
eloquent wave of his somewhat tarry hands. “Why,
we’re never cold or hungry, or anything. Eddie
should come to the City for a while, if he wants to
see poor people. Why, I know a fellow in a warehouse
near us—Watts his name is—who has only
one arm, and gets eighteen shillings a week. He
has a wife and a number of children, and he has to
walk four miles every morning to work, and four
home again, because he can’t afford fourpence for
a ‘bus.’ Oh, yes!” he continued; “if Eddie wants
to know what it is to be poor, let him come to the
City!”

“I thought people in the City were rich,” Eddie
said, looking interested for a moment. “Uncle
Gregory said you were to make your fortune.”

“Yes,” Bertie replied, slowly and thoughtfully,
“there’s a lot of rich people; but it seems as if
there were twenty thousand times more people
very poor. I don’t understand it at all.”

“Nor I,” said Agnes, in a very low voice; “but
I agree with you, Bertie: we’re not poor a bit; but
oh dear! I was poor before poor papa died; we
often had nothing to eat but bread for days, and
such a little mite of fire. But why didn’t you tell
us, Bertie, that you met the gentleman yesterday?”

“Just at first I forgot. You remember when I
went up for that fishing-line and hooks, and
Teddy said we might fish from the chain pier; I
found you all gone there, and I ran after you as
fast as ever I could. While we were fishing I forgot
everything, though I caught nothing, and then,
when I did think of it, I thought perhaps you
[Pg 226]
wouldn’t care to know that our cousins are
here.”

Bertie spoke quickly, with flushed cheeks, averted
eyes, and a good deal of confusion.

“Our Cousins Dick and Harry Gregory?” Eddie
said quietly.

“Yes; they and aunt were with Mr. Murray; and
he asked me ever such a lot of questions and said
the funniest things. Of course he never had heard
a word of poor papa’s death, and how we had to
leave Riversdale; and how he did pucker his eyebrows
over it! And when I said I was in Uncle
Gregory’s office, and you were with Uncle Clair
learning to be an artist, you should see how he
wrinkled his forehead and scowled! Then he
asked me how I came to be here, and I told him,
and how near I came to missing you all, and I
wondered whatever I should have done if I had.
He said I might have had a very happy time with
my cousins: gone in a yacht to the Isle of Wight
and round the Land’s End; and I couldn’t help
looking surprised. It showed how little he knew
of Aunt Gregory, though he was with her; and then
he said he’d call and see Uncle Clair, and I
forgot to tell him, and that’s all. Let us go and
have a swim, Eddie, and perhaps Agnes will like
to rest here for a while.”

For answer, Eddie threw himself on the
smooth pebbly beach, and hiding his face on his
folded arms, sobbed bitterly, wildly almost. Bertie
looked and listened in dumb, helpless amazement.
Eddie crying! it seemed absurd, impossible!
The rough, hardy, resolute boy would not have
cried in such a place for anything, “not,” he said
afterwards, in confidence, to Agnes, “not if he had
a tooth pulled out!” and that, in Bertie’s idea, was
the climax of human misery, the height of human
endurance. But Eddie’s sobs continued for a long
time without either Agnes or Bertie attempting to
offer any consolation, for the simple reason that
they did not know in the least what was the matter
with him. Once, indeed, Agnes ventured to ask
timidly if he were ill, and the answer was such a
rough “No, leave me alone!” that she sat and
looked at Bertie for what seemed two hours, and
was in reality about nine or ten minutes.

The pains and passions, as well as the pleasures
of childhood are very fleeting, after all, and Eddie
Rivers, in spite of his fifteen years, was a very child,
so that he recovered himself quickly, and looked
round with an expression of shameful defiance; but
on Bertie’s puzzled and Agnes’ sorrowful face he
saw neither contempt nor amusement, and he
stammered out a sort of apology.

“I’m very sorry, Bertie, but I could not help it.”

“Poor Eddie!” Agnes whispered sympathetically.

“I’m glad you are all right, Ted,” Bertie cried,
with an uncomfortable feeling in his throat. “I
thought you were going to be really bad.”

“So I was, ‘really bad,’ Bert,” Eddie answered,
with a very unusual accession of gentleness and
humility. “I didn’t like anybody or anything a
moment ago; I thought you were very selfish. I
quite disliked those unkind Gregory boys; I thought
Mr. Murray came to see us just to make fun of us.
I was as wicked and miserable as ever I could be,
and I do wish we had our dear ponies, and could
ride every day like other boys, instead of moping
down here on the beach.”

“I thought you liked it, Eddie. I do, over anything,”
Bertie replied, looking quite serious; “and
I’m sure if Uncle Clair knew you wanted a pony
badly, he would let you have one. Why didn’t you
tell him?”

Eddie flushed angrily, and turned aside a little
impatiently. “Uncle Clair is far too good to me
already. You don’t understand me a bit, Bertie:
you never did; or you either, Agnes—no, you don’t.
You are both quite happy and contented, but I’m
not.”

“Why?” Bertie asked. “Do, tell us, Eddie! Oh,
I know! it’s because you have an enemy, and I
believe he makes you think all kinds of absurd
things. Just tell me who he is, Ted, and I’ll
thrash him,” Bertie whispered eagerly.

“Thrash whom? I don’t understand you, Bert.”
Eddie looked up with a sudden appearance of
interest, and Agnes drew a little away: she did
not quite understand the turn matters were taking;
but Bertie meant to talk the “enemy” question over
thoroughly, and pulled Agnes back to add her persuasions
to his.

But Eddie looked so thoroughly amazed, that
Bertie was quite at a loss how to go on. If his
brother had an enemy, he did not seem to know
anything about it; still, there were Uncle Clair’s
words: they must mean something; and at last he
repeated them, and said he was determined not to
have poor Eddie worried by any one in the world.

“Do you know what it means, Agnes? I don’t.
Do you know what Uncle Clair meant?”

“I think I can guess,” she replied, without looking
at either of her cousins. “I believe uncle
meant that Eddie’s enemy was himself, because you
know, dear, very often you won’t let yourself be
happy, and make yourself quite miserable about
nothing at all.”

“Oh!” Eddie said, after a long silence, “do you
think Uncle Clair meant that?”

“Here he is, and Mr. Murray too,” Bertie said,
jumping up, and springing forward, forgetting that
poor Eddie’s face still bore traces of his recent
[Pg 227]
distress, and that Agnes too looked very sad, and
not a bit inclined for company. They had not
Bertie’s happy knack of shaking off unpleasant
sensations and being cheerful in a moment. However,
Uncle Clair and Mr. Murray were standing
beside them, and there was nothing for it but to
make the best of the situation, though Eddie,
at least, would have gladly been alone, to think
over Agnes’ words, and ask himself if he really
was his own enemy.

CHAPTER XI.—BERTIE GOES BACK TO BUSINESS.

Mr. murray’s conversation with Mr.
Clair had been a long and interesting
one, as far as the boys were concerned.
Mr. Murray heard every particular of Mr.
Rivers’ losses which Mr. Clair knew, and also
gained a good insight into the character and
temper of the lads. What he heard of Bertie
pleased him greatly, especially as it agreed exactly
with what Mr. Gregory said; about Eddie he looked
a little grave, and puckered up his forehead for
full five minutes, as Mr. Clair described his restlessness,
discontent, and want of application, and,
worst of all, the foolish idea that he was really very
clever, and very much misunderstood and unappreciated
by his relatives.

“The boy is fairly clever, but he’s not a genius,”
Mr. Clair said. “If he would only work, he might
get on; but Eddie prefers to dream noble things
rather than do them; he will spend hours looking at
beautiful pictures, and then nearly break his
childish heart because he can’t do something
equally good. His ideas, his ambitions, are
excellent, but he will not work.”

“Is there no other profession he might get on
better at? Would he make a lawyer, or a doctor, do
you think?” Mr. Murray asked.

“I’m afraid not; he really wants to be an artist;
besides, he’s so proud and sensitive, that he never
would make his way in the world if he had to mix
with people, and fight for a place. Poor Eddie, I
am sorry for him,” Mr. Clair said, kindly. “He
has such an unhappy disposition.”

“And the little girl?” Mr. Murray said. “How
is she provided for? She is Frank Rivers’ child, I
think you said?”

“Yes; and she’s the worst off of them all.
Being a girl, and so delicate, I really do not see
what’s to become of her if anything should happen
to us. It’s a great pity she is not stronger,” Mr. Clair
remarked; “she has a wonderful talent for drawing,
and is the most patient, painstaking, intelligent pupil
I ever met. If Eddie had only half her diligence,
he would get on much better.”

Then he heard of the peculiarly solitary life
Bertie led at Kensington, and listened in wonder,
while Mr. Clair said Eddie was never asked to his
uncle’s, had never seen his cousins, and that he
did not even know the Gregorys were in Brighton.

“You see, we are very different sort of people,
Mr. Murray: our tastes, habits, and manner of
life are so widely apart, that it is perhaps all
for the best that we should not meet frequently.
Still, he is Eddie’s uncle: the boys are his first
cousins; it seems a little odd that they should
be complete strangers.”

“Odd! why, it’s very strange. I can’t comprehend
it!” Mr. Murray cried, looking quite fierce.
“I must make them better acquainted. Ah! I’ve
hit on the very thing. I’m going to take the
Gregory boys for a trip in my yacht along the
south coast; the Rivers lads shall come too. You
must all come: there’s nothing to make people
acquainted and set them at their ease like a few
days at sea in a small craft. Promise me you will
join us. We start on Monday morning, and will
land you anywhere, and at any time you like. A
week’s cruise would do you all good.”

“I’m afraid you must excuse us, Mr. Murray.
We should not be a very welcome addition to
your party,” Uncle Clair said, coldly. “I have no
desire to force my acquaintance on Mr. Gregory.”

“He’s not coming with us, in the first place, and
even if he were, I suppose I am at liberty to
choose what guests I please to accompany me on
my trip?” Mr. Murray cried, almost fiercely; “but”—turning
to Mrs. Clair—”we need not discuss
that point: it’s the children we were talking about.
It would be a first-rate opportunity for both lads
to make friends with their cousins.”

“Yes,” Aunt Amy answered, thoughtfully. “They
have so few friends in the world, poor children,
that it would be a sad pity to miss a chance of increasing
them. I feel half inclined to accept your
kind invitation for the children’s sake, but we
have arranged to return home a week from
Monday, and I almost fear my husband’s engagements
will not permit him to remain another day.”

“Very well, Mrs. Clair; a week will, I think, be
sufficient for our purpose. I’ll find out in that
time what the lads are really made of. I’ve had so
many boys grow up under my eye, that I can read
them pretty accurately now, and what’s more, study
them when they least imagine I’m thinking of
them. As for your husband, he wants three months’
complete rest, and a cruise to the Mediterranean
in my yacht; and he shall have it, later on!” and
Mr. Murray seeming as if he were in a fearful
passion with some one, frowned quite terribly, and
shook his head fiercely, whereas he was only making
a very kind and generous proposal to a poor
[Pg 228]
artist, who could never afford more than a brief
holiday, and always had, so to speak, to carry
his profession along with him. Mr. Clair, however,
did not seem very pleased with the suggestion,
however much he might like it—and in his own
mind he felt that he really needed just such a
complete rest and change of scene, soft climate,
and freedom from all care and anxiety, to enable
him to shake himself free from a strange feeling
of dulness and languor that had been stealing over
him lately, and a sort of mental depression that
was harder to bear than actual illness. But three
months away from his pupils and work seemed
absolutely out of the question to Mr. Clair, therefore
he did not let his mind dwell on it, but returned
to the question of the children.

“they came to the little group” (p. 229)

“While I thank you for your very kind proposal,
Mr. Murray, I’ll make no promises; let the boys
choose for themselves. Bertie, of course, must
obtain his Uncle Gregory’s permission, as he
promised, without fail, to be back at the office on
Monday morning. I will not ever stand in the
way of the boys’ pleasure or profit, but I think it
is truer kindness to have them go along quietly on
the paths they have chosen. Bertie is happy and
contented enough now, but he’s a high-spirited
[Pg 229]
lad, fond of the sea almost passionately; a voyage,
be it ever so short, may unsettle his mind for the
office. Eddie is discontented enough already; I
don’t really see what good can come of it. Of
course, I don’t really think that either of the boys
is going to make his fortune, recover Riversdale,
and live there in peace and plenty, ease and indolence,
ever after. That’s a pretty poetical little
romance, and serves to cheer the children, and
make their sudden change of circumstance more
bearable, but I know they will have to fight the
battle of life each by himself, and quite unaided.
Neither possesses a magic wand to conjure up a
fortune.”

“And why not, pray? Has not many a London
‘prentice lad found that magic wand in honest
hard work and strict integrity? Why not Bertie
Rivers as well as another? But let it be as you
say: leave it to the boys’ own choice. Suppose we
go out and find them.”

Mr. Clair went very willingly, and seemed as if
he would be glad to have the whole matter settled.
Aunt Amy smiled encouragingly; she was really
anxious that the young cousins should know and
love each other, and felt almost sure that Eddie
would be much happier if he had some friends of
his own age, especially if they were clever boys,
who would make him feel anxious to shine in
their eyes, and excel at least in his beloved painting,
and that he talked so much of and performed
so little.

Mr. Murray and Mr. Clair had not joined the
children on the beach many minutes before
Uncle Gregory came along with his two sons,
one walking demurely on either side. When they
came to the little group sitting and lounging in
somewhat undignified fashion under the lee of the
old tarry boat, they paused, Mr. Gregory looking
somewhat astonished and scandalised at seeing
his old friend Mr. Murray—Murray and Co.,
one of the most respected “houses” in the City
of London—sprawling full-length, with his hat
over his eyes, while Mr. Clair made an accurate
two-inch sketch of him; but no matter what
Mr. Murray did or said, he was in a sense privileged,
and Mr. Gregory greeted him cordially,
shook hands with Mr. Clair a little more stiffly,
and introduced his sons. Bertie, at the first approach
of his uncle Gregory, had edged to the
other side of the boat, and watched the proceedings
with an amused twinkle in his eyes, that
peered about half an inch over the keel. Eddie
was gravely polite, Agnes painfully shy, and Uncle
Clair seemed to have become quite a grand gentleman
too in a moment; but Mr. Murray never
moved, and actually asked Mr. Gregory to sit
down, pointing to a vacant scrap of pebbly beach,
and indicating the tarry boat as something to lean
against. At the proposition Bertie disappeared
altogether: it was too absurd to see Uncle Gregory’s
expression of wonder, and he had to stuff his cap
into his mouth to avoid laughing aloud, but Mr.
Murray did not seem to mind a bit.

“Rather stand, eh? Yes, of course; I dare say
you do get sitting down enough. I was just
wanting to see you, to ask a favour. Can you give
this lad—where is he, Bertie”—Bertie emerged
solemn-faced, and rather scared, from the other
side of the boat, and bowed to his uncle—”can
you give this youngster another week’s holiday? I
want him and his brother, and this lassie here, to
come for a sail with your boys. Mr. and Mrs. Clair
have also kindly promised to join us for a week, so
that we shall be quite a pleasant party, eh, lads?
You would like it.”

Dick and Harry Gregory instinctively drew
nearer to their father, and their faces expressed
anything but lively satisfaction at the proposal.
On the other side, Eddie and Agnes had glanced
at each other, and edged behind Uncle Clair, who
had resumed his sketching; only Eddie and Mr.
Gregory looked straight at each other, and old
Mr. Murray from under his shaggy eyebrows
watched them both.

“Well, Bertie, would you like to go on this excursion
very much?” Uncle Gregory asked, in his
hardest voice, and with his most chilling smile.

“No, thank you, uncle. I would rather go back
to the office on Monday morning.”

“Thank you, Bert,” Eddie whispered, giving his
brother’s hand a hearty squeeze. “Of course we
can’t go without you.”

Indeed, Bertie’s words seemed to have brought
a sort of relief to the whole party. Mr. Gregory’s
smile was quite pleasant as he laid his hand on the
boy’s head.

“You’re quite right,” he said, genially. “You
and I are business people, and can’t afford taking
holidays at random. We will go up to town together,
Bertie, on Monday morning, and I hope
the others will enjoy their trip.”

“I’m sure Eddie will not care to go without
Bertie,” Uncle Clair said, rising. “We must only
wait for some more favourable opportunity for
becoming better acquainted with your lads, Mr.
Gregory. Now, children, it’s dinner-time, and
your Aunt Amy will be waiting. If you will join
us”—turning to Uncle Gregory—”it will give us
much pleasure.”

“Not to-day, thank you, as I have an engagement;
but Mrs. Gregory will take an early opportunity
of waiting on Mrs. Clair;” and after a great
[Pg 230]
many ceremonious bows and smiles, they separated;
Mr. Gregory, his sons, and Mr. Murray (frowning,
shaking his head, clenching his hands in the most
ridiculous manner) going one way, Uncle Clair,
with Agnes clinging to his arm, and Eddie and Bertie
behind, hurrying away in the opposite direction;
but not a single word was spoken till they reached
the house, and then Aunt Amy saw by their faces
that the old gentleman’s good-natured plan had
failed, for that time, at least; but if she thought for
a moment that Mr. Murray gave up an idea so
easily after once forming it, it showed that she
knew nothing whatever either of his goodness of
heart or force of character.

CHAPTER XII.—AN EXCITING ADVENTURE.

Though Bertie looked cheerful enough
as he walked with Uncle Clair and Eddie
to the railway station on Monday
morning, he could not help feeling very sorry at
having to leave Brighton. The weather was
so glorious, the sea all rippling and dancing in
the morning sunshine, the streets so full of
merry pleasure-seekers, that going back to the
office in Mincing Lane was dull enough. They
Were very sorry to lose him, too: there could be no
mistake about that; ever since he had so promptly
declined for them all Mr. Murray’s invitation, they
felt a sort of respectful admiration for him, though
from very different reasons. Uncle Clair thought
it was very sensible to return to town when his
Uncle Gregory so clearly wished it; Eddie and
Agnes thought it was quite splendid of him to have
saved them from becoming more intimately acquainted
with their cousins; while the latter, in their
lofty, patronising way, considered Bertie was not
such a bad sort of fellow, and they would be kinder
to him when they got back home, but they certainly
did not want to have to introduce him to their
Eton friends, Lionel and Arthur Delamere, whom
Mr. Murray had given them leave to invite. They
would be sure to ask where Eddie and Bertie went
to school, and so, of course, hear all about the office;
besides, Eddie looked so proud and reserved, he
would hardly prove an agreeable companion, nor
was Mr. Clair regarded very favourably. Mr.
Murray was more annoyed by the failure of his
plan than any one else, and yet he felt in a way
that Bertie was quite right, for his Uncle Gregory
would not easily have forgiven him had he acted
differently.

Mr. Gregory was not at the station when they
arrived, but just as the train was starting he came
up, and after one quick glance up and down the
platform, entered a carriage without having recognised
Uncle Clair or Eddie, and Bertie found himself
in a compartment with several strange gentlemen,
who each had a newspaper that he turned
over eagerly, and Bertie could not help wishing
that he too had something to read, though I think
he would have preferred either Don Quixote or
Robinson Crusoe. Then he fell to wondering
what Eddie and Agnes were doing: whether they
were on the beach reading or sketching, and thinking
how nice it would be to meet them at the
station on next Saturday afternoon, when they purposed
returning home, have the cabs all engaged,
and then go back with them to Fitzroy Square.
After a time his head fell back into the corner, and
from thinking, Bertie fell into a pleasant dream,
from which he was aroused by a gentle touch. A
gentleman was searching for a small bag, which
had slipped behind Bertie.

“Sorry to trouble you; thanks,” he said, when he
had found it. Then leaning forward towards the
gentleman opposite, he took out a packet of papers
neatly tied up. “It’s very provoking,” he said. “I
came down here on Saturday to get the governor’s
signature, and could not find trace or tidings of
him. He left an hour before I arrived, and if I
don’t find him somewhere in town to-day, it will be
a serious loss to our firm.”

“You can afford it,” the gentleman said,
smiling.

“Yes; but our manager will be none the less
angry about it. However, I can’t help it;” and
then they talked about the money market and
other matters, till Bertie fell asleep again, and did
not awake till they reached London Bridge.
There Mr. Gregory saw him, and gave him a seat in
his hansom, and the last thing Bertie saw as he left
the platform was the gentleman with his little black
bag in his hand, hurrying along as if for his life.

Bertie was very busy that morning: there were
a great many letters to be addressed and notices
copied out; his uncle seemed hasty and impatient,
spoke harshly, and once or twice said he believed
Bertie had left his brains in Brighton. Then the
office was very stuffy and gloomy, for though the
day was bright enough outside, very little sunshine
found its way through the dusty ground glass
windows of the office in Mincing Lane. Never
in his life had Bertie so longed for luncheon-time;
his head ached, and more than once a great lump
seemed to grow suddenly in his throat as he
thought of his past holidays; but the City at
luncheon-time is not the best possible place for
dreaming or moping, and before he had gone a
hundred yards from the office door he came into
violent collision with a gentleman running down
the steps of another office, who, without pausing
[Pg 231]
even to apologise, sprang into a cab that was
waiting, without observing that he had dropped
a small leather bag he held in his hand. Bertie,
whose hat had been knocked off in the encounter,
stooped to pick it up, picked up the
bag at the same time, and glanced at the hansom
fast disappearing amongst the crowd of others.
It was no use to shout, much less to run, but
having begun to learn to think, he acted with
a good deal of decision. Hailing another cab
that chanced to be near, he bade the driver
follow the one that had just started, as the
gentleman had dropped something, and the cabby,
who had witnessed the whole transaction, nodded
and drove on; but a few minutes had been lost;
the first vehicle was a private one, with a good
horse, Bertie’s was a worn-out old creature,
that ought not to have been in harness at all, so
that it was just as much as the driver could
do to keep it in sight. In the City, owing to
several blocks, they almost lost it; and when
they got into more fashionable regions amongst
the less-frequented streets and quiet squares of the
West End, matters were still worse, but at length,
turning suddenly round a corner, they saw the identical
cab standing before a large, gloomy-looking
house, and its occupant speaking hurriedly to
another gentleman on the steps. Bertie sprang
out and ran up, flushed, breathless, and excited.

“If you please, sir, you dropped this in Mincing
Lane,” he said, “and I followed you as quickly as
ever I could.”

One of the gentlemen uttered a little cry of
dismay, and almost staggered against the railing
for support. In his hurry and confusion, his eagerness
to deliver a pressing message, and get the
documents back to the City, he had not discovered
their loss at all. The other gentleman caught the
boy by the arm, and then uttered an exclamation
of still greater astonishment. “Oh! Bertie Rivers,
I see. So you found my clerk’s bag?”

“Yes, sir,” Bertie replied, very much surprised
to discover in the same moment that one speaker
was Mr. Murray, the other the gentleman who had
come up in the train with him that morning, the
bag the very one that had excited his curiosity on
two previous occasions, and caused him to be
disturbed from his pleasant dream.

“How did you know the person it belonged to?
Why did you come here with it?” Mr. Murray
asked, after a keen, searching glance at Bertie’s
face. He was a shrewd, suspicious old gentleman,
who had been deceived many times in his life,
much imposed upon, and therefore very cautious of
whom he trusted. Still, Bertie Rivers’ face was
truthful and frank enough to satisfy anybody as
he replied that he did not know in the least to
whom the bag belonged; “but I was going to my
luncheon, sir, and I ran against this gentleman; my
hat got knocked off, and when I stooped to pick it
up I saw the bag. I felt sure the gentleman
dropped it, and I called; but he had driven off,
so I just hailed another hansom, and told the
driver to follow the one just started. He said, ‘I
saw it all,’ and drove as quick as he could, and—that’s
all, sir.”

“No, no, there’s something more; you must tell
me all about it presently,” and Mr. Murray pushed
Bertie before him into a magnificent library.
“You sit there for ten minutes, while I see to
this business,” and he turned to the clerk, who
had followed him. “Give me the papers, and
while I sign them thank that lad. He has done
you a good turn to-day.”

The clerk thanked Bertie cordially, and at length
Mr. Murray stood up, thrust the papers into the
bag, and with a curious glance, which seemed to
say plainly, “I’ll see you later on about this,”
dismissed the man by a wave of his hand, then
he turned to Bertie, and caught him glancing at
the clock with much uneasiness.

“Now then, boy, you have done me a very great
service to-day; what can I do for you in return?”

Bertie flushed, hung his head, and then looked
up resolutely. “If you would be so kind as to
pay the cabman,” he stammered. “I forgot when
I engaged him that I had spent nearly all my
pocket-money, and it takes three days to get any
from the savings’ bank, and I—I couldn’t ask
Uncle Gregory.”

“Of course not; besides, the cab came here on
my business: it’s my duty to pay him, else I would
not do it. Here, run out and give him this,” and
Mr. Murray handed him a sovereign; “then come
back to me.”

“Please, sir, will you excuse me?” Bertie said
earnestly. “I am so afraid to be late.”

“It can’t be helped this time, Bertie. You
must have something to eat, and I’m going into the
City presently, and will call and explain matters to
your uncle; but you must go in first and tell your
own story, because I don’t want to deprive you of
his praise when he hears what a shrewd, honest
boy you’ve been. Come on, and have luncheon
with me, and tell me why you said you preferred
returning to the office to going for a week’s cruise
in my yacht. I am really very anxious, Bertie
Rivers, to know what good reason you could have
had for that very strange decision of yours. Were
you afraid of offending your Uncle Gregory?”

(To be continued.)

[Pg 232]

ALL ABOUT SNAILS.

German
country children have a quaint little
rhyme to ask the snail to put out his horns.
Translated, its meaning is like this:—

“Snail, snail, your four horns show,

Show me the four, and don’t say ‘No,’

Or I shall pitch you into the ditch,

And the crows that come to the ditch to sup,

Will gobble you up, gobble you up!”

In some parts of the south of England the children invite the snail out
still less politely. They chant over and over:—

“Snail, snail, come out of your hole,

Or else I’ll beat you as black as a coal!”

This sounds very cruel, but they can’t mean it, can they?
Near Exeter the country children have a more fanciful rhyme:—

“Snail, snail, shove out your horns,

Father and mother are dead,

Brother and sister are in the back-yard,

Begging for barley-bread.”

The snail’s parents and relations are meant, not their own. This reminds us of what the little brown
Italian children say in Naples; they sing to the snail to look out and show his horns, as the snail-mamma
is laughing at him because she has now a better little snail at home. In some parts of the south of
Ireland there is a prettier rhyme than any of these, and it asks him to come out to see a great visitor:—

“Shell-a-muddy, shell-a-muddy,

Put out your horns,

For the king’s daughter is coming to town,

In a red petticoat and a green gown!”

The children who sing these rhymes think that if only they sing them often enough, the horns will be
put out at last. They have picked up the snail, and he has tucked himself into his shell. After awhile,
when his first fright has worn off, perhaps he puts out his head just to see where he is, or to look if the
big live thing that startled him has gone away.

The four snails in the picture have come out for a walk by the light of the moon; they like to go
out on fine dry nights, because when the weather is dry they have been all day hidden in some corner of
a lane or garden. On wet days in summer weather they go out at all hours, always carrying their little
shell-houses on their backs, and ready at a moment’s notice to tuck themselves in, horns and all. One
notices the two long horns most, but they have another pair of very small ones as well. In winter they
sleep all the time in some crevice of an old garden wall, or in a little hole in the ground covered with
moss and leaves.

We often hear of “fattening-up” geese and turkeys, but how funny it sounds to talk of fattening up
a snail. The Romans, long, long ago, kept snails in special gardens and fattened them on meal and
boiled wine, and ate them at their feasts. There are still snail-gardens in many places on the Continent,
but they are not fed on boiled wine now. In England, as late as James the First’s time, they were made
into a favourite dish with sauce and spices. The Italian peasants think large brown snails a great treat;
and the gipsies in many places make dinners and suppers of the common little “shell-a-muddies.” A
larger kind are sold still at Covent Garden Market, London, to be taken as a cure by people who are ill.

[Pg 233]

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

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

Apple fritters to-day,” said Margaret.

“Yes, apple fritters to-day,”
replied Mary. “Won’t it be
delightful, miss?”

“Let me see,” said Mrs.
Herbert, coming into the
room at the moment, “we
are going to make something
special to-day. Whatever is
it?”

“Apple fritters!” said both the children
in one breath.

“Oh yes, to be sure! It is apple fritters. You
would not like to broil a mutton chop instead,
would you, Margaret?”

“Certainly not, mother!”

“Then we must take broiling for our next lesson.
It will be all the better, for I see cook has put the
apples and the materials for the batter ready for
us. So let us set to work.”

“But, mother, what do you think?” said Margaret,
as she came up to the table and looked round,
“cook has made the batter for us; and we wanted
to make it ourselves. Is it not a pity?”

“Cook has partly made it, dear, because I told
her to do so. Batter is best when mixed some
time before it is wanted. The whites of eggs,
however, are not put in until a few minutes before
the batter is used; so that part of making the batter
has been left for you.”

“It does not signify very much,” said Mary; “we
learnt how to make batter when we made pancakes.”

“This batter is not made in the same way,
though, as pancake-batter,” said Mrs. Herbert.
“This is frying-batter, and it is mixed differently.
I will tell you how to mix it, and you must try to
remember.”

“We will write it down,” said Margaret. “I
have written down all the recipes you have given
us, so far, in a copy-book, and I am going to keep
them as long as I live.”

“A very good plan. Listen then. Put a quarter
of a pound of flour, with a pinch of salt, into a bowl,
pour in two table-spoonfuls of salad-oil, stir a little
of the flour with this, and add a gill (which is a
quarter of a pint, you know) of tepid water. Beat
the batter till it is quite smooth and no lumps
remain. Thus much cook has done for us.”

“Tepid water is water that is not hot enough to
burn, is it not, ma’am?” said Mary, inquiringly.

“That is not at all a safe rule to lay down. I
should say, tepid water is made by mixing two
parts of cold with one part boiling water.”

“Shall I strain off and beat the whites of the
eggs, mother?” said Margaret; “I can do that, you
know.”

“Yes, dear. You will need the whites of two eggs,
and they must be beaten till very stiff. When they
are ready you mix them lightly into the batter.
Meantime Mary can peel the apples. Peel the
skin off very thinly, Mary, and stamp out the core
with the little instrument called the apple-corer.
You see, it does the business very quickly. If we
had no apple-corer, we should either have to scoop
out the core with the point of a knife, when we
should be in danger of cutting our fingers, or we
should have to take it from the slices separately.
These apples must be cut in slices across the
core, you understand, before we can make the
fritters.”

“How thick must the slices be, please, ma’am?”
said Mary.

“Not thick at all. They must be as thin as you
can cut them to keep them whole. You will do
very well if you can cut them all evenly, thin as a
shilling. Do you see that we wish to cook the
apple inside, as well as the batter outside it, and
the thinner it is the more quickly it will cook?”

Very busily Mary worked, but Margaret had
beaten her egg-whites, and stirred them in, long
before she had finished.

“May I help Mary, mother?” then said Margaret,
who did not enjoy waiting.

“Yes, dear; you can prepare one apple, if you like.
Before doing so, however, put the fat on the fire.
It was strained into a fresh saucepan to be ready
for us. It will take a little time to boil; but we
must use it the moment it boils. Remember that
every minute, I might say every second, that fat
remains on the fire after it boils, and without being
used, it is spoiling.”

“You will have to be quick, mother, if you are
going to use the fat as soon as it boils;” said
Margaret after a minute or two. “It is boiling
already; see, it is bubbling all over. What shall I
do? Shall I take it off the fire?”

“It does not boil yet, dear; wait till it boils.”

“But, mother, look. It is bubbling fast. Oh,
no, it is not; it is quieting down. How very strange!
and I had not lifted it from the fire.”

“This is exactly what I wanted you to find out.
Water, when it boils, bubbles and spirts; fat is still
[Pg 234]
when it boils. If you watch this fat, it will become
quite still.”

“How shall we know, then, when it boils?”

“By watching it carefully. When you see a thin
blue fume rising from it, it is hot enough. That
is the sign. If you do not look closely it may
escape your notice, for it is only a thin fume you
want, not a thick smoke. If we were to let the fat
remain till it smoked it would be spoilt.”

“Oh dear, how careful we have to be!” said
Margaret.

“The slices of apple are quite ready, ma’am,” said
Mary.

“And the batter is quite ready,” said Margaret.

“I see too, that cook has put a dish with kitchen
paper on it for us to put the fritters on as they are
fried. And there is the fume. Do you see it,
children?”

“No, I see nothing,” said Margaret.

“And I see nothing,” said Mary.

“Look closely. Hold this piece of black paper
behind, that will help you. Be quick, we must not
let the fat burn.”

“Oh yes, I think I see something,” said Margaret,
who seemed rather bewildered. “But I thought——”

“Think and work together, dear; we have no time
to lose. Take a slice of apple on a skewer, dip it
in the batter, and when it is completely covered, lift
it up and drop it in the fat. Now do the same to
another, and another. You can fry two or three
at once if only you are careful that the fritters do
not touch. As the batter blows out and forms
fritters, turn them over that they may be equally
coloured on both sides. They must be very pale
brown, or rather fawn-coloured; on no account let
them get very brown.”

“How shall we get them out?” said Margaret.

“Lift them by the skewer, and put them straight
away on the paper to drain. You should put everything
on kitchen paper after frying before you dish
it; do not let things lie one on top of another, or
they will be spoilt.”

“There, all the first ones are out,” said Mary.
“Shall we put some more slices of apple in?”

“Wait a moment. You see there are two or
three little specks of batter which have got away
all by themselves in the fat. We must take them
out at once with the skimmer, or they will burn and
spoil the colour of our fat. Also we must let the fat
get hot again, watching for the fume between each
relay, because the cold batter and the cold apple
will make our fat a little cool. It will heat in a
moment or two, but we must have it properly hot,
or the fritters will be greasy.”

“I should have thought they would have been
greasy with being put into such a quantity of fat,”
said Margaret.

“No fear of that, if only the fat is hot enough.
If the fat is not hot, they will be most unpleasant;
but if the fat is hot the heat will cook the outside so
quickly that the grease cannot get in, while that
which is on the surface will dry instantly.”

“How quickly the fritters are cooked!” said
Mary. “I never saw anything like it.”

“I thing frying fritters is even more interesting
than frying pancakes,” said Margaret.

“How pretty the fritters look, and how crisp they
feel when we take them out!” said Mary.

“They will not remain crisp very long, though,
not more than five minutes,” said Mrs. Herbert.
“We must send them in to grandmamma as quickly
as possible, if we wish her to have them in perfection.
That is why we make so much haste in
frying, for fritters have lost their excellence when
they have lost their crispness.”

“I suppose when we have dried them on the
kitchen paper we had better dish them and put
them in the oven to keep hot, ma’am.”

“No, put them in the screen; they will keep
crisper than in the oven. We shall not need to put
them anywhere for more than a minute, however,
for they are just done. Dish them in a circle, sift
a little white sugar on, and they are ready.”

“I have enjoyed making apple fritters very
much,” said Margaret.

“That is well. The best of it is that when you
have learnt to make apple fritters you can make
fritters of any kind of fruit, for all the fruit fritters
are made in the same way. Some fruits are dipped
in sugar before being put in the batter, and it needs
practice to keep the batter over them. Sometimes
fruit is soaked in syrup. Then it must be dried
before being dipped in the batter.”

“I suppose it would not do to fry meat in batter,
would it?” said Mary.

“Certainly it would. You can try it, if you like,
one day.”

“I should like, very much.”

“Very well. Never do anything of this sort
unless I am with you though, dear, for fear you
should burn yourself. Hot water is very hot,
and a little spilt on your hand would pain you very
much, but hot fat would pain you much more, and
when it is used, a little carelessness might end in
a serious accident. Therefore I think small cooks
like you ought not to practise frying unless an
older person is present to see that everything is
safe.”

Cook passed through the kitchen as this was said,
and the remark evidently met with her approval.

(To be continued.)

[Pg 235]

WHAT THE MAGIC WORDS MEANT.

A FAIRY STORY.

“It
wasn’t here last night? and how did it get
here? and who nailed it up? and what does
it mean?” said Lilla.

“I didn’t nail it up,” answered a Magpie,
who hopped about from morning
till night in Lilla’s garden, and
never left off chattering.

“Of course not,” returned
Lilla; “I did not suppose that
you did. But I should like to
understand the meaning of it.”

And she gazed up at a great
white board that had been fastened
to the garden wall. There
were several words upon the
board, and Lilla softly repeated
them.

“there were several words upon the board”

“Air, all, and, and, earth, go,
if, know, me, of, sea, so, through,
will, you, you.”

“What nonsense! No sense
in it at all,” said Lilla; “yet they
are arranged alphabetically, air,
all, two and’s, and two you’s to
finish with.”

“Oh, don’t begin to calculate
the words, or do it quicker,” said
the Magpie impatiently. “Four
fours sixteen. There are just
sixteen of them: that is multiplication.”

“But not four of each sort,” replied
Lilla; “only one of most of
them. I wish I knew the exact
meaning of it all. The only bit
of sense I can make out is
‘Through will you,’ but then
there are two you’s.”

“That is one you for you, and
one you for me,” answered the
Magpie. “What you have got
to do is to put all the words into
a box, and shake them well up,
and we’ll go through together.”

“Oh!—where?—why—?” exclaimed Lilla, as her
foot struck against a silver box with the lid open;
and on the ground lay a heap of cards with the
words she had read printed upon them. She
looked up at the board. There were no longer
any words there, so of course they had fallen down.

“Pick them up, and put them in,

And you will then the game begin,”

said the Magpie, who thought he was wonderfully
clever as he said this to Lilla.

“Is it like making words from letters?” asked Lilla.

“Not at all. There you have to think and find
out. Here you have nothing to
do but to shake, and when you
have shaken long enough, the
result will come.”

“How shall I know how many
times to shake?”

“You won’t know,” returned
the Magpie; “no one will know
but the box itself, and the box
can tell to a quarter of a shake
the right time. Now—through!”

“Through what?”

“Through the board, of course,”
replied the Magpie. “What else
is it meant for?”

“But the thick wall is behind
the board, and then the houses!
This is not country; it is the
town.”

“Pooh!” said the Magpie.
“Have I learned human speech
for nothing? Now——”

And he flew at the board,
giving it a gentle peck; and as
he did so the board split in two,
and the crack widened, until it
made an opening large enough
for Lilla, with the Magpie on her
shoulder, to pass through.

II.

Where?

Ah! that cannot be told until
one has heard about the little
boy who lived far away in a
country that Lilla had never
heard of, for she knew nothing
about geography. She only knew
about the town in which she
lived, and that there was a long
street in it, and a great cathedral, where she heard
music issuing forth as she stood outside it; but she
had never been inside, nor had she ever been in any
of the grand toy-shops in the street. She had stood
gazing in at the windows, and wishing for the dolls,
and the dolls’-houses, and the boxes of lambs, and
the work-baskets with silver thimbles in them;
but there was no one to give her any of these fine
[Pg 236]
things. She lived with an old woman, who was
always scolding her, and who was especially angry
if she tore her frock or soiled her paletot.

he had also a good old grandfather.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, with Rollo, the little boy, it was quite different;
he had a mother who was very kind to
him, and gave him as many playthings as he
wanted. He had also a good old grandfather and
a little sister who used to pull his long curls and
kiss his rosy cheeks. And Rollo was very happy.

But one day these three died, and Rollo was left
alone. Of
course Rollo
sat down
and cried very
bitterly:
there was
nothing else
for him to
do, as he
was but a
small boy
then. He
cried for a
long time,
and then the
sun looked
in upon him,
and pitied
him, and also
dried the
tears upon
his cheeks.
Then the sea
rolled up on
to the shore,
and sang
“Lullaby,
lullaby,” so
sweetly, that
Rollo fell
fast asleep.
And when he was asleep, the Wind came, and took
him in his arms, and carried him away over the
hills and valleys, and the great shining lakes and
rivers, away, away.

And when Rollo awoke from his sleep, he found
himself in a beautiful country, where fruit was ever
to be found upon the trees, and the flowers were
always in bloom. The sun, the wind, the earth,
and the sea had said, “He shall be our child.”

So Rollo was well taken care of, and nothing
harmed him.

And it was in this very same beautiful country
to which Rollo had been carried by the Wind that
Lilla suddenly found herself when she stepped
through the board with the Magpie on her shoulder.

III.

“It isn’t the town, you see,” said the Magpie;
“there’s not a house near, and there’s nothing but
country, country everywhere.”

“Oh, it’s lovely!” said Lilla, clasping her hands;
and then suddenly remembering the silver box, she
said—

“Shall I shake it?”

The Magpie nodded, and repeated these words—

“The box?” exclaimed
Lilla.

“No, what’s in it. It’s a
magic spell, and when you can
spell it out the spell will be accomplished.”
As “accomplished” was a
long word for the Magpie to say, he said
it twice or thrice, whilst Lilla kept shaking
the box, for she was very impatient to know
what the end would be.

The Magpie fluttered his wings, and put
his head on one side, muttering—

“Not yet, not yet.”

IV.

There came a burst of low sweet music,
as if the south wind were murmuring through
the strings of many Æolian harps. And
chiming in with the music came the far-off
roar of the ocean. Then a flood of sunshine fell
over the earth, and the roses burst into bloom,
so did the eglantine, that had been hiding away
till the sun gave the signal.

“Rollo passes by,” said the Magpie.

“Rollo?”

“The child beloved by earth and sea and wind,”
said the Magpie. “Give the box a shake, and look
up.”

Lilla did as she was desired.

“I only see a purple cloud,” she said. “Does
Rollo come from the clouds?”

answered the Magpie, looking straight at Lilla.
[Pg 237]

“lilla … perceived … an extraordinary animal.”

“Multi——” and here Lilla stopped. She had
never heard the word before.

“The Multiphobus,” said the Magpie; and he
spelt it over for her.

“Yes, the Multiphobus. What is a Multiphobus?”

“A creature that can do many things. He can
live on the earth or in the sea or in the air. He
can run, swim, or fly, just as Rollo wishes. Rollo
is riding on the Multiphobus now. If you look
up into the air you will see him.”

Lilla looked up, and perceived that what she had
taken for a great purple cloud sailing through the
sky was in reality an extraordinary animal, partly
like a panther, partly like a hippopotamus, partly
like a bat and an eagle, for it had wings, claws, and
feathers. And seated on its breast, with one arm
round its neck, and nestling
close to it, was a boy
with a deerskin bound
round him, and a crown
of gay feathers on his
head.

Though the Multiphobus
had an ugly face, yet
he was evidently amiable,
and he and Rollo appeared
to be talking together.

The Magpie nodded
approvingly, but Lilla felt
a little alarmed at so
enormous and nondescript
an animal; and she trembled
so much that the box
shook, and the words
rattled violently inside.

“They want to get out,”
she said; “shall I open
the lid?”

“Certainly not,” replied
the Magpie; “they will
come out of themselves when it is time.
Stand still, and watch the Multiphobus
descending.”

It was easy to say “stand still,” but
not so easy for Lilla to do so; she
shook and shivered, and could only
keep herself steady by supporting herself
against the trunk of a tall pine-tree.

Suddenly the Multiphobus ceased to
work his wings, but he stretched them
out to their full extent, and then dropped
quietly to the ground. When he touched
the earth, his wings fell off, and he looked
like an ordinary quadruped.

“He has only to say ‘Wings,’ and
they come to him at once,” explained the Magpie.

But Lilla scarcely heard him; she was in a greater
fright than ever. Not only did the Multiphobus
look more huge, but at that moment a sharp-nosed
Wolf appeared in sight, and Lilla’s box rattled so
loudly that she was afraid he would hear it, and
look round at her.

“rollo … advanced to meet him.”

She could not keep it still.

said the Magpie.

“Will the Wolf hurt Rollo?” asked Lilla.

But the Magpie only whistled.

V.

And the Wolf, who walked slowly along, drew
nearer and nearer to Rollo. And Rollo, having
taken off his feather crown, advanced to meet him.

[Pg 238]
“What tidings, friend Wolf?” said Rollo;
“what have you come to tell us?”

“There are strangers in the land,” answered the
Wolf, “and I come to warn you.”

The Multiphobus sprang up with a growl, and
Lilla almost shrieked, while the box rattled and
rattled till it nearly jumped out of her hand.

“It will go, it will go!” said she.

“Hold it fast!” whispered the Magpie; “hold it
fast!

“To the tree where Rollo and the Multiphobus
are standing?” asked Lilla.

“Where else?” asked
the Magpie.

Lilla became nervous,
and spoke in disjointed
sentences.

“Oh no, no, no! I cannot
go. I quake, I shake;
I will not take a single
step. The box will break.
Oh, how I quake!”

But the Magpie perched
on her shoulder again,
saying, “Do not be foolish.
Rollo will not let them
hurt us;” and he gave
Lilla a gentle peck, which
made her start forward,
and when once she had made a move she found
that she could not stop herself: her feet carried
her along until she paused in front of Rollo.

And as she paused the lid of the box flew open,
and the words jumped out, and arranged themselves
on the ground in the following order.

“Why, it’s quite easy to read!” exclaimed Lilla
in surprise. “I wonder I never thought of it all
this time.”

“And it’s just as I told you: four four’s sixteen,
four in each line and four lines. However you count
it, you will find it all fours,” said the Magpie.

“And it’s about me,” said Rollo, “for earth, air,
and sea all know of me; and brought me here and
gave me the Multiphobus. And it’s about you
also, for you have come through the board to come
and see me. The Multiphobus was talking about
it when we were flying through the air.”

“Was he?” said Lilla; “and he wasn’t angry?”

“Angry! No, he is very glad for me to have
a playfellow, for I am rather lonely sometimes.
And now we can play in the woods all day, and
gather strawberries and cherries and plums; and
there’s a little stove in one of the caves, and I dare
say you can make cakes?”

“Of course I can,” answered Lilla, “and tea
and coffee.”

“Ah! that will be nice. And I will be king and
you shall be queen, and we will have a merry time,
and the Multiphobus will carry us wherever we
want to go.”

“I am afraid of him,” returned Lilla.

“Oh, you need not be. I am quite sure you’ll
give a paw to Lilla; won’t you, Multiphobus?”

“I will give two,” said
the Multiphobus, standing
on his hind legs and
stretching out his fore paws
to Lilla.

She shook them, and felt
at ease with him at once.

The Magpie fluttered
about.

“I am not going home
by myself,” said he. “I
shall stay here if Lilla
does.”

“That you shall,” replied
Rollo; “we will all live
in this beautiful land together.”

“the wind had lulled them to sleep.”

Ah! what a beautiful
land it was! The two children wandered through
it hand in hand, and revelled in all its glories—now
underneath the stately forest trees, or breaking
through the tangled brushwood all radiant with
green and gold, and crimson leaves and lovely
flowers, or now sitting on the river-bank listening
to the stories the river told them of the lands
through which it had passed; whilst the Wind sang
so many wonderful songs that Lilla begged to hear
them over again.

And after the Wind had lulled them to sleep
among the soft clover and wild thyme, the moon
and stars peeped out and sent them beautiful
dreams, whilst two nightingales sat among the
roses and sang “Lullaby, lullaby” as sweetly as
the southern wind.

So that whether waking or sleeping the children
were happy.

Sometimes Lilla would say—

“Ah! if it had not been for the words on the
board, I should still have been living with the cross
old woman in the town with the long street and
the cathedral. And she would have gone on scolding
[Pg 239]
me for ever and ever; and whatever should I
have done, I wonder.”

“You may thank me,” said the Magpie, “for
having brought you away; that’s very certain.”

“You may thank me also,” said the Multiphobus,
“and I am sure you ought to do so, for it was I
who nailed up the board with the magic words upon
the garden wall.”

And of course, as I need not tell you, Lilla
did thank them.

Julia Goddard.

A YOUNG ROMAN’S SACRIFICE.

A TRUE STORY.

Once upon a time, many
hundred years ago, when
Rome was mistress of the
world, and the Romans
were braver and stronger
than any one else, there
lived a boy of thirteen
whose name is still remembered.
Lucius Valerius
was fond of his lessons,
but most of all did
he love poetry; so, although
he was only thirteen years old, he made
up his mind that he would try to win the gold
medal and ivory lyre which were given every
five years to the boy who should write the best
poem.

Lucius not only tried, but he succeeded, and one
day, before all the school and a number of visitors,
the prizes were presented to him. Now besides the
medal and lyre which every one who gained them
valued very much, there was something else which
they thought far grander. A statue of the prize-winner
was placed in the school and crowned with
laurel.

You may imagine how the boy’s heart beat with
joy as he saw the judge step forward to crown his
statue, but just at that moment Lucius caught
sight of a young man who had also tried for
the prize, and who looked most downcast and
miserable.

Lucius sprang forward, seized the laurel crown,
and put it on the head of the poor fellow who had
been unsuccessful.

“You are more deserving of it than I am,” he
said; “I obtained it more on account of my youth
than my merit, and rather as an encouragement
than as a reward.”

Then the people set up a great shout of joy, for
they knew that a noble heart was worth more than
all the poems in the world, and they gave a new
name to Lucius Valerius in memory of that day.

So Lucius was always called Pudens, which
means Modest, and you may be sure he valued his
new title as much as he deserved it, for “Kind
hearts are more than coronets.”

E. M. W.

THE CHILDREN’S OWN GARDEN IN OCTOBER.

The Flower Garden will now be fast
losing its beauty, and the cold winds
and frosty nights will be everywhere
heralding the coming of winter,
when, more through force of circumstances
than choice, our Gardening proclivities
become considerably abated. Throughout the present
month, however, the remaining floral vestiges
of summer are often numerous, but especially so
when the weather of early autumnal months happens
to be of a mild and congenial nature. By this season
the greater number of plants will have performed
those functions, and have passed through the
various stages, which each and every year exacts.
In the case of plants known as annuals, an entire
life is projected and perfected within the short
space of a few months. Various trees and shrubs
will now be assuming the rich autumnal tints, and
the leaves rapidly drop at the approach of winter,
and vital energy is being stored up until the following
spring, when new leaves are produced.

*   *
  *  

The month of October is, notwithstanding its lack
of floral ornaments, one in which the amount of work
to be done is by no means inconsiderable, and the
pretty little girl, with her hoe and water-can, drawn
on p. 241, evidently thinks as much. We must
plant now in order to secure a spring display of
flowers, and for this purpose nothing can be more
satisfactory than bulbous subjects, such as hyacinths,
tulips, crocuses, and narcissuses. The
hyacinth thrives best in a compost of light loam,
leaf-mould, and sand; plenty of the latter may be
[Pg 240]
included in order to secure perfect drainage, which
is a very important item in the culture of bulbous
plants generally. Perhaps no other spring flowering
bulb looks so well when grown in neat patches
as the hyacinth; the bulbs should not be less than
six inches apart, and at least two and a half inches
beneath the surface. They should be purchased
in the autumn, selecting firm heavy roots; and
“first come, first served” must be borne in mind,
as by buying early in the season the best may be
secured, and finer spikes of bloom will follow as a
natural consequence.

*   *
  *  

Tulips have been for many years great favourites
with gardeners, both amateur and professional.
About two hundred years ago the mania for these
plants amounted almost to a national calamity in
Holland, and scores of acres are now entirely
devoted to their culture. For our own part, we
scarcely consider the tulip as in any way justifying
the praise which is lavished upon it even in the
present day, because its beauty is, to say the
least, ephemeral, whilst its showiness is far from
being either chaste or delicate. It will be, however
desirable to have six or even a dozen bulbs,
which only cost about a penny apiece. They can
be planted any time during the present month, from
two to three inches below the surface, in a compost
of loam, leaf-mould, sand, and well-rotted manure.
When purchasing, see that every bulb is perfectly
solid, and select as many different sorts as possible,
thereby securing a variety, which is very desirable
in a garden of limited extent. In cold northern
situations tulip-beds should always be covered
over with a little straw or litter during very frosty
weather.

*   *
  *  

Few Spring flowers are more welcome or appear
so very early in the year as crocuses. No matter
how cold, foggy, or dirty the weather may chance
to be in this most erratic climate, the regiments of
yellow, golden, blue, flaked, white, and versi-coloured
crocus flowers will never fail to put in an
appearance. The common sorts thrive almost
anywhere, and in almost any ordinary garden soil.
They should be planted during the present month,
about two inches under the surface. As the roots
only cost about threepence per dozen hardly any
spot ought to be bare of flowers from the middle
of January to early in March. A universally-grown
plant, even earlier than the crocus, is the
well-known snowdrop. This also, like the crocus,
can be grown almost anywhere, and may remain in
one spot undisturbed for years; both are most
effective when grown in clumps. The French
name of Perceneige, or Pierce-snow, is singularly
applicable to the snowdrop. Place the tiny roots
from one to two inches deep, and grow the single-flowered
form only.

*   *
  *  

The narcissus or daffodil is another of the many
spring-flowering plants which are invariably greeted
with enthusiasm. The varieties are endless, but
the greater number are almost unexcelled for
growing in such situations as the tops and sides
of hedges, banks, &c. They can scarcely be
grown too extensively. Of the various sorts, and
exclusive of the ordinary double form, few are
more beautiful or more desirable than that known
as the Poet’s Narcissus (N. poeticus). The pure
white of the segments and the delicate bright
scarlet centre are best when the plant is grown
sheltered from strong winds. Another favourite
narcissus of ours, and which we can confidently recommend
to our readers, is that known as
“Orange Phœnix;” it is a singularly beautiful
plant, and produces large double and well-formed
flowers; it thrives best in a light sandy soil.
Several colours may be secured by purchasing a
dozen roots of mixed sorts, costing from two to
three shillings per dozen. They may be planted
any time throughout October and up to the middle
of November.

*   *
  *  

The Kitchen Garden of our young folk will need
but very little looking after during the present
and next two months; but in stating this we must
not be understood to imply that it should be
wholly neglected. On the contrary, it must be kept
quite free from weeds of all sorts; and everything
should be in perfect order. To this end paths
should be swept and weeded every week, when the
state of the weather will admit of this being done.
The Kitchen Garden is much too frequently seen
in a disreputable state, even in pretentious places,
and where flower-gardening is done very well.
But well-executed work in one department by no
means justifies slovenliness in another. Vacant
spaces of ground will need digging, but this operation
should, if possible, be left to a labourer, who,
for the sake of a small remuneration, would probably
be very glad to do it after his ordinary working
hours. Even an enthusiast cannot but consider
digging as the most laborious of all gardening
work, and will take especial care to shirk it whenever
possible. In fact, real garden drudgery of
all kinds is better done by a labourer, no matter
how simple and easy such work may superficially
appear to our young folk. Good work, as we all
know, can only be done by an accustomed hand.

[Pg 241]

off to her garden. (See p. 239.)

[Pg 242]

THE DISCONTENTED BOAT.

A
boat came back from a journey. It
had been to a far-off land. All the
sailors jumped ashore, only too glad
to run about again, but they tied up
the boat to a long arm of rock, and
left it there while they were gone.

The tide was very low and the sky was
dull; there was just enough water to lap
against the sides of the boat, and make it
rock up and down. The boat fretted like
a petulant child, and pulled at the rope as a dog
pulls against its chain, but it could not get away,
for all that.

“How dull it is here!” cried the little white boat;
“they have all gone on shore and are merry.
They don’t consider my feelings, left here for the
day all alone. And oh, what an ugly place this is!”
and it looked right and left.

The sky was grey, the tide was very low; the
boat was lashed to a long piece of rock that ran out
like an arm into the sea. At each side of the rock
a mass of seaweed clung—limp and brown.

“Of all the ugly things I ever saw,” exclaimed
the boat, “that seaweed is the worst. Think of
the places I have been anchored in before—of the
lovely tropical flowers that grew at the water’s edge.”

“You do not know who we are,” cried the seaweeds;
“we are young fairy sisters, who dance every
night. This beach is the floor of our ball-room,
and we dance, and are decked with jewels. We
dance and are gay in the evening; in the daytime
we lie still and rest.”

“I do not believe you,” said the boat; “you are
ugly, and brown, and old. And this place is the
dullest I have seen all my life.”

So the boat sulked, and was unhappy all day.
But when the evening arrived the sailors came down
to the shore, and undid the boat, and rowed away.

And the boat looked back, and it was sunset,
and a change had passed over the place. The sky
was pink and golden, the waves were bathed in
light; the sea was as transparent as a sapphire, and
you looked through the sapphire roof and saw a
golden floor.

Sure enough that was the floor of the dancing-room,
and the tide had crept up the sides of the
rock, and all the little seaweeds looked yellow and
golden, and danced up and down in the arms of
the waves.

The boat looked over its shoulder, and saw them:
it would willingly have gone back to the scene and
danced up and down with the rest, but it never
saw them again, for it was bound to a far-off land,
never to return.

Lucie Cobbe.

HARRY’S RABBIT.

Harry Pearson was
rather a good sort of boy,
but he had one very bad
habit. He was the greatest
stone-thrower in all Tolhurst
Village.

It was Harry who had
broken the draper’s window
and the glass of
Squire Stopford’s greenhouse.
He had not been
found out; but he knew
well enough who had done the mischief, so when one
afternoon, as he was running home from school, he
saw a man putting up a great placard announcing
that stone-throwers would be prosecuted, he felt
very much frightened.

He was just slinking home when out came his
father, the Squire’s gardener.

Harry thought that his father had found out
about the stone-throwing, and hung down his head.

But, instead of scolding him as, he had expected,
his father said, as if he were pleased—

“Harry, Master Edgar is better to-day, and he
wants you to come in now and wheel his chair for
him.”

Harry’s face brightened at once; for there were
few things he liked better than to be allowed to
go into the Squire’s beautiful garden when Master
Edgar, the Squire’s only son, was well enough to
come out in his wheeled-chair.

Edgar Stopford was about the same age as
Harry; but he had never been strong, and for more
than a year he had been lame.

“All right, father!” exclaimed Harry gleefully.
“Is he in the garden?”

And without waiting for an answer he ran in
and found Edgar Stopford waiting for him.

“Harry,” said Edgar, “I want you to take me
in the chair round to the stable, for I want to
see the young rabbits. How old are they now,
Harry? I’ve been so ill that I can’t quite remember.”

[Pg 243]
“Seven weeks old to-day,” said Harry. “I want
to see them again very much, Master Edgar.
They’re such beauties; I can’t help thinking of
them every day.”

“You haven’t any rabbits, have you?” asked
Edgar.

“No,” said Harry. “Don’t I wish I had!”

“Mine are prize rabbits, you know,” said Edgar,
“The old tortoise-shell one took the prize both
this year and last year at the County show. Oh!
And what do you think? A boy I know has been
over here ever so many times trying to get that
young lop-eared tortoise-shell doe! You remember
which one, don’t you?”

“Oh yes! oh yes! That was the one I liked best
of all! It had such good broad ears!” cried Harry
with enthusiasm. “You didn’t let him have it
though, did you, Master Edgar?”

“Oh no? He offered me a pair of his best
Antwerp pigeons for her. And I wanted the pigeons;
but I wouldn’t let him have that young doe!”
exclaimed Edgar, with a smile on his white face.

“You wouldn’t? Oh, I’m so glad!” exclaimed
Harry.

“I thought you would be,” returned Edgar with
another bright smile. “I told him I wanted her
for somebody else. Push on, Harry. Let’s get
round to the stable.”

Harry pushed with all his might, while his face
flushed up to the roots of his hair; for he could
not help thinking—

“I wonder if Master Edgar is going to give that
doe to me! But no, that’s all nonsense! I won’t
think of such a thing; of course he is saving it for
one of his friends! Shouldn’t I like her, though!”

It seemed to Harry quite a long way to the stable,
so anxious was he to get there. At last he wheeled
the chair into the yard.

“Fetch out the young ones, and let me have a
good look at them,” said Edgar. “Bring them out
one by one; but bring the young doe last.”

“All right!” said Harry. And leaving the chair,
away he rushed, opened the door of the stable,
where, to his delight, he saw the great prize buck
in a hutch, and the doe and four young ones all
hopping about among a quantity of fragrant hay.

Harry shouted with joy—

“Oh, Master Edgar! Oh, how they’ve grown!
You won’t know them! They’re lovely!”

He caught up his favourite first of all, and examined
her thoroughly with breathless delight.

She had grown into the most beautifully-marked
rabbit that he could imagine.

Even to handle such a rabbit seemed to Harry a
very great happiness. What could it be like
really to be the owner of that young prize rabbit?

With something like a sigh Harry put her down,
and caught one of the others.

“I’ve seen the young doe, and I’ve measured
her ears!” he exclaimed, as he took the other rabbit
to Edgar Stopford.

“Well! He has grown!” cried Edgar. “Try if
you can push the chair to the stable-door! I should
so much like to see them all running about!”

Harry managed to do as Edgar wished, although
it gave him a good deal of trouble; but he did not
mind that a bit.

“Oh, Master Edgar! Did you ever see such a
beauty as that young doe? Do look at her!” said
Harry, eagerly, opening the stable-door, and
making a dive after the lop-eared tortoise-shell.

The two boys played with the rabbits for a good
half-hour. How much they found to say about
them, any boy who is fond of animals can imagine.
Poor Edgar had not been out for some weeks,
and all that time Harry Pearson had not seen those
rabbits. Harry was very happy, but still he could
not help saying to himself now and then, as he
looked at his favourite—

“I wonder who is going to have her?”

“You seem very fond of that tortoise-shell young
one, Harry!” said Edgar presently with a smile.

“Ee—yes!” said Harry, his eyes brightening as
he looked down tenderly at her.

“But how could you keep her?” asked Edgar.

“Oh, I’d keep her fast enough!” cried Harry,
turning quite scarlet, while his heart gave half a
dozen tremendous thumps. “I’d keep her! Why
I’d make the neatest little hutch that ever was.
And I’d give her the best of oats and pollard. Ah,
as much as ever she’d eat!”

“Well, then, I shall give her to you,” said Edgar.
“I made up my mind when I was ill I’d give her
to you, for I was sure you would take care of her.
That’s why I wouldn’t let that other boy have her.
He is rich, and can buy prize rabbits if he wants
them. I’d rather give her to you.”

Harry Pearson could not speak a word for a
minute or two. He could only look down on the
beautiful gift. To think that such a rabbit was his
own was too much for him at first.

“Oh!” he gasped, presently. “Oh! Master
Edgar. Oh! Thank you! Thank you!”

“Put her in that basket, and take her home,”
said Edgar.

Harry lost no time in obeying this delightful
command. After which he wheeled Edgar, who
was getting tired, back to the house, and then ran
home with his rabbit, the proudest and happiest
boy in Tolhurst.

All that evening there was an eager crowd of
youngsters in front of the cottage where Harry lived.

[Pg 244]
It was a long while since there had been such an
excitement in the village.

Nor did the boys’ interest in that rabbit die
out; boys were always dropping in to see how
she was getting on; and Mr. Blades, the butcher,
who was a great fancier, offered Harry three-and-sixpence
for her.

Very often Harry went to wheel Edgar Stopford’s
chair, when the two boys would have long talks
about the rabbit; and
Edgar’s pale face would
quite glow with pleasure
as he listened to Harry’s
praises of the wonderful
animal.

So things went on for
some time until Edgar
Stopford was taken away
to the sea-side.

Harry missed him
very much, but he still
had his rabbit to amuse
himself with; and so,
although it was then the
holidays, the days did
not hang on his hands
until very nearly the
date of the re-opening
of school.

One afternoon, however,
the time did seem
very long indeed. Most
of the boys Harry liked
had gone to a treat to
which he had not been
asked. He was cross
and dull. He had spent
the whole morning in
cleaning out the rabbit-hutch;
he wanted something
else to do, when,
happening to be loitering about in a meadow by
the side of the Squire’s house, he saw a squirrel in
a tree.

In an instant Harry was cruelly stoning away
as fast as he could pelt.

He had not done much stone-throwing since he
had had the rabbit; now he forgot for the moment
everything except the pleasure of aiming the
stones.

Up went the stones one after another; a minute
later, and—Crash! Crash! Smash went a lot of
glass—then there was a yell of pain and rage—a
side-door flying open—and Harry tearing, as if for
his life, across the field, while after him rushed his
own father and his father’s master—the Squire!

They followed him—they drove him into a corner
of the field; they secured him.

“Walk him off to the police-station this minute!”
exclaimed the Squire in a voice of fury.

“Oh, sir! oh, please! please, sir! Oh! oh!
Don’t, sir! don’t! I’ll never do it no more!”
sobbed the trembling boy.

“Take him to the station-house! Indict him
for manslaughter. He might have killed me?”
cried the enraged Squire.

“Beg pardon, sir,”
said Harry’s father,
touching his hat; “I’ve
cautioned that boy
times without number;
but leave him to me
this once more, sir.”

Harry was marched
home. His mother was
told. She cried bitterly.

“How much money
have you?” asked the
father.

“Not a—a far—thing,”
sobbed Harry.

“Then how is the four
shillings to be raised to
pay for that broken
glass?” continued Mr.
Pearson.

“I don’t—boo-hoo!
kn—now!”

“But I do!” exclaimed
Harry’s father,
in a tone of dreadful
meaning. “That rabbit
must be sold!“

“No! no!” shrieked
Harry; “I’d rather be
sold myself!”

“Take that rabbit to
Mr. Blades, and bring back three-and-six,” said
Harry’s father, in a stern voice.

He felt as if to part with that rabbit would kill
him; but he knew it had to be done. I don’t
know how he managed to do it. What he suffered
was terrible, yet he was sure there was no escape;
so he put his pet rabbit into a basket and took it to
Mr. Blades the butcher. There, in the picture,
you can see him.

“he … took it to mr. blades.”

“You won’t kill her, will you, Mr. Blades?” he
faltered, for the sight of the knives in the shop was
too much for him.

Harry has learned a hard lesson. Don’t you
hope Edgar will buy that rabbit for him again?
I do.

L. A.

[Pg 245]

Our Music Page

“Dignity and Impudence.”

Words from “Little Folks.”

Music by Burnham W. Horner.

In moderate time.

1. Said a wee little bird, with a pert little look, To an adjutant stork by the river—”I suppose
that you think you’re as wise as a book, And in fact that you’re wondrously clever! You’re a
picture of dignity, that I’ll admit, But alas! that is all I’ll allow, … For indeed
you’re not quarter as wise as a tit, That hops to and fro on the bough.”

2. Said the adjutant-stork to the wee little bird,
With a dignified kind of a stare—
“Little creatures like you should be seen and not heard,
And your impudence well we can spare!
You had better by far go back to your nest,
And be pert where they’ll heed what you do;
For you see that in height I’m six feet and the rest,
While you are just no feet two!”

3. So it is with us all as we pass through the day:
For we each of us think we’re most clever—
Whether impudent bird that chatters away,
Or “Dignity” stork by the river.
On our size or our form or our talents we pose,
And we hold ourselves up every hour:
If the Queen of the Garden be known as the Rose,
Then we are that wonderful flower!

[Pg 246]

The Editor’s Pocket-book.

How a Dog saved its Blind Master.

Some time since, a blind gentleman, well known
in the north of England, went for a walk of several
miles, accompanied by his dog. He knew the road
so well, that he did not strap up the dog, but let it
run loose. He had gone nearly five miles on his
way, and was crossing some fields by a footpath,
when his dog gave a peculiar whine in front of him.
He was about to climb a stile, when another whine
was heard. This startled him, so he crossed the
stile as carefully as he could, feeling every step.
Just as he got over the stile, the dog gave a louder
whine of alarm, placed its fore feet upon his breast,
and held him fast against the stile. He tried to
push the dog aside, but it would not let him proceed.
The strap was therefore put around its neck, and
the wise creature at once led its master by a roundabout
way quite out of the ordinary path. It
appeared that part of the footpath which led past
a stream had been entirely washed away by a
flood, so that, had the gentleman continued upon
the old path, he must have met with a most serious
accident. What made the sagacity of the dog
more conspicuous on this occasion was the fact
that it had not been with its master for eighteen
months—he having been laid up for the whole of
that period, and the dog living with a friend during
the illness.

Abraham Men.

This was the name bestowed upon a class of
vagabonds who wandered over the country dressed
in grotesque fashion, pretending to be mad and
working upon the fears or the charity of people for
alms. They were common in the time of Shakespeare,
and were found even as late as the Restoration.
The slang phrase “to sham Abraham,”
is a survival of the practice. There was a ward
in Bethlehem (or Bedlam) Hospital, called the
Abraham Ward, and hence probably arose the
name of these beggars. Harmless lunatics who
had been discharged were often to be seen roaming
about the country and were allowed a great deal
of licence in consequence of their weak-mindedness.
Accordingly, the impostors above mentioned, who
used generally to eke out the gifts of the charitable
by stealing, when detected in their theft,
would plead, as a rule, lunacy as an excuse of
their crime.

Famous Abdicators.

When a sovereign abdicates the throne, he does
so either of his own free will, or from compulsion.
These acts have been sufficiently numerous as
to form quite an interesting history. Take a few
of them by way of example. Amadeus of Savoy
abdicated in 1439, in order to become a priest.
The collapse of his great schemes induced the
Emperor Charles V. to give up his office in 1556.
Wishing to retire into private life Christina of
Sweden laid down the crown in 1654, though
she still desired to exercise the rights of queen.
Philip V. of Spain withdrew from the throne in
1724 in a fit of melancholy, but ascended it again
on the death of his son. Victor Amadeus of
Sardinia abdicated in 1730, and afterwards wanted
to recall the act, but was not permitted to do so.
Richard II. of England was compelled to abdicate
in 1399, and in 1688, James II. was forced to
yield to the wishes of his subjects. Other instances
might be cited, but enough have been, quoted
to stimulate the research of industrious readers.

[Pg 247]

Memory in Cats.

An anecdote is told by a gentleman of a cat
which will illustrate pussy’s affection for those who
treat her kindly. He had her from her birth, and
brought her up as a friend and companion. After
he had kept her for five years circumstances
required him to leave home for twelve months, the
cat of course having to remain behind. He returned
one Christmas morning about four o’clock, admitting
himself by a key that had been sent to him by post.
He went upstairs to his old bed-room, and in the
morning found puss asleep in her wonted place at
the foot of the bed. She made a great fuss with
him, and he ascertained that she had never been
upstairs from the time he left, a year before.
She must, he therefore concluded, have recollected
his footstep, and at once have fallen into her old
ways.

Fugitives from Siberia.

Prince Krapotkine—a Russian noble who has
experienced many of the hardships of which he
writes—in describing the life of exiles in Siberia,
says that its cruelty is so horrible that every
spring, when the snow has disappeared from the
forests, and men may sleep in the woods of a night
without being frozen to death, thousands of the
convicts try to escape from the gold and salt mines.
These poor folk prefer to run the risk of capture
and the brutal punishment it involves, rather than
remain longer in endless misery. Feeding on
mushrooms and berries they plod their weary
way back, amid perils of every kind, to their
native homes, hundreds—it may be thousands—of
miles distant. They avoid towns and highways,
of course, but they freely enter the villages. The
Siberian peasants, in silent pathetic fashion, show
their sympathy and good wishes for these unhappy
people by leaving on the windows of their houses
bread and milk “for the poor runaways.” Surely
we too may hope that the efforts of every unjustly-exiled
person to flee from the wretchedness and
torture of the Siberian mines may be crowned with
success.

Tame Humming-Birds.

A young lady in California who had, through
illness, to spend several hours a day reclining on
rugs spread on the garden-lawn, succeeded in
taming two humming-birds. At first the birds
watched her with some curiosity from a distance.
To entice them to come nearer she fastened a
fuchsia, filled with sweetened water, to a branch of
a tree above her head. The tiny fellows soon
thrust their bills into the flower. Thinking they
might like honey better, a fresh flower was filled
with it every day. This food was quite to their
taste, and so eager were they to get it that they
would hardly wait for their mistress to leave the
flower before they began to rifle its sweets. They
grew so familiar at length that when she held a
flower in one hand and filled it with drops from a
spoon, the birds caught the drops as they fell.
Only two male birds monopolised the honey flower,
and they would not permit any bee or wasp to come
near it. Between themselves even squabbles continually
arose about possession. Change of weather
compelling the young lady to keep indoors, she
tried to coax them to the parlour windows. For a
time the birds could not understand the altered
position of affairs, but at last one of them repeatedly
went up to her and took honey from her hand.

Intelligent Dogs.

Some time ago I had occasion to speak of a wise
cat of Colonel Stuart Wortley’s. Now I may
mention the doings of two intelligent dogs of his.
One of them was able to tell whether or not it
might go out with the housekeeper, according as
she wore a hat or bonnet. If she wore her hat
it knew that it might accompany her, and barked
with joy as soon as she appeared, but if she wore
her bonnet it knew she was going to church or on
a visit, and that it could not go with her. It became
so familiar with these articles that if drawings of
hat and bonnet were placed before it, it could
indicate which was which. The other dog was a
Skye terrier. When the Colonel went out it was
enough to say “Yes” or “No” in an ordinary tone
for the dog to know whether it might accompany
him or not. The terrier was next taught to distinguish
the words when printed on cards—Yes
and No—and in a few weeks it never mistook
them.

Skating-Race in Lapland.

With a view to test the powers of the Lapps in
the matter of long-distance skating, Baron Nordenskjöld,
the celebrated Arctic explorer, offered
prizes for a contest during his stay in that country.
The highest prize was £14, and the distance was about
142 miles, starting from Quickjock and returning
to the same spot. The distance was accomplished
by the winner in 21 hours and 22 minutes, inclusive
of rest on the way. But so keen was the struggle
that the second was only half a minute later, while
the third arrived 11 minutes later.

The Riddle of the Sphinx.

The sphinx was a strange creature that figured
in different old-world mythologies. Its form varied,
but the monster which propounded the famous
riddle was supposed to have the body of a lion, the
head of a woman, bird’s wings, and a serpent’s tail.
Well, this sphinx appeared once upon a time, near
Thebes, in ancient Greece, and asked a riddle
[Pg 248]
of every passer-by, whom it promptly slew if
the correct answer were not forthcoming. This
scourge at length drove the poor Thebans to
despair, and they offered their kingdom and the
hand of their Queen to whomsoever would relieve
them of the dreaded monster’s presence. One
Œdipus essayed this task. The sphinx asked him,
“What being has four feet, two feet, and three feet;
only one voice; but whose feet vary, and when it
has most, is weakest”
Œdipus answered,
“Man,”
and there and
then the sphinx
threw itself into the
sea. Man, you will
notice, has four
feet (hands and
feet) and, when
compelled to use a
staff, three feet.

The Wolf and the Bees.

Not long since
a wolf, in a milk
factory in Cheshire,
was stung to
death by the bees
of a hive that stood
near its kennel. As
the honey was
being taken from
one of the hives
the wolf happened
to come out of his
den, and the bees
swarmed upon him in large numbers. The poor brute
at once retired into his house, but it was evident he
was in much agony, for he rolled over and over,
pulling the hair out of his coat in great quantities.
Steps were accordingly taken to draw off the bees,
the kennel being closed and smoked. These efforts,
however, proved useless, and within three hours the
unfortunate wolf was dead. A horse and two dogs
were also seriously stung on the same occasion.

About Pages.

Nowadays, when we talk of pages, allusion is
made as a rule to the “boy in buttons,” but long
ago they were rather important folk. It was the
practice, hundreds of years since, to employ youths
of noble birth to wait upon the sovereign, and the
custom flourished in the Middle Ages. The young
gentleman “served his time” at courts and castles
as a page, previous to taking the further degrees
of esquire and knight. The habit of educating the
higher nobility as court pages declined after the
fifteenth century, and they are now a mere survival,
on a very small scale, of a once general practice.
Four pages of honour still form part of the state of the
British court.

The Union Jack.

Everybody has seen the banner of the United
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. It is
formed of a combination
of the
crosses of St.
George (England),
St. Andrew (Scotland),
and St. Patrick
(Ireland). The
first Union Jack
was introduced in
1606, three years
after the union of
Scotland and England,
and showed,
of course, only the
first two crosses.
A century later
(July 28, 1707),
this standard was
made, by royal proclamation,
the national
flag of Great
Britain. On the
union with Ireland
a new union
banner was needed,
and the present
ensign was accordingly
devised.

glendower’s oak.

Glendower’s Oak.

Owen Glendower was a noble Welshman, who
led his countrymen in the long and stout resistance
which they offered to King Henry IV. Henry
Percy, surnamed Hotspur, son of the Earl of
Northumberland, made common cause with Glendower,
and each at the head of a large force
prepared to do battle against the king, who
was intent on crushing the rebellion in Wales.
Henry IV. reached Shrewsbury just before Percy,
and it was of the utmost importance to him that
he should engage the latter before his troops should
be reinforced by Glendower’s. The battle accordingly
took place on the 21st of July, 1403, and
after a protracted struggle, in which Hotspur lost
his life, victory declared itself on the side of the
king. Though Glendower did not take part in the
contest, tradition points to an oak near Shrewsbury
as the tree from whose boughs he watched the fight.

[Pg 249]

The “Little Folks” Humane Society

THIRTY-SECOND 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.