Little Folks:

A Magazine for the Young.

NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES.

CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited.

LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK.

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

Contents

[Pg 129]

A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.

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

CHAPTER VIII.—ESCAPE.

When Elsie awoke
in the morning,
after at last falling
into a dull, heavy
sleep, she had not
an opportunity of
seeing what sort
of weather it was.
There was no
light in their rude
sleeping-place,
except the dim
one that came
through the aperture
from the
other room. She
listened, and hearing
sounds of life
below, she hastily
rose, and creeping down the ladder, went in search
of her frock.

Mrs. Ferguson was already up, and busy. Elsie
asked for her frock, but Mrs. Ferguson told her it
was not dry, and she had better make what shift
she could with the old gown she had given her on
the previous night. As she could nowhere see her
dress, she was obliged reluctantly to follow the
woman’s advice.

To her delight, she perceived that the morning
was bright and warm after the rain, and she fully
resolved, as soon as their things were decently dry,
to be on their road once more.

In the meantime, however, Duncan’s jacket had
also disappeared. She could get nothing out of
Mrs. Ferguson about it, except that it was drying,
and Duncan had to put up with a cotton jacket,
which Mrs. Ferguson stripped from her own boy’s
back to give him.

This mystery as to the whereabouts of their
clothes very greatly annoyed Elsie, who tried in
vain to make Mrs. Ferguson say where they were.
She pretended not to understand what Elsie meant,
though Elsie felt quite sure all that was feigned.

Their breakfast consisted of some thin watery
porridge, without bread, sugar, or milk.

When their scanty meal was ended, Mrs.
Ferguson ordered them to go out and help Sandy
Ferguson, her husband, who was waiting outside
for them. At first Elsie felt disposed to refuse, but
on second thoughts, she obeyed. Sandy Ferguson
was on the spot, his wife in the kitchen, with the
cottage door open, their two boys about here, there,
and everywhere.

To get away unperceived was out of the question,
besides the serious matter of losing their
garments, which Elsie had not yet been able to
discover.

So they had to work away in company with the
two ragged urchins. Elsie was boiling with rage,
but she hid it as well as she could; and as for poor
Duncan, he worked away without uttering a word,
but with only an occasional inquiring glance at
Elsie, which was infinitely touching.

Elsie soon perceived that there would be no
chance of their pursuing their journey that day.
Mrs. Ferguson protested that she was getting their
things dried as fast as she could, and would say
nothing more; but Elsie had a keen misgiving
that for some reason or other she did not mean to
let them go.

Was it possible that she knew anything of their
mother, and was thinking to send them back? or
did she only mean to keep them there, and make
them work for her family?

At times Elsie felt a terrible fear creeping over
her that these dreadful people meant to steal or
hurt her and Duncan. “Perhaps she wants
our clothes,” Elsie thought, “for she knows we
have no more pennies!”

So she took the first opportunity she could find
to tell Mrs. Ferguson that they didn’t think they
could wait any longer for their things to get dry;
they could easily get some more at Killochrie.
She said this with an air of indifference. She
would put her jacket on over her stuff petticoat,
and that would do very well. Duncan could wear
the cotton jacket, and leave his tweed one behind.

But all this made no impression on Mrs.
Ferguson. She only laughed grimly to herself;
and as their things were not forthcoming, Elsie
might as well have spared her generosity. If she
could only have found her jacket she would have been
contented, but this, too, had disappeared, and even if
she had found the opportunity, Elsie would hardly
have had the courage to go on her way with Mrs.
Ferguson’s dirty tattered gown tucked up and
pinned together about her.

By-and-by Elsie began to think she saw what
Mrs. Ferguson was thinking of. She noticed that
she frequently looked along the road, and carefully
watched for any vehicle whose wheels sounded in
[Pg 130]
the distance. “She thinks mother’ll come and
fetch us,” Elsie said to herself, “or at least the
woman that I told her I lived with; but she’ll never
come here after us, that’s certain.”

But although Elsie had very little fear that they
would be found, yet she was determined to get
away somehow from this hovel.

Two whole days had elapsed. They had spent
three wretched shivering nights on the floor of the
loft. On the third day Elsie felt she could bear it
no longer. She was in a state of suppressed excitement,
and she felt that she could almost jump
out of her skin.

It is very strange to notice through what small
loopholes people often make their escape. The
fairy-tale idea of passing through keyholes and up
chimneys is scarcely more wonderful. Now, Mrs.
Ferguson had been keeping a strict watch on these
children, and not only herself, but her husband and
two children had all been employed to watch. On
the third day there stopped at the cottage door a
lumbering vehicle, containing a man and woman
and several baskets. The two alighted, and came
into the cottage, where a great talking ensued, and
many purchases were displayed and loudly discussed.
The two Ferguson lads should have been
with Elsie and Duncan, but they had climbed on to
the top of the peat-stack by the side of the house,
and were lying full length, peering unobserved
through the dingy window. Suddenly Elsie
perceived that they were alone, and without waiting
to consider the possibilities of the case, she took
Duncan by the hand, pushed him over the stone
wall, quickly climbed it herself, and flew away over
the grass as fast as her feet could carry her in the
direction of the hills.

Here, again, fortune favoured her, as it sometimes
does favour the most rash ventures. After running
a goodish way, Elsie saw what she had never
dreamed of finding—a roadway sweeping round the
foot of the hill, and quite hidden from sight by a
sudden rise in the ground. When they gained the
road, they too would be hidden by the rising ground
between them and the crofter’s cottage, whereas
now they could be seen distinctly by any one who
should happen to look, for there was not even a
tree or bush to shield them. Elsie pushed on
quickly, not venturing to take even a peep behind
until they had safely scrambled down the steep
bank into the road, when, to her joy, she found that
the stone walls enclosing the croft, even the
little hovel itself, had completely disappeared.

“Elsie,” said Duncan, catching his breath, and
looking up to her with a glance of terror, “will they
catch us?”

“No, I don’t think so, Duncan,” Elsie answered,
quite gently. “We are quite out of sight. We
must be quick, and find out where this road leads.”

“I am so frightened, Elsie!” Duncan exclaimed,
with a pitiful, appealing glance to her not to be
angry. He had kept his terror to himself so long
that he could hide it no longer. “Did you think
they were going to kill us, Elsie?”

“No, Duncan, of course not,” Elsie replied, not
without a little shiver.

It was very noticeable how different Elsie’s tone
was from her usual one. There was no snapping
up or ridiculing her little brother. She spoke
more as if she were trying to persuade herself of the
truth of what she said.

“But, Elsie, there was never any one came near,”
Duncan persisted. “Sandy Ferguson could dig a
big hole, and put us in right easy. No one would
know. Don’t let him catch us, Elsie.”

“He shan’t catch us, dear,” Elsie said, reassuringly,
though she was not feeling very easy
about it herself. It was only now that she began
really to feel what a terrible time they had lived
through in those last two days, and what unknown
horrors they had escaped from. Duncan’s words
filled her with fear. To be overtaken and carried
back to that dreadful woman seemed the worst
thing that could befall them.

“I wonder where this road leads?” Elsie said,
trying to make Duncan think of something else.
“There’s no one to ask.”

“P’raps they might be like the man if you
asked,” Duncan said fearfully; “and you look so
ragged in that dirty old gown, Elsie. They will
think we are beggars.”

Elsie had been thinking the same thing herself,
though she was not going to tell poor Duncan—already
frightened out of his senses—how uncomfortable
she really felt. Alone in a country
road, which led they did not know where, without
a penny to buy food or, so far as they could see, a
house from which they could ask some, what was
to become of them?

“Elsie?” Duncan said presently, looking at her
very wistfully.

“Yes, Duncan?”

“You won’t be angry, will you?”

“No, I won’t be angry,” Elsie said impatiently.
“What is it?”

“I feel so tired. Couldn’t we go home?”

“Do you think you could find the way back?”
Elsie asked.

“Oh! but we could ask for Dunster,” Duncan
said, eagerly. “People would tell us. I’d try to
run very fast, Elsie.”

“We should have to get back to that other road,
where the cottages are, first,” Elsie said, contemplatively.
[Pg 131]
“Would you like to do that,
Duncan?”

“Oh, no!” the child cried, in terror. “They’d
catch us, Elsie, they’d catch us: I’m sure they
would.”

“We won’t go there,” Elsie said, trying to
comfort him, for it was pitiful to see his fright.
“Wait till I see a nice tidy person, and I’ll ask all
about it.”

“There might be another way,” Duncan suggested.

Just then they heard the sound of distant wheels.
Duncan caught hold of Elsie’s shoulder in an
agony of fright. “It’s the man!” he cried,
trembling from head to foot, and turning as white
as death. “He’s coming, Elsie! he’s coming to
fetch us back!”

CHAPTER IX.—A FAIRY VISITOR.

W
ith what indescribable torments of dread
the two children stood waiting it is difficult
to express. Elsie’s feeling of fright for
herself was merged in care for Duncan.
She had never seen him look like this before,
and it startled her. His white face was drawn
into an expression that changed it altogether. His
eyes were wide and staring, looking along the
road in a sort of fascination of terror.

Elsie held him close to her, drawing him round
so that he should not see the approaching vehicle,
still far distant, for on that still, lonely road the
sound of hoofs could be heard at a great distance.
Elsie listened, with her heart standing still.

“Duncan, Duncan, it is two horses!” she cried,
presently. “And they are coming quickly. It is
a carriage, not a cart.”

But Duncan was so terrified that he had no
reasoning power left in him. Even when the
carriage came in sight he would not have been
a bit surprised to have seen the crofter and his
shrewish wife jump out of it.

Instead of that, however, the carriage contained
a very fashionably-dressed, rich-looking lady and
gentleman. Elsie could see directly that they
were gentlefolk, who would never think of hurting
two little children. She resolved to speak
to them.

“the carriage drew up close by them” (p. 131)

They were certainly in fortune’s way. The
carriage drew up close by them, and a dainty
voice asked—

“Children, can you tell us if we are on the right
road to Killochrie?”

“I don’t think you are, ma’am,” Elsie replied, in
her best manner.

“Oh dear!” the lady exclaimed; “how annoying
when we are in such haste! Can you direct us?”

“There’s a road right over there leads to it,”
Elsie replied, pointing with her hand.

“But how do we get on to the road? Does this
one meet it anywhere? Driver, don’t you know?”

The driver muttered something in a rather surly
fashion, whereupon the gentleman, who had not yet
spoken, leaned forward, and said angrily, “You told
us you knew this neighbourhood. You are an idiot!”

“Perhaps this little lass could show him,” the
lady remarked.

“Indeed, ma’am, it’s right glad I’d be to do it,”
Elsie began (how very polite any one can be when
they choose), “but we’re quite strange, and have
lost our own way, our mother being dead and our
father in London, which we’re trying to find; and
perhaps, ma’am, you would be so kind as to tell us
the way.” All this was said very rapidly.

“If they can’t help us, why not drive on?” the
gentleman remarked impatiently.

“Stay a moment,” the lady said. “These children
may possibly be of great use to us. Look at
the girl, William. She hasn’t at all a bad face, if
she were well dressed,” she added, in a low tone,
which, however, did not escape Elsie.

“You say your mother is dead and your father
in London,” the lady added. “Who are you living
with?”

“There was a woman who took care of us,” Elsie
replied quickly, “but she let our father think we
were dead, so we ran away to find him; and a man
who gave us a ride in his cart robbed us of our
pennies and our clothes, and was very cruel. We
ran away in the clothes they gave us.”

“What a deal of running away,” the lady said,
not unkindly; “and your little brother looks tired.
Do you know how far it is to London?”

“No, not exactly, ma’am,” Elsie replied.

“Well, it is hundreds and hundreds of miles;
and let me tell you at once you will never get there
if you walk for ever. But,” she added quickly,
leaving Elsie no time to reply, “I may be able
to help you. I am a sort of good fairy. Walk on
towards Killochrie. Ask any one you see the way
there, and before night I will come back again.
That is all. Coachman, drive on. You must look
out for some one else to direct us.”

Then the man whipped up his horses and drove
off, leaving Elsie standing by the roadside in a sad
state of bewilderment. Could she have heard
aright? Before three minutes had passed she
began to think she had been mistaken, but that
could not be, for Duncan presently said to her—

“She won’t ever come back, Elsie, will she?
But she was a bonnie lady, wasn’t she?”

“She was bonnie, and real kind,” Elsie said.
“I wonder whether she will come back after all.”

[Pg 132]
“She might have put us inside the carriage if
she’d liked,” Duncan said, doubtfully.

“Perhaps the gentleman wouldn’t have let her,”
Elsie replied. “I think she meant she would come
alone.”

“Will she be very long?” Duncan said, pitifully;
“and will she take us to London, to him—our
father, Elsie?—or will you ask her to take us back
to Dunster?”

“We must wait till she comes,” Elsie said,
evasively. In her heart of hearts she would not
have been sorry to find herself back in Mrs.
MacDougall’s cottage, but the humiliation of returning
and acknowledging why she had run away, and
how she had failed, was too much for her proud,
stubborn will.

“Do you like running away?” Duncan asked,
looking up anxiously in her face.

“I don’t mind it,” Elsie answered. She was
getting into a contrary mood, partly because
Duncan’s remarks touched her so keenly, partly
out of anger and impatience at the misfortunes
that had befallen them.

They had been walking along slowly in the
direction the carriage had taken. Duncan did not
seem inclined to go faster. Presently he stopped,
and stood watching a number of black-faced Highland
sheep scampering down the side of a hill.
There were sounds of barking, and at last there
appeared a shepherd and collie.

“He will know the way,” Elsie cried, with
delight. “Come on, Duncan; let’s run and ask
him.”

“You run, Elsie. I’ll wait till you come back,”
Duncan said, wearily. It was very unusual for
him to hang behind, but Elsie was too eager to
notice it. She left him sitting by the roadside, and
flew after the shepherd.

“The way to Killochrie? Weel, you just keep
to the road right away till it runs into another one,
an’ that’ll take you straight through; but it’s a
long, long way to walk.”

The man was engaged in eating a large piece of
bread and cheese. Elsie, who was very hungry,
eyed it longingly.

“Ye look a wee bit starved,” the man said.

“We’ll be getting some food at Killochrie,” Elsie
said, evasively.

“I did hear last night that there was two
children lost off Dunster Moor—stolen, they do
say. I suppose you bain’t one of them?” the man
continued, eyeing her curiously “Was dressed in
plaid frock and cloth jacket. That ain’t you,
any way.”

“We live at Killochrie,” Elsie said quickly and
wickedly, not hesitating to conceal the truth, and
to tell a falsehood to do so. “We’ve come farther
than we should, and I wasn’t quite sure of the way.”

“Aweel! aweel!” the man said, in his slow
northern fashion. “It’s a good thing ye’re not
lost away from your natural home, which I’d be
sorry to think of happening to any bairn. It’s a
goodish bit out of my road, but I’d like to carry
the poor bairnies back to their mother, wherever
she be.”

Elsie waited to hear no more. She bade the
man a hasty “Good-day,” and ran off. How
strange it was that this out-of-the-way shepherd
should have heard the tale, and yet not so strange
when one thinks how quickly such a tale spreads
far and near, and how few other concerns the
shepherd had to drive it from his mind. Already
the news of the lost children was being discussed
in every whiskey-shop and cottage. It had
reached the little village three miles out of
Killochrie, where the shepherd’s wife lived. And
if the children had been elsewhere than in the
crofter’s lonely cottage they must have been discovered,
as there was every chance that they would
be before long.

Now, if Elsie had known it, the first piece of
good fortune that had really come to them was
when she met the shepherd. He was an honest,
kind-hearted man, the father of children. At one
word of explanation he would have taken the
children in charge, and delivered them safely over
to their proper guardian. Providence, watching
over the misguided children, had put this means of
deliverance in their way. But Elsie was still
obstinate, and the very thought of being taken back
roused every feeling of opposition and anger.

If only poor little Duncan had known the
opportunity, which was every moment retreating
farther away!

Elsie breathed freely when she perceived the
shepherd disappear in the valley. “We are all
right,” she said to Duncan, keeping to herself the
shock she had received. “This will lead us to
Killochrie.”

Duncan said nothing. He seemed neither glad
nor sorry. He was not much of a companion,
Elsie thought.

The day crept on. They did not make much
progress, for Duncan was cross, and lagged dreadfully.

Elsie had in her mind a firm conviction that the
kind lady would return, and she was not wrong, for
at last they saw a female figure coming towards
them; she carried a good-sized leather bag in
her hand, which Elsie believed contained food
for them. How glad she was now that she had
fled from the shepherd. The good fairy had come.

[Pg 133]
There was one thing Elsie had never thought of.
Wicked spirits often assume the appearance of
good fairies. Every one knows that, so that it was
to be seen whether this was a good fairy or not.

CHAPTER X.—THE NEW MOTHER.

S
uch
a disappointment! As the figure drew
near, Elsie saw that she had made a mistake.
Instead of the beautifully-dressed
lady of the carriage, it turned out to be a
person dressed in black garments, with a long
black veil covering her face.

She walked along quickly, and as she came up to
the children, she stopped. Then she turned up her
veil, and Elsie saw with astonishment that it was
really the lady who had spoken to them that morning,
but so changed, that it was no wonder Elsie
had not known her. The face that had looked so
gay and smiling was now sad and pensive; the
fair curling hair, falling in pretty confusion over the
white forehead, was drawn smoothly back under
the neat crape bonnet, with its widow’s cap.

The many bracelets and other jewellery were all
gone. So complete was the transformation that
Elsie stood staring, not knowing what to believe.

[Pg 134]
“I told you I was a fairy,” the lady said, in
a kind, but sad, voice. “You must not be surprised
to see me so changed. To-morrow I may change
again. A fairy is all sorts of things, you know.”

“Ye—es, ma’am,” Elsie said, doubtfully.

“I dare say you think that a fairy can change
other people as well as herself, do you not?”

“Yes, ma’am; fairies do that in books,” Elsie
replied.

“Well, and I tell you I am a fairy,” the lady said,
a little sharply; “and I am going to change you.”

“What is she going to change us into, Elsie?”
asked the matter-of-fact Duncan.

“Ah! what?” the lady asked, with a laugh. “Shall
I change you into two little Highland sheep scampering
over the hills, and feeding upon grass?”

“Oh no!” Elsie said quickly; but Duncan, whose
mind never readily accepted a new idea, only
replied stolidly, “You couldn’t, you know.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” the lady replied.
“But I am not going to. I am going to make you
into my own little children.”

This seemed very nice and kind, but it so completely
did away with their own father that Elsie
did not know what to say. The lady seemed displeased,
and stamping her foot, said very sharply—”Do
you hear what I say? I am going to turn you
into my little boy and girl.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Elsie said slowly. “It is
very kind, only we’ve got our own father.”

“I didn’t say anything about a father, did I?”
the lady said. “I shall be your mother. While you
are my children, your father is dead.”

“But he isn’t indeed, ma’am,” Elsie began; but
he lady’s face suddenly changed. It grew very
red, and her eyes blazed with passion.

In place of the sad, pensive face, she saw an
angry, furious, dreadful-looking face, that struck
terror into her heart. “While you are my children,”
she exclaimed, in a loud terrible voice, “your father
is dead. If you forget that for one moment, I will
instantly change you back into the wretched little
creatures you now are, and set you down on top of
that high mountain, where you will perish of cold
and hunger.” Then suddenly she dropped her
voice, her face grew calm and sweet-looking again,
and she said, very gently, “Will you be my children?”

The children were so bewildered and astonished
that they could hardly believe their senses. Elsie
replied at once—”Oh yes, if we may;” but it was
really more because she did not dare to say anything
else, for fear of offending this strange being,
and the dread of being left alone all night among the
dark, gloomy hills.

“Follow me,” the lady said, drawing down her
veil, and turning away from the road on to the
grass.

The children followed. She led them some
distance over the lowest part of a small hill. She
walked quickly, the children doing their best to
keep pace with her light, rapid footsteps, although
Duncan was very tired, and both were desperately
hungry. Presently they found themselves
in a tiny dell, through which ran a little
babbling stream, and where large yellow daisies,
and bonnie blue-bells, and other flowers bloomed
abundantly. Here the strange lady stopped, and
opening her bag, she drew forth some black garments.
The first one was a frock of fine black
stuff with crape. She bade Elsie take off the
old gown she was wearing, and put on this.

Elsie was charmed. The dress fastened down
the back, and had a narrow skirt, cut in one with
the body, forming a complete contrast to her own
short full skirt and round body of bright plaid.
Then there came forth from the fairy bag a black
hat and a pair of beautiful silk gloves. “You will
do for to-night,” the lady said, when Elsie had put
them on. “To-morrow morning we must think of
shoes and stockings less clumsy than those you
have on.”

“‘you are to call me mamma,’ she said” (p. 134).

For Duncan she brought out a black overcoat,
which reached nearly to his ankles, and a black
cloth cap. Elsie waited impatiently, hoping to see
some nice food come out of the bag, but the fairy
mother seemed not to have thought of that, for she
shut it up when she had taken the cap out, and
gave it to Duncan to carry. Then she rolled up
the tattered gown and jacket, and threw them into
the stream.

“You are to call me mamma,” she said sweetly,
“or mother, if you are more used to that.”

“Then please, ma’am—ma—we are very hungry,”
Elsie said.

The lady did not seem pleased. “What dreadful
things children are! They want to eat!” she
exclaimed. “Well, there is no time now; we
must get home quickly. Give me a hand each of
you.”

They did as they were told, and very soon were
again upon the road, walking as quickly as they
could to keep up with her. Every now and then
she gave Duncan a sharp tug to make him walk
quicker.

The poor child was so tired and hungry that
he hardly knew how to get along, but the lady
took no notice. Elsie really was beginning to think
that there was something about her quite different
from ordinary people, but she was not sure that
she liked her any better for that. She wondered
whether she knew what it was to feel very hungry.

[Pg 135]
They walked what seemed to the weary children
a very, very long way, but at last they saw
houses, and they perceived that they had arrived
at a little village. Here the lady bought them
some buns and rolls, which they eagerly devoured,
but to their infinite disappointment they found
they were not to stay here. On they walked
another long way, till they reached a place with
many houses and streets and shops, such as Elsie
had never seen in her life before.

It was now quite dark, but the lady hurried
them through the streets, not allowing them to
stop for a moment. By-and-by they arrived at
a strange building of wood. They were presently
lifted into a carriage. The lady followed; the
door was shut. There was a shrill scream, and
then the lights outside began to glide past them.
They were, for the first time in their lives, in a
train.

Duncan had not been in the carriage two
minutes before his head fell back against the
woodwork, and he was asleep. Elsie’s brain was
too busy for her to do the same thing. The sensation
of gliding along in the dark was so new and
strange that she was at first very frightened, but as
every one else looked quite comfortable, her fears
began to abate, and she could turn her mind
to the strange adventures that had befallen them.

After some little time they stopped, and their
companion lifted them out, rousing Duncan out of
his heavy sleep with much difficulty.

A tall, dark gentleman was waiting, on the platform
for them. “Here are the dear children,” the
lady said, in a sweet, sad voice. “Children, say
‘How do you do?’ to your Uncle William.”

The gentleman shook hands with each of them,
and taking Elsie by the hand, led her forward, the
lady following with Duncan. They passed through
some gates, and found some carriages waiting
outside. Into one of these the gentleman and lady
took the children, and they were driven away.

These two strange individuals conversed a great
deal, but the noise of the wheels prevented Elsie
from hearing much of what they said. She made
out that the lady was telling the gentleman about
her journey, and she thought they both seemed
rather pleased.

Suddenly the gentleman leaned over, and laid a
hand upon Elsie’s arm. “Mind what you are
about,” he said in her ear. “If you say anything
to displease this lady, your good mother, it will
be the worse for you. The less you say to anybody,
the better; and look after the boy. What is
your name?”

“Elsie.”

“No it isn’t. It is Effie Donaldson. Don’t
forget it again. Your brother’s name is Donald
Donaldson. Don’t let him forget it, either.”

Elsie saw in a moment that there was no trifling
meant, and that she would have to obey. It was
the same gentleman who had called the driver an
idiot in the morning. She had stolen a glance at
him then, and had not liked his face. She liked
it still less now. Still, they must be kind people,
or they would not have brought her and Duncan
all this way, and given them such nice clothes.
Elsie very much wished, however, that gentlefolk
had not such strange manners.

She was very glad and thankful when at last
they alighted at a house, into which they entered.
A neat, tidy-looking woman came forward to meet
them. “Everything’s quite ready, ma’am, as the
gentleman ordered,” she said, with a curtsey. “I’ve
made up an extra bed in your room, ma’am, for the
little boy, which the gentleman said would suit
you, and the supper’s waiting to be served in a
moment. I dare say the children are tired, ma’am.”

“Yes,” said the lady, in a sweet, gentle voice.
“They have had a long journey, and they are
tired to-night. They will be glad to get to bed as
soon as we have had supper, won’t you, dears?”

“Yes, mamma,” Elsie answered quickly. Duncan
made no reply.

“You go in there, and sit down till I come,” the
lady said, pointing to an open door, through which
came the gleam of a fire. She took Elsie’s hat
and Duncan’s cap, and went upstairs, leaving the
children, as they thought, alone.

But that was a mistake, for the gentleman came
in the next moment. However, he told them, not
unkindly, to sit down and warm themselves, which
they were glad enough to do. The table was
already spread for a meal. Presently the woman
brought in a dish of ham and eggs, which made
the famished creatures ready to cry with delight.

Their new mamma watched them very narrowly
as they ate. Fortunately, Mrs. MacDougall had
been very strict about their behaviour, but there
were still several things that displeased their new
friend, for which she corrected them pretty sharply;
and to show how easily children can remember
when they really know they must, Elsie not only
bore in mind the faults that were found with
herself, but also those points in which Duncan
had offended.

The woman of the house came in by-and-by,
to ask whether she should see the children in bed.
She looked so kind and nice, that Elsie hoped their
new mamma would say “Yes.” She, however, declined,
saying that she could not bear any one to do
anything for the children but herself. Then she took
them upstairs, and locking the door, bade them
[Pg 136]
undress. She then went to a box, and got out
some night garments, which were much too large;
but the children did not mind that. She tucked
Elsie kindly into the snuggest, sweetest bed that
could be, and then went to do the same kind office
for Duncan. Then telling them that they were
on no account to get up till she came to them
the next morning, she left them to such a night’s
rest as they had not had since they left the cottage
on Dunster Moor.

CHAPTER XI.—”THAT CHILD IS ILL!”

T
he children had been in the habit of rising
at an early hour all their lives. Elsie woke the
next morning about six o’clock, to find the sun
shining in brightly at the curtained window.
She had always thought what a fine thing it must
be to be able to lie in bed as long as one liked,
so she was not at all averse to doing as the lady
had bidden her, especially as the little bed was so
soft and warm. She lay quietly, looking round
the room at the pictures which hung on the walls,
and at the various articles of furniture it contained;
but after a while she began to grow tired
of this, and to wonder when the lady would come
to her. After an hour or so she crept to the
door, and turned the handle, thinking to see if
any one was about yet; but she found that she was
locked in, so there was nothing else to be done
but to get back into bed.

The time passed very slowly; still no one came.
Elsie grew very restless, and did not at all like the
feeling of being locked up away from Duncan.
Still these people were gentlefolk, and rich. It was
quite impossible they could mean any harm.
She could hear distant sounds of people moving
in the house. Could it be possible that they had
forgotten all about her? She had heard a clock
strike seven, then eight, now it was striking nine.
At home, she would have been across the moor
[Pg 137]
and back, have had her breakfast, and been at
school by this time.

Much as she stood in awe of her mysterious
benefactress, she grew at last so restless that she
could be still no longer, but jumped up, and began
to wash and dress herself.

She was standing before the glass, greatly admiring
her appearance in the new frock and hat, and
wondering how the lady had really got them, when
the key turned, and the fairy mother herself
entered. She was dressed in long trailing black
garments, with a white cap on her head, and looked,
Elsie thought, wonderfully sweet and pretty. But
as her eye fell upon Elsie the sweetness vanished,
and the angry expression that had once before so
terrified her came back.

“I told you not to get up till I came,” she said,
in a threatening voice.

“I thought you had forgotten; it was so late,”
Elsie faltered.

“You are not to think,” the lady said. “You have
disobeyed me once. The second time you will find
yourself, before nightfall, back on the top of the
mountain, as I warned you before. And far
worse things than that will befall you, and your
brother too. Take care! I shall not warn you
again. Now, put on these stockings I have brought
you, and let me see if these shoes fit.”

They were a pair of fine woven black stockings,
for which Elsie willingly changed her thick grey
knitted ones. The shoes were a little long, but
were soft and easy to her feet, and seemed to Elsie
very beautiful ones. They were, in fact, a pair of
the lady’s own, and yet were scarcely any too large
for Elsie. Then the lady combed out her hair,
and tied it up with a piece of black ribbon. Elsie
felt herself very grand indeed.

“Now kiss me, and say, ‘Good morning,
mamma,'” the lady said, holding her cheek down.

Elsie did as she was bidden. “That will do,”
the lady said. “When you go downstairs say
‘Good morning’ to your Uncle William in the
same way. You can go now.”

Elsie went downstairs. At the door of the room
where they had supped the night before she met
the woman of the house, taking in a plate of eggs,
coffee, and other good things.

The woman looked at her curiously, but made no
remark. Elsie went in, and found the gentleman
already there. She went forward and bade him
good morning, as she had been directed.

He lifted up a pair of large black eyes from the
paper he was reading, and gave her a look which
somehow scared her, as he said “Good morning,
Effie.” She stood still, not daring to move at
all, and feeling extremely frightened and awkward.

“Go and tell your mamma that breakfast is
ready,” he said, with another look.

“Yes, dear, I’m coming,” the lady called, in
response to Elsie’s message. “Don’t walk so
heavily, child!” she exclaimed, as Elsie ran downstairs.
“I do not know what sort of manners they
have taught you at that wretched school. Bring
your hat down, dear; then we shall be all ready to
start. You will see that the luggage is in readiness,
Mrs. Alexander,” she added to the woman, who
was at that moment coming out of the room.

“Yes, ma’am, certainly. And the fly will be
round at a quarter to ten punctually.”

The lady thanked her very sweetly; she was
leading Duncan by the hand. He had on his
overcoat, and held his cap in his hand. Elsie concluded
at once that this was because he had no
jacket, and wondered why the lady had not provided
one for him as well as clothes for her. The
child was looking pale and heavy, and, Elsie
thought, unhappy.

All the time they were at breakfast the lady and
gentleman talked about the weather, and the long
journey they were going to take, and such things,
just, Elsie thought, as if Mrs. Alexander were outside
listening. Elsie was considerably bewildered
by the way they spoke of her and Duncan.

“Effie is not so much grown as I would have
thought,” the lady remarked to the gentleman, who
seemed to be her brother.

“She is very much tanned, and her hands are
as brown as berries,” he replied.

“Ah! that is the natural result of such a country
life,” the lady returned. “She has perfect health.”

“Donald does not look so well.”

Elsie could make nothing of this strange conversation,
but she supposed that the lady wished
her and Duncan to be taken for some other children
who were not there. Still this was puzzling,
for where could the other children be?

Duncan ate very little, and seemed to take that
more because he was frightened to leave what had
been given him than for any hunger.

After breakfast a carriage came to the door, and
they drove back again to the station from which
they had come last night. After a little waiting,
the train started.

There were no other passengers in the carriage
they occupied, and the lady and gentleman talked
a great deal together. Elsie could not understand
half that they said, but she heard them mention
Edinburgh and London, and talk of hotels, and
lodgings, and a great many other things, which
gave her no information; but her heart beat
wildly when they spoke of London, and she hoped
above everything that they would take her there,
[Pg 138]
for she had lost all count of the way by now, and
would have had no more idea in which direction
to go, had she been left to herself, than she would
have had to find her way back to Dunster.

For a while the lady and gentleman were so engaged
in talking together, that they took no notice
of the children. Duncan had seated himself in a
corner, and was leaning his head against the
cushion with a strange expression on his face.
Elsie, sitting opposite, glanced at him several times,
as if to inquire what was the matter, but he took
no notice. To go over and ask him was more
than she dared. She was far more frightened to
move a finger before this strange lady than she had
been to disobey Mrs. MacDougall in the most
flagrant way.

But suddenly the gentleman’s eye fell upon
Duncan, and he said sharply, “That child is ill,
Lucy!”

“Nonsense!” said the lady, quickly. “He is
putting it on. A good shaking will rouse him.”

Elsie glanced uneasily at Duncan. He took no
notice; his heavy eyelids were almost closed. It
flashed upon Elsie that what the gentleman said
was true, although she had not thought of it before.

“I think he is ill,” Elsie said, plucking up her
courage, for she thought it was cruel to talk of
shaking him.

“Nonsense! He shall not be ill. Let him dare
to!” the lady cried angrily.

“It strikes me that he won’t be able to help it,”
the gentleman said, with an ugly smile, which
seemed to make the lady very angry. “Well now,
what’s to be done? This is a look-out you had not
bargained for.”

The lady looked puzzled and very much annoyed.
She bit her lip, and tapped her foot on the floor.

“If he lasts out till we get to London, I don’t
know that the child being ill will interfere with our
plans. It might be turned to advantage. If not,
he must be left behind in Edinburgh,” the lady said.

Elsie pricked up her ears. “You do not mean
that you would leave him without me,” she said
quickly, thinking her ears must have deceived her.

“He could be brought to London when he was
better,” the lady said, with a glance at the gentleman.
“He would be taken care of; but we must
go on.”

“If he stays in Edinburgh, I shall too,” Elsie
said, with sudden decision.

“You will do what I tell you!” the lady said, with
one of her terrible looks, which so frightened Elsie
that she could say nothing, although her mind was
firmly made up that she would never leave Duncan.

Then they went on talking again, and Elsie heard
a great deal of discussion about whether they
should stay in an hotel or not, and she gathered
that the presence of herself and Duncan was the
point of difficulty, for she heard the lady say that
she had not been able to get him any clothes, and
his own were much too coarse and common, and
that people in Edinburgh would notice much more
than simple country-folk like Mrs. Alexander.

Elsie had long been doubtful whether these
people were kind or not, but now she felt sure they
were not. She had no idea why they had done all
they had, but she felt sure it was not from real
kindness, and she began to feel suspicious that
they would be very unkind to Duncan.

It was a very strange thing, and not at all what
she had ever read in any book, that they should
twice have fallen in with unkind people.

By-and-by some other people came into the
carriage, and then Mrs. Donaldson went and sat
by Duncan, putting her arm round him, and drawing
his head down on to her shoulder.

After being many hours in the train, they arrived
at a great place, which turned out to be the
Waverley Station at Edinburgh. It was such a busy,
wonderful place, with so many lights and people,
that Elsie would have been wild with delight if it
had not been for her anxiety about Duncan.

The gentleman gave some directions to a porter
about taking their luggage. Then he and the lady
took poor Duncan between them and led him out
into the streets, which were full of people and
carriages.

It was, she supposed, because so many people
looked at Duncan’s pale heavy face and tottering
steps that the gentleman, after a a few minutes, took
him up and carried him. They went some little distance,
till they came to a small shop, the window of
which was full of all kinds of papers and pictures.
The gentleman had some conversation with a man
behind the counter, who took them into a small
room, where the lady and gentleman bade them
“Good-bye,” and left them, saying they would come
back the next morning.

After a little time, a girl, dirty, ragged, and
untidy, came into the room, and taking Duncan up
in her arms, carried him upstairs, Elsie following
with a candle.

The house seemed to be a tall one, for there were
more stairs than Elsie had ever seen in her life,
and they were dark, steep, and narrow, so that she
frequently stumbled. The girl, however, went on
quickly enough. They paused at several landings
with doors, from which came the noise of voices,
sometimes raised pretty high, as if in anger and
dispute.

At last they reached a tiny room, quite up at the
top of the house. It had a low, sloping roof, much
[Pg 139]
discoloured with damp and dirt, as were also the
walls. The floor was bare and black with dirt and
age, the whole apartment squalid and uncomfortable.

The girl laid Duncan down on the bed, and
began removing his things with a certain amount
of gentleness; he seemed quite unable to do anything
for himself. When she had undressed him,
she put back the bed-clothes. Then she went
away, and once more the children were alone
together, and very much alone, for Elsie noticed
that the girl locked the door before she went away.

(To be continued.)

SOME MORE LITTLE PRESENTS, AND THE WAY TO MAKE THEM.[1]

Are you ready to
hear about more
things which can
be made with a
penknife? Then
I am ready to
tell you.

Amongst my
acquaintances
and friends are
certain little toy-boat
builders,
who bestow upon
me from time to
time boats fashioned
by their
knives; vessels
which would not, it is true, encounter stormy seas,
and therefore are not fitted for use, but which look
taut and trim as they lie in the quiet harbour of
bracket or slab amongst other choice ornaments.
A rowing-boat, a yacht, a schooner, a man-of-war—all
these varieties are somewhat commonplace.
The construction of them requires skill and dexterity,
I know, but you do not want a description
from me of these, and I wish to tell you of something
more uncommon than the boats we see on our
own waters.

Perhaps some of my readers have not attempted
anything on so large a scale as this I am about to
describe. If they are afraid of the size of the
venture, they can follow the general directions, and
make their dimensions smaller.

Two boats we want, and four paddles.

The boats are to be in shape and form like the
Indian birch-bark canoe: this, as you know, has
a very distinctive appearance of its own, and is
quite different from any boat we see on English
waters: for this reason, although you might be
able to find a picture of one in some book, a
drawing is given for you to study, as your model
for shape and form. As I have said, we require
two of these canoes, and they are to be of different
sizes. The length of the big one is 12 inches; the
depth of this boat in the middle is 2 inches; at its
stern and prow, which you will see are alike also
in form, the measurement is 2½ inches.

The length of the little canoe is 9½ inches: in
the middle it is 1½ inches, and prow and stern
measure 2 inches.

The particularly bulging sides of boats of this
character are the cause of the chief difficulty of their
construction; fortunately for our purpose only one
side of the canoes have this protuberance, for this
reason—these canoes and paddles are placed
together and hung up against a wall, and therefore
one side of each canoe has to be flat in order to
rest steadily and comfortably against the wall.
The interiors of the canoes are scooped out, and
serve as receptacles for odds and ends.

The paddles of some canoes are short and have
wide spoon-like blades at each end; these, you see,
have not. The length of the pair of big paddles is
13 inches; of these inches the blade takes 2½ inches.
The extreme length of the little paddles is
12 inches; their blades are as large as those of
their companions.

These four paddles are crossed over each other,
and over one another, all at the same time standing
in an upright position.

The two long paddles cross each other just
below the blades, which rear themselves aloft; the
two short paddles also cross each other near their
blades, but they are head downwards. When
these four brothers are placed together in proper
juxtaposition, the ends of the little paddles are
just below, but an inch or so away from the blades
of the big paddles. The ends of the big paddles
descend as far as the bottom of the blades of the
little paddles. I hope that you are not confused or
bewildered: the drawing will help to enlighten you.

Against this background of paddles the two
canoes are placed: the little one uppermost, the
larger one a few inches below. Very pretty the
whole device looks. I should keep the secret
until the whole is quite complete. The surface of
[Pg 140]
the wood should be made as smooth as satin by
dint of rubs and scrubs with sand-paper, and then
it looks well if left without any covering of paint
or varnish: the stems of the paddles have a little
adornment in long specks of red and blue paint.

Now L am going to turn away—for a time at any
rate—from whittling of wood, and to speak of cutting
of cork—that is ordinary corks. So many things
can be constructed with them by the help of a penknife
and liquid glue.

The celebrated Cleopatra’s Needle is a good
object; a wheelbarrow, an old-fashioned square arm-chair,
a book-case, an old oak chest, a Dutch cradle,
and many other articles of furniture can be imitated.
In selecting copies for imitation it is best to choose
those of old date, made of oak, for the cork resembles
old worm-eaten oak when its first freshness
has gone and its complexion becomes darker. A
very pretty and uncommon object to copy is that
of an old-fashioned clock, a veritable “my grandfather’s clock,”
an upright tall eight-day clock that
has a long chain and a heavy pendulum concealed
within its tall case, and that shows a big square
face with large figures printed on it. I will give
you a few details about my cork clock, and I think
you will make one and set it upon a bracket to be
admired by all beholders. This miniature clock
stands 7½ inches high. Its two cases and head are
hollow; it is built of little blocks of cork of different
sizes, fitted neatly together, so that at the first
glance one imagines each portion to be one large
piece. The lower part of the clock is 2 inches
high and 1½ inches across. This hollow four-sided
case stands on a basement formed of cork blocks,
which project a wee bit beyond the case; this
structure is supported by 4 feet of a club-like form.
So far so good. Now we will raise the structure
higher. A case in which the pendulum with its
chain is supposed to be hanging and swinging and
tick-tacking is formed likewise of bricks of cork: its
length is 2½ inches, its breadth is 1 inch. Now as
the upper case is smaller, you see, than the lower
one, there would be a cavity, and indeed nothing for
the higher one to rest upon, so we put little bevelled
pieces on the lower case, which fill up part of the
aperture and give the upper case a resting-place.
The door of the clock is represented by a narrow
thin piece of cork, at least 2 inches long, placed
down the middle of the upper case. Now we have
come to its head: this is a hollow square, 1½ inches
high and wide. A little platform is put on the upper
case, which projects beyond it all round. On this the
head stands, and at each corner a little round pillar,
the height of the head, rears itself up. On the top
of the head there is an ornamental battlement, composed
of dog-tooth pieces of cork. As the clock has
a head, it ought to have a face; indeed, the face is
one of the chief parts of a clock. Take a piece of
stiff white paper or thin cardboard, cut it square
the exact size of the head, and on it mark, in your
neatest style, the proper number of figures and the
two black hands: fasten the paper on a square of
cork the same size, and put it in at the back of
the head. Keep it in its place by fastening projecting
blocks of cork to the back of the square;
this will keep it steady, and prevent the face from
falling away from the front of the head. The face
looks rather too staring if the whole square is
seen, therefore fix tiny half squares of cork in each
of the four corners of the head in front.

E. C.

SUMMER VISITORS.

 fed the birds in the winter,
And so in the summer, you see,

They flew through my open window,
And stayed for a cup of tea.

They little thought I was looking, the dear little feathered things,
As they hovered o’er cups and saucers, and fluttered their pretty wings.

For I was standing on tip-toe,

In hiding behind the screen,

And a livelier chirpier party,

I think I have never seen.

The air was sweet with the summer, the window stood open wide,
My room was a garden of flowers, and lime-trees blossomed outside.

So the old birds paid me a visit,

And the young birds came in their train,

For they took my room, with its nosegays,

For part of their own domain;

While they sipped the cream in my teacups, and daintily pecked my cake,
And called to their friends and neighbours, that each and all might partake.

But just as I stood there watching,

Enjoying their chorus gay,

My cat stole in from the kitchen,

And all of them flew away—

With wings that fluttered and quivered, they chirped to another tune,
As they flew away through the garden that beautiful day in June.

A. M.

[Pg 141]

“summer visitors.” (p. 140)

[Pg 142]

A NEW GAME FOR CHILDREN.

We mention this game—which we believe
has never appeared in print—because
not only many may take
part, but like really good games,
amusement and perhaps some instruction
are derived in playing it;
and any number may play at the same time. Let
us suppose that ten children decide to play this
game of “Names.” Each player is provided with
a long strip of paper and a pencil, and if one of
the players has a watch so much the better; if not
a clock must be used. One commences by calling
out: “Girls’ names commencing with A, two minutes
allowed.” Each player then writes down all the
girls’ names that he (or she) can recollect that
commence with A, and at the expiration of the two
minutes, “time” is called. Then the oldest player
reads from his (or her) slip all the names he or she
has written down. Say, Amy, Amabel, Alice,
Ann, Annie, Amanda, Aileen, &c. All the other
players, as the names are read out, cancel any
name read out. If, for instance, all have written
Amy, all cancel Amy, and count one mark. Say
six players have Amabel, and four have not, each
of the six count one mark; those who have not
thought and written down Amabel get nothing for
Amabel, and so on through the list. The object of
the game is to teach the children all girls’ and boys’
names. When the marks have been allotted for
all the names, the total of marks are read out and
noted on each slip. The players then proceed in
a similar manner for all boys’ names commencing
with A, such as Alfred, Abel, Adam, Andrew,
Arthur, &c. The game can be continued till all
the letters in the alphabet are exhausted, but
practically young players rarely care to “do” more
than thirty sets or fifteen letters consecutively.
Various names crop up, and the memory is well
exercised, and children generally vote it great
fun. Any one introducing pet or fancy names,
such as Pussy, Kit, Teddy, &c., forfeits two marks,
unless it be arranged that they will be allowed.

A DAY ON BOARD H.M.S. BRITANNIA.

By the Rev. J. Clement P. Aldous, Chief Instructor and Chaplain to Cadets.

The Britannia is the
training-school for
naval officers. All
boys who are to
be fighting officers
in the British
Navy go to the
Britannia. They
enter when they
are about thirteen,
and stay
there two years,
and from this ship
they go as midshipmen
to our
ships in all parts
of the world. We
are going to pay
a visit to the
Britannia, and
see how these young naval cadets spend their day.

If we want to see the whole day through, we must
start early. So we will take a boat and go off from
the shore at five o’clock in the morning of a fine
summer day. It is only a row of some 200 yards
to reach the Britannia from the shore. She is
anchored in the middle of the River Dart or
Dartmouth Harbour.

Have you ever seen one of England’s old wooden
walls—a three decker? How high she stands out
of the water! If you will look at the picture you
will see that there are quite six storeys to this great
floating house. As you come up to the ship’s side
in a boat, she towers above you like a great cliff—a
wooden wall—you can see what these words mean
now.

Let us step up the ladder; they will be surprised
to see us so early. The sentry on the middle deck
wishes to know our business. “We have come to
see everything,” we say, and show our authority for
coming.

So we go up a ladder—not a staircase, mind!—to
the sleeping deck. There we see two long rows of
chests, which represent the wardrobe, chest of
drawers, washing place, private locker, every piece
of furniture, in fact, which a naval cadet possesses.

Over these hang the hammocks, each the sleeping-place
of a cadet. A hammock is such a funny
thing to sleep in. I dare say you have a string
hammock on your lawn, in which you sometimes
lie on a very hot summer’s afternoon. But it is a
queer bed to sleep in, for your head and your heels
[Pg 143]
are both of them stuck up in the air, while your
body hangs underneath in a graceful curve.

hammocks on board the britannia

Half past five is struck, or rather three bells, for
man-of-war time goes by half-hours till eight bells
are reached at noon and midnight, four and eight
o’clock, when it starts again. Three bells! a corporal
walks along and picks out here and there
some unfortunate boy who has been misconducting
himself the day before—perhaps he was late or idle—and
he has to “turn out” an hour before the others
and stand up till they join him. A wretched
beginning of a day, especially on a winter’s morning—to
stand
shivering on
an open deck,
while all his
comrades are
peacefully
tucked up in
their warm
hammocks.
I think if you
knew you
would get
this punishment,
my
little friend,
you would
take good
pains to be
in time.

As we walk
round the
hammocks
we now see
the servants
busy placing the cadets’ clothes on their chests,
ready for them to dress. There is a servant to
about ten boys.

By-and-by five bells is struck, half past six,
and a bugle rings out a merry peal, on the middle
deck. It is the turn-out bugle, and you can play it
on the piano:—

In a few moments we hear the same bugle-call,
far away. The bugler is gone off to the Hindostan,
and he is giving the sound for the other boys
to turn out.

We only saw half the cadets in their hammocks
in the Britannia. If you will look at the picture
on page 145 you will see another smaller ship, the
Hindostan, moored ahead of the Britannia. The
younger boys sleep in “the other ship,” as it is called.

What a merry noise there is, as the cadets bound
out of their hammocks, and rush off to the big salt-water
bath, which is fitted in either ship! I am
glad we are only describing a visit, for were we
looking on we should get drenched from head to
foot.

The corporals walk about among the hammocks
to see that all the young gentlemen are turned out.

“Show a leg there, sir! Come along, come along
now, now,
now, bugle’s
gone long
ago, sir,” as
he finds
some sleepy
youth, not at
all willing to
show a leg.
“Make a
start, sir.”

Basins are
fitted up along
the deck
for them.
They need
not use the
basins in
their chests.
These must
be used at
sea when the
weather is
not rough
enough to dash the water out over the clothes.

At five minutes past seven a warning bugle is
heard, to warn them that in ten minutes they must
be dressed and ready. Some are kneeling at their
chests, beginning the morning with prayer for
help to live as in God’s sight all the day. Some
are hurrying on their clothes. Some are reading
the Bible, a few verses, as they have promised their
people at home never to omit to do.

At a quarter past seven rings out another bugle-call.

This means assembly, and the cadets all
troop down to the middle deck, where they form
in line, two deep, all along the deck; the port
watch in the fore part of the ship, and the starboard
watch farther aft. This division into two
parts, starboard watch and port watch, is to accustom
[Pg 144]
them to the idea of the whole ship’s company
being always divided into two watches.

The cadet captains stand in front of the two
lines, the chief captains one at the end of each
watch. These are cadets chosen as “monitors”
to have charge of the others.

The silence bugle sounds, though no one is
supposed to make a noise after the assembly has
sounded. The officer of the day comes along, a
lieutenant, whose duty it is to look after the cadets
that day. “Open order! March,” is his order;
“Rear rank, dress,” says the chief captain, and he
walks round the two lines, and sees that the cadets
are properly dressed. That white lanyard you see
round their neck is for holding their keys. A
sailor always has a knife at the end of such a lanyard.

“Close order! March,” and the officer of the day
marches them off to their various studies for the
morning. Let us go and see where they have
gone. Half of them, one watch, have gone down
into the large mess-room. They sit round the
room at the tables by the ship’s side, and prepare
work for their naval instructors. In a little
while the servants will lay the middle tables for
breakfast, but they do not mind the noise.

Up in the lecture-room, the chaplain has some
classes at a Bible lesson. Just outside the lecture-room
a sailor is teaching some of the boys at a
model of a ship. On the main-deck of the “other
ship,” a sergeant is drilling some of the boys, and
on the place where all stood for the first muster
cadets are seated on forms, and are being taught
by a sailor the meaning of some sea expressions,
and what they are to do to avoid collisions at sea.

So they are busy at work till at ten minutes past
eight a bugle goes for all to go down into the
mess-room, where they range themselves at their
places for breakfast.

At a quarter past eight the chaplain comes
down to read prayers, the captain of the ship and
the officer of the day coming down too. Then
breakfast and letters, which are handed round to
the fortunate ones.

There is plenty of talk at breakfast; but tea,
coffee, and cocoa, bread-and-butter, meat of some
sort, eggs, bacon, or fish and porridge, are very
welcome after the hour’s work, with which the day
has begun.

At a quarter to nine there is a bugle-call which
sends a pang to some hearts. Defaulters’ bugle.
Those who have been reported during the previous
day are told to “fall in on the aft deck,” and there
they stand in a line. The commander comes and
hears the report—investigates the case—asks what
the cadet has to say, and then awards some
punishment. We have seen one form of it.
Then there is extra drill and march out with a
corporal, or standing up after the others have
“turned in,” or as we should say, gone to bed.
Poor fellows! it is a court of justice; and they
would do well to keep off the aft deck. If the
offence is serious, it is reported to the captain of
the ship, who is head of all. Perhaps the offender
is reduced to “second class for conduct,” and has
to wear a piece of white tape on his arm, be kept
apart from all the others, and undergo all sorts of
drills and privations.

At nine, the bugle sounds assembly—the principal
assembly of the day, “Cadets’ Divisions” it is
called. All the officers are present. The cadets
are again inspected, and they are marched off to
their various studies for the morning. Mathematics
and navigation are learned with the naval
instructors. Then there are French and drawing,
English, seamanship, instruments and charts,
natural philosophy and many difficult things which
it is considered necessary for these little fellows to
master before they are fit to go to sea. If we visit
them in their class-rooms, we shall see very light
cheery rooms built on the upper deck, so that
they have light from above. There are eight pupils
only in each room, each having a separate table
with a drawer for books. The naval instructor is
teaching them, with the help of a blackboard, to do
some questions about ships sailing, or to solve
some problem made of lines and circles.

The cadets are all taught how to find by the sun
and the compass where their ship is on the sea,
and how they ought to steer her to get from place
to place.

In another class-room, we find a staff commander
teaching a class how to use the sextant,
which is the sailor’s most useful instrument for
finding his place at sea, from sun and stars; or he
may be teaching them how to use a chart or to
draw a chart themselves.

In the lecture-room a lecture is being given on
the steam-engine and the ways in which heat is
used. Behind the lecturer, in glass cases, are
many beautiful models for teaching the cadets all
about machines, light, heat, sound, magnetism,
and electricity, such as would make many boys
long to pull them about for a while, and see how
they work.

We might go and learn how the sails are set and
furled from one of these fine models of ships, or
how anchors and cables are managed from another.

In this little room, called the “Sick Bay,” we
find some poor fellows who have to lie in bed.
One has caught a cold, and one has cut his foot
in bathing. Fortunately, the Sick Bay is most
[Pg 145]
frequently empty, for the Britannia life is a very
healthy one.

There are eight studies like the one where we
saw the naval instructor teaching navigation,
four in each ship. In the Hindostan we find
two Frenchmen teaching their classes how to
read and write French, and two drawing studies,
in one of which they are taught to draw models
with the aid of ruler and compasses. In the
other they are learning the use of paints and paint-brushes.
It is so useful for a young boy to be
able to make sketches in water colours of all the
pretty places he goes to; some of them are really
quite clever at it before they leave.

1. the cadets’ boat-house and boats; 2. the britannia and hindostan.
(See pp. 143, 146.)

We hear a noise of marching about; the bell is
struck four times; ten o’clock. The French classes
are only an hour long, and boys are changing class-rooms.

At five minutes to eleven there is a bugle-call,
followed by a hurry-scurry; the whole ship is alive
at once. There is an interval of a quarter of an
hour. Leap-frog in the open air on the upper deck;
running after one another till they get out of
breath; fun of all sorts immediately becomes the
order of the day, and certainly this quarter of an
hour is right well spent in throwing off the evil
effects of working too hard.

It is too soon interrupted by the warning bugle.
And the whole ship sinks into silence as the cadets
go back to their studies; those who have been at
[Pg 146]
seamanship or drawing going to the harder work of
mathematics.

At one o’clock study is over for the morning,
and a good hard morning’s work it has been for
the boys, since a quarter past seven, with a break
for breakfast, and an interval for play.

On half-holidays, work is over at twelve, and we
shall soon see how they spend their half-holidays.
Bugle—”wash hands,” and then the merry bugle
which means dinner.

Before and after dinner, a blessing is asked by
the chief captain of cadets. When the cloth has
been removed and grace has been said, away they
rush for a short time of fun before study at two, and
they do a somewhat light class of work till half-past
three.

This is the happy time of all the day, and so you
would think if you saw them.

Before you would have thought they could be
all fairly out of their studies, you will see many of
them rushing down to the large boats, which are
waiting alongside. They are dressed in white
flannel trousers, which they are all obliged to put
on before going ashore. It is a fine sight to see
these boats, one on each side of the ship, filled full
of boys, all eager to get to their games.

We must follow them ashore. But first, I must
tell you that in winter they go directly after dinner,
and stay ashore till four o’clock. They then have
their afternoon study from half past four till six.

It is much better for the boys to have daylight
for their run ashore, instead of waiting till daylight
has all gone, and landing at half past three to find
it soon become dark.

On Wednesday and Saturday, when there is
a half-holiday, they have dinner at twelve and
land directly after. And then they are free in
summer till a quarter to seven. What a royal time
most schoolboys would think this! No roll-call.
They are quite free to go as far as they like, for
there are no bounds, except the town.

They are on their honour not to go into houses.
This, and their promise not to bathe at any but
the appointed time and place, are the only restrictions
put upon them.

But we must hurry after them, or they will get the
start of us, and we shall lose them.

We have not far to go before we catch them. A
bugle sounds, and a hundred and twenty forms
plunge from the bathing-stage and quay into the
water. The bright harbour is dotted with the
heads of swimmers. Some backward boys are
being taught to swim in a “swimming-tray,” a
thing like a flat-bottomed barge, sunk with its
bottom about four feet below the surface. A
capital place it is for teaching youngsters to swim.
But all soon learn, and are free to join the others
in sporting about and cutting capers in the water.
A warning bugle of one note says “it will soon
be time to get out,” and by the time the bugle sounds
fifteen minutes from the first, they must all get out
of the water.

The gymnasium—the building in the top left-hand
corner of the picture on p. 145—is close by.
Here they must go through a series of exercises,
and they are obliged to attend till they can do
them. “Compulsory Gyms,” is not a favourite,
so they like to get through and be free.

Here are the “blue boats,”—boats which they
may have by themselves, gigs for four to pull, skiffs
for two or one. They may row about wherever they
like, and when the new boys first come, they are
very fond of going out in boats as often as they can.
They have to take turns with one another in using
them. There are six little sailing-cutters too, which
the elder cadets may take and sail by themselves.
Then, besides, there is a fine yacht, a schooner,
which they may sail on a holiday, when ten or
twelve wish to go.

These young fellows have every sort of game.
We turn away from the water, and follow some
who are mounting a steep path. Here is the
racquet-court—four are playing racquets and four
playing fives.

And climbing still higher up the hill, we get to
the cricket-field, a glorious sweep of grass with nets
for cricket and lawn tennis, as much as heart could
wish.

In the summer, there is a match at cricket
between the Britannia eleven and some neighbours
every half-holiday, and the Britannias usually win,
though they play the best elevens round. Their
officers play with them.

There is a flow of boys with paper bags from a
suspicious-looking little house in the corner of the
field. Ah! I thought as much. No schoolboy
can do without his sweetstuff, and here it is.
“Stodge” they call it, a horrible name, but very
true. I am sure much more sensible are those
who walk off to the neighbouring village of Stoke
Fleming, where they can get a nice tea from Mrs.
Fox from sixpence to a shilling.

We well remember how shocked Mrs. Fox was
to come in and find the elder son of the Prince of
Wales chopping sticks in her kitchen; for these two
young princes six years ago spent a cadet’s life of
two years, and lived with the others, and worked
and played exactly like the rest.

The Britannia life, you will see, is a very free
and happy life. “Work while you work and play
while you play” is the motto, and there is plenty
of work and plenty of play for all who will have it.

[Pg 147]
In the afternoon of a half-holiday, when there is
a grand cricket-match, and the band plays, and
many ladies come to grace the field, there is not a
brighter sight in all the country side, for the field
stands in the prettiest place possible, with lovely
country, sea and hills, to be seen around.

But it is time for all to go back—the longest
afternoons must end, and the letter B, a square flag
with a red middle, which is hoisted to recall them,
is already displayed on the Britannia’s mast.

A bell in the cricket-field says “play is over,”
and down they go in twos and threes to find the
same big boats ready to take them back.

It has been a fine afternoon, and the field and
sports have looked at their best. But if it had
rained hard, and when the cadets came out from
dinner, or from study, they had found the words
“No Landing!” hanging by the ship’s clock, there
would have been no such fun. It is a long afternoon
when it rains, and they are tied to the ship.

Tea at seven, or a quarter past—a merry meal
with all the stories of the day to tell. Sometimes
an accident—a boy has fallen down the cliff, or
been hit in the field—will throw a damp over all.
Sometimes they will be all alive with the discussion
of a piece of news—there is to be a war. In six
months some of them will be fighting. Sometimes an
adventure, an irate farmer has caught two in his
wheat, and has chased them and possessed himself of
a cap. They will see that cap next morning, and its
owner will be standing on the aft deck at 8.45 for
judgment.

In the winter there is a pack of beagles, which
lead the cadets a fine chase over the country.

“Oh! they are spoiled, these boys!” you will
say. But wait till you see them, in a year’s time,
broiling under a tropical sun, cruising for weeks
in a boat after slavers, and living on a short
allowance of dry food and water. These young
fellows are welcome to a happy life while they can
get it.

For tea they have cold meat, or something else
substantial. After tea, work for those who have
it to do, in two studies, which are kept quiet, or
in the mess-room.

The band plays, and some cadets dance with one
another on the open middle deck.

And at a quarter past nine, prayers are read in
the mess-room, and the bugle sounds “Turn in.”

And the ship is silent till the day begins again.

ANDY’S BRAVE DEED.

“A
rthur! Arthur!” Kitty
called, as she ran down
the garden path.

Her brother was lying
under the beech-trees at
the foot of the garden.
A copy-book lay on the
grass before him, in
which he was writing
with a pencil. Arthur
wrote poems, and histories,
and tragedies, which he and his companions
acted for the edification of their relations and
friends. At this moment he was composing a story
which he intended should be very thrilling. He
had only got as far as the two first sentences.

“Charles was determined to have some adventures.
So he went into a wood and met a tiger.”

At this point he heard his sister calling to him.

“What is it, Kitty? I wish you wouldn’t interrupt
me just now. I’m very, very busy.”

“Oh, Arthur, I wish you would come and see a
little boy who’s at the gate. He looks so hungry.”

Arthur rose somewhat slowly, and went to the
boy. Like all authors, he didn’t much like being
called away in the full swing of literary production.
He proceeded to a little side gate which opened
on to the highway and the open fields beyond.
Here Arthur found a boy about a year younger
than himself, bareheaded and barefooted, without
a coat, and with a very worn and ragged shirt and
trousers. The little fellow looked both tired and
hungry, and his wearied look would have touched
harder hearts than those of Arthur and Kitty.

“Are you hungry?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, vera. I’ve no had onything sin’ yesterday.”

“I’m sure he’s telling the truth. You have only
to look at him,” said Kitty, who now joined him.

“Well, we might get him something to eat, anyhow.
You stay there, boy, till we come back.”

Arthur and Kitty went into the house together,
and presently returned with a very large slice of
bread, a piece of cheese to correspond, and a bit
of cold pudding, that would have alone satisfied
the appetites of two ordinary boys, even though extraordinarily
hungry. It was as much as the lad
could do to hold them all, and he thanked his young
benefactors more by looks than words.

On the following morning, shortly after breakfast,
Arthur’s mother said—

“I should like you to take something for me to
Mrs. Stewart’s to-day, Arthur. There are several
[Pg 148]
things I should like to send her. I have a small
cheese and a pot of currant jelly that can go.
Then I want her to have one of those young
Dorking hens your father got the other day. I’ll
give you a small basket for that.”

Mrs. Stewart was a very old friend of the family,
having been the nurse of Arthur and Kitty, and
of their mother before them.

Arthur set out with his leather bag strapped
across his back, and the basket containing a little
Dorking hen in his hand. Presently he became
aware how hot it was getting, and when he reached
a small clump of trees near a hay-field he thought
he would sit down and rest a while. He had been
walking about an hour by this time. He thought
he never recollected such a warm day. Arthur
began to feel very sleepy. He rubbed his eyes to
keep himself awake, but his head nodded more
and more, and before he was well aware of it
he was fast asleep, lying huddled together on
the bank on which he had sat down.

Arthur must have been asleep nearly an hour,
when he awoke with a sudden start. The sun
was high up in the heavens, and he judged it to be
nearly midday. He got upon his feet hurriedly and
caught up his basket. It felt lighter, he thought,
and hastily lifting the wicker
lid he found that it was
empty. The little Dorking
hen was gone!

Astonishment was the first
feeling in Arthur’s mind,
then perplexity and mortification.
What would his
mother think of his carelessness
and unbusinesslike
qualities. It seemed he
could not be trusted to
execute this simplest message.
What was he to do?
He searched all the ground
in the immediate neighbourhood
in the hope of discovering
the little hen hidden
behind some bush or clump
of ferns. But she was nowhere
to be seen, and he
was in sore perplexity and
chagrin.

Then he picked up his
empty basket, and continued
on his way. There was nothing
for it but to take the
cheese and the pot of jelly
to Mrs. Stewart, explain
matters to her, and return
another day with another hen, if his mother so
decided, as it was probable she would. He walked
on with a pretty downcast heart.

“the little fellow looked both tired and hungry” (p.147).

He was now ascending a hill, and when he
reached the top an unexpected sight met his eyes.
A crowd of people were gathered in the plain
below. They made a large circle, and it was
evident that the attention of everybody forming the
circle was concentrated on what was going on
within it. Flags were flying, and the strains of a
military band floated up to Arthur, where he stood
on the top of the hill. On the outskirts of the crowd
a number of carriages and other vehicles were
standing, filled with ladies and gentlemen.

Then Arthur recollected that this was the day of
the Highland gathering of the county. A dance
was going on as he approached, and four tall and
stalwart Highlanders in complete national costumes,
bonneted and kilted, were leaping and wheeling,
cracking their fingers and uttering shrill cries as
they danced with astonishing vigour and adroitness
on a raised wooden platform.

But Arthur’s attention had hardly been turned
upon the dancers when it was diverted in another
direction. What should he catch sight of, a good
deal to his astonishment, but his little Dorking
[Pg 149]
hen stepping quietly about among the people,
unconcerned and unmoved by the stir and the
bustle, paying heed to nobody, and no one giving
heed to it.

At the moment Arthur caught sight of his truant
hen, it was passing under a carriage, quietly pecking
among the grass and ferns in its march.
So he approached, and cautiously bent down on
his hands and knees to get at the hen. It was
almost within his grasp when a sharp report
rang through the air—a rifle-discharge, the signal
for a foot-race to begin. The next moment
he felt a heavy blow on his shoulder, which
knocked him flat upon his back. A mist rose up
before his eyes, in which the whole world around
him seemed to float for a moment; then he felt
himself being dragged suddenly and forcibly backward,
and then he knew no more.

Arthur had gone off in a faint; but it only lasted
a few moments. When he came to himself, he
beheld a little crowd of people gathered round him,
and a man was bending down and bathing his
forehead with a wet handkerchief. Then he saw
another figure stretched on the ground at his side,
quite motionless and silent. It was the form of a
boy; the face was turned upwards, and to his
great astonishment Arthur found that it was the poor
lad to whom he and his sister had given the food
on the previous day.

“I saw the whole thing. It was all over in a
twinkling,” a gentleman was saying. “The boy was
bending under the carriage reaching forwards to
secure the bird. At that
moment the gun went off,
the horses started forward,
and the wheel came against
the boy, and knocked him
backward. Just then this
poor little fellow rushed
forward right among the
wheels of the carriage,
caught the boy, and dragged
him out, but not in time
to save himself. The wheel
passed over his leg, and I
am afraid it is badly hurt.”

By this time Arthur was
on his feet.

“Oh! he is not dead,
Dr. Bruce, is he?” he asked
of the gentleman, who was
busy examining the boy,
and whom he knew quite
well as the doctor of the
district.

“No, not so bad as that,
I hope; but a rather bad break, I am afraid. It
was a close shave for you, laddie. But for this
brave boy the carriage-wheel would have passed
right over you.”

“What are you going to do with the poor boy,
doctor? Do you know who he is, or anything
about him?” a lady asked, whom Arthur recognised
as Lady Elmslie.

“No, I never saw him before. But we must get
him to Redloaning as quickly as possible, and have
him taken to some cottage.”

“See that he has everything that is necessary,
doctor; and send up to Inverweir, if you can’t
get all you require in the village,” Lady Elmslie
said. It was her horses that had started forward
at the discharge of the gun, and had been the
cause of the accident.

“arthur began to feel very sleepy” (p.148).

A man now stepped forward, and said, “Ye’ll
just let me carry the laddie to the village, doctor.
I’ll start the noo, and I’ll carry him easier like than
any kind o’ trap, ye ken.”

“A good idea, Stoddart. Lift him gently.”

“I’ll do that. He’s a bit hero, puir laddie; an’
we mauna let him dee for his brave deed.”

Stoddart lifted the still unconscious boy in his
strong arms like an infant, and starting off carried
him in the direction of Redloaning.

“Take him to Mrs. Aikman’s cottage, and I’ll
be there as soon as you,” the doctor said. In a
few minutes he mounted his horse and followed in
the same direction.

Meanwhile Arthur stood by hearing all that was
[Pg 150]
said with anxious interest. Though not much hurt,
he was a good deal shaken, and was still trembling
from head to foot.

“Are you sure you are not hurt too, Arthur
Dalrymple?” Lady Elmslie asked, looking into the
boy’s white and startled face.

“Oh, no, I’m not hurt; but that poor boy, Lady
Elmslie, will he be all right again soon?”

“I hope so. We will do all we can for him.
Don’t you know anything about him, either? But
stop! Get up here beside me and I’ll drive you
home; and you can tell me all you know about it.”

Arthur got into the carriage. He rapidly decided
that he would return home at once, and give up all
thoughts of going to Mrs. Stewart’s to-day. On
the way home he told Lady Elmslie as briefly as
possible all he knew about the little boy who had
been the means of saving probably his life.

Lady Elmslie set Arthur down at the garden
gate, but did not go with him into the house. Then
Arthur had to recount to his father, his mother,
and Kitty all the morning’s adventures in detail,
which he did in a somewhat excited manner.

“I shall walk over to Redloaning and see how
the poor boy is doing this evening,” Mr. Dalrymple
said.

Mr. Dalrymple, much to his relief, found that the
boy, his son’s preserver, was progressing as favourably
as the case permitted. The poor boy was
manifestly suffering much pain, but he made no
complaint or murmur. He was able to tell his
simple story.

On the previous day when he had first seen
Arthur and his sister, he had been on his way to
Redloaning from the neighbouring village of Westburn,
to see if he could get any kind of light employment
in the former place. His mother was dead,
and his father had lately enlisted in the army,
leaving his boy to his own fate and fortunes. He
had succeeded in obtaining a situation in Redloaning
as a message-boy, but the place would not be
vacant for a few days. So after passing a night in
the village he was returning next day to Westburn,
to remain there until he could enter upon his new
duties. He was attracted by the show and stir and
bravery of the games, and, like Arthur, lingered
a while to watch the gay on-goings.

“stoddart … carried him” (p.149).

There he saw his young benefactor of the previous
day before the latter saw him. The kindness
and generosity of Arthur and his sister were yet
fresh in his heart; the moment came when he saw
an opportunity of repaying those kind offices, and I
have tried to show you how he seized and used it.

Andy received the tenderest nursing, and more
kindness and gentleness, probably, were compressed
into the weeks he lay in bed than had fallen to his
lot during the whole of his previous life.

“Arthur,” Kitty said, on the first day that her
brother and she saw Andy, “hasn’t it all been
strange about Andy and you?” Then a funny
little smile came into her eyes, and she added,
“You see, Arthur, Charles was determined to
have some adventures, as you wrote; but it was you
who got them. By-the-bye, you never told us what
became of the little hen.”

“I can’t tell you. I never saw it again. I don’t
[Pg 151]
think it was hurt by the carriage, and it may be
wandering about the hill-side still, and perhaps it
may wander back home again.”

Andy’s progress towards complete recovery from
his hurt was slow and at times painful. But at last
he did get well and strong again. When he was
quite able for work, instead of taking the situation
at Redloaning, which had been long since filled up,
he went into Mrs. Dalrymple’s service as assistant
to the gardeners at Fircroft, a post he was still
filling with much success and credit when I last
heard of him.

Robert Richardson

LITTLE TOILERS OF THE NIGHT.

II—THE FISHER-BOY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

enny, so here we are then,”
said the sturdy-looking
sailor, as Ben, the “Reading-Boy,”
went running
up to the railway station at
Liverpool Street, London, just
as the last shower of night
rain was blowing away over
the houses, and the sun was just peeping
out and giving the grey sky a tint
of salmon colour. “I’m glad as you’ve
got from this mornin’ to Wednesday, Benny,
becos you see it’s a pretty long v’yge from
here to Yarmouth, and I’m glad you’re in
good time, Ben; an’ I’m glad as your precious
mother has made you put a coat over your jacket.
5.15 the train goes, Ben.”

“What fun it is, eh, uncle! Only fancy my going
down to the sea! Why, I shouldn’t want to come
back if it wasn’t for mother.”

“Now don’t you be a rollin’ stone, Benny. It’s
all very fine for fair weather sailors, to go and sit
about on the beach, and p’raps be rowed out a
little way, or take a trip when everything’s smooth
below and aloft, but just you find yerself aboard
one of our smacks, in the North Sea, one night
when there’s a stiff sea on, and the wind cuttin’
your hair off your head, and your hands stiff and
blue with haulin’ on to the trawl-nets, and you’d
tell a different story. No, no, I don’t think as
you’re cut out for a fisher-boy, or leastways a
smack-boy, for that’s what they call ’em.”

“A smack-boy! that’s a queer name,” said Ben,
laughing.

“Ah, ain’t it? and there’s a double meanin’ in it
too, for I can tell you the smack-men ain’t very
slow for to give the youngsters a knock over the
head, or a smack of the face, or a rope’s-endin’.
But as it’s Yarmouth we’re bound for, you will
soon see what our fisheries are really like; and
there, too, you’ll find our men hard at it in tarpaulins
or canvas frocks, and wet through and
through perhaps, and not much time to get a drop
of hot coffee nor a bit to eat. Think of that, Benny.”

Ben looked serious when he heard this, and it
was not till they had taken their seats in the railway-carriage,
and were rattling along far beyond
the houses and amidst the trees and fields of the
country that he began to talk again.

“Don’t the boys that go fishing like their business?”
he asked.

“Well, you see,” said his uncle, “they’ve got to
like it, because when they’re once in it they can’t
well turn to anything else. It’s a rough, hard life,
especially for the young ‘uns, Benny. Not so hard
as it used to be, though. I can remember when I
was a younker we used to go fishing for cod off the
Dogger Bank, which is a great ridge of hills at the
bottom of the sea, not far from the coast of Holland.
We’d be out for a good while, and not have much
to eat except cod b’iled or cod fried in a pan; and
if there was much sea on, and the wind blowin’ a
gale, it was a hard matter to cook it at all.
Now the cutters bring us some of our meat and
vegetables and soft bread; but still the boys have a
hard time.

“If it’s the herring-boys, they have to watch the
floats—the big, round things that you’ll see at the
edge of the nets, Ben—to keep them near the top of
the water; and whether it’s drift-nets or trawling-nets,
they must take their share of hauling in and of
playing out, night or day. More than that, too:
any sort of work is boy’s work, whether it’s to swab
the decks or to take a turn at frying fish in the
cooking-galley, or paying a boat with tar, or helping
to take a boat-load of fish off to the cutter in bad
weather, when the waves tosses so that the fish,
being loose, may slide, so that one side of the boat
may heel over, and before you know where you are
you’re capsized and struggling in the dark, cold sea,
with a singing in your ears, and the faint cries of
your mates just as bad off as you are.”

“But, of course, it isn’t always so bad,” said Ben.

“Well, no; and there’s times when we’ve no call
to grumble. Such weather as this, when there’s
green sea and blue sky, and bright sun overhead
and clear moonlight nights, with fresh and light
breezes to take the sail. Nothing could seem more
[Pg 152]
pleasant than the life of a fisherman if it was always
like that; but then, this isn’t exactly fishing weather,
Ben, and however fine it may be the boys haven’t
any idle time of it.

“There’s always ropes to splice, or sails or nets
to mend, or something to clean or to scrape, or to
pay down with tar; and if there’s any good in going
out at all the nets must be looked to and lowered
and hauled in. Even on Sundays there’s things to
be attended to by the lads, and though I don’t say
as ‘ow boys is made to do useless work, yet, when
they’re there on that day, they toil pretty hard for
little ‘uns.

“And now, Ben, if you don’t object, I’m going to
smoke a bit o’ bacca, and then you can rest your
tongue a bit, if you like.”

But Ben had a hundred more questions to ask
about the fishing-boats, or “smacks,” as they are
called, and how many of them there were, and how
many fish they caught at a time; and his uncle, who
settled comfortably down and lighted his pipe, told
him a great deal about them.

And Ben was surprised to hear that there are
many thousands of men and boys who go out to
catch the millions and millions of all sorts of fish
that are sent to the markets in the large towns of
England by railway nearly every day. He had
been to Billingsgate Market in Thames Street, and
to the new fish-market in Smithfield, and had seen
the great piles of cod-fish, and skates, and soles,
and plaice, and the boxes and baskets of white
fresh herrings, and the beautiful shining mackerel,
but he did not know how great was the number of
herrings, and pilchards, and cod-fish that were also
salted and put in barrels to be sent from England to
foreign countries. He knew what bloaters were, of
course, and had heard that they were herrings just a
little salted and smoked over burning wood, but how
was he to know that at Yarmouth there was a great
fleet of herring-boats, and that in the cold November
weather they went far out to sea in the mist and
rain, and were night after night hauling in the great
nets full of glistening silver fish?

His uncle was the owner of two smacks, but he
did not go herring-fishing. He was what is called
a trawler, and he and his men and boys used a
different sort of net. The herring-nets are called
drift-nets, and catch the fish that swim in shoals,
which means a large number together, near the
surface of the sea; but the trawl-nets are shaped
like a long purse or bag open at the mouth. These
nets go to the bottom of the sea, and in them are
caught cod, whiting, soles, and other fish that lie at
the bottom, and swim deep down in the water.

When Ben’s uncle was a smack-boy the trawlers,
after they had caught as many fish as they could
carry in a deep well in their boat, used to sail away
as fast as they could to Billingsgate Market, or to
some place where people would buy their fish and
send it by railway to London; but now the old
fisherman said they had much bigger vessels, and
would stay out sometimes for four or five weeks
tossing about in the North Sea, or, as it is sometimes
called, the German Ocean, and dragging the
great trawl-nets night and day.

“Not much time to play, Ben, my boy,” said the
bluff old fellow. “Sometimes not too much to eat
either, except fish and biscuit, and not much room
to sleep in when you turn in to your hard wooden
bunk and pull a rough blanket over you to keep out
the cold.”

“But you don’t keep the fish long on board, do
you, uncle?” asked Ben.

“No, no, my lad. A fast-sailing boat that we
call a cutter comes and goes from shore to the
fleet of trawlers, and takes the fish off; backwards
and forwards it goes, and away goes the fish
directly it’s sold—up to London, or elsewhere,
where there’s millions of mouths waiting for it.
Ah! I well remember when the smack-boys,
or the fisher-boys, would have to help to take the
fish off in a boat to the cutter on a dark night,
and many a time the poor fellows would get
capsized, and afterwards go down in that cold North
Sea. Hard work, my lad, hard fare; and in danger
half the time. Things are better now, perhaps;
but we’re out longer a good deal, and there’s a big
fleet that belongs to a company that keeps the
men and the boys out for weeks at a time, and
fetches all that they catch, so that by the time they
get ashore the poor fellows are pretty near worn out.
Of course the cutter takes out food for ’em, but it
can’t take ’em out warmth and dry clothes, and
snug beds, and every year there is some of the
vessels lost, and perhaps all on board lost too.”

“Well,” says Ben, looking very solemn; “there’s
some that get lost on land too. They fall ill or get
a bad cough, or have some sort of accident with
machinery or something, you know, uncle; but
we’re obliged to work all the same.”

“Well said, my boy Ben,” said the fisherman.
“The thing is to do our duty, whatever it may be,
and to pray that we may be made able to do it.
Some of our smack-boys go to school when they’re
at home, and there’s a mission-room where they go
to hear and to read the Bible, and have teas and
singing, and various treats, and some fun too sometimes.
Yes, things are better than they used to be
in my young days.”

It was a long journey to Yarmouth, but Ben
greatly enjoyed it, and when he and his uncle got
there they went at once to have a look at the sea.

[Pg 153]
Such a great broad expanse of soft yellowish
sandy beach, where the great waves came rolling
in! such a long pier where people were fishing
with hooks and lines, and sometimes catching a
codling or a whiting! “I’ll go and have a try at
that by-and by,” said Ben; “but what are those
great wooden towers that look like a sort of big
puzzle stuck up on end?”

“They’re the look-out towers, Ben. Now, do
you see that cutter over yonder, coming into shore
with its big sail like a sea-bird’s wing? Keep your
eye on it for a minute, and then look at the top of
that tower, and you’ll see that there are men there
that have got their eyes and their telescopes on
it too. Now do you see these carts coming along,
and do you see those black barges floating ready
to pull out when the cutter comes near in shore?
The cutter will unload a rare lot of fish. The men
on the look-out tower saw her coming, and
signalled to the barges and the carts to be ready.
That shipload of fish will be off by a special train
to-night, Ben; and if you were in London you
might, if you could afford it, have some of it.”

“But where’s the herrings—the Yarmouth
bloaters, you know?” asked Ben.

“Ah, well! this isn’t the time to see so much of
them. It’s in the winter you see the herring-smacks
come in at the herring-wharf over
yonder, and hundreds of baskets full of the shining
fellows brought ashore and sold, and sent off fresh
in no time; while others are kept here to turn
into bloaters, or red herrings, or kippers. Those
sheds in the yard over there are where hundreds
of women and girls set to work to salt or pack
the herrings in barrels; the bloaters are what we
call cured in the herring-office.”

“That’s a funny name,” said Ben.

“Yes; and it’s funny what goes on there. The
herrings are brought ashore, are shot out of the
baskets on to the stone floor, shovelled into big
tubs to be washed, and then threaded through the
gills on to long laths of wood. Then these laths
with the rows of herrings strung on ’em are
hung in frames from wall to wall of a top room,
like a barn with a stone floor, and a hole in the
roof. When that room’s full of herrings all
hanging in rows—thousands and thousands o’
fish—a fire of oak chips and logs is lighted on
the floor, and the smoke going all among the
herrings, and only by degrees getting out of the
hole in the roof, the fish are smoked; and them
that’s salted first is red herrings, and them that’s
only just touched dry with the smoke like are bloaters.

“So now we’ll get down to our lodging, and have
some supper, Ben; and so to bed, that we may be
up early in the morning; but don’t you dream about
being a smack-boy, or you won’t sleep at all sound,
I can tell you.”

Thomas Archer

THEIR WONDERFUL RIDE.

“two little folk were riding.”

s I passed down the pathway
I heard a merry pair

Shout from behind the garden wall,
“Let’s ride the old brown mare.”


With whip and voice I heard them
Urge on the maddened steed,

Whilst to my frantic warnings
They paid no single heed.


Then quickly down the garden,
Trembling with fear and fright,

And bursting open wide the door
I saw this curious sight:—


Upon a wooden railing
That ran down from the wall,

Two little folk were riding,
Quite safe from fear or fall.


“Why, auntie, what’s the matter?”
Shouted the merry pair;

“You cannot think what fun it is
To ride the old brown mare!”

[Pg 154]

OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR’S DREAM OF THE HUGE TREE.

Amighty king lay stretched
upon a magnificent
bed of gold. His head
rested upon pillows of
crimson satin, beautifully
embroidered with gold,
and studded with golden
spangles and precious
stones. Over him was
a coverlet of crimson
satin, also adorned with gold: and everything in
his chamber was in keeping with the richness of
his couch.

Costliest delicacies and oldest wines had weighed
down his supper-table, round which had sat some
of earth’s grandest and most powerful lords. He
had been lulled to sleep with soft strains of
sweetest music. Ever-watchful attendants stood
by him, as he slept, and cooled his brow with
gentle breezes stirred up to life by fairy fans.
His last thoughts had been of his vast wealth, his
uninterrupted prosperity, and his great power. He
was king of kings, and the whole world trembled
at his feet. He had attained to the highest
pinnacle of glory. Earth had yielded to him its
most costly treasures, and had nothing more that
she could give. Men had profusely showered upon
him their highest flatteries, and addressed him in
humblest language.

Yet his sleep was troubled. His brow grew dark,
and the colour deepened upon his cheeks. He
breathed heavily and moved nervously on his
luxurious bed, which, grand as it was, could not
give him rest. Hundreds of years afterwards it
was said of the bruised and bleeding martyr
Stephen, that he sank peacefully to rest amid a
shower of stones, and the yells and hoots of
bitterest enemies; for in all circumstances He can
give “His beloved sleep.” But this flattered son
of pomp and splendour, this mighty king, upon
whose very breath seemed to hang the fate of
nations, tossed restlessly upon his bed of gold and
purple. No, he knew nothing of that joy and
peace that pass all understanding, which the world
can neither give nor take away, and which has
converted many a fiery furnace into a shadow from
the heat.

Over those who love Him God watches in the
night, and holds sweetest communion with them,
as through the long dark hours they lie upon their
beds; but to the wicked He sends no thought of
comfort or consolation. He does not soothe them to
rest with the remembrance of His loving care.
And often He troubles them with dark thoughts
and unwelcome dreams, that banish true repose.

So this wicked king, Nebuchadnezzar, who lived
for himself, and not for God, who enriched himself
at the expense of others, who closed his ears
to the cry of the fatherless and the widows, and
who passed by judgment and justice and mercy,
was perplexed with a mysterious dream.

He saw, growing in the middle of the earth, a
mighty tree, which reared its lofty head to the skies,
and, on every side, sent out boughs to the ends
of the world. Large bright green leaves thickly
covered its branches, from which hung, in unheard-of
abundance, great clusters of fruit. The beasts
of the field found under it a grateful shadow from
the heat of the burning sun. The fowls of the air
came and built their nests in its leafy branches,
and there laid their eggs, and reared their young,
and joyously sang out their gladness. All was
bright and beautiful; and the sleeping king, as he
gazed wonderingly at the giant tree, admired its
grandeur and its greatness.

To what length of days, he thought, might this
majestic tree not attain! and how would the earth
be able to hold it if it should go on increasing in
size?

But suddenly there was a fluttering in the air;
and down from the bright heavens came “a
watcher and an holy one,” who was terrible in his
strength, and whose face shone like the sun.
Judgment, and not mercy, was written upon his
forehead. And oh, his voice! How dreadful it
sounded to the startled king, who would gladly
have closed his ears to it.

“Hew down the tree,” the Angel cried, with a
voice of thunder, his eyes, which were like balls of
fire, flashing with righteous indignation. “Hew
down the tree, and cut off his branches; shake off
his leaves, and scatter his fruit. Warn the beasts
to get from under it, lest they be crushed with its
weight. And bid the little birds leave its branches.
But do not destroy the tree. Leave the stump of
his roots in the earth. Let it be wet with the dew of
heaven; and let his portion be with the beasts in
the grass of the earth. Let his heart be changed
from man’s, and let a beast’s heart be given unto
him; and let seven times pass over him.”

What a strange dream for a king to have! And
how troubled his countenance was when he rose
[Pg 155]
from his bed! His eyes moved restlessly from one
object to another, telling of a mind ill at ease. His
limbs shook; and he seemed many years older
than on the previous day. His grandly-arrayed
lords came round him as before, with pleasant
smiles and flattering speeches. But he could heed
none of them. Whatever he did, he could not
give his mind to affairs of state. Try to control
them as he would, his thoughts would wander back
to the towering majestic tree, to its great thick
trunk, its leafy branches, its rich profusion of delicious
fruit affording sustenance to all the world,
and to that bright but awful being who had come
from heaven and pronounced over the tree that
dread sentence.

What if the tree should mean himself? Who in
all the wide world but himself could be compared
to it for strength and majesty? Who but himself
had attained to such power and magnificence?
And oh! what if all should be taken away from
him? What if the widely-spreading tree should
indeed be cut down, its glory and its beauty and
its strength alike gone?

How he wished he knew the meaning of his
dream! And how anxiously he consulted the
wise men who were summoned to his presence!
Magicians, astrologers, Chaldæans, and soothsayers,
all the wise men of Babylon came to his palace
to hear his dream, and to try to tell the meaning
of it.

But the effort was in vain. The dream was
from heaven, and not all the vaunted wisdom of
this world could interpret it. The meaning of it
could only be told by one inspired by the Spirit of
God who had sent it.

Then Daniel, the Jewish captive, to whom
Nebuchadnezzar had given the name of Belteshazzar,
or a layer up of things in secret, was
brought. Not long before he had not only
told the king the meaning of a most mysterious
dream that he had had, but he had also recalled
the dream itself, which Nebuchadnezzar had
forgotten. And as an interpreter of dreams and the
wisest of mortals, his fame had spread far and wide;
and Nebuchadnezzar could see that the Jewish
prophet had a wisdom far surpassing that of his
wisest and most skilled magicians.

So the strange dream of the mighty tree cut
down was told to the Jewish captive, and the
usually calm face of the prophet grew dark and
troubled as that of the king.

“Do not be distressed by the dream or its interpretation,
Belteshazzar,” Nebuchadnezzar said
in his gentlest tones; for he saw that the dream
meant something bad, and that Daniel did not
like to tell him. “Show me the interpretation.”

“My lord,” the Jewish prophet replied sadly,
“it is a dream that will please only your enemies;
and all those who hate you will rejoice at it.” And
then he went on to explain to the king that the
great tree that he had seen towering towards
heaven, and spreading itself over the whole earth,
with its fresh green leaves and abundance of fruit,
with its thousands of beasts taking refuge under
its spreading branches, and its myriads of feathered
songsters nestling amongst them, was himself. “It
is thou, O king,” he said; “for thy greatness is
grown, and reacheth unto the heavens, and thy
dominion to the end of the earth.”

By the coming down of the holy watcher, and
his commanding the tree to be despoiled of its
glory, and hewn down, Daniel showed the king
was meant his own humiliation. He should be
driven from the abodes of men, his dwelling
should be with the beasts of the field; he should
eat grass like an ox, and his body should be wet
with the dew of heaven.

But he was not to be for ever removed from his
place. The malady was to continue only for seven
years; for as the stump of the tree was left in the
earth, so that it might some day put forth its
branches again, and once more abound in foliage
and fruit, so his terrible affliction should only last
until he should acknowledge that it was not by
the strength of his own arm, but by the power of
God that he had been raised to so great a height
of glory; that the kingdoms of the earth belong
to God, and that He raises up whom He will to
govern them.

“Oh, learn this lesson in time, mighty king,”
Daniel pleaded; “that supreme power belongs
alone to the living God. Humble thyself before
Him. Put away every iniquity; and begin
to show mercy to the poor and the defenceless,
who have hitherto cried to thee in vain. For it is
in mercy that God has sent thee the dream, to
show thee how thine heart has been lifted up, and
to give thee an opportunity of averting the punishment
by timely and sincere repentance.”

Oh, if Nebuchadnezzar had but heeded the
warning dream! If he had but taken his kingdom
and his glory, his riches and his honour, and
laid them all at the footstool of the great King
in Heaven, acknowledging that they were all
from Him, and must be held and used for Him;
what great trouble he might have saved himself,
and all those who looked up to him! How soon,
by humbling himself, and how effectually he might
have turned aside the threatened judgment! How
the great and compassionate God above would have
rejoiced to show mercy! And how the holy
angels would have sung for joy over the repentant
[Pg 156]
king, and the blotting out of his great sin, and
the withholding of judgment, and the showing of
mercy!

But the dream was unheeded. The warning was
lost.

The great and mighty king having conquered
all his enemies round about, and extended his
power to the utmost limits, devoted his attention
to the improving and embellishing of his capital.
And as he saw Babylon increasing in glory and
beauty, his heart became still more lifted up. He
had done it all himself, he thought. He was so
great, and so wise, and so glorious a king, that he
had no need of divine aid. Such a thing as being
in any way dependent upon a higher power never
entered his mind, and by very severe means he had
to be taught the needful lesson that might have
been learned from the dream that had in mercy
been sent to warn him.

While surveying the glorious city from the roof
of his palace, and congratulating himself upon the
dignity to which he had attained, a voice, like
that which he had heard in his dream, fell from
heaven, telling him that his kingdom was taken
from him, and that he should meet the fate of
which he had been forewarned by the cutting
down of the huge tree.

And so it was.

That same hour, the terrible malady predicted
by Daniel came upon him. He lost his reason,
and became as a wild beast. His costly crown
of gold and pearls and diamonds was taken from
him, and he was driven from his throne. For
seven years he lived with the beasts of the
field, stooping down to the earth and eating grass
like an ox, and drinking with his mouth of the
flowing streams. The rude winds blew upon him,
ruffling the hair that had been so carefully kept,
and the scorching sun tanned his face, once so expressive
of majesty. The hairs of his neglected
beard became like eagles’ feathers; and his uncut
nails grew like birds’ claws. He noted no difference
between the changing seasons; and when the sun
sank in the west, he lay down to sleep upon the
hard ground, like the beasts, his companions, and
his body was wet with the falling dew.

At the end of seven years another opportunity of
repentance was offered to him, and after so severe
a lesson he gladly accepted it. His reason returned,
and instead of taking glory to himself, he
ascribed it to God, acknowledging that He rules
above all.

So the dreadful affliction was removed, his
kingdom was restored to him; and his glory
and honour and majesty were greater even than
before.

As he once more lifted up his head amongst his
nobles, he said humbly, “The great God of heaven
is King; and those who walk in pride He is able
to abase.”

H. D.

BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

25. How many times is the Lord’s Prayer recorded?

26. Where are we told that departure from evil is
understanding?

27. From what words is it supposed that St. Paul, like
Elijah, visited Mount Sinai, there to hold communion
with God, before entering upon his apostolic work?

28. Where are we told that he who rules his own
spirit is better than he who takes a city?

29. Where is the Eastern custom of gathering the tears
of mourners in tear-bottles alluded to in the Psalms?

30. Where is it said of the departed that they have
“fallen asleep”?

31. How is the passing away of the Old Testament
saints spoken of?

32. Which of the Evangelists tell us of Christ’s offering
three successive prayers in Gethsemane, on the night of
His agony, and of His three times finding the disciples
sleeping?

33. Where, in the New Testament, is David called
“David the King”?

34. How many days elapsed after Noah’s entering into
the ark before the flood came? And who shut the door?

35. How many armour-bearers had Joab?

36. What was done with the sword of Goliath?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (13-24. See p. 84).

13. St. Matt. xii. 49, 50; St. Mark iii. 33-35; St.
Luke viii. 21.

14. In Prov. xvii. 17.

15. In Neh. ix. 17; Ps. ciii. 8, cxlv. 8; Joel ii. 13;
Jonah iv. 2; Nah. i. 3.

16. From St. Luke xi. 1.

17. In Prov. xv. 18, xxvi. 21, xxix. 22.

18. In Prov. xvi. 32.

19. In St. Luke iii. 38.

20. From St. Matt. i. 5, 6.

21. In Gen. ix. 13.

22. In Rev. iv. 3, x. 1.

23. The names of the women are Mary Magdalene,
Mary, the mother of James and Joses, the mother of
Zebedee’s children, Joanna, the wife of Chuza (Herod’s
steward), and Susanna. (St. Matt. xxvii. 55, 56; St.
Luke viii. 2, 3.)

24. In Ps. cxxi. 4.

[Pg 157]

THE WATER-CARRIERS OF THE WORLD.

In
the hotter countries of the world, in which
water is the very mainstay of life, a number
of persons drive a considerable trade in the
sale of that liquid. Most of us know what a trouble
it is to get water
during a severe
winter when the
pipes are all frozen.
Suppose such a
state of things to
be usual the whole
year round, and you
will perhaps understand
the difficulties
of families in some
tropical lands with
regard to what is to
them—in a sense
almost more than
it is to us—a necessary
of existence.
Thus it is that the
water-carrier is so
important a personage
in these
warm climes. His
figure is as common
in the streets as our
milkman, though
he is generally a
very much more
picturesque-looking
individual.

In the illustration
on this page we
have grouped together
portraits of
the water-carriers of
different countries,
and it will be seen
that, in respect of
their quaint attire
and the curious
vessels in which the
water is carried,
there is no reason for surprise that they have
engaged the brush of many painters.

the water-carriers of the world

No. 1 represents a water-carrier of one of the
provincial towns of France. With his cocked hat
and queer staff, and his water-skin strapped like a
knapsack on his back, he reminds one not a little
of an old soldier. His next door neighbour’s
nationality is a good deal more obvious. Whose
can that jaunty, lazy air be but that of the gay,
ease-loving water-carrier of Madrid? With earthenware
pail hanging from each arm, turban on head,
bright-coloured waistband, and cigarette in mouth,
you can tell at a
glance that he belongs
to a sunny
country where leisure
and pleasure
go hand in hand.
In No. 3 we find
the representation
of the Peruvian
water-carrier. He
does such good
business that he
can afford to keep
a donkey to carry
the water, which is
contained in a big
leather sack that
lies like a bolster
across the animal’s
back. I am afraid
he is not so mindful
of Neddy as he
ought to be, and
that some of our
own costermongers
could teach him a
lesson or two in the
humane treatment
of his patient beast
of burden. Leaving
Peru and South
America, and travelling
to the
northern continent,
we are introduced
in No. 4 to a water-carrier
of Mexico.
Notice how he
carries the water
in two odd-shaped
vessels suspended
from his head by means of a broad band. In No. 5
will be observed an Egyptian fellah woman carrying
a jar of water on her head. Compared with her, the
Norwegian peasant in No. 6 looks prosaic and
businesslike. The last two are not sellers of water,
but are merely taking home a supply for their own
households. How fortunate those towns are where
the water is conveyed by pipes from house to house!

[Pg 158]

BURIED ALIVE;

OR, LOVE NEVER LOST ON A DOG.

“H
eigho!” sighed Thusnelda, as
she lay on the straw not far
from the spot where her three
beautiful puppies were curled
up in a heap. “Heigho!”
she sighed, “I do hope dear
master will not deprive me of
any more of my darlings. Let
me see now, there were ten of
them originally. Yes, ten, for
I counted them over and over
again fifty times a day, and
now there are only three.
Heigho!” Here she glanced round
towards these sleeping beauties in the straw, and
her lovely eyes were brimming over with motherly
affection and intelligence.

“To be sure,” she added, “master has kept the
three prettiest, that is some consolation, and the
others have all gone to good homes, where I doubt
not their virtue will be duly appreciated, though I
shall never, never see them more.”

Thusnelda was a dog of German birth and extraction.
In truth, she was a Dachshund, and a
high-bred one too, and both in this country and in
Berlin she had taken many honours at dog
shows.

Some might not have thought Thusnelda’s
body shapely. She was long and low, with a red
jacket as smooth and soft as satin; so low in
stature was she, that her chest almost touched the
ground, and her fore legs were turned in at the
ankle, and out at the feet—the latter indeed were
almost out of all proportion, so big and flat were
they; but no one could help admiring Thusnelda’s
splendid head, her broad intelligent skull, and her
long silky ears and gazelle-like eyes. If ever eyes
in this world were made to speak love and affection
and all things unutterable, those eyes were
Thusnelda’s.

She got up at last and went and stood over her
darlings. She gazed at them long and fondly,
wondering and thinking what future they had before
them. She held her head so low as she did so,
that her splendid ears trailed and touched them.
They moved in their sleep, they kicked and gave
vent to a series of little ventriloquistic barks as
puppies have a habit of doing; then the mother
licked them fondly with her soft tongue, and therefore
one awoke. It was Vogel. The names of the
other two were Zimmerman and Zadkiel. As soon
as Vogel awoke she gave a joyful wee bark of
recognition, which aroused both her tiny brothers,
and the whole three rushed at once to their good
mother.

“Ah, my dears,” she said; “you are very fond
of me at present, I dare say, but you will get to be
different as you grow older, I expect. However,
I must make the most of you while you are young.
Why, let’s see, you will be six weeks old tomorrow,
and you can lap every bit as well as I
can. Yes, and it’s quite a treat to see you
lapping, and master thinks so too.”

“Master” did.

“Master” was very fond of dogs, and he doted
on good ones. He used to come and admire these
three puppies by the hour. The milk he gave them
was of the freshest and creamiest, and he even
thickened it with a little boiled flour. Whenever
Vogel and Zimmerman and Zadkiel saw him
coming with the milk-pan they expressed their
joy by saucy little barks and yelps, and made a
headlong but awkward rush towards him, and
when he put down the pan they weren’t content
to simply put their heads over the side and lap.
No, they must have their fore feet in as well,
although their mother often told them it was only
little piggies that fed in that fashion. But Vogel
was worse even than Zimmerman or Zadkiel,
because she used to insist upon getting in the dish
bodily. Only Vogel was master’s favourite, and he
used to take her kindly out of the dish again and
place her by the side of it, and try to show her how
to lap like a lady.

Vogel was the prettiest, Zimmerman the biggest
and sauciest, and Zadkiel by far the wisest of
the trio.

In the picture with which our artist has
presented us, Vogel is standing in the centre,
Zimmerman is lying on the left, while the far-seeing,
deep-thinking Zadkiel is sitting on the
right.

An impudent sparrow has just alighted on the
puppies’ pan, and is coolly helping himself to what
has been left from breakfast.

“Delicious!” the sparrow is saying. “I’m the
king of all the birds in the creation. Everybody
admires me, I build in the choicest apple-trees, and
feed on the daintiest food. Farmers cut down
their hay that I may make my nest, farmers’ wives
kill the fowls that I may find feathers to line it, and
even the cows cast their coats to aid in the same
good work. Why, you little puppies, don’t you admire
me also, you ridiculous-looking fluffy things?”

[Pg 159]
“I admire your profound impudence,” Zimmerman
is saying.

“I am astonished at your daring audacity,” Vogel
is remarking.

But Zadkiel is thinking. “I dare say,” he says
at last, “that even such a wretched mite of a bird
as you must have been meant for some good purpose.
To pick up the grubs and the green flies perhaps.”

“Absurd,” cries the sparrow, and off he flies in
disgust.

Then the pups forget all about it, and begin to
lick each other’s noses and toes—I was nearly
saying toeses—in the funniest way imaginable.
After that they go in for one of the most terrible
sham fights that has ever been fought.

“You’ll be a badger, Zadkiel,” cries Vogel, “and
Zimmerman and I will worry you to death.”

So at it they go pell-mell. Zadkiel is hemmed
up in a corner of the cart-shed, and his brother
and sister make pretence, to tear him limb from
limb. Zadkiel defends himself gallantly, but has
to succumb at last, for he is fairly rolled on his
back, and in a few minutes is, figuratively speaking,
turned inside out. Then they espy the good-natured
admiring face of their mother, peering at
them over the corner of the straw, and at her they
all rush. They make believe that she is a fox, and
her life is accordingly not worth an hours’ purchase.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughs some one not two yards
away, and looking up they espy “master,” who
all unknown to them has been enjoying the fun for
the last half-hour.

“You dear, delightful little pets,” he says, “why,
you are as lively as kittens, and as healthy and
happy-looking as the summer’s day is long. You
will do your mother credit yet. Your legs are
straight, but work will bend them into the right
shape, then you’ll be able to creep into any rabbit’s
hole in the country,

So in order to make these little rascals’ legs bend
to the proper shape, master, as soon as they got a
little older, used to bury bones for them deep down
in the garden earth, and get the whole trio to
scrape and find them.

This was grand fun, and by the time the puppies
were six months old they were just as shapely as
the mother was, or as unshapely, if you like it
better, for after all perhaps the beauty of their
bodies consisted in their ugliness.

It isn’t every one who knows how to rear puppies
properly, but this master did. He fed them on
bread and milk, and broth and scraps of meat four
times a day, he never forgot to give them plenty of
the freshest of water, and as for straw, why they
could at any time bury themselves in it. But this
was not all, for he made the little things his constant
companions, when he himself went out for
exercise. And didn’t they scamper and didn’t they
dance, and frolic, and run! Many a rat, and
stoat, and polecat had reason to wish them far
away, I can tell you.

Few people know how wonderful, intelligent, and
sagacious a dachshund can become under proper
treatment. But there must be system in the treatment.
The whip must be hidden away out of
sight entirely, the animal must be treated like a
reasoning being, as indeed it is; it thus soon comes
to know not only every word spoken to it, but your
will and your wishes from your very movements
and looks.

A dog never forgets kind treatment, and whenever
he has the chance he acts a faithful part
towards a loving master. I could tell you a
hundred true stories illustrative of that fact, but
one must here suffice. Had you seen the dachshund
puppies then as they are represented in our
engraving, brimful of sauciness, daftness, and fun,
and seen them again two years after as they
appeared when accompanying their beloved
master in his rambles, you certainly could not have
believed they were the same animals. They were
still the same in one respect, however, for Vogel was
still the beauty and Zadkiel the philosopher.

One day their master went out to hunt in the
forest. It was far away in the wilds of the Scottish
Highlands. He had gone to shoot deer, but as he
was returning in the evening after an unsuccessful
stalk, he caught a glimpse of a fox disappearing
round the corner of an old ruin.

“Ho! ho!” he cried. “You are the rascal that
steals my ducks. We’ll have you if we can.”

But the fox had taken at once to his burrow in
the ruin. It was a very ancient feudal castle, only
just enough of it remaining to give an idea of the
shape it once had been, for regardless of the
respect that is due to antiquity the keepers had
carted away loads of the solid masonry to build
their houses, leaving the place but a beautiful
moss-grown chaos.

“Watch,” was all the master said to his dogs as
he crept in through an old window into the donjon
keep. It was a foolhardy thing to do, for the stones
were loose around it, but he had many times got in
there before, and why, he thought, should he not do
so now. Besides, this was Reynard’s favourite den,
and he hoped to shoot him in it. But the fox had
improved on his dwelling since the hunter had
last paid him a visit; he had excavated another
room. Stone after stone the hunter began to pull
down, when suddenly there was a startling noise
behind him, and he found himself in the dark.
[Pg 160]

the puppies and the sparrow (See p. 158.)

[Pg 161]
Buried alive! Buried in a dungeon in which
there was hardly room to turn. The situation
is too dreadful for pen to describe. He sank on
the soft damp mould of the floor and gave himself
up to despair. And thus hours went past.

Hitherto there had not been a sound, but now
the impatient yelping of the faithful hounds told
him they had begun to appreciate the terrible
danger of the master.

The rest of the story may be told in a very few
words. Vogel did nothing but run about wild with
grief, and made the rocks around her echo the
sounds of her grief. Zimmerman set himself to
work to dig the master out. But alas! solid stone
and lime were too much for even his strong little
limbs. But where was the wise and thoughtful
Zadkiel? Gone. He turned up some hours after
at his master’s house, and his strange behaviour
soon caused the servants to follow him into the
deep forest and straight to the old ruin.

Morning had dawned ere the hunter, more dead
than alive, was extricated from his living grave.
His first act as soon as he recovered was to
return thanks to Him who had delivered him, his
next to embrace his faithful dogs.

ARION.

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

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

“Iwonder what we shall do to-day,
Mary?” said Margaret, as the two
children stood by the kitchen table
waiting for the next lesson.

“I don’t know,” said Mary; “but
I fancy we are to learn something
about fat, for I heard mistress
giving orders to put the fat ready for us. And
there it is. Don’t you see all those pieces of fat
on the dish?”

“Well, children,” said Mrs. Herbert, who at that
moment entered the kitchen, “how would you like
to learn to fry to-day?”

“We should like it very much, mother,” said
Margaret.

“But what shall we make?”

“I wish we might make some apple fritters, like
those we had the day before yesterday.”

“You shall learn to cook the fritters at our next
lesson,” said Mrs. Herbert. “To-day we shall be
quite sufficiently busy preparing the fat for frying.
Can you, Mary, tell me what it is to fry food? If
you had to fry the fritters, for instance, how would
you set about it?”

“Please, ma’am, let me think,” said Mary.
“When we fried the pancakes, we put a little fat
in the frying-pan, and let it melt, and then put in
the batter. So I suppose we should do the same
with fritters.”

“That is exactly what we must not do,” said
Mrs. Herbert. “There are a few things which we
must fry in a shallow pan, with very little fat.
Pancakes and omelettes are amongst them. But as
a rule, this is a very extravagant, wasteful mode of
cooking. It is much better to fry properly, that is,
to cook in an abundance of fat, using as much fat
as will cover the food entirely, so that we may be
said to boil the food, but in fat instead of water.”

“I should have thought it was very wasteful to use
a quantity of fat,” said Margaret.

“Do you remember how much fat we used
when we fried the pancakes?” said Mrs. Herbert.

“I remember,” said Mary: “for every pancake
we used a piece of fat about the size of a
walnut.”

“And how much of this was left when all were
finished?”

“Why, none, mother,” said Margaret. “The fat
was used each time, and it seemed to dry up or go
into the pancake, or something. At any rate, it was
lost altogether.”

“Then if we were trying to find out how much
the pancakes cost, we ought to include the cost of
the fat in which they were fried?”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you not think, then, that if in frying we
could so arrange matters that the fat should be
used again and again and again, that would be less
wasteful?”

“Of course it would,” said Mary.

“Then this is what we will do. We will provide a
quantity of fat, as much as will half fill a good-sized
iron saucepan. When we use this for frying, we shall
find that if we are careful of it—that is, if we lift it
from the fire as soon as it is done with, do not let it
burn, and strain it—we can use it again and again
and again. In fact, it may be used any number of
times, and we keep adding fresh fat as we get it.”

“But we could not fry pancakes in that way,”
said Margaret.

“No; I told you just now that pancakes and
omelettes must be fried in a little fat. This process
[Pg 162]
is generally called by cooks dry frying. When
plenty of fat is used, and the food is boiled in the
fat, the process is called wet frying.”

“And how are we to tell which way is suitable
for what we have to cook?” said Margaret.

“Ah, Margaret! you want to get on too quickly.
To know which is the best way of treating different
kinds of food is a large subject, and can only be
learnt with time. I may tell you, however, that
nearly all small things which can be quickly
cooked, and can be covered with fat, may be wet
fried. Things which need longer cooking, such as
uncooked meat, bacon, sausages, &c., should be
dry fried. Chops and steaks, too, are often dry
fried, but they are best when broiled; and of broiling
I must speak to you another day.”

“We shall easily remember that wet frying is
using plenty of fat, and dry frying is using very
little fat,” said Mary.

“Of course you will. And now for the kind of
fat you are to use. There are four kinds of fat
used in frying—dripping, oil, butter, and lard. Of
these, dripping is the best and lard is the worst.”

“But please, ma’am, lard is generally used, is it
not?” said Mary, looking astonished.

“Indeed it is,” replied Mrs. Herbert, “and this
is the mistake which is made. Those who do not
know have a great scorn for dripping. They sell it
for a small sum to get it out of the way, and when
they have done so they buy lard. Yet lard is more
apt to make food taste greasy than any fat which
can be used.”

“What is the dripping made from, then?” said
Margaret.

“From little odds and ends of fat, either cooked
or uncooked, left from joints, and ‘rendered,’ that
is, melted down; also from the fat which is
skimmed from the top of the water in which meat
is boiled. I should like you little folk to remember
that one of the surest signs of cleverness in cookery
is that nothing is wasted, and one of the most
certain ways of preventing waste is to look after
the fat. A good cook will not allow as much as
half an inch of fat to be wasted. She will collect
the scraps together and melt them down gently,
and so she will never need to buy.”

“Just as cook has put those pieces of fat together
there, ready for us to melt down?”

“Yes; and now we will go on to render them
down, shall we? First we cut them up in very
small pieces. We then put them into an old, but
perfectly clean, saucepan, with a quarter of a pint of
water to each pound of fat. We then put the lid
on the saucepan, and boil gently for about an hour,
or till the water has boiled away, when we take the
lid off, and stew the fat again until the pieces
acquire a slight colour, when the fat is ready to
be strained through a jar. We must not forget
to stir the fat occasionally, to keep it from burning,
and also to let it cool slightly before straining, for
fear of accident; for boiling fat is very hot, more
than twice as hot as boiling water.”

“Supposing we have no pieces of fat, mother,
what shall we do then?”

“We must buy some. Those who like beef fat
will find ox flare excellent for the purpose. The
most experienced cooks, however, now prefer
mutton fat to any other, because it is so hard and
dry. Fat which is bought must be rendered down
as scraps are rendered. I fancy, however, that
where meat is eaten every day it is seldom necessary
to buy fat, if only proper care is taken of the
trimmings.”

“If dripping may be used for frying, could we
not take the dripping left from joints, mother?”
said Margaret.

“Certainly we could, dear. Only we must be
careful to have it thoroughly clean and dry, with no
water or gravy in it. To make it thus we should probably
have to wash it in three or four times its quantity
of boiling water, then let it go cold and scrape
away the impurities which would have settled at
the bottom. After which we should melt it gently
down again to get rid thoroughly of any moisture
there might be in it.”

“Wash dripping! I never heard of such a thing,”
said Margaret.

“It is a very necessary business at times, for all
that. The most certain way of taking care of anything
we value is to keep it clean: and certainly we
value our kitchen fat. But then, as I told you,
besides keeping it clean we must keep it dry; and
one reason why good cooks prefer mutton fat to
any other is that it can be more easily kept dry
than other fats. Fat should be thoroughly strained
also each time it is used, as well as after being
rendered the first time, and this will help to keep
it pure.”

“I think the water has all boiled away from our
fat now, ma’am,” said Mary, who had been looking
very earnestly into the pan, and stirring the pieces
very vigorously.

“Then,” said Mrs. Herbert, “we will take the
lid off the pan, and when the pieces begin to colour
we will let the fat cool and strain it away. It will
so be quite ready for our purpose, and at our
next lesson I will show you how to fry some apple
fritters.”

“I think we shall enjoy frying fritters as well as
making pancakes,” said the two children together.

(To be continued.)

[Pg 163]

THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

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

CHAPTER VII.—AN INVESTMENT.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he holidays were over at last;
the ten days flew by only
too quickly to Bertie, for,
compared with Gore House,
Fitzroy Square seemed the
most delightful place in the
world. He was not very
artistic in his taste, and thought but
little of carving and gilding, soft
carpets, and luxurious chairs; therefore
the shabby parlour with Aunt
Amy seemed far more beautiful than
the very grandest apartment in Aunt
Gregory’s grand house.

“If I could only stay here always, Aunt
Amy, how happy I should be!” he had said a dozen
times during his stay; and each time, though her
heart echoed his wish, she cheered him with
loving smiles, encouraged him with hopeful words,
begging of him to try and make the best of his Uncle
Gregory’s home, and be as happy and contented as
he could. Eddie often wished that he had such a
magnificent residence, for he made no secret of his
contempt for the shabby and somewhat dingy
comfort of Uncle Clair’s house and its dreary surroundings.
He thought artists should have everything
beautiful and graceful about them, and
looked very much astonished when his uncle said,
in his sweet low voice, that beauty and grace were
certainly essential, but they should be in the artist
himself, and then he would see them reflected
everywhere. Both Bertie and Agnes endorsed that
statement, for they loved the old house, and were
quite happy there. Eddie, still longing for something
out of his reach, instead of making the most
of what was at his hand, grumbled and shook his
head; but Uncle Clair only smiled, and said,
“You’ll be wiser when you are older, my boy.
Knowledge comes with years.”

Mrs. Gregory’s presents caused Mrs. Clair to
think that she was sorry for her neglect of Bertie,
and meant to be kinder to him in future; besides,
Uncle Gregory had said there might be other
arrangements when he returned, so that it was with
a very hopeful heart that Bertie entered the office
punctually at nine o’clock on the 2nd of January, and
was taking his old corner to await the arrival of
his uncle, when the head clerk conducted him into
the inner room, and pointed out a seat at a desk
near a window looking into a narrow court.

“Go through all those letters,” the clerk said,
pointing to a huge heap; “select the circulars, open
them, and place them on that stand; arrange all the
English and foreign letters on Mr. Gregory’s table,
and then address those envelopes from that book
on your desk.”

“Yes, sir,” Bertie replied cheerfully. It certainly
was much pleasanter in that warm room, with its
clear blazing fire, soft carpet, leather-covered
chairs, and draughtless windows, than in the large,
and often chilly, outer office, but when Mr. Gregory
entered with his compressed lips and keen piercing
glance all round, Bertie began to think it would not
be pleasant to have to sit always within the reach
of his critical eyes.

“Good morning. You have not forgotten, I see:
that’s well,” Mr. Gregory said, as he hung up his
coat and pulled off his gloves. Then, with a quick
glance at his table, he added, “You may go on with
your work.”

Bertie copied industriously for an hour, never
raising his head from his desk; then his master’s
voice startled him. “Come here, Bertie. I want
some conversation with you. How old are you?”

“Nearly thirteen, sir.”

“You look more. Do you like business?”

“I think I do, sir. I shall like it more when I
understand it better.”

“Quite so. Now, Bertie, because you are my
nephew, and have been a good, steady lad, I am
going to place you in a position of great trust. You
are quick, and write a good hand, and I shall
train you to be my private secretary. You shall
answer all my business letters, from my dictation.
Of course I don’t mean all my letters,” catching
Bertie’s nervous glance at the table, “only those
I have been in the habit of attending to myself.
It means several changes: one is, you need not
get here till I do in the morning; another is, that I
shall require your services for an hour or two every
evening in the library at Gore House. You can
leave here at four instead of half-past five, and I
wish you to take lessons in French and German
three times a week. I have engaged a master for
you, and you can leave here every other day at
half-past three. I will pay you twelve shillings a
week, out of which you must pay for your luncheon,
and you will dine with us, except when there is a
[Pg 164]
large party. Now sit down, and write exactly as
I tell you, and as quickly, as neatly, and accurately
as you can.”

“Yes, uncle; thank you,” Bertie replied, his heart
throbbing violently. That was indeed a change
from the dull routine of the past five months: he
had won his uncle’s confidence; he was to have no
more solitary evenings; and, best of all, he was to
have a salary, and only luncheon to buy out of it.

“Why, I shall only want a Bath bun and a glass
of milk every day. I can save nearly all,” Bertie
whispered to himself at luncheon-time. “Uncle
Gregory is good to me, and no mistake!”

Mr. Gregory was good to his nephew, but not
before he had thoroughly satisfied himself that the
boy fully deserved his confidence, and, what was
more, would fully and amply repay it. That twelve
shillings a week was a master-stroke of policy, for
it made Bertie eternally grateful; and if the young
gentleman fancied his Uncle Gregory did not know
that nine shillings of it went into the post-office
savings’ bank regularly every week, he was greatly
mistaken. The dining down-stairs was not quite
such a success; he was usually completely ignored,
and always felt glad when the formal prolonged
meal was over, and he was at liberty to follow Mr.
Gregory to the library. There, indeed, Bertie had
often two, or even three, hours’ trying work, copying
out prospectuses and share lists, reading aloud a
strange jargon he did not half understand about
stocks, consols, and dividends, adding up prodigious
sums of money, subtracting other sums from them,
and, when the result did not quite satisfy Mr.
Gregory, having to consign them all to the waste-paper
basket, and begin over again. Still, it was
better than the long dreary evenings in the deserted
school-room, though so much confinement
was beginning to tell a little on Bertie’s rosy
cheeks and healthy young frame. The atmosphere
of the Underground Railway, too, was injuring
lungs that had never breathed anything but the
purest country air, and at last Mr. Gregory noticed
his altered appearance, and invited him to drive
into the City in the dog-cart with himself every
morning. That was indeed a red-letter day,—almost
as good as driving to Dr. Mayson’s
at Riversdale: better, in fact, Bertie began to
think later on, for the bustle and confusion, the
eager, hurrying, restless life of the City began to
have a strange charm for him, and that brisk drive
to and from Mincing Lane was a real pleasure.
Then he was progressing famously with his French
and German. The old professor who gave him his
lessons was a sociable, voluble, eloquent gentleman,
who waved his hands, rolled his eyes, chattered
nonsense that made Bertie laugh, but at the same
time interested him so much that he took great
pains to listen and remember; and having learned
his grammar fairly well at school he was soon able
to make his way with tolerable ease through either
a newspaper or letter.

But you must not suppose it was all sunshine
and smooth sailing for Bertie Rivers. He had a
great many trials and troubles, and perhaps the
heaviest was his inability to go to Fitzroy Square,
except on Sundays, and not always then. Then
he missed his runs in the Park and his walks
into the country in the early morning, his wood-carving
and cork-carving, and all the other amusements
with which he was in the habit of filling
up his spare time. Then Uncle Gregory was
becoming daily more exacting and particular,
and Bertie gathered from the letters he wrote that
some of the many speculations of the great City
merchant were not going on entirely to his satisfaction.
Every evening he remained later in the
library, and Bertie had more letters to write and
circulars to address, and sometimes his head ached
sadly, and his eyes were dull and heavy in the
morning. But there was one unfailing source of
satisfaction—his weekly visit to the post-office
savings’ bank. Bertie would not have missed that
for the world: nine shillings a week, and sometimes
even ten—for nothing could tempt him to spend a
penny, except on his luncheons and in writing to
them at Fitzroy Square—soon mounted up to five
pounds, and then Mr. Gregory remarked one day
that if Bertie had saved any money he would invest
it for him in a company that would pay five
times as much interest asthe post-office. So the
money was handed over to Uncle Gregory, and
Bertie received a very large and formal paper,
which he never read, but still was proud of, and
in his next visit handed it triumphantly to Mr.
Clair. He read it carefully, and then shook his
head. “This company promises too much, Bertie,”
he said; “better have left your money where it
was.”

“As if Uncle Gregory doesn’t know best!” Bertie
laughed. “Why, he has hundreds of shares himself.”

CHAPTER VIII.—AN UNEXPECTED PLEASURE.

“Y
ou
may go and spend a few days with
your brother,” Mr. Gregory said to Bertie
one Saturday at the end of July. “I am
going away for a week, and so I can spare
you; but mind you are back on the Monday after
next, and in good time.”

“Yes, sir; thank you, uncle,” Bertie replied, with
a bright smile.

“You may go now, if you wish. I do not require
[Pg 165]
anything further;” and Bertie fairly ran out of the
office, jumped into an omnibus, and hurried
straight to Fitzroy Square, instead of going home
to Kensington. The moment the hall door opened
he saw something unusual was about to take place:
there were trunks and packages and muffle straps
in the hall, and there, amidst them, stood Uncle
Clair, looking quite calm, while Aunt Amy, Agnes,
and Eddie flew hither and thither in every
direction. There was a four-wheeler at the door
too, so that evidently the family were going
away. For a moment Bertie felt inclined to cry.
What possible pleasure could he have in a week’s
holiday without Eddie and Agnes to share it? But
the moment Aunt Amy caught sight of him, her
bright face and cordial welcome re-assured him.

“he saw something unusual was about to take place.”

“Dear Bertie, I am so glad. I was afraid your
uncle could not spare you to come with us. But
where are your things?”

“I haven’t brought any. I only just came from
the City to tell you Uncle Gregory gave me a
week’s holiday,” Bertie replied, looking very much
perplexed. “I did not know you were all going
away, auntie, or of course I would not have
come.”

“Then you did not get the letter I sent you,
dear?”

“No, aunt.”

“Well, I wrote asking you to apply for permission
to come with us to the sea-side for a week.
But I suppose the letter miscarried some way.
However ‘All’s well that ends well,’ Bertie. You
are just in time. Come now, help to carry the
parcels. I hope we have not forgotten anything.”

[Pg 166]
“If we were going to stay a year in a desert
island a thousand miles from a shop, I should
think we have enough luggage,” Uncle Clair said,
glancing comically at the numerous packages and
trunks; “instead of which, we’re only going to
Brighton, and can get everything we want there just
as well as in London.”

“But am I really to go to the sea-side with you,
Uncle Harry?” Bertie cried eagerly.

“Why, of course, child; you don’t suppose we’re
going to leave you behind.”

“Oh, how good of you! how jolly! Hurrah!”
and Bertie executed a sort of war-dance, tossed his
hat in the air, and kissed his aunt and Agnes a
dozen times at least before taking his seat in the
cab. “You had better go with your aunt in a
hansom, Bertie,” Uncle Clair said; “Eddie, Agnes,
and I will go with the luggage. If you get to the
station first, wait for us at the booking-office. Mind
you don’t get lost,” he added, with a smile, as they
drove away.

“As if I could get lost in the City, Aunt Amy!”
Bertie said proudly. “Why, I know the place by
heart now; and shan’t I be glad to get away from it
for a whole week? Was it not kind of Uncle
Gregory to give me a holiday?”

“Very good, Bertie. You seem to get on capitally.
Do you know, dear, I am sorry we did not try to
persuade Eddie to take his place in the office too:
I almost think he would have been happier, and
have got on better; he does not seem very contented
with us, and, worst of all, he does not make
much progress in the profession he has chosen.
Agnes is far ahead of him.”

“But Eddie is very clever, Aunt Amy: he can do
anything if he likes,” Bertie cried loyally. “And I
do not think he would get on with Uncle Gregory:
he would never like the City; besides, Eddie never
cared to be told to do anything. Even poor papa
used to say, ‘Please, Eddie,’ or ‘Perhaps you will
do so, Eddie.’ Now, Uncle Gregory orders me to
do forty different things in different ways every
day, and I don’t mind a bit; but Eddie would stand
and look at him, and frown so, and just walk away.
My brother would never get on with Uncle
Gregory, Aunt Amy,” Bertie repeated gravely.
“Eddie would never make a merchant.”

“And your uncle Clair says he will never make
an artist, unless he changes greatly,” said
Aunt Amy, rather sadly. “Poor Eddie! I am
really very anxious about his future: he is so like
his father: his ideas are quite magnificent, but he
has no energy.”

“He’s clever, though, auntie; papa often said
Eddie was a genius,” Bertie whispered, “and I can
work enough for us both. When I am rich, and can
buy back Riversdale, Eddie will be quite happy.
You don’t know how different he will be when he
gets back to our beautiful home,” and Bertie’s eyes
sparkled, and his cheeks flushed at the thought,
for the dream of Bertie’s life was to get back
Riversdale. The anxieties of the great establishment
in Mincing Lane never touched him;
he knew nothing of risks, disappointments, or
failures; in fact, Bertie never even thought of such
things, for he was but a child at heart, and had
perfect faith in his uncle’s assurance that if he were
only a good, obedient, industrious boy he would be
very rich some day, and get back his home. But
no thought of the busy City, the close, dusty office,
or the hot library at Kensington troubled him as
he took his seat in the train, and was whirled at
the rate of fifty miles an hour southward. Eddie
sat silently looking out of the window, envying his
brother’s high spirits; he could not think what made
Bertie so happy when he felt discontented and
miserable, and thoroughly dissatisfied with everything
in the world. Agnes, too, seemed infected
with some of Bertie’s good humour; her eyes
sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and she laughed
merrily at the utter nonsense her cousin chattered
incessantly, while poor Eddie hugged his discontent,
and made the most of his misery. And yet
he had no real cause to be unhappy: every one was
kind, gentle, patient with him; he had not a reasonable
wish in the world ungratified; and yet he sat
silent, drumming with his fingers on the window of
the carriage, while the others chatted and laughed,
and seemed as if they could not keep still for very
enjoyment.

“Oh, auntie, how lovely it is!” Agnes cried,
“Look how the sun shines on the trees, and the
brook looks like summer lightning. It is good to
get away from London, and see the country once
more; and such a sky, Bertie! you don’t have
anything like that in Mincing Lane!”

“No; but though our skies may be somewhat
inky, Miss Agnes, they have a silver or a golden
lining,” Bertie replied, with the air of a judge.
“We don’t want sunshine in the City, because we
have no time to look at it; and besides, we have
plenty of gas and electric light.”

Eddie frowned, and was going to say something
about his brother’s want of artistic taste, when
Uncle Clair interrupted him by a hearty laugh.

“Really, Master Bertie, you are becoming quite
a philosopher as well as a capitalist and man of
business. Now then, youngsters, gather up your
parcels; we shall be in Brighton in about five
minutes, and then for a glimpse of the glorious sea.”

“Why, Uncle Harry, I’ve never seen it!” Bertie
exclaimed, as if he were very much surprised at not
[Pg 167]
having given the matter a thought before. “All
the way down I never seemed to think we were
going to the sea-side: I was so glad to get away from
London. Will you let us have a boat, Uncle Harry?”

“That depends, Bertie; if the weather keeps
fine we may go for a sail some day.”

“Bertie fancies we could pull about in a little
punt on the ocean as we did on the river at home,”
Eddie said, rather scornfully. “He has no idea
what the sea is like.”

“Well, well, he will know better presently, for
here we are,” Uncle Harry said gently; and in a
few minutes more they were all in a shabby, shaky,
but roomy old carriage, driving along the Parade.

“Oh!” Agnes whispered, catching Aunt Amy’s
hand. “Oh, how beautiful! I feel as if I can’t
breathe, auntie.”

“It is jolly!” Bertie cried, in his hearty, downright
way. “What a place for a swim, Eddie!”

“The idea of thinking the sea only a place for
swimming!” Eddie replied contemptuously. “I——”

“You can’t swim a bit: that’s the reason you
don’t care about it,” Bertie cried merrily. “But
Eddie can pull better than I can, Uncle Harry, so
you will hear him say presently, ‘What a lovely
place for a row!’ and I do believe it’s not a bit
rougher than our little river.”

“It’s very calm to-day, but sometimes it wears
a very different aspect, Bertie.”

“I don’t believe it ever could be really rough,
just like Turner’s pictures,” Eddie grumbled. “It’s
not a bit like what I thought it would be.”

“It’s ten times prettier than anything I ever
saw,” Bertie cried enthusiastically. “Just look at
all the boats, and such pretty houses, and the
donkeys, Eddie. Oh, Uncle Harry! may we have
a donkey-ride? and such lots of boys!”

“What a pity poor Eddie did not leave his
enemy at home, and he would be as happy as
Bertie,” Mr. Clair said in a very low voice to
Aunt Amy; and she only shook her head and
smiled sorrowfully; but the words, though spoken
in a very low tone, reached Bertie’s quick young
ears, and he glanced at his brother in sore perplexity.
But at that moment the carriage stopped
at the house where Mr. Clair had secured apartments,
and in the bustle of getting in the packets,
exploring the rooms, exclaiming at the beautiful
view from the balcony, and Bertie’s sudden discovery
that it was a glorious place to test the
powers of a pea-shooter or catapult, he forgot
all about Uncle Clair’s words and Aunt Amy’s
sorrowful smile; and even Eddie thawed a little,
and agreed that a beautiful full-rigged ship, with
the bright sun shining on her snow-white sails,
was a pretty-enough picture to please even an artist.

But that night, when Bertie laid his tired head
on the pillow—he had been running and dancing
along the beach for hours—his last waking thought
was, “I must find out who’s Eddie’s enemy; and
if he’s not a lot a bigger fellow than I am, I’ll
thrash him!”

CHAPTER IX.—A HAPPY ENCOUNTER.

Brighton in the first days of August is
hot and dusty, noisy, and crowded with
people; excursionists pour in by thousands,
German bands and organs seem
to spring up under one’s feet at every step.
The sun blazes in the windows of the houses
on the Marine Parade all day, and the fine,
dry, chalky dust from the Downs is apt to be
irritating to delicate throats; but for all that,
Brighton in August is delightful, at least to
children. Then they may pass an almost amphibious
existence without danger of catching
cold. Foremost in every mischief, bravest in
every danger, most fortunate in every escapade,
was Bertie. No one could look at his sparkling
eyes and rosy cheeks, hear his merry laughter,
watch him skip, jump, and dance along the beach,
without saying, “There, at least, is one happy boy,”
and feeling glad that there was so much capacity for
pure enjoyment in the world. He dragged Eddie
and Agnes with him hither and thither, till by
sheer force of energy and example he forced them
to share his happiness, and brought the roses to
their cheeks too; he would have dragged Aunt
Amy and Uncle Clair about in the same way, only
they drew the line at taking off shoes and paddling
in the water, and begged to be allowed to sit still
on the beach and watch them. However, one day,
very much to his astonishment, he met his Aunt
Gregory and his cousins walking on the Parade,
and Bertie nothing doubted but they would be
glad to join his many expeditions in search of
fun; but the boys had many other acquaintances
in Brighton, and felt half ashamed to acknowledge
a relative who was only a junior clerk, and refused
very distinctly to go down on the beach, and be
friendly with Eddie and Agnes. Indeed, as soon
as Mrs. Gregory understood that Mr. and Mrs.
Clair were also by the sea-side, she became very
chilling to Bertie, and asked when he was going
back to his office.

“Next Monday, aunt; but the others will stay
for another fortnight,” Bertie answered brightly,
without the least shade of discontent on his face.

“And why must you return before the others,
my lad?” a gentleman said, advancing a step, and
looking at Bertie steadily. “If I don’t mistake, I
have met you before somewhere. Where was it?”

[Pg 168]
“You have seen him at our house, perhaps,
Mr. Murray,” Dick Gregory said carelessly; he
had been walking with the gentleman, and discussing
a trip in Mr. Murray’s yacht, and did not
want to be interrupted; indeed, he was far from
being pleased at meeting Bertie. “You know, he’s
in papa’s office in the City,” he added, seeing the
gentleman still looked puzzled.

“No, cousin; I think Mr. Murray saw me at
Riversdale,” Bertie said, a little shyly, for a pair
of keen dark eyes were fixed on his face. “He
used to come and see papa often; but I think he
would remember Eddie better than me: he saw
him oftener.”

“‘i remember you quite well,’ he said.”

“Oh dear me! yes, of course; why, I remember
you quite well,” he said. “You are Herbert, the
dreadful little boy who snow-balled me one day, and
Eddie drew caricatures of me. Dear me! Mrs.
Gregory, how strange you never mentioned the
Rivers’ being here. This boy’s father is one of my
oldest and dearest friends. I shall be delighted to
meet him.”

For a moment there was an awkward silence;
Mrs. Gregory looked red and confused, her two
sons turned round and studied the sea, then Bertie
looked up suddenly. “Papa is not here, sir: he—he
is dead,” he said steadily, but in an earnest
voice. “I am in Uncle Gregory’s office; Eddie is
learning to be an artist with Uncle Clair. Poor
papa lost his money, and we’re going to try and
get rich, to buy back Riversdale.”

“Buy back Riversdale!” Mr. Murray cried.
“You don’t mean——” then glancing at Mrs.
Gregory’s confused expression, and the sudden
[Pg 169]
gravity that had replaced the mirth in Bertie’s
eyes, he stopped, and puckered up his forehead in
the strangest way.

“Is this boy, Herbert Rivers, staying with you?”
he asked presently, turning to Mrs. Gregory.

“No, indeed; I did not even know he was here.
I fancied he was at the office, as usual.”

“Oh! then how did you come to be here, child?
Are you alone?” Mr. Murray asked.

“I am with Uncle and Aunt Clair. Last Saturday
Uncle Gregory said I might have a week’s
holiday and spend it with my brother, so I just
ran straight off to Fitzroy Square, and found them
all in the hall just starting for Brighton. Oh, it
has been so splendid!”

“So you must go back to town to your office
next Monday?” the gentleman said, after a
moment’s frowning. “Well, well, we shall see; this
is Thursday. Where does your Uncle Clair live?”

Bertie told him the address: it was within a
stone’s throw; and as Mr. Murray noted down the
number, and glanced at the house so as to remember
it, he saw that the balcony was strikingly
decorated with some of the children’s trophies. Long
trailing sprays of damp dark-brown seaweed hung
over the railings; there was quite a large heap of
sea-stones, and a few shells piled up in one corner.
Bertie’s schooner was firmly anchored to a crimson
bucket in another; there was a camp-stool before
an easel standing in the open window, and a low
chair with cushions outside. Altogether, the aspect
of the rooms occupied by Uncle Clair pleased Mr.
Murray.

As they walked along the parade Mr. Murray
was unusually silent; the boys watched him,
and saw by the expression of his face that he
was thinking deeply. But it was not till he met
their father at the aquarium that Mr. Murray
said a single word about Bertie Rivers. Then
both gentlemen stood in a quiet corner, and talked
so long and so earnestly that both Mrs. Gregory
and the boys became impatient, and not a little
curious. What could they possibly have to say
about the little junior clerk? and yet they were sure
he was the subject of their conversation.

Mrs. Gregory looked more anxious than curious.
Mr. Murray was a very old friend of the Rivers’
family, and though absence from England for
several years caused him to be quite ignorant of
the calamities that had overtaken the master of
Riversdale, the death of his brother Frank, and the
loss of his fortune, he was still deeply interested
in the family, and heard with regret of the almost
friendless condition of Mr. Rivers’ sons.

“I wish you had told me all this sooner,” he
said at length. “We might have done something
better for that fine lad.”

“He will do very well,” Mr. Gregory replied, a
little coldly. “You should be the last person in
the world to object to business.”

“I don’t object, only the boy is too young—a
mere child. Why did not you send him to school
with your boys, for a few years at least?”

“I do not think that would be any true kindness.
It would only make him dissatisfied with his
future position, perhaps. Bertie is doing very well.”

Mr. Murray said no more, but all the remainder
of the afternoon he thought a great deal
of his old friend Mr. Rivers and his boys, and the
more he reflected the less pleased he felt at
Mr. Gregory’s treatment of Bertie, and the undisguised
contempt Dick and Harry expressed for
their cousin. He resolved to call the very next
morning on Mr. Clair, and have a talk with him
about the lads, for Mr. Murray had a very strong
reason for being interested in their future. It was
he who had persuaded their father to invest money
in the speculation that ended so disastrously, but
he had no idea that Mr. Rivers became such an
extensive shareholder; he forgot that a simple
country gentleman, without either knowledge or
experience, could not be as prudent and far-seeing
as a man all his life acquainted with business.
Mr. Murray had been a loser in the mines himself,
but to a comparatively slight extent, and as he
was an exceedingly rich man, he only regarded
the matter as one of the casual losses incurred in
business. But his old friend’s losses troubled him
deeply, and he resolved to do everything in his
power to repair the effects of his well-meant, but
unfortunate, advice.

Mr. Murray was an old bachelor, very rich, and
some people said very eccentric, though, in truth,
his eccentricity was only indiscriminate generosity.
He was very fond of children, boys especially; he
often spoke of adopting some promising lad to
inherit a portion of his great fortune, and continue
the grand old firm in the City that had
flourished for over a hundred years as Murray
and Co. For many reasons Mr. Gregory hoped
that one of his boys would be chosen, and lately
everything had seemed like it; therefore, the
sudden interest Mr. Murray seemed to take in
Bertie caused Mr. and Mrs. Gregory some uneasiness,
especially as the gentleman said at
dinner that evening that the yachting excursion
would have to be put off for some days, as he
wished to make the acquaintance of his old friend’s
sons, and learn a little more of their history, and
meant to call at their address the next morning.

(To be continued.)

[Pg 170]

AN APPLE SONG.

he Autumn sunshine falls so warm,
So warm in the orchard green,

A golden tent is the apple-tree;
And under the leafy screen

Sits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough,
As high as he can go,

Dropping the apples red and brown
To his Cousin Prue below.


Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass,
Spreads wide her pinafore,

The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain,
By two, by three, by four;

With watchful eye and ready hand
She lets no apple fall—

As fast as Rex can throw them down
She catches one and all.


The blackbird on the topmost bough
Is singing loud and clear,

The children shouting at their task
It does him good to hear.

He watches them with his bead-black eyes,
And blither still he sings;

But clearer than dear blackbird’s note
The children’s laughter rings.

MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.

VIII.—IN THE FISH-HOUSE.

Of the Fish-house
at the London
Zoological Gardens
it must be
said that its contents
are decidedly
“mixed,”
for it is the home
not only of a few
specimens of the
finny tribe, but
also of some
wading and diving
birds, of a
very curious amphibian, of a few shrimps, and of
several of the beautiful flower-like sea-anemones.
The collection, however, loses nothing in point of
interest because of its varied character, and will repay
a good deal more study than it seems to receive
from visitors.

Some of the fishes are as common as the schoolboy’s
familiar friend, the minnow. Others, like
the cat-fish and sea-horse, are rare—in England, at
any rate. Then there are kinds known to every
lover of angling, such as the perch an pike.
Seldom has a popular name been so aptly
bestowed as in the case of the pretty little sea-horses.
In the upper half of their wee bodies they
have all the equine look and bearing, but in the
lower half there is a great falling-off in the likeness,
excepting that both animals have tails. But the
tail of the sea-horse is a most useful appendage.
The tiny creature can twine it round marine weeds
and vegetables, and by this means drifts along
with the current into far distant seas and strange
climes. To this cause the occasional discovery of
foreigners upon British coasts has been ascribed.
With regard to the name of the cat-fish, one must
not be quite so particular. There is, on a cursory
glance, enough of the appearance of pussy about the
head of this curious animal to explain how the
title came to be applied to it. It strikes one as
being rather a morose and surly creature, an impression
that is fully borne out when one learns
that it will fight desperately when captured.

Though the flounders can scarcely be considered
as other than common fishes, they always are worth
watching. Tom Noddy was all head and no body,
but they may be regarded as being nearly all body
with very little head, and the two bright black eyes,
which look as if they were “stuck on,” give them a
rather comical aspect. You will find them inquisitive,
too. Put your finger in front of their tank, and
they will all flock to see what it is. On the contrary,
other fishes, such as the pike and carp, will
remain stolid and indifferent to any movement you
may make, and some, like the timorous trout—for
which Isaak Walton loved to angle above any fish,—will
be so dreadfully upset at the appearance of
your digit that they will dart off in every direction.

[Pg 171]

“in the orchard.” an apple song (p. 170).

Little folk may be expected to feel special interest
in the pikes, those “fresh-water wolves” and “tyrants
of the rivers,” as they have been styled in consequence
of their ferocity. They thrive well despite
their savage gluttony, and attain to a green old age.
One was captured in a pond in Sweden, in 1449,
with a ring round its neck, which bore an inscription
which showed that it had been placed in the
pond more than two hundred years before. However
that may be, there is no doubt that the pike
is a long liver. It is so destructive, that it will
clear a pond of all the fishes, not hesitating to
attack those even that are nearly as big as itself.
There is a case on record of a pike fastening on
the lips of a mule, which had been taken to
drink in the pond. They have been known to bite
at swans and geese, and altogether Jack Pike is a
most voracious creature. It may be assumed
also that it is unsociable, for it generally swims
about by itself, and not in shoals or in companies
like other fishes.

the marine bullhead.

Among other inmates of this house which call
for mention are carp, gobies, dace, roach, bullhead,
gurnard, mullet, basse, and conger-eels. They
lead a monotonous sort of life, swimming to and fro
in their tanks, in a wearisome way. But their
graceful movements and curious colours are worth
notice. The conger-eels are comparatively small
specimens. Those in the deep sea sometimes
attain a gigantic size. They are able to use their
tail as a hand, and have been known by means of
it to seize the gunwale of the boat in which they
were imprisoned and jump into the sea.

One of the quaintest and most interesting inmates
of the house, however, is not a fish but an
amphibian. There are two groups of amphibians,
one called tailless—to which frogs and toads belong—and
the other tailed, of which the newt and
the axolotl are members. The Zoological Society
are fortunate enough to possess specimens of both
the black and white axolotl. This creature, which
is a native of Mexico, has a strange life-history
not unlike that of the frog. It has a sort of
tadpole stage of existence, in which it is furnished
with a collar of gills and lives in the water. After
a while it loses its gills, and its tail and legs grow
much less fish-like. There is a kind of lizard look
about its permanent form. In the first period of its
history it is styled axolotl; in the final period it
becomes known as amblystome.
They say its flesh
is esteemed a delicacy in
Mexico.

Visitors seem to regard
the anemones—the
“most brilliant of living
flower gardens,” as Charles
Kingsley called them—as
useful in the way of ornament,
and pass their tanks
without paying further
heed to them. This is not
the case with respect to
the diving birds, which are beyond all question the
centre of attraction in the fish-house. The birds
comprise a darter, a cormorant, a guillemot, and a
penguin. The first-named is seldom seen in this
country. It is a largish bird with webbed feet,
long thin neck, and spear-like bill. When swimming
in the water with its body entirely submerged,
it looks not unlike a snake forging along. Hence
it is also known as the snake-neck. The cormorant
and darter, though here classed for convenience’
sake among the divers, really belong to
the pelican family. The guillemot is a diving bird
found in the Northern seas, while the penguin may
be looked upon as representing the divers of the
Southern Ocean. The penguin is a most awkward
bird ashore, but in its native element its movements
are elegant and rapid. When the keeper
has placed some food in the water-tank, the darter
is fetched from its cage. The bird takes a swim
round, then spots its prey and goes for it with
unerring aim. Rising to the surface it throws the
fish in the air, catches it in its beak, and bolts it
with business-like despatch. It then goes fishing
again, and after its wants have been supplied it
returns to its house. The other three birds are
allowed to dine together. There is no squabbling
amongst them. Enough fishes are thrown in to
keep them occupied for a few minutes. The speed
with which the guillemot cuts the water is truly
amazing. Once more one has an opportunity of
noticing the clumsiness of the penguin when it
tries to leave the water. At either end of the tank
a platform with transverse bars is let down for the
convenience of the birds, but the silly penguin,
instead of going to the end of the platform and
gradually working its way upward, sometimes endeavours
to climb up the side, its frantic struggles
to do so being ludicrous. It does not appear to
possess sufficient sense to find its way out in the
easiest manner, for Mr Keeper has to assist it
with a long iron pole with a hook at the end, by
means of which he pushes the bird along to the
foot of the platform. The
feeding of the birds is a
very instructive performance.
Unless some such
occasion were afforded
us of seeing these essentially
aquatic birds in
the water, one could not
have the slightest idea of
the power and grace of
their movements.

And in leaving the
fish-house let me say
that this educational
value, so to speak, of the Zoological Gardens
undoubtedly forms one of their strongest claims
upon public support.

James A. Manson.

[Pg 172]

WHAT CAME OF A FOXGLOVE.

A FAIRY STORY.

B

ehind, before, in the
branches of the trees,
amongst the blades of
grass, creeping under the
mushrooms, swinging on
the foxgloves, and clinging
to the ragged-robin,
were the fairies.

Blanche and Belinda did not
see them, because of the bright
golden sunshine, which hides
the fairies from mortal sight;
but the fairies saw the two girls
walking arm in arm through the
wood.

Blanche stooped to gather a
splendid crimson foxglove, which
she shook gently, saying,

“The bells shall ring

For the fairy king;

Ding, dong, bell!

Ding, dong, bell!”

But, alas! as she shook it, no fewer than seven
little fairy pages fell to the ground. They were not
much hurt, but they were very indignant at being
knocked about in that manner; also the feathers
in their caps were much ruffled.

They sprang to their feet feeling very angry,
especially as the other fairies were laughing.

they shouted.

And then, as they looked more carefully at one
another and saw how tossed and tumbled were
their pretty suits of embroidered white velvet, they
burst out crying, saying—

“I will,” said the Fairy Queen; “I saw it all, and
I am very angry.

And her face grew as red as a peony.

“walking arm in arm”

But Blanche and Belinda knew nothing of all
this; they had not any idea that the fairies were in
the wood.

Blanche had just thrown down the foxglove,
for suddenly there issued out of every flower
clusters of bees, that buzzed and hummed and
made a dense cloud around the two little sisters
until they could not see one another.

II.

And then——

Why, suddenly all the bees disappeared as quickly
as they had come, and all was sunshine and brightness
again; and Belinda was not stung, though
she looked at her arms and hands, and felt her
forehead and cheeks and neck, expecting to be
covered with great smarting lumps. Instead of
which, she had never been freer from pain; and
the world around had never looked so beautiful as
it did to-day, with so many butterflies of divers
colours, and great green dragon-flies, that she wondered
where they all came from. The wood-path, too,
grew more lovely, and patches of blue sky appeared
through the branches of the trees.

All at once she cried out—

“Blanche! Blanche!”

For Blanche was nowhere to be seen; and
though she hunted in and out among the trees
and bushes, she could not find her. No one
answered, except the echoes repeating, “Blanche!
Blanche! where are you?”

And then Belinda sat down, and she began to cry.

[Pg 173]

III.

Belinda cried for half an hour without stopping,
and her eyes were swollen up, and her cheeks wet
with tears. Some one was standing by her, and
a voice was saying—

Belinda looked up, and in her surprise left off
crying. Before her stood a small
boy with a bundle of wheat over
his shoulder. He looked tired and
melancholy, and not by any means
as jovial as might have been expected
from his words.

“Handkerchiefs!” said Belinda,
disdainfully. “Why, you’ve nothing
but a wisp of straw over your shoulder,
and it can’t be any weight.”

“he … stood with his hat in hand.”

“Try it,” said the boy, throwing it
down upon the ground.

But Belinda took no notice of it.

“And you’re not a packman, only
a little boy,” she said, angrily; “how
can you tell such stories?”

The melancholy-looking boy answered—

“Perhaps I’m a king in disguise,
Although of a very small size;
If you were a little more wise,
You might find in my pack a great prize.

However, I’ll leave it for you, and the
first young gentleman you meet with
will, perhaps, pick it up and carry it
home for you; for you will soon find
you are not able to lift it yourself.”

And so saying the boy turned away, and Belinda
was again alone.

“Not lift a few ears of corn,” she said, giving a
slight kick to the heap at her feet.

But as her foot touched it it was no longer a
bundle of wheat, but a sack tied close at the
mouth, and it expanded until it was as large as
Belinda herself. Added to which there appeared
to be something alive in it, for it moved from side
to side as though some creature were struggling
inside.

“Oh! perhaps it is Blanche!” exclaimed Belinda,
“and the boy has brought her back. He said ‘a
great prize,’ and a king in disguise. He may have
been a fairy, who can tell?”

And she tried to open the sack, but to no
purpose, for she only tore her fingers and made
them bleed, and the blood dropped down on her
frock and stained it, and she grew very hot.

There was a glassy pool close by, so she knelt
down and bathed her hands and face; and as she
rose up she caught sight of herself in the pool,
and for a moment she scarcely knew herself, for
she was dressed so grandly. She had on a pink
satin gown and a white satin apron with cherry-coloured
bows, and a gauze cap, and red shoes with
gold buckles.

“I wonder wherever these clothes could come
from?” she said aloud.

The sack gave a roll, and whatever
might be within was evidently
trying to get out. And again she
called out—

“Blanche! Blanche!”

She tried to lift up the sack, for she
thought if she could drag it along
she might in time find some one
who could open it.

But she found that the melancholy
boy was right, she could not move it.

“And I am not likely to meet with
any one in this part of the wood.”

IV.

Some one was whistling in the distance.

Belinda listened.

Then she cried out, “Help! help!”

The footsteps came nearer, and a
boy in a fine suit came along. As
soon as he saw Belinda he made a
low bow, and stood with his hat in
his hand.

“This must be a gentleman,”
thought Belinda, “or he would not
be so polite.”

But she did not speak.

“Did you not cry out for help?” asked the
youth.

“Yes,” replied Belinda; “I have lost Blanche,
and I want some one to find her, and to help me
to carry this bag; for I can’t lift it, and I believe
there is a prize in it.”

“Prize!” repeated the boy; “I should think
there was! Why this bag is full of wonderful
magic toys, and if you let them out they will search
the world over until they find anything that you
have lost. Where did you get them from?”

“A boy with a bundle of corn brought the sack.
At least it wasn’t a sack, but it turned into one—and——”

“It must have been Oberon himself, the King
[Pg 174]
of the Fairies, you
know, who brought the
sack to you.”

“Ah!” returned Belinda, “he
did say something about a
king in disguise, but I
did not believe
him.”

“Perhaps if you
had been
more polite,”
answered
the boy,
“you would
have found
Blanche back by this time, for he knows all about
her. The Queen has carried her away because
she knocked her little pages about.”

“Knocked her little pages about! you are as
foolish as the other boy. But if you know so much,
pray where has the Queen hidden her?”

“How should I know?” replied the boy.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Belinda, and she began
to cry again.

“Do be wise,” said the boy; “crying does no
good.”

“Wise, prize, size, disguise,” murmured Belinda.

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing!” said Belinda.

“That is not true,” he answered; “you said
some words; say them again.”

“out rushed the toys.”

And as Belinda repeated the words the boy lifted
up the sack quite easily, and cut the string that
fastened it, with his knife. And his clothes
changed even as Belinda’s had done. He wore
now a sort of helmet with a plume of feathers in it,
and a slashed dress; and he knelt down and
opened the mouth of the sack.
Ah! was not Belinda astonished,
for out rushed the
toys—such toys—all of them
able to move about. One of
them, a man on horseback,
galloped away over a bridge,
in the distance; another ran
up the mountain with a donkey
following after him. A woman
and a little child next rushed
down into the valley, so did
a boy with a dog that did not
look like a dog running behind
him.

To all of these the youth
said—

Belinda gazed in astonishment, for never had she
seen such toys before.

“Now,” said the boy, as a white horse with a
cart behind it emerged from a heap of carriages
and toy soldiers, “jump in, and you and I will
drive about the world till we find Blanche.”

“But we can’t possibly get in,” returned Belinda;
“it is too small for one, certainly for two.”

“Do not be stupid,” said the boy; “almost all
mischief comes from stupidity; get in whilst I hold
the horse.”

How Belinda got into the little cart she did not
know; but in it she was with the boy beside her,
and he was driving as fast as he could go. And
there was plenty of room for both.

The toy soldiers had mounted their horses and
were riding behind them and at the side of them,
for the boy had said—

“Mount quickly, guards.”

And as they went along, Belinda presently heard
the man on horseback and the woman and all the
magic toys come clattering after them as hard as
they could come.

“Ah!” observed the boy; “we are on the right
path; the King has sent them after us.”

“The King!”

“Yes; did you not see a toll-man on the
bridge?”

“No,” answered Belinda; but she whispered to
herself, “a king in disguise; wise, prize, size.”

“You are getting more sensible,” said the boy,
as he drove faster and faster till the white cart-horse
seemed to turn into a race-horse, he went so
swiftly.

“There will be an accident,” said Belinda.

And so there was, for the cart-wheel flew off, and
down went the cart, and Belinda and the boy were
[Pg 175]
tumbled into a ditch, whence they scrambled out
and rolled down a grassy slope, on and on and on,
such a distance that Belinda felt quite giddy.

“This is the end of the drive,” said the boy;
“we need not trouble about the horse and cart.
Follow me.”

And Belinda followed him.

He pushed aside the red chestnut flowers and
the sycamore branches, and as he did so all the
birds seemed to wake up, and to sing a wonderfully
beautiful song. There were nightingales singing,
though it was day, and the larks were carolling as
blithely as at early morn. As for the thrushes,
their voices were so clear that Belinda was sure she
could hear the words they were saying.

Of course it was poetry, only Belinda had never
heard such beautiful poetry before.

And the waterfall was singing, so was the brook,
but they sang a different song.

“Oh, boy! are they talking about Blanche?”

“Hush!” said he; “come quietly.”

Belinda came softly, and looked where he
pointed, and would have cried out—

“Blanche!”

But the boy put his
hand over her mouth.

Nevertheless they had
found Blanche.

Yes! there she was
fast asleep on a crimson
cushion with tall white
lilies and bright poppies
and splendid foxgloves
nodding all round her and
drowsily ringing their
sweet bells; whilst a
flood of fairy light fell
over her. She looked very
happy, as though she were
having pleasant dreams.

“she was fast asleep.”

“Kiss her,” said the
boy.

And Belinda stooped
and kissed her.

And then Blanche opened
wide her eyes, saying.

“Where have you been?” she asked; “I have
had such a nice sleep. It all came from the foxglove.”

Belinda looked round to thank the boy, but
he had vanished.

So had the cushion and the lilies, and the
poppies.

“Why it’s the old woodpath again,” murmured
Belinda. “I know the place quite well. Size,
wise, prize, disguise; disguise, prize, size, wise,”
she repeated; “yes, the young gentleman must
have been a king in disguise.”

Blanche looked surprised.

“Yes, that is just what I was dreaming of. I
thought I had really quite lost you, and he brought
you to me.”

Perhaps the youth was Oberon; but if so, of
course he never told them.

“But he must have been a great many Oberons,”
Belinda went on, musing; “the melancholy packboy,
the toll-man, the young gentleman! Ah! it
is of no use thinking about it, one only gets confused.”

But if she had had ears to listen to fairy music,
she would have heard this song:—

Julia Goddard.

[Pg 176]

DAISY AND DOLLY.

eneath the poplars’ leafy screen
The shade is cool and sweet,

Where Daisy sits like any queen—
The sunbeams kiss her feet,

Steal round the border of her dress,
And one white dimpled arm caress.

She holds her dainty parasol
Above her playmate’s head,

Lest the hot sun should touch her doll,
And fade the lovely red

In dolly’s rosy cheek that lies,
Or dim her beautiful blue eyes.

She weaves a pretty dream, I know,
All in the garden shady,

How dolly was, long, long ago,
A little fairy lady,

And held her court on a green, green knoll,
Ere she became a mortal doll.

She thinks her blue-eyed pet knows all
The solemn words she speaks,

And feels the kisses soft that fall
Upon her mouth and cheeks:

And often when I see the two
I wish I were the doll—don’t you?

r.

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

By Edwin Hodder (“Old Merry“).

III.—ROYAL FUNERALS IN THE ABBEY.

O
n the occasion of our last visit
to the Abbey, I told you a little
about the coronations that
have taken place within its
walls, and apart from the
venerable fane itself, the principal
object connected with
that long chain of events was
the antique royal chair, standing
in the Chapel of Edward the Confessor.
Returning to the same spot, we will now look
around us, and we soon see that we are in the
midst of a burying-place of English kings. Sebert
and his Queen Ethelgoda have their monument
beside the gate at the entrance to the chapels;
but there is no authentic account of a funeral
here before that of Edward the Confessor, whose
ashes, after three removals, repose in the shrine
close beside us.

It was on January 5th, 1066, just after the consecration
of his beautiful new Abbey, that the soul of
St. Edward passed away. Englishmen were filled
with gloomy forebodings at the event. Crowds
flocked to see the body as it lay in the palace, with
an unearthly smile on its rosy cheeks, and with the
long thin fingers interlaced across the bosom.

Then, attired in royal robes, and bedecked with
crown, crucifix, and golden chain, they laid the
remains before the High Altar of the Abbey. His
wife Edith was afterwards laid beside him. After the
Conquest, royal personages for a time were buried
in Normandy, till “the good Queen Maud,” the wife
of Henry I. and niece of Edgar Atheling, was laid
beside the Confessor. In rebuilding the Abbey,
Henry III. provided a new shrine, to which the
remains of the now canonised Edward were removed,
and in which (except for a short time) they
have since remained.

Behind the shrine the king placed some holy
relics, including a tooth of St. Athanasius, and a
stone said to show a footprint of our Lord. For fifty
years Henry watched his new Abbey growing to
completion, and determined it should be the burying-place
of himself and the Plantagenet line. He
was laid temporarily in the place from which
the Confessor’s bones had been taken. His son
Edward I., returning from the Holy Land, brought
home porphyry, slates, and precious marbles
to build the tomb to which Henry’s body was
transferred about twenty years after his death.
The Abbess of Fontevrault was then in London,
and the late king’s heart was delivered into her
hands to be deposited in the foreign home of the
Plantagenets.

[Pg 177]

“daisy and dolly.” (See p. 176).

[Pg 178]
Henceforward many royal personages were
brought to be buried near the Confessor’s shrine;
but I shall only mention the more prominent.
When Queen Eleanor died in 1291, the course of
the funeral cortége from Lincoln to London was
marked by twelve memorial crosses, and the
Abbots of Westminster were bound to have a
hundred wax lights burning round her grave for
ever on the anniversary of her death. In 1307, after
having placed in the Confessor’s Chapel the golden
crown of the last Welsh Prince, Llewellyn, and the
Stone of Fate from Scotland, Edward I. was himself
brought here to lie beneath the rough monument,
from which it was hoped that, in accordance
with his dying wish, his bones might at some time
be taken and carried through Scotland at the head
of a conquering army.

In 1394, Richard II. buried here his beloved
Queen Anne, the friend of the followers of Wickliffe.
The palace of Sheen in which she died was destroyed
by her sorrowing husband, and immense
sums were spent on her funeral. For asking to
go away before the ceremony was completed, the
Earl of Arundel was struck on the head with a
cane by the king, and brought to the ground with
his blood flowing on to the Abbey pavement. The
affair caused so much delay, that darkness came on
before all was over. The tomb that covers her
remains was intended by her husband for both,
but whether Richard II. sleeps in the tomb that
bears his name or not must remain a matter of
doubt. Henry IV. brought a corpse from Pontefract
to Langley, and Henry V. transferred it to this
tomb; but few believed it to be really the body of
the murdered king.

England had never seen a grander royal funeral
than that of Henry V. He died at Vincennes, and
with great pomp his body was brought by Paris
to London. At every stage between Dover and
London, and again at St. Paul’s, and at the Abbey,
funeral services were performed. The closing
scenes were very impressive, as the funeral car,
amidst a blaze of torches borne by hundreds of
surpliced priests, and followed by his three
favourite chargers, came up the nave to the altar
steps. Room for the tomb was made by clearing
away the holy relics behind the Confessor’s shrine.
Here was placed the magnificent piece of workmanship,
which we now behold, a tomb below, and
above a chantry, in which for a year thirty poor
persons were to read the Psalter of the Virgin and
special prayers for the repose of Henry’s soul. At
the back of the chantry hung the king’s indented
helmet (in all probability the one worn at Agincourt),
his shield, and his saddle. In the arch
beneath lies the headless effigy of Henry, the silver
head having been carried off when Henry VIII.
was robbing the churches.

Henry VI. was very fond of the Abbey. He
chose a place for his tomb, and even paid the first
instalment for its erection, in readiness for his
own demise. But the civil wars hindered its completion;
and I have already told you how Henry
VII. meant to raise a special chapel for him and
altered his mind.

We will pass on now into the Chapel of Henry
VII., the grand mausoleum of a race of kings,
who looked back (as Stanley points out) not to
Saxon Edward, but to British Arthur, as their great
ancestor. A gloomy porch conducts us into a
blaze of splendour. Walls, ceilings, and arches are
richly decorated; the “stone seems by the cunning
labours of the chisel (says Washington Irving) to
have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended
aloft as if by magic.” Nobody seems to
be quite sure who was the architect of this beautiful
piece of workmanship. The king lavished
vast sums of money on the costly edifice, and left
plenty with the abbot for its completion after his
death. And in the stalls monks were to sing
masses for the repose of his soul, “while the world
lasts.”

In April, 1509, Henry died, and was placed beside
his Queen, Elizabeth of York, in the great vault
beneath the chapel floor. His mother, Margaret,
Countess of Richmond, was brought here three
months afterwards, of whom it was said, “Everyone
that knew her loved her, and everything that she
said or did became her.” She endowed charities,
founded colleges, ended the civil wars by marrying
her son to Elizabeth of York, and protected Caxton
in his early labours.

At the Reformation there was a carrying off of
relics, a rifling of tombs, and a temporary disturbance
of the Confessor’s bones. But the royal
tombs saved the Abbey from destruction, although
Protector Somerset was on the point of pulling it
down to build his new palace in the Strand.
Edward VI. was buried here, and Anne of Cleves,
and then, in 1558, came Queen Mary, the last
English monarch interred with Roman Catholic
solemnities. In the same tomb reposes her sister
Elizabeth, at whose funeral the national mourning
was intense. An old chronicler tells us that, as her
coffin was borne through the streets crowded with
spectators, “there was such a general sighing, groaning,
and weeping, as the like hath not been seen or
known in the memory of man; neither doth any
history mention any people, time, or state, to make
like lamentation for the death of their sovereign.”
The tomb was raised above the two sisters by
James I. He also raised the monument to his
mother, Mary Queen of Scots, in the south aisle,
and had her body removed to it from Peterborough.
Devout Scots visited this tomb, as the
shrine of a saint, and many miracles were said to
have taken place here.

In the north aisle of this chapel, beside two
infant children of James I., are the remains of the
murdered princes brought from the Tower. In
the south aisle lies Henry Frederick, Prince of
Wales, of whom such high hopes were entertained.
Two thousand mourners swelled his funeral procession,
but no monument marks his resting-place.
[Pg 179]
Three years later the corpse of Arabella Stuart,
the king’s cousin, whom some would have put in
his place, was brought up the Thames from the
Tower at midnight, and placed without ceremony
in the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. James I.
came here in 1625 and was laid in the tomb
of Henry VII.

Under the Commonwealth the royal monuments
suffered no harm; their dilapidations date (as we
have said) from Henry VIII’s time. The mother,
sister, and favourite daughter of Cromwell were
buried here; the great Protector himself was interred
in the august Chapel of Henry VII. amongst
the royal dead. For two months the body lay in
state at Somerset House in a room hung with black,
and lit with innumerable black candles. Then
there was a grand procession, a magnificent hearse,
and the usual ceremonies of a royal funeral.
On the 30th of January, 1661, Cromwell, Ireton,
and Bradshaw were dragged from their tombs to
Tyburn, and there hanged and beheaded. Their
bodies were buried beneath the gallows, and their
heads set up over Westminster Hall.

Charles I. was to have been brought from
Windsor to a grand tomb in the Abbey, but
Charles II. applied the £70,000 voted for this
purpose to other uses, and the matter dropped.
This king’s funeral was a hurried affair—it took
place at night without pomp of any kind. To the
same narrow vault was brought William III. Mary,
after her death on December 28th, 1694, had been
interred here—”one of the saddest days,” says
Macaulay, “that Westminster had ever seen.”
She was the first English sovereign who was
followed to her grave by both Houses of Parliament,
as in other cases Parliament had expired
with the sovereign.

Eleven children of James II. and eighteen
children of Queen Anne lie around the tomb of
Mary, Queen of Scots. Queen Anne herself was
brought in a coffin more enormous than that which
inclosed the gigantic frame of her husband, Prince
George, to the vault of her sister Mary. George II.
and Queen Caroline repose in a black marble
sarcophagus in the centre of the Chapel of
Henry VII. And now Westminster Abbey ceased
to be a burial-place of English kings and
queens. George III. constructed a vault at
Windsor for himself and his numerous family,
and there his descendants have been interred.

THE CHILDREN’S OWN GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER.

The month of September is one of even
more fickle and changeable a nature than
most others; it is, however, one of very
great importance to those who are desirous
of securing plenty of geranium and other
cuttings, for the next summer’s work; because,
should the month by chance happen to be a dry
one, it will be almost impossible to obtain very
many in consequence of so little growth being
made. If, on the other hand, plenty of rain fall
during the latter part of August and throughout
September growth will be made both rapidly and
vigorously, whereby cuttings can be taken almost
ad infinitum. When the weather is of a congenial
nature, perhaps few months in the year are more
enjoyable in one’s garden than that of September.

*   *
  *  

The present month is the best one in which to
consider the various effects—good or bad—which
have been secured by growing certain plants in
juxta-position with others. All incongruities or
extremes arising from misplaced judgment or
uncertain taste should be at once noted in a
pocket-book reserved exclusively for gardening
notes, comments, &c. It is ever so much easier
to determine the proper positions of various
colours, and situations of certain plants, when they
are at the perfection of their beauty, than it is to
allot them to certain imaginary quarters on plans,
however skilfully drawn up, in winter. Indeed, it
may be stated without reservation, that the only
satisfactory means of insuring an harmonious
blending and contrast of colours is by comparing
the relative position which one plant of a certain
colour and habit should occupy to another and
different plant, when growth is perfected.

*   *
  *  

Most bedding plants can be induced to continue
flowering for a considerable period longer, if deprived
of their seed-vessels so soon as these are
formed, than they would otherwise do; geraniums,
more especially. Not only does it hasten their
decay to allow seeds to ripen, but materially enfeebles
the entire plant. It is wise to secure as
much beauty as is possible just now from your
gardens, as a single and unexpected frosty night
will destroy almost everything; nothing is more
ephemeral than floral beauty.

*   *
  *  

As last month, the chief attractions in the garden
will be dahlias and hollyhocks; fine displays of roses

[Pg 180]

often delight us throughout the autumnal months,
and the last rose of summer charms us quite as
much as the first one of spring. Rose-cuttings may
still be taken, and those inserted last month should
by this time be well-rooted plants, if properly
treated, and must at once undergo a process of
being gradually hardened off to the open air.
Growing rose-shoots, having plenty of buds, must
be carefully tied in. As regards very strong-growing
plants which will need keeping within bounds,
the operation of cutting them back requires the
very greatest care, and our readers should get a
practical gardener, if possible, to point out those
which need trimming, and those to be left alone.
Most young people possessing a knife generally
commence sundry manœuvres on the first plant or
tree within reach, and generally with very disastrous
results. Trimming and pruning of all sorts should,
therefore, be only done by practical hands, and then
the life of the plant will be in pretty safe keeping.

*   *
  *  

Dahlias will require plenty of attention until
frost commences its havocs; shoots will need
thinning, and the branches must be secured to stout
stakes firmly placed in the earth; autumnal winds
wreak great destruction among such branches as
are insecurely made fast, and a number of handsome
blooms are thus destroyed without coming to
perfection. Insects are very fond of infesting
dahlias, and their depredations must be guarded
against. Hollyhocks, if entirely free from disease,
will still be handsome objects, but their beauty will
be somewhat on the wane; seeds may be saved from
the best flowers, and should be sown at once in
a pan of light sandy soil, and placed in a cold
frame. Rooted layers of carnations of all sorts
and of every section should now be planted out
into a rich light soil, or, what is more preferable,
two can be placed in a 5-inch or 6-inch pot, and
wintered thus under glass. Asters of various
kinds, such as Chinese and German, will now
be in full beauty, and where large single flower-heads
are a desideratum, only two or three must be
allowed beyond the bud stage. Asters are among
the prettiest of autumn flowers, and for children’s
gardens we would recommend what are known as
“Dwarf Bouquet.”

*   *
  *  

The present month is the one during which all
tender or half-hardy plants used in summer
gardening are “housed,” or removed to their
winter quarters under glass. It is courting failure
to allow such plants as chrysanthemums, auriculas,
geraniums, and many others, to be exposed to the
influence of cold, frosty nights, as when the “fell
destroyer” commences to exert its power all plants
touched by it rapidly decay. Gladioli will now
be clothed in the full glory of their gaudy, but
handsome dress; they are comparatively easy to
manage in well-drained spots, and being such
continuous bloomers, at least three or four or
even half a dozen should be in every small garden.
In winter they must be covered by about six inches
of litter; but in cold and ill-drained soils it will be
safer to take the roots up during October, keeping
these in a dry situation until the following spring.

LEGENDS OF THE FLOWERS.

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL.

hen skies are bright and winter’s o’er,
And leaves and flowers return once more,
A little blossom ‘mongst the grass
Peeps at wayfarers as they pass.

‘Mongst gayer buds of larger size
It modest opes its purple eyes;
And those who love the flowers know well
The little Scarlet Pimpernel.

It hath a story of its own,
That unto country-folk is known;
For Nature’s hand hath given it strange
Perception of the weather’s change.

If clear will be the day, and fair,
It opens wide its petals rare;
But if the clouds should threaten rain,
It shuts them up quite close again.

The shepherds love the little flower
That tells them of the changeful hour,
And many a one asks, “Tell me, pray,
What weather there will be to-day.”

And so in time another name,
In honour of its rare gift, came;
And the wee blossom ‘mongst the grass

[Pg 181]

Our Music Page.

Let’s away to the Woods.

In moderate time.

Words and Music by Charles Bassett.

1. The tints of the trees are mellowing down From their summer green to a russet brown, And
many a harvest is over and past, For Autumn has chas’d away Summer at last.

2. The summer’s warm glow has not died from the land, But is seen and felt upon ev’ry hand; From the
orchard where apples hang ripe on the trees, To the thicket where nuts nod and dance in the breeze.

3. The birds sweetly sing as they soar in the sky, And the squirrels frisk in the branches high; And it
makes me as happy and merry as they To roam in the woods on a bright autumn day.

Then away, let’s away to the woods, Where the nuts and blackberries grow, Where the flow’rs at our feet send forth
fragrance sweet–To the woods, to the woods let us go!… To the woods let us go!….

[Pg 182]

The Editor’s Pocket-book.

Who were the Janizaries?

About 1330 the Sultan Orkhan formed a military
force out of Christian prisoners who had been
compelled to become Mohammedans, and to these
was given the name of Janizaries, from two Turkish
words meaning new troops. A few years later they
were more regularly organised, and granted special
privileges, their number being increased to 10,000.
Though for a time their ranks continued to be recruited
from Christian prisoners, the service began,
at length, to attract young Turks. Their chief
officer, called the aga, wielded almost unlimited
power. They fought on foot and were noted for
the impetuosity of their charge. In course of time
they manifested a rebellious spirit, often being the
cause of conspiracies, riots, atrocities, and assassinations
of rulers, statesmen, and high officials, and
ultimately they grew to be more formidable to
the Sultan than even foreign foes. Attempts to
disband them were unsuccessful till Sultan Mahmoud
II. finding himself opposed by them in 1826,
managed to excite against them the fanatical zeal
of other portions of his troops. Deserted by their
aga and other officers, they were utterly crushed,
their barracks were burned, and their force was
declared, on June 17, 1826, to be for ever dissolved.
It is estimated that 15,000 of them were executed
and more than 20,000 banished. In this way this
once famous body of men was extinguished.

A Canine Guide.

A Lincolnshire farmer has a dog that for
practical wisdom will compare favourably with most
men. Should its master leave anything—such as a
stick or gloves—on the farm, he has but to make
known by a sign the fact of his loss when off the
dog will trudge, and not come home till it has
found the missing article. It will permit a well-dressed
man to enter the farm-yard by day, but
should a beggar put in an appearance this respecter
of persons will gently seize him by his clothes and
see him safely off the premises. By night, however,
all strangers approach at their peril. The farmer’s
sister lives on the adjoining farm, communication
between the two farms being obtained by means
of a single plank across the deep ditch that
separates them. Sometimes the farmer’s children
want to visit their aunt, and they are always
entrusted to the care of the dog. It marshals
them in a small troop, conducts them to the bridge,
where a halt is called. The bairns are then taken
over one by one, doggie seizing hold from behind
of the child’s dress. It then waits for the return
journey and escorts them home in the same way.

The Taming of Bucephalus.

Bucephalus, the famous steed of Alexander the
Great, is said to have been broken in in the following
manner. The horse was so fierce and unmanageable
that no one would ride it. It had
broken one man’s neck, another man’s leg, and
seriously injured several others. An animal with
such a reputation no doubt excited a good deal of
attention, and Alexander was one day watching it
in the Hippodrome or Circus, when it struck him
that the horse was rendered ungovernable by fear
of its own shadow. Accordingly he mounted it,
and running it against the sun—so that its shadow
fell behind—in due time succeeded in thoroughly
subduing it. Tradition stated that through being
the first to break in Bucephalus—which became
his favourite charger—Alexander had fulfilled the
condition which had been declared by an oracle to
be necessary to his gaining the crown of Macedon.

[Pg 183]

The Price of a Picture by Landseer.

Sir Edwin Landseer’s magnificent stag-picture
called, “The Monarch of the Glen,” and well
known all over the world from engravings, was
recently exposed to auction, when it fetched the
enormous price of £6,510. It is said that the
painter sold it off his easel for 800 guineas. The
bidding at the sale began at £2,000, and by bids of
one hundred guineas reached £4,000, at which
price it was hoped that it might have been secured
for the National Gallery. The competition, however,
continued beyond that sum, until the picture
was sold for 6,200 guineas. Only one other picture
by Landseer has brought a higher price—namely,
the famous Polar Bear subject, “Man proposes,
but God disposes,” which realised £6,615.

“Ignoramus.”

As commonly used nowadays this term is equivalent
to “dunce,” but it was originally employed
as a law term. It is a Latin word, and literally
translated means, “we do not know.” In former
days when a grand jury considered that a bill or
indictment was not supported by sufficient evidence
to prove the need for a trial, they wrote the word
“ignoramus” on the back of it, signifying that
they rejected it. The words used in present practice
are simply “not a true bill,” or “not found.”
But in course of time the old Latin term was made
serviceable, as we have seen, in a new way.

Saved by South Sea Islanders.

Considering the reputation that most of the
South Sea Islands used to enjoy for cannibalistic
practices, it is pleasing to read that the natives of
one of the isles in the Marshall group in the South
Pacific Ocean rescued the crew of a vessel wrecked
near Ujaal Island. A number of natives went in
their boats to the wreck and took off the crew and
a lady passenger, conveying them to an island some
fifteen miles from the spot where the ship was
lost, and treating them with great kindness.
Tents were erected out of the sails of the wrecked
vessel, which were removed for the purpose.

A Strange Vow.

Not long since there died in a workhouse in
Southwark a pedlar who used to sell odds-and-ends
on a tray on London Bridge, and who pretended
to be deaf and dumb. It is said that, though
clothed in rags, he was a Swiss gentleman of
means who, stung by remorse, had vowed not to
open his lips for ten years, to go bareheaded and
barefooted, and to abandon for twenty years all
the advantages of his fortune. His vow was
rigidly kept, and at the period of his death he was
in the fourteenth year of his singular penance.

Honour among Cats.

Seeing that pussy is by no means friendly to
birds, it is rather gratifying to hear of a cat that was
entrusted with the care of a shopful of birds and
was true to her trust. She was shut in the shop for
the purpose of doing battle with such rats and
mice as might put in an appearance; and discharged
this duty with signal success. Yet though it may
have been—at first at any rate—a sore trial to
her to keep her paws off the birds, she was able to
resist every temptation to gratify her natural tastes,
and might even have been seen quietly snoozing on
the top of one of the cages.

Memory in Parrots.

These birds have retentive memories. A parrot
that belonged to a lady recognised a black servant
after three years’ absence. Another bird was so
fierce that no one in the house liked to touch it,
but it would allow a lady visitor to handle it with
impunity. It was at last given away, as its ill temper
seemed incurable. About three years later this
lady called upon a friend, when a parrot in the
corner of the room became greatly excited. As it
was generally very quiet in its demeanour, its
mistress remarked the unusual behaviour, but her
visitor on going up to the cage recognised her old
friend of the savage disposition, which had not
forgotten her. When she spoke to it the bird was
much pleased, and came on to her hand and
fondled her.

The Clock-tower in Darmstadt Palace.

The residential palace in Darmstadt, where
Queen Victoria made a brief stay in the spring of
this year, has a clock-tower the chimes in which
discourse sweet music four times every hour. At
the first quarter they strike up a verse of the
stirring “Watch on the Rhine;” at the half-hour
the familiar notes of “God save the Queen” fall
upon the listener’s ear; at the third quarter an air
from the well-known opera of the “Marriage of
Figaro,” enlivens the palace; while the hour is
hailed with the bridal chorus from Wagner’s
“Lohengrin.”

Oiling the Waves.

During the last two or three years a good deal
has been heard of experiments for calming an
angry sea by pouring oil upon the troubled
waters. This has been proved to have a marked
effect, but it is interesting to note that the idea is
by no means new. In 1844 experiments were
made in the North Sea, with a view to test this
special property, and though several gallons were
used on the occasion, no diminution of their rage
was noticed in the waves. Captain Wilkes, however,
the commander of the United States Exploring
[Pg 184]
Expedition in the Antarctic Ocean, 1838-42, observed
that the oil leaking from a whaler had a
stilling influence upon the sea. And this quite
agrees with the result of nearly, if not all, recent
trials.

Spider Knicknacks.

A large trade is done at Santa Barbara, in South
California, in the preparation of stuffed specimens
of a big, ugly, vicious, poisonous spider. Cards
decorated with these insect monsters are readily
bought by tourists, by museums, and by science
schools. This spider excites great curiosity on
account of the nest with trap-door which it
constructs with much skill, but though its native
valleys abound
with countless
numbers of the
homes and tunnels,
yet hardly
a living spider
can be seen. It
is for this reason,
doubtless, that
the demand for
stuffed specimens
is so considerable
as to
engage wholesale
merchants
as well as retail
shopkeepers in
meeting its supply.

An Affectionate Dog.

Early this year, a lady died in New York. She
had had a Skye terrier as a pet for twelve years,
and during the two months of her illness it remained
by her bed. After the funeral it took up
its old position by the bed, refusing to eat. A few
days afterwards it found a pair of its mistress’s
shoes which had been thrown out of doors. The
faithful animal brought them in its mouth to the
bedroom, placed them on the floor, laid its fore
paws and head across them, and continued in
this position for several hours. Early one morning
its mournful cries aroused the household, and
exactly a week, to the very hour, after its mistress’s
death, the poor terrier expired beside the bed, its
head and paws still resting on the cast-off shoes.
This story shows how keenly some animals feel the
loss of those who have treated them kindly.

A Sagacious Cavalry Horse.

Some weeks since a gentleman was knocked
down by a cab in a busy street in London, and
owed his escape from what might have proved a
fatal accident to the sagacity of the horse by which
the cab was driven. The hansom cab was going
along at an ordinary pace, and the gentleman (who
carried a bundle of papers) tried to pass it. In
doing so he was knocked down, his papers were
scattered, and he was himself in imminent danger
of being run over, as the driver did not notice the
accident in time to pull up. The horse, however,
happened to be an old cavalry horse, and it neatly
stepped over the prostrate body of the gentleman
and stopped just as the wheels of the vehicle
had reached his body. The gentleman was then
dragged from his perilous position, much shaken
and frightened, but in other respects uninjured.

What is a Nabob?

You have
now and again
met with the
phrase, “rich
as a nabob,”
and have perhaps
wondered
what a nabob
had to do with
riches. I will
tell you. Under
the Mogul Empire
the provinces
of India
were administered
by deputies
called nawâb,
who commonly amassed great wealth and lived in
much splendour. The title was used under British
rule, but became gradually corrupted into nabob. In
course of time it was applied generally to all
natives who had grown rich, and latterly it
was bestowed—more often in a derisive sense—upon
Europeans who, having made large fortunes
in India, returned to their native land and spent
their money in a luxurious and ostentatious way.

active volcano in réunion

A Curious Volcano.

Most active volcanoes have nothing very remarkable
about them so far as the discharge of lava is
concerned. In the Isle of Bourbon or Réunion,
which lies in the Indian Ocean, there is, however, a
volcano which is in a state of eruption twice every
year. It occupies about one-sixth of the whole
island, it often changes its crater, and the streams
of lava sometimes reach to the sea. The surrounding
district is called the Burned Land, from the
desert aspect which it always wears. From the
accompanying picture it will be seen that this
volcano occasionally has several sources of lava.

[Pg 185]

The “Little Folks” Humane Society.

THIRTY-FIRST 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.