[Pg 33]

THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS: Chapter I.
THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS: Chapter II.
“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;” OR, THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE: Part I.
MERLE’S CRUSADE: Chapter III.
AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKS.
NOTICES OF NEW MUSIC.
EXPLANATION OF FRENCH AND OTHER TERMS USED IN MODERN COOKERY: Part I.
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY: Chapter III.
VARIETIES.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.

By the Rev. J. G. Wood, M.A., Author of “The Handy Natural History.”

THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.

CHAPTER I.

The many aspects of a brook—The eye sees only that which it is
capable of seeing—Individuality of brooks and their banks—The rippling
“burnie” of the hills—The gently-flowing brooks of low-lying districts—Individualities
even of such brooks—The fresh-water brooks of Oxford
and the tidal brooks of the Kentish marshes—The swarming life in
which they abound—An afternoon’s walk—Ditches versus hedges and
walls—A brook in Cannock Chase—Its sudden changes of aspect—The
brooks of the Wiltshire Downs and of Derbyshire.

A brook has many points of view.

In the first place, scarcely any two spectators see it in the same light.

To the rustic it is seldom more than a convenient water-tank, or, at
most, as affording some sport to boys in fishing. To its picturesque
beauties his eyes are blind, and to him the brook is, like Peter Bell’s
primrose, a brook and nothing more.

Then there are some who only view a brook as affording variety to the
pursuit of the fox, and who pride themselves on their knowledge of the
spots at which it can be most successfully leaped.

Others, again, who are of a geographical turn of mind, can only see in
a brook a necessary portion of the water-shed of the district.

To children it is for a time dear as a playground, possessing the inestimable
advantage of enabling them to
fall into it and wet their clothes from
head to foot.

Then there are some who are keenly
alive to its changing beauties, and are
gifted with artistic spirit and power of
appreciation, even if they should not
have been able to cultivate the technical
skill which would enable them to
transfer to paper or canvas the scene
which pleased them. Yet they can
only see the surface, and take little,
if any, heed of the wealth of animated
life with which the brook and its banks
are peopled, or of the sounds with
which the air is filled.

Happy are those in whom are fortunately
combined the appreciation of
art and the gift (for it is a gift as much
as an eye for art or an ear for music) of
[Pg 34]observing animal life. To them the
brook is all that it is to others, and much
besides. To them the tiniest brook is a perpetual
joy, and of such a nature I hope are
those who read these pages.

Not only does a brook assume different
aspects, according to the individuality of the
spectator, but every brook has its individuality,
and so have its banks.

Often the brook “plays many parts,” as in
Burns’ delightful stanza, which seems to have
rippled from the poet’s brain as spontaneously
as its subject.

Sometimes, however, as near Oxford, it flows
silently onwards with scarcely a dimple on its
unruffled surface. Over its still waters the
gnats rise and fall in their ceaseless dance.
The swift-winged dragon-flies, blue, green, and
red, swoop upon them like so many falcons
on their prey; or, in the earlier year, the
mayflies flutter above the stream, leaving their
shed skins, like ghostly images of themselves,
sticking on every tree trunk near the brook.

On the surface of the brook are seen the
shadow-like water-gnats, drifting with apparent
aimlessness over the surface, but
having in view a definite and deadly purpose,
as many a half drowned insect will find to its
cost.

Under the shade of the willows that overhang
its banks the whirligig beetles will gather,
sociably circling round and round in their
mazy dance, bumping against each other in
their swift course, but glancing off unhurt
from the collision, protected from injury by
the stout coats of mail which they wear.

They really look like unskilful dancers
practising their “figures” for the first time.
They, however, are not engaged in mere
amusement, but, like the water-gnats, are
absorbed in the business of life. The naturalist
knows, when he sees these creatures, that they
do not form the hundredth part of those which
are hidden from human eyes below the
surface of the little brook, and that the whole
of the stream is as instinct with life, as if it
had been haunted by the Nipens, the Undines,
and the host of fairy beings with whom the
old legends peopled every river and its tributaries.

They are just as wonderful, though clad in
material forms, as any water spirit that ever
was evolved from the poet’s brain, and have
the inestimable merit of being always within
reach whenever we need them.

I will venture to assert that no fairy tales,
not even excepting those of the “Arabian
Nights,” can surpass in marvel the true life-history
of the mayfly, the frog, the newt, and
the dragon-fly, as will be narrated in the course
of these pages. I may go even farther, and
assert that there is no inhabitant of the brook
and its banks whose biography and structure
are not full of absorbing interest, and will not
occupy the longest life, if only an attempt be
made to study them thoroughly.

An almost typical example of slow-flowing
brooks is to be found in the remarkable
channels which intersect the country between
Minster and Sandwich, and which, on the
ordnance map, look almost like the threads of
a spider’s web. In that flat district, the
fields are not divided by hedges, as in most
parts of England, or by stone walls—”dykes,”
as they are termed in Ireland—such as are
employed in Derbyshire and several other
stony localities, but by channels, which have a
strong individuality of their own.

Even the smallest of these brooks is influenced
by the tide, so that at the two
periods of slack water there is no perceptible
stream.

Yesterday afternoon, having an hour or so
to spare at Minster, I examined slightly
several of these streams and their banks.
The contrast between them and the corresponding
brooklets of Oxford, also a low-lying
district, was very strongly marked.

In the first place, the willow, which forms
so characteristic an ornament of the brooks
and rivers of Oxford, is wholly absent. Most
of the streamlets are entirely destitute of even
a bush by which their course can be marked;
so that when, as is often the case, a heavy
white fog overhangs the entire district, looking
from a distance as if the land had been
sunk in an ocean of milk, no one who is not
familiarly acquainted with every yard of
ground could make his way over the fields
without falling into the watery boundaries
which surround them.

Some of them, however, are distinguished
by hawthorns, which take the place of
the willows, and thrive so luxuriantly that
they may lay claim to the title of forest trees.
Blackberries, too, are exuberant in their
growth, and in many spots the hawthorn and
blackberry on opposite sides of the brook
have intertwined their branches across it and
have completely hidden the water from sight.
On these blackberries, the fruit of which was
in its green state, the drone-flies and hawk-flies
simply swarmed, telling the naturalist of
their multitudinous successors, who at present
are in the preliminary stages of their existence.

Among the blackberries the scarlet fruit
of the woody nightshade (a first cousin of
the potato) hung in tempting clusters, and
I could not help wondering whether they
would endanger the health of the young
Minsterians.

In some places the common frog-bit had
grown with such luxuriance that it had
completely hidden the water, the leaves overlapping
each other as if the overcrowded
plants were trying to shoulder each other out
of the way.

In most of these streamlets the conspicuous
bur-reed (Spargánium ramósum) grew thickly,
its singular fruit being here and there visible
among the sword-like leaves. I cannot but
think that the mediæval weapon called the
“morning star” (or “morgen-stern”) was
derived from the globular, spiked fruit-cluster
of the bur-reed.

A few of the streams were full of the fine
plant which is popularly known by the name
of bull-rush, or bulrush (Typha latifólia), but
which ought by rights to be called the “cat’s-tail”
or “reed-mace.” Of this plant it is said
that a little girl, on seeing it growing, exclaimed
that she never knew before that
sausages grew on sticks. The teasel (Dipsacus)
was abundant, as were also several of
the true thistles.

In some places one of these streams becomes
too deep for the bur-reed, and its surface
is only diversified by the half-floating
leaves of one or two aquatic plants.

On approaching one of these places, I find
the water to be apparently without inmates.
They had only been alarmed by my approach,
which, as I had but little time to spare, was
not as cautious as it ought to have been.
However, I remained perfectly still, and presently
a little fish appeared from below. It
was soon followed by a second and a third, and
before long a whole shoal of fish were floating
almost on the surface, looking out for insects
which had fallen into the water.

The day being hot, and with scarcely a breath
of wind, the fish soon became quite bold. They
did not move beyond the small spot in which
they had appeared, but they all had their tails
in slight movement, and their heads in one direction,
thus showing that although the water
appeared to be perfectly motionless, there must
be a current of some sort, fish always lying with
their heads up the stream, so as to allow the
water to enter their mouths and pass over their
gills.

If then these sluggish streams were unlike
those of Oxford, where the ground is low, and
nearly level, how utterly distinct must they be
from those of hilly and especially of rocky
localities!

In the earlier part of the present year I was
cursorily examining a brook in Cannock Chase,
in Staffordshire. Unfortunately, the day was
singularly inauspicious, as the sun was invisible,
the atmosphere murky, and a fierce north-east
wind was blowing, a wind which affects animals,
etc., especially the insect races, even more
severely than it does man. Even the birds
remain under shelter as long as they can, and
not an insect will show itself. Neither, in consequence,
will the fish be “on the feed.”

On a previous visit, we had been more fortunate,
trout, crayfish, etc., testifying to the
prolific character of the brook, which in one
place is only four or five feet in width, and yet,
within fifty yards, it has formed itself into a
wide and treacherous marsh, which can only
be crossed by jumping from one tussock of
grass to another; and yet, again, it suddenly
spreads out into a broad and shallow torrent,
the water leaping and rippling over the stony
bed. Scarcely a bush marks its course, and
within a few yards it is quite invisible.

As we shall presently see, the brooks of the
chalk downs of Wiltshire, and of the regular
mixture of rock and level ground, which are
characteristic of Derbyshire, have also their
own separate individualities.

We shall, however, find many allusions to
them in the course of the work, and we will
therefore suppose ourselves to be approaching
the bank of any brook that is but little disturbed
by man. What will be likely to happen
to us will be told in the following chapters.

CHAPTER II.

Life-history of the water-rat—No science
can stand alone—What is a water-rat?—The
voles of the land and water—Their remarkable
teeth—The rodents and their incisor teeth—The
tooth and the chisel—The skate “iron”—Chewing
the cud—Teeth of the elephant—Feet
of the water-vole—A false accusation—Water-voles
in gardens—Winter stores—Cats
and water-voles—Subterranean pioneering—Mental
character of the water-vole—Standing
fire—Its mode of eating.

Plop!

A water-rat has taken alarm, and has leaped
into the brook.

A common animal enough, but none the
less worthy of notice because it is common.
Indeed, it is in many respects a very remarkable
creature, and we may think ourselves
fortunate that we have the opportunity of
studying its habits and structure.

There is much more in the animal than
meets the eye, and we cannot examine its life-history
without at the same time touching upon
that of several other creatures. No science
stands alone, neither does any animal, however
insignificant it may appear to be; and we
shall find that before we have done with the
water-rat, we shall have had something to
say of comparative anatomy, ornithology,
ichthyology, entomology and botany, beside
treating of the connection which exists between
man and the lower animals, and the
reciprocal influence of civilisation and animal
life.

In the first place, let us define our animal.

What is a water-rat, and where is its place
in zoological systems of the present day? Its
name in science is Arvícola amphíbius. This
title tells its own story.

Though popularly called a rat, the animal
has no right to the name, although, like the
true rat, it is a rodent, and much resembles
the rat in size and in the length and colour of
its fur. The likeness, however, extends no
further.

The rats are long-nosed and sharp-snouted
animals, whereas the water-rat has a short,[Pg 35]
blunt nose. Then, the ears of the rats are
large and stand out boldly from the head,
while those of the water-rat are small, short,
and rounded. Again, the tail of the rat is
long and slender, while that of the water-rat
is comparatively short. Place the two
animals side by side, and you will wonder how
anyone could mistake the one for the other.

The teeth, too, are quite different.

Instead of being white, like those of the rat,
the incisor teeth are orange-yellow, like those
of the beaver. Indeed, the water-rat
possesses so many beaver-like characteristics,
that it was ranked near the beaver in the
systematic lists.

Now, however, the Voles, as these creatures
ought rightly to be called, are thought to be
of sufficient importance to be placed by themselves,
and separated from the true beavers.

The voles constitute quite a large group of
rodents, including several animals which are
popularly ranked among the mice.

One very remarkable characteristic of the
voles is the structure of their molar teeth.

Being rodents, they can have but two
incisor teeth in each jaw, these teeth being
rootless, and so set in their sockets that they
are incessantly worn away in front, and as
incessantly grow from the base, take the
curved form of their sockets, and act much
like shears which have the inestimable property
of self-sharpening when blunted, and
self-renewal when chipped or actually broken
off by coming against any hard substance.
Were the teeth to be without this power, the
animal would run a great risk of dying from
hunger, the injured tooth not being able
either to do its own work, or to aid its companion
of the opposite jaw. Either tooth
alone would be as useless as a single blade of
a pair of scissors.

There is another notable characteristic of
these incisor teeth. If you will examine the
incisors of any rodent, whether it be a rat, a
mouse, a rabbit, or a beaver, you will see that
the tips are “bevelled” off just like the edge
of a chisel. This shape is absolutely necessary
to keep the tooth in working order. How is
this object to be attained?

In the solution of this problem we may see
one of the many links which connect art and
nature.

Should our readers know anything of carpentering,
let them examine the structure of
their chisels. They are not made wholly of hard
steel, as in that case they would be liable to
snap, just as does the blade of a foil when
undue pressure is brought to bear upon it.
Moreover, the operation of sharpening would
be extremely difficult.

So the blade of the chisel is merely faced
with a thin plate of hardened steel, the remainder
being of softer material.

Now, it is not at all likely that the unknown
inventor of the modern chisel was aware of
the analogy between art and nature, and would
probably have been very much surprised if
anyone had stated that he had borrowed his
idea from the incisor teeth of the water-rat.

Yet he might have done so, for these teeth
are almost wholly formed of ordinary tooth
matter, and are faced with a thin plate of hard
enamel, which exactly corresponds with the
hardened steel facing of a chisel.

Any of my readers who possess skates will
find, on examination, that the greater part of
the blade is, in reality, soft iron, the steel,
which comes upon the ice, being scarcely a
fifth of an inch in length. The hardened
steel allows the blade to take the necessary
edge, while the soft iron preserves the steel
from snapping.

Should the skate have been neglected and
allowed to become a little rusty, the line of
demarcation between the steel and the iron
can be distinctly seen. Similarly, in the
beaver and the water-rat, the orange-yellow
colour of the enamel facing causes it to be
easily distinguished from the rest of the tooth.
In most of the rodents the enamel is white,
and the line of demarcation is scarcely visible.

Now we have to treat of a question of
mechanics.

If two substances of different degrees of
hardness be subjected to the same amount of
friction, it follows that the softer will be worn
away long before the harder. It is owing to
this principle that the edges of the rodent
teeth preserve their chisel-like form. Being
continually employed in nibbling, the softer
backing of the teeth is rapidly worn away,
while the hard plate of enamel upon the front
of the tooth is but slightly worn, the result
being the bevelled shape which is so characteristic
of these teeth.

As all know, who have kept rabbits or white
mice, the animals are always engaged in gnawing
anything which will yield to their teeth,
and unless the edges of their feeding troughs
be protected by metal, will nibble them to
pieces in a few days. Indeed, so strong is
this instinct, that the health of the animals is
greatly improved by putting pieces of wood
into their cages, merely for the purpose of
allowing them to exercise their chisel-edged
teeth. Even when they have nothing to
gnaw, the animals will move their jaws incessantly,
just as if they were eating, a movement
which gave rise to the idea that they
chewed the cud.

It is worthy of remark that other animals,
which, though not rodents, need to possess
chisel-edged incisor teeth, have a similar habit.
Such is the hippopotamus, and such is the
hyrax, the remarkable rock-haunting animal,
which in the authorised translation of the
Scriptures is called the “coney,” and which in
the Revised Version is allowed in the margin
to retain its Hebrew name, “shaphan.”

The enamel also has an important part to
play in the structure of the molar teeth. Each
tooth is surrounded with the enamel plate,
which is so intricately folded that the tooth
looks as if it were made of a series of enamel
triangles, each enclosing the tooth matter.

This structure is common to all the
members of the group to which the water-rat
belongs. It is the more remarkable because
we find a somewhat similar structure in the
molar teeth of the elephants, which, like the
rodents, have the incisor teeth largely developed
and widely separated from the
molars.

There is nothing in the appearance of the
water-rat which gives any indication of its
aquatic habits.

For example, we naturally expect to find that
the feet of swimming animals are webbed. The
water-loving capybara of South America, the
largest existing rodent, has its hoof-like toes
partially united by webs, so that its aquatic
habits might easily be inferred even by those
who were unacquainted with the animal. Even
the otter, which propels itself through the
water mostly by means of its long and powerful
tail, has the feet furnished with webs. So
has the aquatic Yapock opossum of Australia,
while the feet of the duck-bill are even more
boldly webbed than those of the bird from
which it takes its popular name. The water-shrews
(whom we shall presently meet) are
furnished with a fringe of stiff hair round the
toes which answers the same purpose as the
web.

But the structure of the water-rat gives no
indication of its habits, so that no one who
was unacquainted with the animal would even
suspect its swimming and diving powers.
Watch it as long as you like, and I do not
believe that you will see it eating anything of
an animal nature.

I mention this fact because it is often held
up to blame as a mischievous animal, especially
deserving the wrath of anglers by devouring
the eggs and young of fish.

As is often the case in the life-history of
animals as well as of men, the blame is laid
on the wrong shoulders. If the destruction of
fish be a crime, there are many criminals, the
worst and most persistent of which are the
fish themselves, which not only eat the eggs
and young of other fish, but, Saturn-like, have
not the least scruple in devouring their own
offspring.

Scarcely less destructive in its own insidious
way is the common house-rat, which eats
everything which according to our ideas is
edible, and a good many which we might
think incapable of affording sustenance even
to a rat. In the summer time it often abandons
for a time the house, the farm, the barn,
and seeks for a change of diet by the brook.
These water-haunting creatures are naturally
mistaken for the vegetable-feeding water-vole,
and so the latter has to bear the blame of their
misdoings.

There are lesser inhabitants of the brook
which are injurious both to the eggs and
young of fish. Among them are several of
the larger water-beetles, some of which are so
large and powerful that, when placed in an
aquarium with golden carp, they have made
havoc among the fish, always attacking them
from below. Although they cannot kill and
devour the fish at once, they inflict such
serious injuries that the creature is sure to die
shortly.

I do not mean to assert that the water-vole
is never injurious to man. Civilisation disturbs
for a time the balance of Nature, and
when man ploughs or digs the ground which
had previously been untouched by plough or
spade, and sows the seeds of herbs and cereals
in land which has previously produced nothing
but wild plants, he must expect that the animals
to whom the soil had been hitherto left will
fail to understand that they can no more consider
themselves as the owners, and will in
consequence do some damage to the crops.

Moreover, even putting their food aside,
their habits often render them obnoxious to
civilised man. The mole, for example, useful
as it really is in a field, does very great harm
in a garden or lawn, although it eats none of
the produce.

The water-vole, however, is doubly injurious
when the field or garden happens to be near
the water-side. It is a mighty burrower,
driving its tunnels to great distances. Sometimes
it manages to burrow into a kitchen-garden,
and feeds quite impartially on the different
crops. It has even been seen to venture
to a considerable distance from water,
crossing a large field, making its way into a
garden, and carrying off several pods of the
French bean.

In the winter time, when other food fails,
the water-vole, like the hare and rabbit, will
eat turnips, mangold-wurzel, the bark of young
trees, and similar food. Its natural food,
however, is to be found among the various
aquatic plants, as I have often seen, and the
harm which it does to the crops is so infinitesimally
small when compared with the area
of cultivated ground, that it is not worthy of
notice.

Still, although the harm which it does to
civilised man in the aggregate is but small,
even its most friendly advocate cannot deny
that there are cases where it has been extremely
troublesome to the individual cultivator,
especially if he be an amateur.

There are many hard men of business, who
are obliged to spend the greater part of the
day in their London offices, and who find their
best relaxation in amateur gardening; those
who grow vegetables, regarding their peas,
beans, potatoes, and celery with as much affection
as is felt by floriculturists for their roses or
tulips.[Pg 36]

Nothing is more annoying to such men
than to find, when the toils of business are
over, and they have settled themselves comfortably
into their gardening suits, that some
marauder has carried off the very vegetables on
which they had prided themselves.

The water-vole has been detected in the act
of climbing up a ladder which had been left
standing against a plum tree, and attacking
the fruit. Bunches of grapes on outdoor vines
are sometimes nipped off the branches by the
teeth of the water-vole, and the animal has
been seen to climb beans and peas, split the
pods, and devour the contents.

Although not a hibernating animal, it
lays up a store of food in the autumn. Mr.
Groom Napier has the following description
of the contents of a water-rat’s storehouse:—

“Early in the spring of 1855, I dug out the
burrow of a water-vole, and was surprised to
find at the further extremity a cavity of about
a foot in diameter, containing a quantity of
fragments of carrots and potatoes, sufficient to
fill a peck measure. This was undoubtedly a
part of its winter store of provisions. This
food had been gathered from a large potato
and carrot bed in the vicinity.

“On pointing out my discovery to the owner
of the garden, he said that his losses had been
very serious that winter owing to the ravages
of these animals, and said that he had brought
both dogs and cats down to the stream
to hunt for them; but they were too wary to
be often caught.”

I do not think that the owner of the garden
knew very much about the characters either of
the cat or water-vole.

Every one who is practically acquainted with
cats knows that it is next to impossible to
point out an object to a cat as we can to a dog.
She looks at your finger, but can never direct
her gaze to the object at which you are pointing.
In fact, I believe that pussy’s eyes are not
made for detecting objects at a distance.

If we throw a piece of biscuit to a dog, and
he does not see where it has fallen, we can
direct him by means of voice and finger. But,
if a piece of meat should fall only a foot or two
from a cat, all the pointing in the world will
not enable her to discover it, and it is necessary
to pick her up and put her nose close to the
meat before she can find it.

So, even, if a water-vole should be seen by
the master, the attention of the cat could not
be directed to it, her instinct teaching her to
take prey in quite a different manner.

The dogs, supposing that they happened to be
of the right breed, would have a better chance of
securing the robber, providing that they intercepted
its retreat to the water. But if the
water-vole should succeed in gaining its burrow,
or in plunging into the stream, I doubt whether
any dog would be able to catch it.

Moreover, the water-vole is so clever in tunnelling,
that when it drives its burrows into
cultivated ground, it almost invariably conceals
the entrance under a heap of stones, a
wood pile, or some similar object.

How it is enabled to direct the course of
its burrow we cannot even conjecture, except
by attributing the faculty to that “most
excellent gift” which we call by the convenient
name of “instinct.”

Man has no such power, but when he wishes
to drive a tunnel in any given direction he is
obliged to avail himself of levels, compasses,
plumb-lines, and all the paraphernalia of the
engineer. Yet, with nothing to direct it
except instinct, the water-vole can, though
working in darkness, drive its burrow in any
direction and emerge from the ground exactly
at the spot which it has selected.

The mole can do the same, and by means
equally mysterious.

I may casually mention that the water-vole
is one of the aquatic animals which, when
zoological knowledge was not so universal as
it is at the present day, were reckoned as fish,
and might be eaten on fast days. I believe
that in some parts of France this idea still
prevails.

With all its wariness, the water-vole is a
strangely nervous creature, being for a time
almost paralysed by a sudden shock. This
trait of character I discovered quite unexpectedly.

Many, many years ago, when I was a young
lad, and consequently of a destructive nature,
I possessed a pistol, of which I was
rather proud. It certainly was an excellent
weapon, and I thought myself tolerably certain
of hitting a small apple at twelve yards
distance.

One day, while walking along the bank of
the Cherwell River, I saw a water-vole on the
opposite bank. The animal was sitting on a
small stump close to the water’s edge. Having,
of course, the pistol with me, and wanting to
dissect a water-vole, I proceeded to aim at the animal.
This was not so easy as it looked.
A water-vole crouching upon a stump presents
no point at which to aim, the brown fur of the
animal and the brown surface of the old
weather-beaten stump seeming to form a
single object without any distinct outline;
moreover, it is very difficult to calculate distances
over water. However, I fired, and
missed.

I naturally expected the animal to plunge
into the river and escape. To my astonishment,
it remained in the same position.
Finding that it did not stir, I reloaded, and
again fired and missed. Four times did I fire
at that water-vole, and after the last shot the
animal slowly crawled off the stump, slid into
the river, and made off.

Now in those days revolvers and breech-loaders
did not exist, so that the process of
loading a pistol with ball was rather a long
and complicated one.

First, the powder had to be carefully measured
from the flask; then a circular patch of
greased linen had to be laid on the muzzle of
the weapon, and a ball laid on it and hammered
into the barrel with a leaden or wooden
mallet; then it had to be driven into its place
with a ramrod (often requiring the aid of the
mallet), and, lastly, there was a new cap to be
fitted. Yet although so much time was occupied
between the shots, the animal remained
as motionless as a stuffed figure.

When I crossed the river and examined the stump
I found all the four bullets close together
just below the spot on which the animal
had been sitting, and neither of them
two inches from its body. Although the balls
had missed the water-vole, they must
have sharply jarred the stump.

I was afterwards informed that this semi-paralysis
from sudden fear is a known characteristic
of the animal. It seems to be shared
by others of the same genus, as will be seen
when we come to treat of the field mice.

In its mode of eating it much resembles the
squirrels, sitting on its haunches and holding
the food in its forepaws, as if they were
hands. I am not aware that it even eats
worms or insects, and it may be absolutely
acquitted from any imputation of doing harm
to any of the fish tribe.

(To be continued.)

“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”
OR,
THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

By DORA HOPE.

he late Miss Ella!”

“When are you
going to turn over
that new leaf you
spoke of, my daughter?”

“There’s a little
coffee left, but the
bacon is quite
cold.”

These were the
exclamations that
greeted a tall bright
girl, as she entered
the breakfast room one morning.

“I am very sorry, papa. I
really meant to be down in
time, but I suppose I must have
gone to sleep again after I was called.” And
being really vexed with herself for having so
soon broken her good resolutions, formed for
the hundredth time the day before, Ella
Hastings accepted the cold bacon meekly, and
even turned a deaf ear to the withering sarcasms
of her two schoolboy brothers, who
were leisurely strapping together their books,
and delaying their departure till the last
moment.

“There is the postman coming up the
garden; run and get the letters, Hughie.”

A solemn-looking boy of six years old
climbed down from his chair, in obedience
to his father’s request, and soon came back
with a handful of letters, and settled himself
patiently by his father’s side to wait for the
empty envelopes, which formed his share of
the morning’s correspondence.

An exclamation of surprise from Mr.
Hastings caused his wife to look up inquiringly
from the letter she had just opened,
and he handed her silently a telegram which
had been forwarded, with other papers, from
his office, where it had evidently been delivered
late the previous evening. Kate, the
eldest daughter, leaning over her mother’s
shoulder, read aloud the short notice:—

“Mrs. Wilson dangerously ill; letter
follows.”

Mrs. Wilson was Mr. Hastings’ only
remaining sister. His mother had died when
he was almost an infant, and this “sister
Mary” had slipped into her place as mother,
teacher—everything, to her little brothers and
sisters; never leaving them, till the father
having died also, and her young charges being
all old enough to settle in life for themselves,
she had rewarded the faithful waiting of her
old lover, and they had settled down together
in a quiet village a few miles from the noisy
town where his business lay. Her happy[Pg 37]
married life lasted but a short time, however,
and for the many years since her husband’s
death she had preferred to live entirely alone
with her two maids and a strange medley of
pet animals—finding employment and interest
for her declining years in her books and her
garden.

From being so long alone she had grown
eccentric in her ways, and very odd and
decided in her views; but she kept a warm
corner in her heart for her favourite brother
and his children, who heartily returned their
aunt’s affection, though they stood a good
deal in awe of her keen penetrating gaze and
sarcastic criticisms.

She had always prided herself on her good
constitution, and despised doctors and dentists
as people who pandered to the fads and
fancies of a degenerate generation—a generation
who, according to her creed, weakened
their backs and ruined their health by lounging
on sofas and easy chairs, while, for her part,
though seventy years of age, she was
thankful to say a straight-backed chair was
good enough for her. It may be imagined
that for this self-reliant, vigorous Aunt Mary
to be taken seriously ill, so ill as to have to
summon help, was a great shock, and Mr.
Hastings decided at once that he must go to
see his sister, and that one of his daughters
should accompany him; but the telegram was
so short, and gave so little information, that
nothing further could be arranged till the
noonday post arrived, which always brought
the letters from Hapsleigh.

The morning seemed endless, but noon
came at last, and with it the promised letter,
which was eagerly opened and read. It was
from Mrs. Mobberly, a near neighbour of Mrs.
Wilson’s. She described the sudden illness,
and all that had been done for the sufferer.
“The doctor says that for a day or two he
cannot tell what the result may be, though
we may hope for the best. He has sent in
a thoroughly trustworthy trained nurse, but
he agrees with me that it would be a good
thing if one of your daughters could come to
take charge of the household, for even if all
goes as well as possible it will be a long and
tedious recovery, and the invalid must be kept
perfectly quiet and free from all worry.”

“Well, girls,” said Mr. Hastings, as he
finished reading the letter, “you must decide
between yourselves which of you will go. As
there seems no immediate danger, we need
not leave till to-morrow morning, so you will
have a little time for preparation; but however
great a sacrifice it is for you to go, and
for us to part with you, there is no question
about it. Aunt Mary must not be left alone
till she is quite herself again, so I will telegraph
to Mrs. Mobberly that one of you will
go with me by the first train to-morrow.”

There was no room for disputing the point
when Mr. Hastings spoke in that decided
tone; moreover, the girls themselves would
have said just the same—that someone must
go; but the question was, “who?”

“Kate, it must be you,” said Ella, eagerly.
“I do not know anything about nursing or
housekeeping, or anything of that sort, and you
know I always say and do the wrong thing.”

Mrs. Hastings looked anxious and perplexed.
“I really do not know what to do
for the best,” she said. “I do not see how I
can spare you, Kate; for if I have one of my
bad attacks I must have you at hand; and you
see, Ella, you would have everything to learn
here just as much as at Hapsleigh, and I
think you would find teaching the children
very hard work.”

Kate, the eldest daughter, was her mother’s
unfailing assistant, and almost entirely relieved
her of the care of the three little ones; indeed,
during Mrs. Hastings’s frequent attacks of
asthma, Kate was both ready and able to
take entire charge of the household, and she
felt that to leave her mother with only Ella’s
help would be throwing more care upon her
than her delicate health could bear. She
spoke decidedly, therefore; and, after a little
more discussion, it was agreed that Ella
should accompany her father, prepared to
stay as long as she might be required.

The rest of the day was fully occupied with
packing and making arrangements. Ella was
rather apt to let her clothing take care of
itself, and, in a sudden emergency such as this,
had to borrow right and left. Indeed, Mrs.
Hastings and Kate were both kept busy all
the afternoon looking over and supplying the
deficiencies in her outfit.

“That dressing-gown will not do at all,
Ella. It is most important to have a thoroughly
warm one when you have to sit up at
night. Yours is very pretty, but blue cashmere
and lace are not suitable for a sick room
in cold weather. You will have to borrow
Kate’s thick flannel gown. You should have
my quilted silk one, but in such a great thickness
of material one’s arms do not feel quite
free to help an invalid, or shake up a bed.”

“Here it is, Ella,” rejoined Kate; “and I
have brought you my thick bedroom slippers,
too. They are not so elegant as your Turkish
ones, but they are much warmer. Be sure
you keep them by the side of your bed, so
that you can slip them on directly if you are
called up suddenly. You know you take cold
so easily, and it would be so awkward if you
had one of your bad throats at Hapsleigh.”

Mrs. Hastings felt very anxious about her
daughter, called upon so suddenly to take up
such important and unexpected duties, and
gave her a great deal of loving counsel.

“You will have to manage to get up
earlier, dear child,” she said. “You know
Aunt Mary’s servants are always rather
inclined to go their own way, and they may
perhaps try to take advantage of her illness to
keep irregular hours and slight their work;
and you must remember that you will be
responsible for good order in the house, and
that is impossible unless all the household are
regular and punctual in beginning their day’s
work at the proper time. I will let you have
my little clock, and you can set the alarum at
whatever time you wish to get up.”

“Yes; I really am going to turn over a
new leaf about that; but you know, mother,
I shall feel more obliged to get up now when
I am responsible for things going right. Oh,
dear! what a dreadful thought! I am sure I
shall never manage. Why, I can’t cook, and
I can’t keep accounts, and I have no idea how
many pounds of meat people want for dinner.
I shall order a tin of Australian meat, and
just have it at every meal till it is finished,
and then get another.”

“I am afraid the servants will soon give
you notice if you do, Ella,” said Mrs. Hastings,
laughing at her daughter’s ideas of housekeeping.
“You will soon get accustomed to
the size of joints and puddings, if you get into
the habit of noticing them, remembering how
long they last. But there are two other pieces
of advice which I want you to remember and
to act upon. If your father decides that it is
necessary for you to stay and act as mistress,
he will tell the servants so; but you must
assert yourself as mistress at once, and take
everything into your own hands. You will
find it rather difficult at first, but it will save
you a great deal of trouble in the end. I
have seen endless discomfort caused by young
and timid housekeepers not liking to take the
reins into their own hands. But, at the same
time, be very careful never to interfere or
complain, unless you are quite sure that it is
necessary, and that you are in the right. If
you are in any doubt you can always consult
Mrs. Mobberly; and you must make allowances
for the fact that the servants have
always been allowed to do pretty much what
they liked, and will naturally expect to continue
doing so; therefore do not complain
unless you have unmistakable grounds for it,
and never, under any circumstances, speak
hastily or angrily. If you are put out, wait
till your vexation has cooled down a little;
and then, if you are quite sure you are in the
right, speak quietly and kindly, but so
decidedly that there may be no mistake about
your intention of being obeyed.”

“Oh, dear!” groaned Ella, who was almost
reduced to tears at the prospect of such
serious responsibility. “I am sure I shall
come home ignominiously in a week. I know
just how it will be. Just think of Aunt
Mary’s scorn when she finds I don’t even
know how to boil a potato!”

There was no time for lamentations, however,
and her mother and Kate both comforted
her with the assurance that at any rate
no one would blame her if she did her best,
and they would expect a few mistakes from a
girl only just home from school.

The next morning, at any rate, Ella was
punctual, and at eight o’clock they all sat
down to breakfast.

“I made tea for you, Ella,” said Mrs.
Hastings. “I thought it would be better for
you before such a long journey. Coffee sometimes
disagrees with people who are not very
good travellers. And I advise you not to
take bacon; it so often makes one thirsty.
Here is potted meat; that would be better
for you.”

Ella felt in very low spirits, and her
mother’s and Kate’s affectionate kindness
only brought the despised tears into her eyes.
She could hardly touch her breakfast, and was
relieved when Kate left the table, and began
to look after the small articles of luggage.

“Robin, did you strap up the rugs? Oh,
what an untidy bundle!” and the methodical
Kate unfastened the straps and rearranged
the contents. First the large rug was folded
lengthwise till it was just as wide as the
length of the bundle should be when finished.
Then came Ella’s shawl, an awkward one for
a neat roll, as it had long fringe; but Kate
turned in the fringe all round first, and then
folded the shawl itself till it was just a little
narrower than the rug; the ulster was carefully
folded also to the same size, and both
were laid on one end of the rug. Finally,
Ella’s umbrella and sunshade were laid across
the pile of wraps, and all were rolled round carefully,
so that none of the articles inside protruded,
and the rug, being longer than the
others, hid all the ends, and, when strapped
round just tightly enough to hold all together
comfortably without unnecessary squeezing, it
made such a neat-looking roll as compelled
even Robin’s admiration. Ella’s travelling-cap
had been inside the bundle before, but
Kate took it out and advised her to carry it
in her hand-bag, as being easily accessible if
she did not wish to undo the strap.

All was ready at last, the rugs, the hand-bag,
and the tin trunk, to which at the last
moment Kate came running to tie a piece of
red braid, by which to distinguish it, making
Ella and the boys laugh at what they called
her “incurable old-maidishness.”

“Never mind,” she replied, nodding
sagely, “you will thank me when you have
to hunt for your box amongst twenty others
exactly like it.”

Kate had suggested going to the station to
see them off, but her father objected.

“We shall get on better alone,” he argued.
“We settle ourselves comfortably in our
corners at once, unroll our rugs, and make
everything ready before we start, instead of
having to make spasmodic efforts to think of
last remarks and messages. Of course, if Ella
were going alone I should go to see her off,
but as it is I would rather not have anyone
with us.”[Pg 38]

Mrs. Hastings thought this a rather hard-hearted
way of looking at the matter; but as
Ella quite agreed with her father, feeling convinced
she could not be able to keep from
crying if the farewells were too long protracted,
there was nothing for it but to yield,
and as soon as the cab came to the door the
parting was hurried through, and, almost
before she had time to realise that she was
really going, Ella found herself halfway to
the station.

The railway journey was a long and troublesome
one, involving several changes. Before
midday Ella had recovered her spirits and her
appetite, and acted on Kate’s advice. “Do
not wait for father to suggest lunch,” she had
said; “you may be sure he will not begin to
feel hungry till you are quite ravenous.”
Remembering this, Ella laughed to herself
at Mr. Hastings’s surprise when she suggested
that she was ready for her lunch, and proceeded
to unpack her stores.

“This is the first course, I suppose,” she
said, as she produced two neat white-paper
packages, each with the name of the contents
written on it. “This one contains potted
meat sandwiches, and these are chicken. They
look very nice, too. These sprigs of watercress
between the sandwiches are a great improvement.”

“Yes, I must confess they are very good
ones,” assented Mr. Hastings, after trying one
of each kind. “I think someone must have
been giving the cook a lecture on the art of
cutting them. Home-made sandwiches have
generally too much butter, so that they are
too rich to eat, and the paper they are
wrapped in is greasy and disagreeable; but
these have just the right quantity, and they
are made with suitable bread—not, as I have
often had them, of spongy bread, full of holes,
through which the butter and meat oozes on
to one’s fingers.”

In addition to these there were, for Ella’s
benefit, a few sandwiches made with damson
jam, from which the stones had been extracted.
The next course consisted of some
small cakes and a few ripe pears. By way of
beverage, Mrs. Hastings had supplied Ella
with a flask of cold tea, made weak, and with
a squeeze of lemon in it, which she had always
found the best possible drink for quenching
thirst; when travelling herself she always took
either this or lime-juice and water. Finally,
knowing that Ella had a good appetite, and
would probably get very hungry before reaching
her journey’s end, her mother had told the
cook to fill a small jam pot with lemon jelly,
and to provide a teaspoon to eat it with.
Ella found this most refreshing, and her
lunch altogether was very satisfactory; certainly
the supply was rather too bountiful,
but that fact did not trouble her much, for she
soon noticed a poor, hungry-looking boy on
one of the stations, who thankfully accepted
all that was left.

In spite of the length of the journey, Ella
quite enjoyed the day; her father was so kind
and took such good care of her. He insisted
on her getting out of the carriage and walking
up and down the platform whenever the train
stopped long enough, that she might not be
tired of sitting still; and when it began to
get dark he made her put her feet up on the
seat and tucked her up with the rug, and
made her so comfortable that, to her own great
surprise, she went fast asleep, and only awoke
as her father was collecting their books and
wraps on nearing their destination.

(To be continued.)

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER III.
THE NEW NURSE.

n looking back on
those days, I simply
wonder at my
own audacity. Am
I really and truly
the same Merle
Fenton who rang
at the bell at
Prince’s Gate and
informed the astonished
footman
that I was the
person applying for the
nurse’s situation? I
recall that scene now
with a laugh, but I
frankly own that that
moment was not the
pleasantest in my life.
True, it had its ludicrous
side; but how is one to
enjoy the humour of an
amusing situation alone?
and, to tell the truth,
the six foot of plush
and powder before me
was somewhat alarming
to my female timidity.
I hear now the
man’s startled “I beg
your pardon, ma’am.”

“I have come by appointment,”
I returned, with as much dignity
as I could summon under the trying
circumstances; “will you inform your
mistress, Mrs. Morton, that I have come
about the nurse’s situation?”

Of course, he was looking at me from
head to foot. In spite of the disguising
plainness of my dress, I suppose the
word gentlewoman was clearly stamped
upon me. Heaven forbid that under
any circumstances that brand, sole
heritage of my dead parents, should ever
be effaced. Then he opened the door of
a charming little waiting-room, and
civilly enough bade me seat myself, and
for some minutes I was left alone. I
think nearly a quarter of an hour
elapsed before he reappeared with the
message that his mistress was now disengaged
and would see me. I followed
the man as closely as I could through
the long hall and up the wide staircase;
not for worlds would I have owned that
a certain shortness of breath, unusual
in youth, seemed to impede me. At the
top, I found myself in a handsome
corridor, communicating with two drawing-rooms
of noble dimensions, as they
call them in advertisements, and certainly
it was a princely apartment that
I entered. A lady was writing busily
at a small table at the further end of
the room. As the man spoke to her, she
did not at once raise her head or turn
round; she was evidently finishing a
note. A minute later she laid aside her
pen and came towards me.

“I am sorry that I could not attend
to you at once, and yet you were
very punctual,” she began, in a pleasant,
well-modulated voice, and then
she stopped and regarded me with
unfeigned surprise.

She was a very lovely young woman,
with an indescribable matronly air about
her that spoke of the mother. She would
have been really quite beautiful but for
a certain worn look, often seen in women
of fashion; and when she spoke there
was a sweetness and simplicity of
manner that was most winning.

“Pardon me,” with a shade of perplexity
in her eyes, “but I suppose my
servant was right in stating that you
had come by appointment in answer to
my advertisement?”

“Yes, madam,” I returned, readily;
for her slight nervousness put me at my
ease. “I have your letter here.”

“And you are really applying for the
nurse’s situation—the upper nurse, I
mean; for, of course, there is an under
nurse kept. I hope” (colouring a little)
“that you will not think me rude if I
say that I was not prepared for the sort
of person I was to see.”

I could have groaned as I thought
of my note. Was it possible that I had
spelt “advertisement” wrongly, and yet
I had the paper before me; my handwriting
was neat and legible, but evidently
Mrs. Morton was drawing some
comparison between my letter and
appearance, and I did not doubt that
the former had not prepossessed her in
my favour.

I became confused in my turn.

“I hope to prove to you,” I began,
in a very small voice, “that I am a fit
person to apply for your situation. I am
very fond of children; I never lose my patience
with them as other people do, or
think anything a trouble; I wish to take up
this work from love as well as necessity—I
mean,” correcting myself, for she
looked still more astonished, “that
though I am obliged to work for my
living, I would rather be a nurse than
anything else.”

“Will you answer a few questions?”
and, as though by an afterthought,
“will you sit down?” for she had been
standing to keep me company out of
deference to my superior appearance.

“I will answer any question you like
to put to me, madam.”

“You have never been in service you[Pg 39]
tell me in your letter. Have you ever
filled any kind of situation?”

I shook my head.

“You are quite young I should
say?”

“Two and twenty last Christmas.”

“I should hardly have thought you
so old. Will you oblige me with your
name?”

“Merle Fenton.”

A half smile crossed her beautiful
mouth. It was evident that she found
the name somewhat incongruous, and
then she continued a little hastily, “If
you have never filled any sort of situation,
it will be somewhat difficult to
judge of your capacity. Of course you
have good references; can you tell me
a little about yourself and your circumstances?”

I was fast losing my nervousness by
this time. In a few minutes I had given
her a concise account of myself and my
belongings. Once or twice she interrupted
me by a question, such as, for
example, when I spoke of Aunt Agatha,
she asked the names of the families
where she had lived as a governess;
and once she looked a little surprised at
my answer.

“I knew the Curzons before I was
married,” she observed, quietly; “they
have often talked to me of their old
governess, Miss Fenton; her name is
Keith now, you say; she was a great
favourite with her pupils. Well, is it not
a pity that you should not follow your
aunt’s example? If you are not clever,
would not the situation of a nursery
governess be more fitting for you? Forgive
me; I am only speaking for your
good; one feels a little uncomfortable
at seeing a gentlewoman desert the ranks
to which she belongs.”

My face was burning by this time;
of course it must all come out—that
miserable defect of mine, and everything
else; but raising my eyes at that moment
I saw such a kind look on Mrs.
Morton’s face, such quietly expressed
sympathy for my very evident confusion,
that in a moment my reserve broke
down. I do not know what I said, but
I believe I must have been very eloquent.
I could hear her say to herself, “How
very strange—what a misfortune!” when
I frankly mentioned my inability to spell,
but I did not linger long on this point.

Warmed by her strong interest, I
detailed boldly what I called my theory.
I told her of my love for little children,
my longing to work amongst them, how
deeply I felt that this would indeed be a
gentlewoman’s work, that I did not fear
my want of experience. I told her that
once I had stayed for some weeks at
the house of one of my schoolfellows,
and that every night and morning I had
gone up to the nursery to help the nurse
wash and dress the babies, and that at
the end of a week I had learned to do
it as well as the woman herself, and
that she had told my schoolfellow that
she had never seen any young lady so
handy and patient with children, and
that they were happier with me than
with their own sister.

“The second child had the croup one
night,” I continued; “the mother was
away, and nurse was too frightened to
be of any use. When the doctor came
he praised her very much for her prompt
remedies; he said they had probably
saved the boy’s life, as the attack was a
severe one. Nurse cried when he said
that, and owned it was not she who had
thought of everything, but Miss Fenton.
I tell you this,” I continued, “that you
may understand that I am reliable. I
was only nineteen then, and now I am
two and twenty.”

She looked at me again in a gentle,
scrutinising way; I could feel that I was
making way in her good opinion. Her
curiosity was piqued; her interest
strongly excited. She made no attempt
to check me as I launched out into
further defence of my theory, but she
only smiled and said, “Very true, I
agree with you there,” as I spoke of the
advantage of having an educated person
to superintend the nursery. Indeed,
I found myself retailing all my pet arguments
in a perfectly fearless way, until
I looked up and saw there were tears in
her beautiful brown eyes.

“How well you talk,” she said, with
a sort of sigh. “You have thought it
all out, I can see. I wonder what my
husband would say. He is a member of
Parliament, you know, and we are very
busy people, and society has such claims
on us that I cannot be much with my
children. I have only two; Joyce is
three years old, and my boy is nearly
eighteen months. Oh, he is so lovely,
and to think I can only see him for a few
minutes at a time, that I lose all his
pretty ways; it is such a trouble to me.
His nurse is leaving to be married, and
I am so anxious to find someone who
will watch over my darlings and make
them happy.”

She paused, as the sound of approaching
footsteps were audible in the corridor,
and rose hastily as an impatient,
“Violet, where are you, my dear?” was
distinctly audible.

“That is Mr. Morton; will you excuse
me a moment?” And the next moment
I could hear her say, “I was in
the blue drawing-room, Alick. I have
sent off the letters, and now I want to
speak to you a moment,” and her voice
died away as they moved farther down
the corridor.

I felt a keen anxiety as to the result
of that conversation. I was very impulsive
by nature, and I had fallen in love
with Mrs. Morton. The worn look on
the beautiful young face had touched me
somehow. One of my queer visionary
ideas came over me as I recalled her expression.
I thought that if I were an
artist, and that my subject was the
“Massacre of the Innocents,” that the
mother’s face in the foreground should
be Mrs. Morton’s. “Rachel Weeping
for her Children;” something of the
pathetic maternal agony, as for a lost
babe, had seemed to cross her face as
she spoke of her little ones. I found
out afterwards that, though she wore no
mourning, Mrs. Morton had lost a beautiful
infant about four months ago. It
had not been more than six weeks old,
but the mother’s heart was still bleeding.
Many months afterwards she told me that
she often dreamed of her little Muriel—she
had only been baptised the day before
her death—and woke trying to stifle her
sobs that she might not disturb her husband.
I sat cogitating this imaginary
picture of mine, and shuddering over the
sanguinary details, until Mrs. Morton
returned, and, to my embarrassment, her
husband was with her.

I gave him a frightened glance as he
crossed the room with rapid footsteps.
He was a quiet-looking man, with a
dark moustache, some years older than
his wife. His being slightly bald added
somewhat to his appearance of age. In
reality he was not more than five and
thirty. I thought him a little cool and
critical in manner, but his voice was
pleasant. He looked at me keenly as
he spoke; it was my opinion at that
moment that not an article of my dress
escaped his observation. I had selected
purposely a pair of mended gloves, and
I am convinced the finger ends were at
once under his inspection. He was a
man who thought no details beneath
him, but would bring his masculine intellect
even to the point of discovering
the fitness of his children’s nurse.

“Mrs. Morton tells me that you have
applied for the situation of upper nurse,”
he began, not abruptly, but in the quick
tones of a busy man who has scant
leisure. “I have heard all you have
told her; she seems desirous of testing
your abilities, but I must warn you that
I distrust theories myself. My dear,”
turning to his wife, “I must say that
this young person looks hardly old enough
for the position, and you own she has
no real experience. Would not a more
elderly person be more suitable, considering
that you are so seldom in your
nursery? Of course, this is your department,
but since you ask my advice——”
with a little shrug that seemed to dismiss
me and the whole subject.

A wistful, disappointed look came
over his wife’s face. I was too great a
stranger to understand the real position
of affairs, only my intuition guided me
at that moment. It was not until much
later that I found out that Mrs. Morton
never disputed her husband’s will, even
in trifles; that he ordered the plan of
her life as well as his own; that her
passionate love for her children was restrained
in order that her wifely and
social duties should be carried out; that
she was so perfectly obedient to him, not
from fear, but from an excess of womanly
devotion, that she seldom even contested
an opinion. My fate was very
nearly sealed at that moment, but a
hasty impulse prompted me to speak.
Looking Mr. Morton full in the face, I
said, a little piteously, “Do not dismiss
me because of my youth, for that is a
fault that time will mend. Want of experience
is a greater obstacle, but it will
only make me more careful to observe
every direction and carry out every wish.
If you consent to try me, I am sure
neither you nor Mrs. Morton will repent
it.”

He looked at me very keenly again as
I spoke; indeed, his eyes seemed to
search me through and through, and
then his whole manner changed.

I have been told that Nature had been
kind to me in one respect by endowing
me with a pleasant voice. I believe that[Pg 40]
I was freer from vanity than most girls
of my age, but I was glad in my inmost
heart to know that no tone of mine would
ever jar upon a human ear, but I was
more than glad now when I saw Mr.
Morton’s grave face relax.

“You speak confidently,” he returned.
“You seem to have a strange faith in
your own theory, and plenty of self-reliance,
but I am afraid that, like most
young people, you have only regarded
it from one point of view. Are you aware
of the unpleasantness of such a situation?
If you came to us you might have
nothing of which to complain from
Mrs. Morton or myself, but we could not
answer for the rest of my household;
the servants would regard you as a sort
of hybrid, belonging to no special sphere;
they might show you scant respect, and
manifest a great deal of jealousy.”

“I have faced all that,” I returned,
with a smile, “but I think the difficulties
would be like Bunyan’s lions—they were
chained, you know. I do not believe
these sort of things would hurt me. I
should never be away from the children
in the nursery; I should be unmolested
and at home.”

“Alick!” I could hear a whole petition
breathed into that softly uttered
word. Mr. Morton heard it too, for he
turned at once and then looked at his
wife.

“Do you really wish to try this young
person, Violet, my dear? It is for you
to decide; this is your province, as I
said before.”

“If she will love our children and
watch over them in our absence,” she
whispered, but I caught the words.
Then aloud, “Yes, thank you, Alick, I
should like to try her. I think she would
make Joyce happy. I can go and see
Mrs. Keith this afternoon when I am
out driving, and perhaps I could arrange
for her to come soon.”

“Very well,” he returned, briefly, but
he spoke in the old dry manner, as though
he were not quite pleased. “When you
are disengaged will you join me in the
library? I have some more letters I
want copied.”

“I will be ready soon,” she said,
with a sweet grateful glance at him, as
though she had received some unexpected
bounty at his hands, and as he
wished me good morning, and left the
room, she continued, eagerly, “Will you
come with me now and make acquaintance
with the children. I have seen
them already this morning, so they will
not expect me, and it will be such a
surprise. My little girl is always with
me while I dress. I have so little time
to devote to them; but I snatch every
moment.”

She sighed as she spoke, and I began
to understand, in a dim, groping sort of
way, that fate is not so unequal after all,
that even this beautiful creature had unsatisfied
wants in her life, that it was
possible that wealth and position were
to her only tiresome barriers dividing
her from her little ones. Her sweetest
pleasures only came to her by snatches.
Most likely she envied humble mothers,
and did not pity them because their arms
ached with carrying a heavy infant,
aching limbs being more bearable than
an aching heart.

A flight of broad, handsomely-carpeted
stairs brought us to a long shut-in
corridor, fitted up prettily with plants
and statuettes. A rocking-horse stood
in one corner; the nursery door was
open. It was a long, cheerful room,
with three windows, looking over the
public garden, and fitted up with a degree
of comfort that bordered on luxury.
Some canaries were singing in a green
cage, a grey Persian kitten was curled
up in the doll’s bassinette, a little girl
was kneeling on the cushioned window-seat,
peeping between the bars at some
children who were playing below. As
Mrs. Morton said, softly, “Joyce, darling,”
she turned round with quite a
startled air, and then clambered down
hastily and ran to her mother.

“Why, it is my mother,” in quite an
incredulous voice, and then she caught
hold of her mother’s gown, and peeped
at me from between the folds.

She was a pretty, demure-looking
child, only somewhat thin and fragile
in appearance, not in the least like her
mother, but I could trace instantly the
strongest resemblance to her father.
She had the straight, uncurling hair
like his, and her dark eyes were a little
sunken under the finely-arched brows.
It was rather a bewitching little face,
only too thin and sallow for health, and
with an intelligent expression, almost
amounting to precocity.

“And where is your brother, my darling?”
asked her mother, stooping to
kiss her, and at this moment a pleasant-looking
young woman came from the
inner room with a small, curly-haired
boy in her arms.

As she set him down on the floor, and
he came toddling over the carpet, I forgot
Mrs. Morton’s presence, and knelt
down and held out my arms to him.
“Oh, you beauty!” I exclaimed, in a
coaxing voice, “will you come to me?”
for I quite forgot myself at the sight of
the perfect baby features.

Baby pointed a small finger at me,
“O’ ook, gurgle-da,” he said, in the
friendliest way; and I sealed our compact
with many kisses.

“Dear me, ma’am,” observed nurse,
eyeing me in a dubious manner, for probably
the news of my advent had preceded
me to the upper regions, “this is
very singular; I never saw Master Baby
take such a fancy to anyone before; he
always beats them off with his dear
little hand.”

“Gurgle-da, ook ook,” was baby’s
unexpected response to this, as he burst
into a shout of laughter, and he made
signs for me to carry him to the canaries.

I do not know what Mrs. Morton said
to nurse, but she came up after a
minute or two and watched us, smiling.

“He does seem very friendly; more
so than my shy pet here,” for Joyce was
still holding her mother’s gown.

“She will be friends with me too,” I
returned, confidently; “children are so
easily won.” And then, as Mrs. Morton
held out her arms for her boy, I parted
with him reluctantly.

There was no need for me to stay any
longer then. Mrs. Morton reiterated
her intention of calling on Aunt Agatha
that afternoon, after which she promised
to speak to me again, and feeling that
things were in a fair way of being settled
according to my wishes, I left the house
with a lighter heart than I had entered
it.

(To be continued.)

AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKS.

By CLARA THWAITES.

“SIGH AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKS
OF THE SUMMER FLOWN.”

[Pg 42]

NOTICES OF NEW MUSIC.

Stanley Lucas and Co.

O, hur vidgas ej ditt bröst. Liebe, liebe.
Two Lieder. By Maude V. White.—The first,
from the Swedish, has also an English set of
words; the setting of the second is in German
only, being a translation into that language
from the Hungarian.—There is a dreamy
charm pervading both of these little ballads,
which will be best appreciated by truly
musical and well-educated singers.

Two Locks of Hair. Song to Longfellow’s
poetry. By Sabine E. Barwell.—Very
simple. The music is dedicated to Charles
Santley, our great baritone singer.

Alone with thee. Song by Gilbert R.
Betjemann. Compass E to F sharp.—An
ambitious song, full of striking modulations
and really dramatic effects. The accompaniments
are charming.

Ivy Green. A good song for basses or
baritones. The words by Charles Dickens,
the music by Arthur C. Stericker.—Plenty of
go about it, and quite the song for strong,
manly voices.

Wandering Wishes. Poetry by Lady
Charlotte Elliot (from “Medusa” and other
poems). Music by Robert B. Addison.—A very
poetical setting of a very fanciful poem.

Our Darling. Ballad by Robert Reece,
with music by Berthold Tours.—This justly
favourite composer has written the simplest,
most touching, and melodious music to a very
touching and sad story. It is a compliment
to this ballad to recommend it to all who
wish for a good cry. It has this advantage
over the maudlin griefs of the discontented
folk to whom we have called attention in
previous notices, that the poor bereaved
parents who miss their little darling from the
chair in which he used to listen to their fairy
stories and tales of distant lands over the sea,
are content to regard him as at rest in the
heavenly country, and in the angels’ care.
After all, if you do get the song, your tears
will be happy ones.

Edwin Ashdown.

Inez. Zamora. Two Spanish dances for
the pianoforte by Michael Watson.—The first
is a Habanera, and is redolent of Carmen and
Spanish want of energy. It is more
characteristic than the second, although that
is a very good reproduction of the typical
peasant dance of all districts of the Peninsula.

Daphne. Valse brillante. Celadon. Gavotte.
Two drawing-room pieces of more than
ordinary merit by J. H. Wallis.—Fairly easy
to learn, and effective when learnt.

May-Dew. By Sir Sterndale Bennett;
transcribed for the pianoforte by Jules
Brissac.—We complained a few months back
of someone having converted this lovely song
into a part-song; we can only say of the
present transformation, that when the voice
part is at work all goes fairly well, and from a
piano point of view represents the original;
but the two bars of symphony before the first
and second verses of the song are stripped of
all their original life, and a very mangled
substitute is offered.

London Music Publishing Co.

The Broken Strings of a Mandoline.
Words and music by Edith Frances Prideaux.—The
story of a little Italian street-player.
The compass is for sopranos; the melody is
simple and not very original.

Sketches in Dance Rhythms. 1. Waltz;
2. Minuet; 3. Tarantella. By Erskine Allon.—We
have before alluded to these sketches, of
which Mr. Allon has composed such excellent
examples. We prefer No. 1 of the present
series, but do not consider these to be equal to
former numbers.

Weekes and Co.

Abendlied. Im Rosenbusch. Two songs by
J. H. le Breton Girdlestone; the words, by
Hoffman von Fallersleben, being translated
into English by Dr. Baskerville.—Most
interesting little songs, and sure to give
pleasure by their sweet simplicity.

Andante. Varied for the pianoforte, and
composed by Henry A. Toase. A very quiet,
harmless production. Only three variations,
and those not so much of the andante as of its
accompaniment.

J. and J. Hopkinson.

Intermezzo and Minuet for Pianoforte. By
George A. Lovell.—Two very nicely-written
little pieces. The minuet is especially attractive.

Barcarole for Pianoforte. By Carl Hause.—A
good drawing-room piece. The middle
movement in F minor makes an effective contrast
to the first part.

Hutchings and Romer.

The Little Sweep. Song. Written and
composed by James C. Beazley, R.A.M.—There
is no such title as R.A.M. A.R.A.M.
and M.R.A.M. we know, but we must protest
against this unlawful use of the name of our
oldest academy of music. The song is a
stirring and dramatic account of how a lost
child was recovered by his mother. It is to
be declaimed by a contralto.

Hutchings and Co.

The Christian’s Armour. Oratorio. By
Joseph L. Roeckel; the text compiled by
Mrs. Alexander Roberts from Ephesians vi.;
interspersed with hymns from several sources.—A
useful work for services of song or chapel
festivities. There is a sameness about the
work, and it suggests a weary feeling towards
the close. The choruses are mostly rather
weak chorale. Occasionally an evidently fugal
subject is announced, which is never destined
to form the subject for a fugue. However, the
story is well put together, the music is quite
easy, and many choirs, unable to conquer
greater difficulties, will feel at home in this
so-called “oratorio.”

Six Morceaux de Salon. Pour violin, avec
accompagnement de piano. Par Guido Papini.
Op. 66.—The author of “La Mécanisme
du jeune Violiniste” has given us in
these little pieces a charming addition to the
répertoire of the amateur violinist. Specially
tender and expressive is No. 4. The piano
shares with the violin both the difficulties and
the interests of each of the morceaux.

Victoria Gavotte. For piano. By Tito
Mattei.—A capital piano piece. We presume
from the title that this is Signor Mattei’s contribution
to the Jubilee Commemoration.

Robert Cocks and Co.

Gladys. Rustic Dance. Composed for the
pianoforte by Howard Talbot.—A bright, telling
piece. It would be very useful as an entr’acte
in your Christmas charades.

For Old Sake’s Sake. Song for contraltos.
By Behrend.

W. Morley and Co.

Watching the Embers. Song. Composed
by Ciro Pinsuti to Weatherly’s words.—With
a pretty refrain, but for the most part
made up of a series of common phrases. It is
to be obtained in B flat, C, and D minors.

Childie. Song. By Behrend. Published
in keys to suit all voices.—The song is very
similar to all his others. An old lady advising
a child to die young.

The Biter Bit. Song. Words and music
by Henry Pontet.—A warning to any who
would marry for money, and not for love. In
learning the above three songs I am sure that
singers will be as much distracted as I have
been by little squares like lottery coupons announcing
that somebody else’s song cost £250.
If this statement could appear elsewhere—say
on separate slips—the songs would be more
pleasant to read.

Henry Klein.

The Land of Song. Song for tenors and
sopranos by that clever composer, Franz Leideritz.
Not so original as “Flowers from
Home,” the memory of which still delights us.

Orsborn and Tuckwood.

Sailing Across the Sea. Song. By Vernon
Rey.—Prettily told and easy to learn.

Merry Melodies. A series of duets for two
violins for schools and classes, arranged by
Arthur Graham. We see from the title-page
that there are to be arrangements of the works
of eminent composers, but the names are not
given.

W. J. Willcocks and Co.

Offertoire and Fugue in B flat. Grand
Offertoire, founded upon subjects in Schumann’s
Quintet, op. 44.—These are two
finely-written organ solos by George F. Vincent.
Valuable additions to our stock of
English organ music.

Marriott and Williams.

Twenty Miles to London Town. Song.
Written and composed by Gerald M. Lane.—Mr.
Lane is more fortunate in his music than
in his words. The ballad—for genuine English
ballad it is—is of the “Bailiff’s Daughter of
Islington” type, and is published in F, G,
and A.

Captor and Captive. A song of Araby.
By Edwin J. Quance.—A good stirring song
for baritones.

Bowerman and Co.

Deuxième Nocturne pour Piano. Par G. J.
Rubini.—An unpretending piano piece of the
Gustave Lange type.[Pg 43]

EXPLANATION OF FRENCH AND OTHER TERMS USED IN MODERN COOKERY.

Part I.

Allemande.—Concentrated white velouté (see
velouté) sauce, seasoned with nutmeg and
lemon juice, and thickened with yolks of eggs
and cream.

Angelica.—A plant, the stalks of which are
preserved with sugar; as it retains its green
colour it is pretty for ornamenting sweet dishes,
cakes, etc.

Appareil.—This word is applicable to a preparation
composed of various ingredients, as
appareil de gateau (mixture for a cake).

Aspic.—Name given to clear savoury jelly,
to distinguish it from sweet jelly. Cold
entrées, which are moulded and have the ingredients
set in jelly, are also called aspics.

Assiette volante.—A small dish (holding no
more than a plate) which is handed round the
table without ever being placed on it. Things
that must be eaten very hot are often served
in this way. Little savouries, foie-gras, or
cheese fondus in paper cases are thus handed.

Au bleu.—An expensive way of boiling fish.
A broth is made by boiling three onions, two
carrots, two turnips, some parsley, pepper, salt,
sufficient water, a tumbler of white wine, and
a tumbler of vinegar together; the scum is
removed as it rises, the fish is simmered in the
broth. This broth is called Court bouillon.
Fish cooked thus is eaten hot or cold, with
suitable sauce.

Baba.—A Polish cake of a very light description.

Bain marie.—A sort of bath-saucepan,
which stands on a stove with hot water in it,
and has small bright saucepans stood in the
water for the contents to cook slowly without
reducing or spoiling them. A bain marie has
no cover.

Bande.—The strip of paste that is put round
tart; sometimes the word is also applied to
a strip of paper or bacon.

Barde de lard.—A slice of bacon. To
barder a bird is to fasten a slice of bacon
over it.

Béchamel sauce.—Equal quantities of velouté
sauce and cream boiled together. The sauce
was named after a celebrated cook.

Beignets.—Fritters.

Beurre noir.—Butter stirred in a frying-pan
over a brisk fire until it is brown, then lemon-juice
or vinegar, and pepper and salt are added
to it.

Beurre fondus.—Melted, that is to say
oiled, butter.

Bigarade sauce.—Melted butter, with the
thin rind and the juice of a Seville orange
boiled in it.

Blanch.—To parboil or scald. To whiten
meat or poultry, or remove the skins of fruit or
vegetables by plunging them into boiling water,
and then sometimes putting them into cold
water afterwards, as almonds are blanched.

Blanquette.—A kind of fricassée.

Boudin.—A very delicate entrée prepared
with quenelle forcemeat or with fine mince.

Bouquet garni.—A handful of parsley, a
sprig of thyme, a small bay leaf, and six green
onions, tied securely together with strong
thread.

Bouilli.—Boiled meat; but fresh beef, well
boiled, is generally understood by this term.

Bouillie.—A sort of hasty pudding.
Bouillie-au-lait is flour and milk boiled
together.

Bouillon.—Thin broth or soup.

Braise.—To stew meat that has been previously
blanched, very slowly with bacon or
other fat, until it is tender.

Braisière.—A saucepan with a lid with a
rim to it, on which lighted charcoal can be put.

Brider.—To put thin string or thread through
poultry, game, etc., to keep it in shape.

Brioche.—A sort of light cake, rather like
Bath bun, but not sweet, having as much salt
as sugar in it.

Brandy butter.—Fresh butter, sugar, and
brandy beaten together to a cream.

Caramel.—Made by melting a little loaf
sugar in a saucepan, and as soon as it is brown,
before it burns, adding some water to it.
Sometimes used as a colouring for stews.
Made into a syrup by adding more sugar after
the water, it is a very good pudding sauce.

Casserole.—A stew-pan. The name given
to a crust of rice moulded in the shape of a pie,
then baked with mince or a purée of game
in it.

Cerner.—Is to cut paste half way through
with a knife or cutter, so that part can be
removed when cooked to make room for something
else.

Charlotte.—Consists of very thin slices of
bread, steeped in oiled butter, and placed in
order in a mould, which is then filled with fruit
or preserve.

Chartreuse of vegetables.—Consists of vegetables
tastefully arranged in a plain mould,
which is then filled with either game, pigeons,
larks, tendons, scollops, or anything suitably
prepared.

Chartreuse à la Parisienne.—An ornamental
dish made principally with quenelle forcemeat,
and filled with some kind of ragoût,
scollops, etc.

Chausse.—A jelly bag.

Compote.—Fruits preserved in syrup. Apple
and any other kind of fruit jelly. This term is
also used to designate some savoury dishes,
prepared with larks, quails, or pigeons, with
truffles, mushrooms, or peas.

Consommé.—Strong and clear broth used as
a basis for many soups and gravies.

Conti (potage). Lentil soup.

Contise.—Small scollops of truffles; red
tongue, or other things that are with a knife
inlaid in fillets of any kind to ornament them,
are said to be contisés.

Court bouillon.—See au bleu.

Croquettes.—A preparation of minced or
pounded meat, or of potatoes or rice, with a
coating of bread-crumbs. Croquettes means
something crisp.

Croquantes.—Fruit with sugar boiled to
crispness.

Croustades.—An ornamental pie-case, sometimes
made of shaped bread, and filled with
mince, etc.

Croutons.—Sippets of bread fried in butter;
used to garnish. They are various sizes and
shapes; sometimes served with soups.

Cuillerée.—A spoonful. In most French
recipes I have found ten spoonfuls equal to a
quarter of a pint of fluid.

Cuisson.—The name given to the liquid in
which anything has been cooked.

Dariole.—A sort of cake served hot. The
name of small round moulds in which various
little cakes are baked or puddings steamed.

Daubière.—An oval stew-pan in which
daubes are cooked. Daubes are meat or fowl
stewed in sauce.

Dégorger.—To soak in water for a longer or
shorter time.

Dés.—Very small square dice.

Désosser.—To bone; to remove the bones
from fish, meat, game, or poultry.

Dorer.—To paint the surface of tarts or
cakes with a brush, with egg or sugar, so that
they may be glazed when cooked.

Dorure.—The glaze one uses for pastry; sometimes
beaten white of egg, sometimes yolk of
egg and cold water, sometimes sugar only.

Entrées.—A name for side dishes, such as
cutlets, fricassées, fricandeaux, sweetbreads, etc.

Entrées (cold).—Consist of cutlets, fillets of
game, poultry, &c.; salads of various kinds,
aspics, ham, and many other things.

Entremets.—Second course side dishes.
They are of four kinds—namely, cold entrées,
dressed vegetables, scalloped shellfish, or
dressed eggs, and lastly, sweets of any kind,
puddings, jellies, creams, fritters, pastry, etc.

Escalopes.—Collops; small round pieces of
meat or fish, beaten with a steak beater before
they are cooked, to make them tender.

Espagnole.—Rich, strong stock made with
beef, veal and ham, flavoured with vegetables,
and thickened with brown roux. This and
velouté are the two main sauces from which
nearly all others are made. The espagnole for
brown, the velouté for white.

Etamine.—See Tammy.

Etuver.—To stew meat with little moisture,
and over a very slow fire, or with hot cinders
over and under the saucepan.

Faggot.—A bouquet garni.

Fanchonettes and florentines.—Varieties of
small pastry, covered with white of egg and
sugar.

Faire tomber à glace.—Means to boil down
stock or gravy until it is as thick as glaze, and
is coloured brown.

Farce.—Is ordinary forcemeat, such as is used
for raised pies.

Feuil etage.—Very light puff paste.

Flamber.—To singe fowls and game after
they have been plucked.

Flans.—A flan is made by rolling a piece of
paste out rather larger than the tin in which
it is to be baked, then turning up the edge of
the paste to form a sort of wall round. Flans
are filled with fruit or preserve, and baked.

Foncer.—To put slices of ham or bacon in
the bottom of a saucepan, to line a mould with
raw paste, or to put the first layer of anything
in a mould—it may be a layer of white paper.

Fontaine.—A heap of flour with a hollow in
the middle, into which to pour the water.

Fondu.—Or fondue. A cheese soufflé.

Fricandeau.—Fillets of poultry or the best
pieces of veal, neatly trimmed, larded, and well
glazed, with their liquor reduced to glaze.
They are served as entrées.

Fricassée.—A white stew, generally made
with chicken and white sauce, to which mushrooms
or other things may be added.

Fraiser.—A way of handling certain pastry
to make it more compact and easier to work.

Frémir, frissonner.—To keep a liquid just
on the boil—what is called simmering.

Galette.—A broad flat cake.

Gateau.—Cake. This word is also used for
some kinds of tarts, and for different puddings.
A gateau is also made of pig’s liver; it is therefore
rather difficult to define what a “gateau” is.

Gaufres.—Or wafers. Light spongy biscuits
cooked in irons over a stove.

Glacer.—To glaze; to brush hot meat or
poultry over with concentrated meat gravy or
sauce, so that it shall have a brown and shiny
appearance. Glaze can be bought in skins.
Glacer, in confectionery, means to ice pastry or
fruit with sugar.

Gniocchi.—Small balls of paste made with
flour, eggs, and cheese to put into soup.

Gramme.—A French weight. An ounce
avoirdupois is nearly equal to thirty grammes.

Gras.—Made with meat and fat.

Gratins (au).—Term applied to certain
dishes of fish, game, poultry, vegetables, and
macaroni dressed with rich sauces, and generally
finished with bread-crumbs or bread-raspings
over the top.

Gratiner.—Is to brown by heat, almost burn.

Grenadins.—Similar to a fricandeau, but
smaller; grenadins are served with vegetable
purées.

(To be continued.)[Pg 44]

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

CHAPTER III.
DAME HURSEY THE WOOLGATHERER.

“HE STRUCK ACROSS UNBEATEN PATHS.”

hen John Smith, as for
reasons of his own he
called himself, left
Pierre, he pulled his hat
well over his eyes and
started off across the
downs in the direction of Lewes. He
knew the country well, and partly
on this account, partly because he
did not wish to be recognised, he struck across unbeaten paths,
where he was not likely to meet anyone, avoiding the high
roads as much as he could, and travelling as near as possible
as the crow flies, over downs and meadows to the
village he was seeking. It was a good six miles, and he
had neither time nor inclination to pause and look at the
scenery around him, so full of charm to those who live among
it, so repellent at first to the stranger’s eye, which has not
been educated to notice the various tints and colours which
sweep over the soft rounded outlines of those purple downs,
but is at once caught by the grey hollows of the hills and the
patches of white chalk which peep out every here and there on
the steeps, and at a distance look like the perpetual snow of
Alpine regions. The scenery of the Sussex Downs is like the
Sussex people in this respect—it requires to be well known to
be thoroughly appreciated; cold and reserved at first, it is only
on better acquaintance you learn the sterling worth, the truth,
the real kindness of heart, and the hospitality which characterise
the Sussex people. And the downs themselves will
not yield all their beauty at once; you must live among them
to thoroughly know and love them; cold and grey and monotonous
as they look at first, in the autumn especially, you
will see what a variety of colours they can show when the
fields are golden with corn, and the downs themselves richly
dotted with wild flowers, and the clouds cast fleeting shadows
over the slopes, and the purple and green of
the nearer hills melt away into delicate blues
and rosy greys in the distance. And then in
winter the clouds play such tricks with the soft
rounded hills and their white chalk sides,
which chalk will reveal itself in all its nakedness
every here and there, that it is often easy
to imagine yourself in Switzerland, and difficult
exceedingly to tell where the downs end and the clouds
begin, so softly have they blended together, those grey clouds,
those white and purple downs. No, the downs are not
monotonous to those who look with careful eyes, at least,
though the casual observer may see nothing in them but
multitudes of sheep. Unique they may be, unlike the rest of
England they certainly are, but not monotonous. And then
the dales, with the villages nestling in the bottom, are so picturesque,
and the green pastures, separated by dykes, have a
homelike appearance, with the small black Sussex cattle with
their long white horns, at least to a Sussex eye.

Over some of these meadows the carpenter, with the little
French baby in his arms, now made his way. Hitherto he had
been lucky and had met no one, but now he was approaching
a village a few miles from Lewes, which, for the purposes of
this story, we will call Bournemer, and though the sun had
set, it was still too light for him to risk being recognised,
so he still kept to the fields, which he could the more easily
do, as the house he sought was nearly a mile from the village.
At last he saw it standing in the next field with a clump of
trees on one side of it; it was little more than a cottage,
though from the sheds adjoining it might have been taken for
a small farmhouse; it was sheltered from the north by the
down at the foot of which it lay, its red roof telling well
against the soft grey background in the evening light. It[Pg 45]
faced the field, the road at the foot of
the down running at the back of it, and
already there was a light in one of the
lower rooms; the front door was closed,
but the gate of the field was open,
details which the carpenter took in at a
glance, and interpreted to mean that the
shepherd was gone to fold his sheep for
the night, and his wife was at home
awaiting his return to supper.

“He will be back soon. I must be
quick; now is my time,” said the carpenter
to himself, making his way towards
the house by the clump of trees,
which afforded him a little shelter. Here
he paused for a few minutes, and, after
listening intently, put the baby on the
ground while he took off his shoes. Then,
picking it up, he crept quickly and
noiselessly across the path towards the
front door, on the step of which he laid
his burden, and then crept back to the
trees, where he put on his shoes, and
with the purse which Léon had given
him for the baby’s maintenance in his
pocket, he made his way back to the
boat on the beach, congratulating himself
on the success of his scheme. No
one, he argued, was any the worse for it,
while he was one thousand francs the
better. He had wronged no one, as the
baby was sure to be well taken care of.
John Shelley was certain to take it in,
and would probably think the Lord had
sent it to him, and, with a chuckle over
the shepherd’s simplicity, he went his
way.

The baby was asleep when he deposited
it on the doorstep, but it woke
shortly after, and began to cry lustily for
food, but the doors and windows being
all closed, its wailing did not penetrate
to the inside of the house. But before
the carpenter had been gone half an
hour footsteps approached the house,
and the shepherd and his dog entered
the gate of the field in which it stood.
A fine, big, handsome man looked this
shepherd as he paused to fasten the
gate; about thirty years old, fair, with a
florid complexion, blue eyes, and a long,
yellowish beard, a face more remarkable
for its kindly good humour than for its
intelligence. He was dressed in a long
smock, and he carried a crook, so that
there was no mistaking his occupation,
of which, by the way, he was very proud;
his father and his grandfather and their
fathers and grandfathers had been shepherds
before him for many generations,
and that he should ever be anything else
than a shepherd was the last idea likely
to enter John Shelley’s mind. A shepherd
by birth and education, he followed
his calling with an ardour which would
have amounted to passion in a warmer
temperament. His sheep were his first
thought on waking, his last as he closed
his eyes at night, and he understood
them and their ways thoroughly. The
life suited him exactly; it might be a
lonely life, wandering for hours on the
downs without meeting a living creature
day after day, except, perhaps, occasionally
a neighbouring shepherd, but he
was used to it. It might be an anxious
life, especially in lambing time, but he
was lucky, and rarely lost any lambs.
It might be a dangerous life sometimes
in the winter fogs, rambling about on
the hills with the risk of falling into a
chalk pit and breaking his neck, but he
was always too anxious about his sheep
when overtaken by a fog to think of his
own danger. Then the wages were
good, and the same all the year round,
with the chance of making some extra
money in the shearing season, and so
much a head on each lamb that he
reared; and to all intents and purposes
he was his own master, for the farmer
to whom the sheep belonged entrusted
the management of the flock entirely
to him.

But while the shepherd was fastening
the gate the dog ran to the baby, whose
cry had reached his quick ears before it
did his master’s, and having sniffed all
round it, he set up some short, quick
barks, and ran back to the shepherd,
calling his attention to the baby as
plainly as his inability to speak would
allow him.

“What is it, Rover? what is it?
Down, sir, it is only the baby crying;
the window must be open,” said the
shepherd, as he approached the house,
but Rover, as if to contradict his master,
ran up to the bundle on the doorstep,
and barked louder than ever.

John Shelley took longer to take in
the fact that an infant was lying crying
on his doorstep than his dog had done.
He stooped and looked, and took off
his hat to rub his head thoughtfully and
stimulate his brain that he might grasp
the idea, and then he stooped again,
and this time picked up the baby, and
throwing open the door of the large
kitchen, with its sanded floor of red
bricks, stood on the threshold, holding
out the wailing child, and saying—

“Look here, Polly,
see what I have
found on the doorstep.”

Mrs. Shelley, who
was sitting working,
with her foot on a
cradle which she
was rocking gently
to and fro, more
from habit, since
the baby was asleep,
than for any real
reason, looked up
and saw in her husband’s
arms a
bundle wrapped in
a red shawl embroidered
with gold.

“What is it,
John?” she asked;
but a cry from the
bundle answered the
question, and she
sprang to her husband’s
side in
astonishment.

She was a tall,
good-looking woman,
five or six
years younger than
the shepherd, with
brown hair and eyes,
and a rich colour in
her cheeks, which
came and went
when she was excited;
a bright intelligent
face, not beautiful, scarcely
handsome in repose, but which at times
was so animated that she often passed
for a very pretty woman.

“Give it to me. Oh, John! John!
where can it have come from? The dear
little creature! And see what lovely
things it has? Only look at this satin
quilt in which it is wrapped, and, see,
John, a toy of coral with gold bells!
My pretty one, hush! hush! hush!”
And Mrs. Shelley rocked the child in her
arms; but her astonishment and admiration
got the better of her motherly
instinct for a moment, and she proceeded
with her examination of its
clothes. “Its nightdress is the finest
cambric and trimmed with real lace, and
see this exquisite handkerchief tucked in
for a feeder; look! there is a coronet on
it, John. I verily believe the ‘Pharisees,’
as the children say, brought it. Do go
and see if there is a fairy ring in the
meadow, then I shall be sure they
did!”

Now, Sussex peasants—shepherds,
especially—were very superstitious in
the days in which this baby was found,
and both John Shelley and his wife half
believed that the fungus rings, so often
found on the downs, were made by the
fairies, or “Pharisees,” as they called
them. So, partly to see if he could
find any further clue to the child, partly
to look for the fungus ring, John Shelley
took a lantern and went out to explore
the premises.

As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Shelley,
who was an impulsive woman, gave the
little stranger the supper that by right
belonged to her own infant.

A VISIT FROM DAME HURSEY.

“My boy is stronger than this little[Pg 46]
fragile creature, and he must wait till I
have fed it,” she said to herself. “Poor
little mite, I don’t believe it has been
undressed for days, its beautiful dress is
so dirty. I shall have time to bathe it
and put it on some of Charlie’s clean
things before John comes in to his
supper.”

And as John was very slow and deliberate
in all his actions, and his wife very
quick in all hers, by the time he came
back the little stranger was washed and
dressed, and fed, and sleeping quietly in
the cradle, while Mrs. Shelley nursed
her own boy.

“Well, John, have you found any
fairy rings?”

“No, Polly; no, I can’t make it out
at all; it is very odd—very odd indeed.
I can’t think where the child came
from,” said John, shaking his head,
slowly. “I don’t believe the fairies
brought it, though,” he added, after a
pause.

“Who do you think did, then?”
asked Mrs. Shelley, quickly.

“I don’t know who brought it, but I
tell you what, Polly, I believe God sent
it and means us to take care of it.”

“Take care of it! Why, of course
we must, John. You don’t suppose I
dreamt of sending it to the workhouse,
do you? Little darling! Why, it is
the very thing we have been longing for,
a little girl; it shall be Charlie’s foster-sister.
All I hope is, whoever brought
it will let us keep it. I love it already!”

“But, Polly, it isn’t our child. We
must take care of it, of course, for to-night,
but you will have to go to Parson Leslie
to-morrow and ask him what we ought to
do to find out who it belongs to.”

“Indeed, and I shall do no such
thing,” said Mrs. Shelley, hastily.

But the shepherd was master in his
own home, and announced decidedly—

“Then I must go to-night, late as
it is.”

“And knock the parson up? It will
be eleven o’clock before you get there.
Sit down and get your supper, do, John,
and we can talk about consulting him
to-morrow.”

“That won’t do, Polly; either I must
go to the rector to-night or you must
promise to go to-morrow. Which is it
to be?”

“There never was such a pig-headed
man as you. If you set your mind on a
thing there is no turning you. I suppose
I shall have to go, or you’ll be rushing
off now, and I want my supper. One
thing I am sure of, John, and that is,
the baby belongs to rich people, and, I
think, to some nobleman, for all the
things have a coronet on them, and its
clothes are all so fine.”

“Is there no name on any of them?”

“No, nor anything to give us the
least idea who the child is. It has
evidently been accustomed to luxury,
though, and somehow I fancy it is a
foreign child. I never saw any baby’s
clothes made as these are,” said Mrs.
Shelley.

A foreign child was an idea John
Shelley could not accept so suddenly.
His slow phlegmatic mind could not
travel beyond his own country—scarcely
beyond the Sussex downs.

“More likely to be one of the quality’s
children. They don’t make their clothes
as we do, I expect; but if you show Mr.
Leslie that coronet he may be able to
make something of it.”

And so it was arranged that Mrs.
Shelley should go the next day and consult
the rector about their new-found
treasure; but she fully made up her
mind to use all the eloquence in her
power to persuade Mr. Leslie to convince
John it was plainly their duty to
keep the baby which had been so mysteriously
brought to them until its rightful
owners claimed it.

The next morning John Shelley was
up betimes, as, indeed, he always was;
but it was shearing time, and he was
unusually busy, and it was, moreover,
Saturday, and he hoped, with the help
of the men who went round the country
shearing in the month of June, to finish
his flock that evening, so taking his
breakfast and dinner with him, he told
Mrs. Shelley not to expect him back till
the evening. Across the dewy meadows
in the fresh June morning, the loveliest
part of the day, went John Shelley,
startling a skylark every now and then
from the ground, from whence it rose
carolling forth its matin song, gently at
first, but louder and louder as it sprang
higher and higher, until lost to sight,
its glorious song still audible, though
John Shelley was too much occupied
with his own thoughts, and, perhaps,
too much accustomed to the singing of
the lark, to pay much attention to it.
Even his dogs, Rover and Snap, failed
to wake him from his meditation, until
he reached the meadow where he had
folded his sheep for the night, and then
every thought, except whether the sheep
were all safe, vanished from his mind as
he stood counting them. A few words to
the dogs explained his wishes that the
shorn sheep were to be driven out and
the unshorn left in the fold for the present;
and then, after a great deal of
barking on the part of the dogs, and
shouting from the shepherd, and rushing
and scrambling on the part of the
sheep, their bells jingling a not unmusical
accompaniment to the thrushes
and blackbirds, which were pouring out
their morning song in the adjoining
copse, this manœuvre was effected, and
John led his shorn flock to the downs,
walking in front with his crook in his
hand, while the dogs brought up the rear,
yelping and barking at the heels of any
erring sheep that strayed outside the flock.

The shepherd was a man who concentrated
all his thoughts on the business
he had on hand, and as he led his sheep
to the down on which he meant to leave
them to the care of the dogs for the day,
he was making a nice calculation of how
long it would take him and his assistants
to finish the shearing, when, just
as he was about to leave the sheep, he
was accosted by an old woman. She
was tall, thin, with a slight stoop, a
hooked nose, bright black eyes, and
rough, crisp, grizzly hair, which gave her
rather a witch-like appearance; nor did
the bonnet perched on the top of her
head, its crown in the air, tend to dispel
this notion. She had a knotted stick
in one hand, and a basket with some
pieces of wool off the sheeps’ backs
which she had collected from the bushes
in the other. It was Dame Hursey, the
wool-gatherer, well known to John
Shelley and every other shepherd in the
neighbourhood, with all of whom she
often had a gossip, and celebrated in
the district as the mother of an unfortunate
son, a fine, promising young sailor,
who, having been convicted of robbery
some years ago, and served a long sentence
in Lewes gaol, had never been
heard of since, unless his mother was in
his confidence.

A great gossip was Dame Hursey;
she always knew all that went on in
the neighbourhood, for she led a wandering,
restless life, never at home
except at night, sticking and wool-gathering
in the autumn and winter,
haymaking and gleaning in the summer,
gossiping, whenever she had a
chance, at all seasons. If anyone were
likely to know anything about this
strange baby, always supposing the
fairies had had nothing to do with it,
it was Dame Hursey, and the shepherd,
being relieved of any further anxiety
about the sheep, walked with her and
told her the story.

John Shelley was neither a quick-witted
nor an observant man, except
with regard to the weather, every sign
of which he took in, or he would have
noticed that Dame Hursey started perceptibly
when he told her the time he
found the baby, and that a glance of
quick intelligence shot into her bright
eyes as she heard the story; but when
he had finished she gave it as her firm
opinion that the “Pharisees,” and no
one else, must have brought the child,
and she urged John on no account to
part with it, as there was no telling what
revenge the fairies might take if their
wishes were set aside. And the old
wool-gatherer proceeded to tell such
wonderful stories of the terrible vengeance
wrought by these mysterious
little beings on people who had despised
their gifts, that the shepherd was glad
to put an end to such unpleasant suggestions
by walking off at a rapid pace
to his unshorn sheep.

“It is strange, very strange, that I
should have met my George the very
same night, coming from Shelley’s place
too. He has had something to do with
this baby as sure as wool is wool. I’ll
go round by Mrs. Shelley’s and have a
look at this wonderful child; perhaps I
may find out something. I doubt it will
be a bad thing for George if he is found
out this time, if, as I suspect, he knows
a deal more about it than we do, and he
was up to no good last night or he would
not have made me swear not to say I
had seen him as he did. Well, the
child is safe enough with the Shelleys,
and I’ll do my best to frighten them into
keeping it,” muttered Dame Hursey to
herself, as she bent her steps towards
the shepherd’s house.

(To be continued.)[Pg 47]

VARIETIES.

“Excellent Heart.“

Take a good-sized, tender heart. Extract
all seeds of selfishness, and proceed to stuff as
follows:—

1 lb. crumbs of comfort.

1 quart milk of human kindness.

Several drops essence of goodness and happiness.

Good dripping from the eaves of Love’s dwelling.

Blend these well with a little of the oil of
Time to mellow and soften.

Place the heart on a warm hearth with
Love’s rays full upon it and some of the light
of other days. Move it now and then, but do
not probe it. Keep the world’s cold blasts
from it if possible, but do not allow it to be
absorbed in its own juices. It will take time
to prepare, but when ready is fit for king or
peasant and welcome at any table.

sauce for above.

Pint or more good spirits, a few honeyed
words; a little cream of society may improve,
but is not necessary. Carefully avoid cold
water, vinegar, or pepper, or acidity in any
form.

The above will keep for years.—S. L.

Contented.—If you can live free from
want, care for no more, for the rest is vanity.

The Storms of Adversity.—A smooth
sea never made a skilful mariner, neither do
uninterrupted prosperity and success qualify
anyone for usefulness and happiness. The
storms of adversity, like the storms of the
ocean, arouse the faculties and excite the intention,
prudence, skill and fortitude of the
voyager.

A Wise Mother.—The celebrated Orientalist,
Sir William Jones, when a mere child
was very inquisitive. His mother was a
woman of great intelligence, and he would
apply to her for the information which he
desired; but her constant reply was: “Read,
and you will know.” This gave him a passion
for books, which was one of the principal
means of making him what he was.

Twenty-four Notes in One Bow.—The
Daily Post of February 22nd, 1732,
contains a curious announcement with regard
to Castrucci, the violinist, namely, that he
would play a solo “in which he engages himself
to execute twenty-four notes in one bow.”
This piece of charlatanism, so misplaced in a
truly able musician, was excellently capped on
the following day by a nameless fiddler advertising
his intention to play twenty-five notes
in one bow.

A Cat Story.—There was a favourite
Tom cat owned by a family in Callander, in
Scotland, and it had on several occasions
shown more than ordinary sagacity. One day
Tom made off with a piece of beef, and the
servant followed him cautiously, with the
intention of catching him and administering a
little wholesome correction. To her amazement,
she saw the cat go into a corner of the
yard, in which she knew a rat-hole existed,
and lay the beef down by the side of it.
Leaving the beef there, puss hid himself a
short distance off and watched until a rat
made its appearance. Tom’s tail then began
to wag, and just as the rat was moving away
with the bait he sprang upon it and killed it.

Hearing with Difficulty.—”Dr.
Willis tells us,” says Burney, in his “History
of Music,” “of a lady who could hear only
while a drum was beating; insomuch that
her husband actually hired a drummer as a
servant in order to enjoy the pleasure of her
conversation.”

Courage.—Courage which grows from
constitution often forsakes people when they
have occasion for it; courage that arises from
a sense of duty acts in a uniform manner.

The Influence of Fortune.—Fortune,
good or ill, does not change men or women;
it but developes their character.

Weak Minds.—Two things indicate a
weak mind—to be silent when it is proper
to speak, and to speak when it is proper to
be silent.—Persian Proverb.

A Successful Wedding.—A New York
girl has just enjoyed the triumph of having the
biggest wedding given in that city for years.
She whispered around that the man she was
to marry had a red-haired wife somewhere,
who would be at hand to interrupt the ceremony.
The church was crowded.

Two Sides to Pleasure.—Pleasure is to
woman what the sun is to the flower; if
modestly enjoyed it beautifies, it refreshes and
improves; if immoderately, it withers and
destroys.—Colton.

The Ills of Life.—There are three
modes of bearing the ills of life: by indifference,
which is the most common; by
philosophy, which is the most ostentatious;
and by religion, which is the most effectual.

An Observation on Rogues.—After
long experience of the world, I affirm, before
God, I never knew a rogue who was not
unhappy.—Junius.

Answer To Double Acrostic (p. 30).

Lambert Simnel. Perkin Warbeck.

(a). His adage was “Amicus Plato, amicus Socrates,
magis tamen amica veritas.” From his custom of delivering
instruction whilst walking, his disciples were styled
“Peripatetics.”

(b). Familiarly pronounced “rosin.”

(c). Left-handed.

(d). Indicator Major, the great honeybird of South
Africa.

(e). See 1 Samuel, xviii.

(f). Lo(c)k.

Edited by CHARLES PETERS.

The Poems are written by the Author of “John Halifax
Gentleman,” Sarah Doudney, Helen Marion Burnside, F. E.
Weatherly, Annie Matheson, Anne Beale, Mrs. G. Linnæus Banks,
the Rev. W. Cowan, Sydney Grey, Edward Oxenford, Isabella
Fyvie Mayo, Clara Thwaites, Harriet L. Childe-Pemberton, the
Dowager Lady Barrow, and others.

Illustrated by Frank Dicksee, A.R.A., M. Ellen Edwards,
W. J. Hennessy, Davidson Knowles, John C. Staples, Robert
Barnes, Charles Green, Arthur Hopkins, William Small, Frank
Dadd, the late Cecil Lawson, and others.

“As A Crown of Flowers is carefully printed upon fine paper, full
value is given to the engravings, which is one of the features of the
magazine from which they are selected, and shows what a marked
advance has been made of recent years in the character of such illustrations,
which will, in the present instance, vie with anything of the
kind produced on this or the other side of the Atlantic.”—The Pictorial
World.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

E. A. T.—There is a School of Telegraphy in Moorgate-buildings,
at the back of Telegraph-street, E.C.
All candidates for free admission must have passed
an examination in handwriting and the first four rules
of arithmetic under the Civil Service Commissioners,
in Cannon-row, W.C., aged not under fourteen nor
over eighteen years. They must be gifted with
quickness of eye and ear and a delicate touch. In
three or four months they have acquired the art,
working four hours a day. They must be proficient
in the use of four instruments. The pupils in this
school are only intended for service in London.

Cedrica.—In reference to Gall’s or Mercator’s projection,
you may perceive that by doing away with
perspective you obtain the relative distances, as well
as the height of the mountains compared with the
general surface, without deducting through foreshortening.
You write fairly well, but too large to
be pretty.

Sine.—The auroræ are closely connected with the
earth’s magnetism, although their exact relationship
is unknown. The appearance takes place equally
round both magnetic poles. The most general
opinion seems to be that they are illuminations of the
lines of force which undoubtedly circulate round our
earth. At all events, the corona forms itself round
the magnetic poles, and its lines correspond to the
earth’s magnetic field. Displays of auroræ are almost
always accompanied by magnetic storms, which so
much affect our telegraph instruments, although the
latter may occur when there is no visible aurora. An
artificial aurora was produced by electrical means by
Professor Lindstroem, in 67° north latitude, which
was found to exhibit the spectrum of the true aurora.
You will find all information respecting the “Zodiacal
light” in “Guillemin on the Heavens.”

C. H. C.—No examinations are required for teachers
in high schools; but of course preference is always
given to those who have passed examinations, and
they obtain better salaries. The senior or the higher
Cambridge examinations for women would be the
best, and would ensure a good position.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Marie.—Your having given your parrot meat has
given her a taste for raw meat. Perhaps a chemist
could suggest a wash or powder to shake in under
the feathers, that would taste bitter and disagreeable
and yet prove harmless. Possibly your bird is
troubled with small vermin, which irritate the skin
and induce it to pick at the roots of the feathers.
Examine the skin and plumage. We have given a
long recipe for destroying the vermin in canaries.

Tum Yum.—You had better buy a little bottle of oil-gold
and paint your picture-frame with it. See our
article, “Lissom Hands and Pretty Feet.”

Erica Raeburn.—Your verses are not correctly
written, but the sentiments expressed are good.
When you make an adverb of the word “true” you
should drop the final “e.”

M. H. M.—Write or see a map-setter, such as Wyld,
or any other of those in or near Trafalgar-square and
Charing Cross. The ways and means of colouring
and disposing of your maps will be explained to you
by these people.

Peckham Rye.—The poet Wordsworth had an only
daughter, Dora, married to Mr. Quillinan. She was
burnt to death in 1847, and left two daughters. The
bishops are nephews of the poet.

Pharmaceutical.—The word “Pharmacon” can be
found in all Greek lexicons. It is probably of Oriental
extraction. It originally meant any medicine taken
internally or externally, and apparently its original
signification was good—or, at all events, not bad.
Then, secondly, it came, like the word “accident,”
to get a bad sense attached to it, and it was used
for a “poisonous drug,” from which is derived its
third and last sense, an “enchanted potion,” or
“enchantment.” In the New Testament the word
is translated “sorcery,” not “drugs.” See Rev.
xxii. 15.

Daffodil.—Pampas grass may be cleaned by putting
it into a large vessel of clean cold water, when after
some time all the dust and dirt will come out, and
it may be lightly shaken till dry. It may also be
bleached with chloride of lime.

Sunbeam.—Do not on any account do so dangerous a
thing as to put paraffin oil on your hair. Besides,
the very bad smell of the oil would be most offensive
to others if not to yourself.

Delia T. (Lausanne).—From your writing we conclude
that you are very young. If so, your verses
give some promise of better ones when older.[Pg 48]

Jackday.—It is suitable for every day. You write
very well. There is no “e” in truly.

Little Emily.—See “Girls’ Christian Names,” pages
39, 134, 235, 381, vol. iv.

Ocklawaka.—Certainly, it is quite improper to walk
about alone with a man to whom you are not
engaged. We know of no cure suitable for all alike
for sea-sickness. Lie down on deck, drink water
before being sick, and beware of starving. At the
same time, do not select pork nor a suet dumpling
just at first. In cases of very severe sickness,
swallowing small scraps of ice before and after a
spoonful of consommé or jelly is desirable, and an
icebag should be applied to the spine.

A Tring Girl should consult a doctor about the moles
if very unornamental.

Lady Jane Grey.—The “seven whistlers” are curlew,
or herringspear birds, thought to be storm-bringers
when heard overhead at sea. You will find
a story in Buckland’s “Curiosities of Natural
History” about them.

Annie Spike should write to the Religious Tract
Society, 56, Paternoster-row, E.C., for the tracts
she needs. The lines are not poetry—nothing but
badly-rhymed prose.

Harty.—Wills can be inspected at Somerset House,
in the Strand, W.C.

Une Petite Fleur.—No one could interfere with you
in keeping a private school, so far as we know.

Jamie’s Darling.—We thank you warmly for your
kind letter, and wish you much happiness in your
new life and position.

No Stone Unturned must send
her tale to a publisher; but we
do not think she will get much—probably
nothing; but, on the
contrary, will have to pay, for
a first attempt.

Asphodel.—The 29th of April,
1870, was a Friday. When a
man says he is “very much in
love” with the girl to whom he
is speaking, he means her to
give him some encouragement
to say more, and in a business-like,
practical way.

A Fearful One.—A polypus in
the nose has to be cut out, but
the patient must be under the
influence of chloroform. It is
more usually a man’s than a
woman’s disease. Your letters
should be rounder.

Une Demoiselle.—It is our ordinary
form of greeting to say
“How do you do?” It is an
idiomatic phrase, and does not
exact an answer as to the state
of your health any more than
the salutation “Good day.” If
anxious for information as to
how you are, more direct inquiries
will follow the salutation.
Only ignorant persons
reply to “How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you; how
are you?”

A. B.—The first and second
volumes of the G. O. P. are
entirely out of print, as also
are all the indexes, excepting
that for vol. vi. None of these
will be reprinted. We request
our readers to take note of what
we say, as it will save them
waste of time in writing for
them.

Ruby Kingsley.—We cannot
continue giving space for repeating
the story of the willow pattern.

Miss King, the Secretary of the
Society for Promoting the Employment
of Women, 22, Berners-street,
Oxford-street, W., writes:—In
the G.O.P. for September
there is an article (one of a
series) on wood engraving by
Mr. R. Taylor. I have read
the articles with great interest,
and I entirely agree with the
greater part of what Mr. Taylor
says. But he writes as if there
were no opening for girls in the
trade. I fully admit that only
a small number are at present
employed in it, but he writes
that he does not believe that
engraving can be effectually
taught in schools or classes, and
that he has not met with a
single individual who has attained
by this means skill
enough to earn a livelihood.
Now it is a fact that there are
12 or 14 girls employed at an
engraver’s in the City, who
have learnt engraving at the
City and Guilds of London Art
School, which was established
about six years ago, and some
of these girls are doing excellent
work and earning very good
wages. Engraving is an art
which requires persevering study
for four or five years at the
least, so that the school has not
yet been established for a sufficiently
long time to have trained
a large number of girls, but the
instruction given there is thoroughly
good, and if the girls will
persevere as long with it as they
would be obliged to do if they
were regularly apprenticed, I do not think
there is any fear but that
they will succeed in getting employment; but their
work must be good. If you will kindly look at page
9 of our Report, published in May last, you will see
an account of the school. There are vacancies now
in the school, particulars of which I shall be happy to
give to anyone who will call here between 11 and 5.
I shall be greatly obliged if you will mention this
school and its successful work in the next number of
the G.O.P., for I fear that Mr. Taylor’s statement is
calculated to injure it materially.

I am, dear sir,

Yours obediently,
Gertrude J. King, Sec.

A full account of the Kennington class was given in
the G.O.P., January, 1884, page 180, in the article
on Art in the series of “Work for All.”