Chatterbox, 1905.
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Title: Chatterbox, 1905.
Author: Various
Release date: December 15, 2006 [eBook #20117]
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Language: English
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CHATTERBOX
[Illustration: Chatterbox]
Founded by J. Erskine Clarke, M.A.
Boston: Dana Estes & Company, 212 Summer Street.
Copyright, 1878, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1879, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1880, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1881, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1882, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1883, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1884, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1885, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1886, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1887, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1888, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1889, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1890, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1891, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1892, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1893, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1894, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1895, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1896, by ESTES & LAURIAT. Copyright, 1897, by ESTES & LAURIAT.
Copyright, 1898, by DANA ESTES & CO. Copyright, 1899, by DANA ESTES & CO.
Copyright, 1900, by DANA ESTES & CO. Copyright, 1901, by DANA ESTES & CO.
Copyright, 1902, by DANA ESTES & CO. Copyright, 1903, by DANA ESTES & CO.
Copyright, 1904, by DANA ESTES & CO. Copyright, 1905, by DANA ESTES & CO.
Presswork by
Colonial Press: C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, U.S.A.
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
1905.
Page
A Boy's Heroism 179
A Coat of Paint 319
Advice that Saved a King's Life 279
A Fair-sized Field 358
Affectionate Eagles 71
Afloat on the Dogger Bank 188, 198, 202, 214, 218, 226, 238, 242,
253, 258, 266, 277, 285, 291, 300, 308,
317, 324, 334, 342, 346, 354, 366, 374,
378, 386, 398, 402, 410
A Hundred Years Ago 15, 34, 142, 163, 210, 322, 382
A Kindly Visit 3
A Lesson in Steering 127
All Prime Ministers 243
A Monkey's Memory 11
A Mother Rabbit's Courage 122
A Motor-car of the Past 331
Anecdotes 98, 130, 167, 195, 230, 262, 290, 339,
371, 394
Animal Makeshifts 220, 251, 275, 340, 371, 397
An Impression of Zanzibar 391
An Indian Custom 22
An Ocean Policeman 19
An Old-fashioned Grace 109
A Novel Rain Protector 58
A Queer Address on a Post-card 390
A Peep at Northern Italy 247
A Sparrow's Coolness 183
A Story of Stanley 87
A Stroll amongst Ferns 358
A Strong Motive 299
A Timely Rescue 259
Chased by Seagulls 63
Clever Billy 323
Cruisers in the Clouds 2, 62, 98, 154, 190, 223, 250, 266, 298,
346, 370, 395
Cuban Lizards 119
Curious Names in London City 110
Diamonds 299
Doctor Abernethy's Advice 263
Earning an Honest Penny 110
Eastern Jugglers 197
Encounters with Lions 311
Encouragement 133
Ethel's Orange-plant 339
Faith and Sight 211
Freed in Vain 3
Frost-bitten in the Red Sea 187
Generosity 251
Gemmal Rings 315
George II. at Dettingen 38
'Ginger for Pluck' 114
Heroes and Heroines of Famous Books 38, 42, 166, 171, 274, 351, 354
He set the Example 246
His First Wolf Hunt 390, 406
How Hetais Wore his Medal 359
Indian Wireless Telegraphy 395
Insect Ways and Means 29, 43, 77, 109, 149, 179, 211, 237,
261, 283, 307, 357, 364, 387
In the Snow 373
Japanese Plums 146
Jim's Shower-bath 227
Life in Bohemia 282
Magic Rods 122
May Day 143
McLeod of Clere 66, 78, 82, 90
Mice on a Submarine 279
Nature's Noblemen 158
Never Caught It 270
Never draw a Sword except in a Cause that is Just and Right 170
Nicolo in Vienna 411
No Hurry 155
Nothing is Perfect 18
Not the same Thing 146
Old Conduits 323
One Good Turn deserves Another 306
One More Chance 295
One was Missing 287
Outwitting Himself 255
Philip Wood and Sir Christopher Wren 314
Pussy's Playmate 287
Puzzlers for Wise Heads 30, 58, 98, 130, 167, 195, 230, 263,
290, 339, 371, 395
Rat-skins 270
Ready! 283
Regiments in the City 350
Rice-paper 203
Rudel and Lisbeth 150
Saved by the Enemy 51
Saved by Twenty Guineas 47
Served her Right 207
Smithfield Tournaments 170
Spy or Guide? 394
Steeple-climbers 74
Strange Children 290
The Admiral and the Fisherman 50
The Best Beginning 98
The Best Lesson 11
The Black Leopard 234
The Black Swan 364
The Boy Tramp 6, 12, 22, 26, 34, 44, 54, 58, 69, 74, 85,
94, 102, 106, 117, 125, 134, 138, 146,
158, 162, 173, 181, 187, 194
The Captain and the Invalid 66
The Captain's Cigar 90
The Captain's Turn First 47
The Cashmere Stag 231
The Castle Light 10
The Chinese Laundryman 382
The Cow-tree 307
The Cypher Telegram 123, 130
The Duke and the Traveller 167
The Duke of Wellington's Head Gardener 219
The Eagle's Nest 349
The Elephant and the Crocodile 78
The Feast of Cherries 175
The Flower-girl 207
The Frog and the Geese 22
The Gate-keeper of Rambouillet 231
The Generous Bakers 71
The Girl who Did Not Run Away 130
The Great Northern Diver 133
The Hidden Room 327, 330, 338
The Indian Chief and the Bishop 11
The Intruding Squirrel 186
The Jumping Mouse 299
The Legend of Helfenstein 63
The Lime or Linden 98
The Little Bush-boy 155
The Man with the Glasses 213
The Mysterious Chest 30
The Old Clock 271
The Parks of London 205, 245, 270
The Pitcher-plant 221
The Poet Crabbe's First School 234
The Potato 263
The Puff-adder 90
The Reason Why 107
The Sago-tree 210
The Story of Slate 186
The Teal 53
The Teeth of Hyenas 231
The Wreck of the _Hope_ 391
Torn to Rags 178
Toys from the Streets 379, 389, 403
Twenty Pounds Reward 362
Two Medals 219
Two Ways of Reading a Sentence 150
Ulrich's Opportunity 234
Whalebone 50
What Katie Heard 303
White Negroes 178
Without a Hen to Buy Stamps 143
Wonderful Caverns 18, 51, 83, 115, 139, 195, 229, 294,
315, 332, 363
POETRY.
Page
A Busy World 382
Against Odds 406
Bouquets 66
Discontent brings Dulness 157
Don't Begin 244
Fairy Song 350
Good-bye to the Last Fire 163
Good-night, Good-day! 50
Growing Up 115
How Tom Dresses 282
Invitations 148
Jack's Wish 259
My Friend 38
My Garden Concert 63
My Picture-book 234
One and One make Two 222
Our Puss 122
Sad Company in the Nursery 299
Take Care of the Days 47
The Bat and the Ball 142
The Contented Pansy 358
The Father of All 279
The Fox's Serenade 306
The Friendly Light 29
The Great Picture-book 186
The Jealous Kittens 101
The Lover-doll 390
The Naughty Kittens 11
The Pioneers 170
The Promise of the Storm 394
The Rabbit and the Hare 331
The Slate's Story 371
The Song of the Broom 294
The Startled Hares 92
The Trumpet and the Drum 227
The Two Dolls 315
The Way to Win 3
The Weather Sprites 195
Too Clever 178
Too Tempting to be Lost 204
Travellers' Tales 134
Waiting 22
Welcome to the First Fire 323
What am I? 214
What Insects Love 342
Why the Sea Sobs 363
Willie's Sum 251
ILLUSTRATIONS.
COLOURED PLATES.
"Why Should We Wait Till To-morrow?" _Frontispiece_
Home for the Holidays, facing p. 64
On a Voyage of Discovery, facing p. 128
All Hands to the Pump, facing p. 192
Crossing the Brook, facing p. 256
Good News of the Boy, facing p. 320
Page
A Cliff-dwelling of North America 229
A Corner of Hyde Park 205
A Countryman's Well-deserved Rebuke 17
Afloat on the Dogger Bank (Illustrations to), 189, 200, 201, 216, 217,
225, 240, 241, 253, 257,
268, 277, 285, 292, 301,
309, 317, 325, 336, 344,
348, 356, 368, 376, 377,
385, 400, 401, 409
'After all, I will wait' 93
'A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive' 64
'A horseman galloped to the spot in the hope of
finding them still alive' 153
A Monkey's Memory 12
Andrée's Departure for the North Pole 297
An Eastern Snake Charmer 197
Animal Makeshifts (Illustrations to), 220, 221, 252, 276, 341, 372, 397
An Ocean Policeman 20
An Old-fashioned Motor-car 332
A Peep at Northern Italy 248
A Picture Puzzle 28
A Scene in Clissold Park 245
A Scene in Regent's Park 269
'As we cleared the water we could hear the wolves close behind' 403
'Billy allowed the letter to be taken' 324
'"Boh! Boh!" the clear voice shouted' 81
Chinese Laundrymen 381
Cliff-dwelling, New Mexico, and Cave-pottery 333
Cuban Lizards 120
'Daisy soon grew clever at keeping the head to the wind' 128
East Front of the Rock Temple of Elephanta 140
Entrance to the Grotto of La Balme 316
'Fight against my country! Not for the ransom of a king!' 49
Fingal's Cave, Staffa 52
Hans Christian Andersen 164
'He could hardly find words to welcome them' 5
'He deliberately lighted a cigar with a scrap of the burning rope' 89
'He hit out with all his force' 349
'He loaded the children with cherry branches' 176
'He looked wistfully at the pair of crutches' 124
'He ran towards the bull and opened his umbrella quickly' 260
'He saw an old man, who seemed to be very weary' 353
'He started, and let the lancet fall' 280
'He steered his balloon round the Eiffel Tower' 369
'He told his son he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors' 40
'His grandfather lay gagged and bound on the floor' 9
'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?' 165
'How it tasted--well, I've never heard' 204
'How would you like to earn twenty pounds reward?' 361
'I am afraid I have no berth here for you, my lad' 305
'I am worth something when I can call that brave boy my son' 152
'I cannot bear to sit out here' 21
'I don't know what to do' 157
'If you hang him, you shall hang me too' 169
'I got these easily from the cellar' 329
Insect Ways and Means (Illustrations to), 29, 44, 77, 109, 149, 180,
212, 237, 261, 284, 308,
357, 364, 388
'I saw it first--'tis mine--let go!' 244
'It hopped into the space between the rails' 184
'It is a terrible thing, is a wreck on this coast' 392
'It is good! very good' 313
'It rose at once to the ceiling' 1
'It was fortunate that we put them off the scent' 132
'"I will add this too, lady," said the pedlar' 337
'I will take care of Boh' 80
'Jack worked with a will' 320
'Jim got a terrible drenching' 228
'Just as Lord Massereene was leaving the prison, he was arrested' 209
'Katie stood on the doorstep' 304
'Live on sixpence a day--and earn it' 264
'Look out, father, they are going to shoot you' 118
'Maung and his young companion came to what they sought at last' 68
'May turned away, feeling ashamed and miserable' 340
'M. Charles stepped into the blue and golden car' 100
'My master wishes to speak with you' 352
Nicolo and the Krampus 412
'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers' 112
October 21st, 1805 321
'One bolder than the rest stabbed it with a pitchfork' 61
'One pig went squealing down the road' 177
'Paralysed with fear, he clung to the bough' 4
'Please do not shoot me' 393
'See what my speckled hen has hatched' 328
'Seven miles high!' 265
'Shame on you all, to hit a helpless man' 16
'She could hardly stand still while Alice tied the ribbon on' 114
'She managed to drag her on shore' 129
'She was just high enough, and could light the lamps' 41
The Best Beginning 97
The Black Leopard 233
The Black Swan of Australia 365
'The bottle stood in the air as though hanging there' 396
The Boy Tramp (Illustrations to), 8, 13, 24, 25, 36, 45, 56, 60,
69, 76, 85, 96, 104, 105, 117,
125, 136, 137, 148, 160, 161,
173, 181, 193
'The cat washed the jackdaw in its turn' 289
'The commanding officer advanced towards the bier' 360
The Death of a Deserter 33
The Deerslayer in the hands of the Indians 172
'The driver heard them, and reversed his engine' 224
'The dog hailed his master as he passed' 345
'The eagle seized its wounded mate with its beak and claws' 72
'The empty branch bore a label' 145
The First Post-office in the Sky 192
The Giant's Hall, Luray 293
'The grateful mother handed the doctor a handsome pocket-book' 256
The Grottoes of Han in the Ardennes 116
The Great-Northern Diver 133
'The horse nearly carried the King into the French lines' 37
The Jealous Kittens 101
The Jumping Mouse 300
'The little bush-boy appeared' 156
The Mammoth Cave, Kentucky 84
The Man with the Glasses 218
'The men set to work to load their muskets' 272
'The other passengers thought him mad' 57
'The peacock took all her play in good part' 288
'The rabbit bit the stoat in the most infuriated manner' 121
The Rock Temple of Kailus at Ellora 196
'The sailor-pupil climbed into the car' 249
'The second lion seized him' 312
The Simplon Pass 141
'The soldiers forgot the prisoner, and scrambled for the money' 48
'The stag stayed by his mate's body' 232
The Teal 53
'The two were soon locked in fight' 384
'The women of Bohemia act as bricklayers labourers' 281
'The woodpecker fled in fear' 185
'They burnt the Shakespeare, breaking the spell' 88
'They came hopping in, Paul an easy first' 92
'They stumbled along, supporting the stranger as best they could' 373
''Tis the very man!' 273
Toys from the Streets (Illustrations to), 380, 389, 404
'We charged at the midst of the foe' 405
'We will see where this rat came from' 32
'What is it?--a fire? Speak, boy!' 236
'Who'll buy?' 208
'Wootton stood quite upright on the pinnacle of the steeple' 73
'Would you take a message of importance for me?' 168
'Your Majesty is certainly wrong' 108
'"You shall go," said the captain, "if I lose every passenger"' 65
'You young rascal' 296
Chatterbox.
[Illustration: "It rose at once to the ceiling."]
CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.
I.--THE TWO BROTHERS OF ANNONAY AND THEIR PAPER BALLOON.
In the chimney corner of a cottage in Avignon, a man sat one day
watching the smoke as it rose in changing clouds from the smouldering
embers to the sooty cavern above, and if those who did not know him had
supposed from his attitude that he was a most idle person, they would
have been very far from the truth.
It was in the days when the combined fleets of Europe were thundering
with cannon on the rocky walls of Gibraltar, in the hope of driving the
English out, and, the long effort having proved in vain, Joseph
Montgolfier, of whom we have spoken, fell to wondering, as he sat by the
fire, how the great task could be accomplished.
'If the soldiers and sailors could only fly,' he thought, 'there would
be no difficulty.' He looked at a picture of the Rock lying on the table
beside him, and saw many places on its summit very suitable for such
flying foes to settle on. 'But, ah! who could give them wings?' He
turned to the fireplace, and his eyes fell once more on the column of
smoke, silently, silently rising; and yet not so silently as the world
might think, for though he had not yet quite understood its meaning,
Joseph Montgolfier had been striving for some time past to learn the
lesson which he felt sure it was to teach him at last. And to-day the
secret came out. Thoughts so active as his did not take long to get from
Gibraltar back to the smoke, and they had not been there many minutes
when Montgolfier jumped from his seat, and, throwing open the door of
the room, called to his landlady. A great idea had occurred to him, and,
to carry it out, he required some light, silky material, called taffeta.
This the good landlady quickly supplied, and when she entered the room
some time later, she found her lodger holding the taffeta, which he had
formed into a bag, over the fire. As the smoke filled it, it certainly
showed an inclination to rise, but once out of reach of the warmest glow
it toppled over and collapsed on the floor.
The landlady watched the experiments for some time in silence. Then,
with a little laugh, she said, 'Ah, M. Montgolfier, why do you not tie
the fire to the bag?'
The great inventor had not thought of that; but he did not require to be
told twice, and obtaining a little bunch of some inflammable material,
he tied it under his bag and set it on fire. The smoke and heat inflated
the tiny balloon, and it rose at once to the ceiling. A few minutes
later the inventor called for pen and ink, and wrote the following
letter:
'Prepare without delay a supply of taffeta and cordage, and you shall
see one of the most astonishing things in the world.'
This hasty note was addressed to M. Stephen Montgolfier at Annonay, near
Lyons, and never was a request made that was more likely to be carefully
and promptly granted. Stephen Montgolfier, like his brother, had busy
thoughts concerning means for rising in the air, and when Joseph
returned from Avignon, they set to work with stronger hope of realising
their dreams. As they were the largest and best paper-makers in Annonay,
they did not lack material for carrying on experiments, and when these
experiments had repeatedly resulted in success, they decided that the
rest of the world should be admitted into their secret. A large balloon,
made of paper and taffeta, should be inflated in the public square, and
be allowed to rise before the eyes of any who might gather there to see
it. And they carried out this determination on June 5th, 1783. On that
day there assembled at Annonay a number of local celebrities, and no
better opportunity could have been chosen.
In the public square a large circular space was railed off to keep the
crowd at a proper distance, and in the centre of this space rose a
wooden platform to accommodate the new cloud-ship and the fire which was
to fill it with the power of flight. Never had the brothers Montgolfier
had a busier morning; never had the good people of Annonay seen such
excitement in their quiet village. The crowd had gathered from far and
near, and watched the busy workers round the mysterious platform with
widely different thoughts. Some were silent with expectation, some
jeered noisily; but, unconscious of praise or laughter, the two brothers
directed their little band of workmen, confident of coming triumph.
At last the specially invited guests had all arrived, and when they were
accommodated with seats, one of the brothers made a little speech of
explanation, ending with the remark that he would apply a torch to the
heap of chopped straw and wool beneath the platform. The smoke arising
from these different kinds of fuel formed, when combined, he said, the
most suitable gas for raising a substance into the air. These diligent
brothers, however, had only partly learned the truth as yet, or they
would have known that it was the _heat_, and not the _smoke_, which
lifted the paper bag.
The torch was put to the straw, the yellow flames leapt up, and the
smoke, passing through a hole in the platform, entered the open end of
the globe-shaped bag, which up to the present had, of course, been lying
flat and empty. Instantly a paper dome seemed to rise from the platform.
This continued to grow in size, while the workmen stood round in a ring,
each holding a rope which passed to the top of the dome. The ropes grew
longer and longer as the balloon filled, and it soon became hard work to
hold them. But on no account were the men to let go until the word was
given.
When at last the paper walls were extended to their uttermost size, the
wondering spectators saw a huge ball of some one hundred and ten feet in
circumference, swaying uneasily to and fro with every breath of air, as
though straining at its fetters. At last came the word. The ropes were
released, and the great body rose rapidly into the air, followed by a
thunder of applause. With straining eyes the crowd followed that
wondrous flight. Higher and higher, nearer and nearer to the clouds,
till what a few moments before was so very imposing in size seemed no
bigger than a child's plaything. Then, caught in a current of air, it
drifted out of sight for ever.
Such was the launching of the first ship in the new navigation of the
clouds. On the place from which it started a handsome monument has been
erected, bearing the names of the two builders--Joseph and Stephen
Montgolfier--the brothers who always worked together, sharing equally
the fame that their discovery brought, and never selfishly seeking for
self-advancement. Recent searchings seem to show that the principal
honour is due to Joseph, the elder, and, if one of the many stories told
in detail (and repeated at the beginning of this article) may be relied
upon, surely we ought to also remember with some praise the unknown
woman who let lodgings in Avignon.
JOHN LEA.
THE WAY TO WIN.
'I wish I could win one!' a lassie was sighing,
When sitting quite still in a meadow one day,
And thinking of prizes not won without trying--
Not won by mere wishing as time slips away.
And as she sat wishing she heard a hen clucking;
She lifted her eyes and that hen she could see,
And soon it was rapidly scratching and chucking--
As gay and as busy and glad as could be.
She watched how it struggled to upturn a treasure,
A thing it was wishing for, something to eat,
A worm to be dug for with patience and pleasure!
'Twas found, and it gave Henny-Penny a treat!
That worm the hen wished for she could not have eaten
Unless she had scratched it right up from the ground;
And Mabel had seen that the hen was not beaten--
By carefully _working_ the prize had been found.
So Mabel thought quietly over the matter,
And learnt the good lesson, 'No prize can be won
By thinking and wishing, by waiting and chatter!'
And soon she jumped up and to work she begun.
D. H.
FREED IN VAIN.
Prince, the parrot, was a proud and happy bird; he was proud of his
gorgeous red and green feathers, of his ability to say 'Pretty Poll' and
'How do?' and, above all, of his fine gilded cage, which stood just
inside the breakfast-room window.
But, in an evil hour, Prince, watching the birds which flew to and fro
outside the glass, was struck with a desire for freedom. He thought no
more of his splendid feathers, or his handsome cage; but, from morning
till night, he wondered how he should get out. There was not wit enough
in his parrot brain to make him understand that the cold English garden
was not in the least like the flowery forest of his native island.
His chance came one snowy morning; the French window had been opened,
after breakfast, that some one might go out and scatter crumbs for the
robins. The cage-door happened to be open too. Unobserved, Prince darted
swiftly out, and perched amid the leafless boughs of one of the high
trees on the lawn.
He was free! but, oh, how cold it was! How wretched he was already
beginning to feel! He crouched shivering on a bough; and when the snow
began to fall again in large, wet flakes, he was more miserable than he
had ever been in all his petted life.
Paralysed with cold and fear, he clung to the tree, too unhappy even to
cry out and let people know where he was.
[Illustration: "Paralysed with fear, he clung to the bough."]
Poor Prince! he must soon have died if some one had not noticed the
empty cage. The alarm was given at once, but it was some time before the
bird was seen on his lofty perch.
When they did see him, and everybody called and coaxed 'Poor Prince!
dear Prince!' to come down, he was too stupefied with cold and misery to
do as he was told.
At last Tom, the page-boy, volunteered to climb the tree and try to
reach Prince. It was rather a dangerous task, as the bark was slippery
from the frost and snow; but Tom persevered, and, by dint of much
effort, got hold of the parrot.
Prince was restored to his cage, but he had caught a bad cold, and never
again held up his head as jauntily, or seemed as proud of himself, as he
had done in former days.
C. J. BLAKE.
A KINDLY VISIT.
Willie Mortimer was a cripple, but he did not often complain of his lot,
nor, as a rule, did he feel very unhappy about it. His love for drawing
and painting was such a resource to him, that when he could hobble on
his crutches down to the shore, he was never tired of watching the sea
and the boats, and of trying to make sketches which he could work up
into pictures at home, as he sat in the window of the little cottage.
But it was a year since the accident which had made the amputation of
his leg a necessity, and for the first time Willie's cheerfulness was
beginning to forsake him. He could not help noticing how worn and
anxious his mother looked, and he knew how hard it was for her to earn
enough money, by her plain sewing, to keep up the little house. Until
the previous summer she had let lodgings, but she could not manage it
when she was nursing Willie, and waiting on him after he left the
hospital, and this year no people had applied for her rooms yet.
One of her former lodgers had been an artist, and it was he who, being
struck with Willie's talent, had given him instruction, and taught him
all he knew about art. But the boy was now thirsting for more knowledge.
If only he could be trained to be an artist! That was his dream, and
often he would sit at his little window, looking over the blue waters
of the bay, while his eyes would fill with tears as he thought how
impossible it was for a little ignorant boy to paint pictures which
would have any beauty.
His pathetic face attracted Dora and Elsie Vaughan as they passed the
cottage every day. They were having a perfectly lovely time in this
Devonshire village, where their father had taken a house for the summer
holidays. Mr. Vaughan was a celebrated artist, and Willie would watch
him eagerly as he passed with his canvas and sketching materials, and
would long for a sight of the pictures which would soon be so famous.
'That poor little cripple boy does look sad,' Dora said to her sister.
'I think we ought to go and visit him and take him some flowers.'
'But he is not always a prisoner,' Elsie answered. 'I see him on the
beach sometimes with his crutches, and he is often trying to sketch
boats and things.'
[Illustration: "He could hardly find words to welcome them."]
'Anyway it must be dull for him, and we might cheer him up a little,'
Dora persisted.
'It is rather tiresome, though, when there are such heaps of lovely
things to do, and the holidays do fly so quickly,' Elsie argued, for she
was not as unselfish as her sister, and did not much care to give up her
own pleasure.
However, Dora had her way, for Elsie knew from former experience that if
she were really set on a thing, it saved trouble to give in at once and
make the best of it. She even found a box of chocolates not quite
empty, and with the sweets that were left, and some of Dora's, was able
to fill a smaller box. Then they begged some cakes from the cook, and
hunted up a couple of story-books from the number they had brought with
them, and in the end had quite a well-filled basket for Elsie to carry.
Dora picked a bunch of roses and then they set out for the cottage.
When they arrived Willie was sitting before his easel, looking sadly at
his latest attempt at a picture, and thinking how poor it was compared
with the scene his imagination painted. He was so shy and so much
overcome by the honour of their visit that he could hardly find words to
welcome them, but the girls' exclamations of delight when they saw his
picture soon set him at ease.
'How lovely!' Dora cried. 'Did you really paint it yourself?'
'I have watched you sketching on the beach, but I never thought you were
so clever,' Elsie told him, and Willie blushed with pleasure at their
praise.
Then he opened the box on which his painting materials stood, and showed
them all the pictures and sketches he had done in the past year.
'You see, Miss,' he said to Dora, 'now I cannot get about much, it
passes the time; but I do wish I had somebody to tell me all the faults
in them, and help me to do better.'
'We must bring Father to see them; he will not be backward about
pointing out faults,' said Elsie, laughing, 'though I cannot find any
myself.'
'But Mr. Vaughan is such a great artist, he would never look at my poor
little pictures,' Willie said, flushing at the very thought.
'He may be a great artist, but he is a very kind father,' Elsie told
him, 'and he nearly always does what we ask him.'
Certainly he did not disappoint his daughters this time. Moreover, he
was amazed at the progress the boy had made with so little help, and saw
that he was worth training.
'Your son has great natural talent,' he said to Willie's mother. 'I am
even inclined to think he may be a genius. You must allow me to make it
easy for him to be trained in the best schools.'
And so poor crippled Willie, instead of being a burden to his mother,
became her pride and joy, beginning a career which was one day to make
him even more famous than the artist who had given him a helping hand.
M. H.
THE BOY TRAMP.
CHAPTER I.
The first time I saw Captain Knowlton, we were living in lodgings at
Acacia Road, Saint John's Wood. My Aunt Marion had breakfasted in bed,
and I, having nothing better to do, wandered downstairs to what our
landlady called the 'hall,' where I stood watching Jane as she dipped a
piece of flannel into her pail, and smacked it down noisily on to the
oilcloth, until there was a loud ringing of the street-door bell.
As Jane rose from her knees, rubbing her red hands on her apron, I edged
along the passage, keeping touch of the wall, and staring unabashed at
the tall, well-dressed, distinguished-looking visitor.
'Does Miss Everard live here?' he inquired.
'Yes, sir,' answered Jane.
'I should like to see her.'
'Master Jack!' cried Jane, 'do you know if your aunt has come down yet?'
But as I was on the point of running upstairs to find out, the visitor
called me back.
'Half a second,' he said. 'Are you young Everard?'
'Yes,' I replied; and fixing an eyeglass in his left eye, he looked at
me with considerable curiosity.
'Tell your aunt,' he continued, 'that Captain Knowlton wishes to see
her.'
And upon that I ran off, shouting, 'Aunt Marion! Aunt Marion!' at the
top of my voice. 'Aunt Marion,' I repeated, entering the sitting-room,
'Captain Knowlton is downstairs, and he wants to speak to you.'
'Captain Knowlton!' she murmured.
'Shall I bring him up?' I asked.
Rising from the sofa, and laying down the newspaper which she had been
reading, Aunt Marion walked towards the door. She must have been near
her thirty-fifth year at that time, about the same age as our visitor.
She was tall, fair, and nice-looking, good-tempered, and perhaps a
little careless. That morning she was wearing a light blue
dressing-gown, although it was past eleven o'clock.
'Yes, bring Captain Knowlton up,' she answered, 'and ask him to wait a
few minutes.'
As she went to the bedroom, I returned to the street door, where Captain
Knowlton stood gazing at Jane as she continued to smack the oilcloth
with her wet flannel.
'You are to come upstairs,' I cried, and following me to the
sitting-room, he sat down and began to stare afresh.
'So you are poor Frank Everard's boy!' he said.
'Did you know my father?' I demanded, for I had no recollection of
either parent, or of any relative with the exception of Aunt Marion,
under whose charge I had moved about from lodging-house to lodging-house
since I was four years of age.
'Well,' said Captain Knowlton, 'if I had not known him, I should not be
here to-day.'
He became silent for a few moments, and then added, as he took my hand
and drew me against his knee, 'Your father once saved my life, Jack. How
old are you?' he asked.
'Eleven next month,' I replied, and, somewhat to my disappointment, Aunt
Marion entered the room as I spoke, wearing the dress in which she went
to church on Sundays.
'I have often heard of you, Captain Knowlton,' she said, as he rose from
his chair, 'although I have never seen you before.'
'Oh, well,' he answered, 'I have been in India the last five years! I
came home last week, and from a few words I heard at the club, I
gathered that poor Frank Everard's boy----'
Aunt Marion's cheeks flushed, and she held her head a little further
back.
'I have done the best I could for him,' she exclaimed.
'I am certain of that,' he continued; 'but, anyhow, I made inquiries,
and, after some difficulty, succeeded in discovering your address.
Perhaps,' he added, glancing in my direction, 'you would not mind
sparing me a few minutes alone.'
To my great disgust, she told me to run away, so that I returned to the
damp passage, which was now deserted by Jane. After waiting there what
seemed a long time, I saw Captain Knowlton on the stairs. After bidding
me good-bye, he let himself out of the house.
'Aunt Marion!' I cried, before there was time to reach the sitting-room,
'he says that Father saved his life!'
'Well, Jack, he said what was quite true.'
'But,' I continued, 'why did Captain Knowlton call father "poor Frank
Everard?" Was he really poor?'
Aunt Marion sighed before she answered.
'Goodness knows, he ought not to have been,' she said. 'Your father had
a lot of money when he came of age, but he was foolish enough to spend
it all, and the consequence was that nothing remained for your mother,
or for you when she died.'
'Hasn't Captain Knowlton any money either?' I asked.
'He has lately come into a large fortune,' she said; and then she told
me that he had promised to come again at the same hour to-morrow
morning, and take me out with him.
Captain Knowlton seemed so satisfactory in every way that the mere
prospect of walking in the street by his side was enticing. I lay awake
that night a long time, wondering where he would take me.
When I awoke the next morning, Aunt Marion said I was to put on my best
clothes (which were nothing to boast of), and insisted on washing me
herself, putting a quantity of soap into my eyes, oiling my hair, and,
in short, doing her best in readiness for Captain Knowlton's arrival.
'Well, Jack, are you ready?' he asked, as he entered our room.
'Rather!' I answered.
'Have you got a handkerchief?' said Aunt Marion, and I drew it from my
jacket as proof.
'Come along, then,' cried Captain Knowlton, and I rejoiced to see that
he had kept his hansom at the door.
The first stoppage on that eventful morning was at the hair-dresser's,
where I sat in a high chair, enveloped in a loose cotton wrapper, while
Captain Knowlton smoked a cigarette and a man cut my hair, after which
we went to a tailor's, where I was measured for two suits of clothes.
Having visited a hatter's and a hosier's in turn, we entered a large
restaurant, sitting down one on each side of a small table, Captain
Knowlton leaning across it and reading the bill of fare aloud for my
benefit.
'I think I will have roast turkey,' I said, after prolonged consideration,
and I accordingly had it, with the accompaniment of sausage and bread
sauce, to say nothing of the sweets and the ice which followed. But
even what Captain Knowlton described as luncheon, and what I regarded as
a kind of king of dinners, was eclipsed by what came afterwards, for we
were driven to a theatre, where a comic opera was being played; and at
seven o'clock that evening a very tired and sleepy boy, with his right
hand tightly clenched on a half-sovereign in his jacket pocket, was
deposited on the steps of the house in Acacia Road.
During the next few weeks Captain Knowlton was a frequent visitor,
while, for my own part, I wished that he would come every day. One
afternoon he arrived in the rain and stayed to tea.
'Now, Jack,' he said, setting down his empty cup, 'I should like to hear
you read.'
But as I was bringing one of our small collection of books from the
sideboard, he called me away.
'No, none of that,' he cried, with a laugh; 'something you have never
seen before. Try the newspaper.'
Although I appeared to win approval by my reading of the extremely
uninteresting leading article, he shook his head at the sight of my
handwriting, whilst he seemed to be astounded by my total ignorance of
Latin and French.
'The fact is,' he said, 'it is high time you went to boarding-school!'
Before he left the house that afternoon he had another private
conversation with Aunt Marion, and a week or two later he arrived with
the announcement that 'everything had been arranged.'
'Windlesham has been very strongly recommended to me,' he explained.
'The Reverend Matthew Windlesham, to give him his full title.'
'Has he a living?' inquired Aunt Marion.
'No, but he has a capital house, with a large garden and a meadow, at a
place called Castlemore.'
'Where is that?'
'About a hundred miles from London. Windlesham has a wife and five
daughters, and at present there are only six or seven pupils. As Jack is
rather backward, it will suit him better than a larger school.'
So everything was decided, and I fancy that Aunt Marion looked forward
to my departure with a satisfaction equal to my own--it could scarcely
have been greater. Boys and girls were at that time an unknown quantity
to us, as were most of their sports and pastimes.
It was true that there were scarcely enough of us at Ascot House for
football or cricket; nevertheless we did our best in the meadow at the
bottom of the garden, our scanty numbers being eked out by Mr. and Mrs.
Windlesham's five girls. They were nice, kind people, and, when the
first shyness had worn off, I settled down happily at Castlemore. During
the next three uneventful years I received occasional visits from
Captain Knowlton, while I grew greatly in stature, and, it is to be
hoped, in knowledge.
The holidays were, for the most part, spent with Aunt Marion, sometimes
in boarding-houses at the seaside, sometimes in London, and I had no
anticipation of troubles ahead until shortly after I passed my
fourteenth birthday.
(_Continued on page 12._)
[Illustration: "'Does Miss Everard live here?' he inquired."]
[Illustration: "His grandfather lay gagged and bound on the floor."]
THE CASTLE LIGHT.
'I wish you would tell me, Grandfather, how it was you first thought of
building a lighthouse tower.'
'Well, Conrad, if you _will_ know, you shall hear the story,' and Sir
Matthew Cairns, as he said these words, looked kindly down into the
bright young face uplifted to his own.
'It was twenty years ago that the thought first came to me that Cairns
Castle might serve as a beacon to those far out at sea. The reason for
this was that on a certain winter's night a vessel was wrecked on these
shores, solely on account of there being no light to warn her of her
peril. More than a hundred souls went to their doom, to the joy, it is
said, of the wreckers, who made a fine harvest on the coast at
daybreak.'
'Oh, Grandfather,' Conrad said with a shudder, 'how awful! Surely we
have no such people about now?'
His grandfather sighed, and, to turn the subject, proceeded to explain
to the little lad his method of lighting the lamp.
Cairns Castle was an ancient building which overlooked the sea, its
isolated position rendering it a very lonely dwelling-place. Sir
Matthew, its present possessor, though by no means a wealthy man, had
spent a considerable sum of money in adding a lighthouse tower to the
castle. From the window-panes shone forth a gleam so clear and
brilliant, that many a gallant seaman was guided safely home thereby.
'Let me light the lamp to-night, Grandfather,' said Conrad, after
listening intently to all Sir Matthew's instructions. 'Perhaps it will
guide Father and Mother on their way home from India.'
'Aye, laddie, perhaps it will; the good ship _Benares_ should be nearing
our coast by this time,' was the reply.
'Then may I, Grandfather?' said Conrad.
'Yes, my boy, and I will look on to see that you do it properly.'
Ah! little did Sir Matthew think, as he said these words, of the
incidents which would take place, ere the castle light should next fling
its friendly rays across the sea.
* * * * *
The November afternoon was creeping on apace, and Sir Matthew, absorbed
in thought, drew long whiffs from his pipe, as he sat over the
dining-room fire. The wind was wild and stormy, and dashed against the
window-pane with angry force.
Conrad, who was busy preparing his lessons for his tutor next morning,
looked up anxiously. But the words he was about to say were checked by
the entrance of a rough-looking man of the fisher type.
It was William Forrest, or Black Bill as he was called by his
neighbours, partly on account of his swarthy appearance, and partly
because of his evil deeds.
The baronet rose in surprise, wondering at his entering the room
unannounced.
'Good evening, Forrest,' he said.
'Evening, master,' was the sullen reply; 'I have come on business, and I
want to see you alone.'
Sir Matthew bade Conrad take his lessons into the library, whilst he
spoke to his visitor. The boy obeyed, unwillingly enough, for
instinctively he felt that Black Bill meant no good to his dearly loved
grandfather.
Somehow he could not give his mind to his lessons, and at length,
thinking the interview must be ended, he returned to the dining-room.
The sight which there met his eyes made his heart stand still with
terror and alarm. His grandfather lay gagged and bound upon the floor.
It was the work of a few moments to remove the gag, and when Sir Matthew
could find voice, he told the story of his attack.
Black Bill, who was in reality a wrecker, for some evil reason of his
own, had endeavoured to extract from the baronet a promise not to light
the lamp that night. Upon Sir Matthew's indignant refusal, he, with the
aid of two colleagues who were waiting near, had next proceeded to
render him helpless. They had already gagged and bound the three old
servants of the castle. So massive were the walls and lengthy the
passages that not a sound had reached Conrad's ears; and the men had
apparently forgotten his presence in the castle.
The boy, in terrible distress of mind, tried to unloose the cords which
bound his grandfather hand and foot.
'Never mind the cords, Conrad,' said the old man at last, 'they are more
than you can manage. Go and light the lamp, for it is already past the
hour, and may Heaven protect you.'
Conrad, sick at heart, turned to obey.
'I will do it, Grandfather,' he replied, looking fearfully around lest
Black Bill and his colleagues should be listening. 'Then I will come
back and help you,' he added bravely.
With light, fleet footsteps, the little ten-year-old laddie made his way
along the passage, towards the staircase. Presently sounds fell on his
ears which sent all the colour from his face. Black Bill and his
comrades were talking together in a room close by, the door of which was
open; and to reach the lighthouse staircase he must pass that very room.
For a few minutes he crouched in shadow, too panic-stricken to move. He
thought of his promise to his grandfather and of the homeward-bound
_Benares_ battling with wind and wave; then like an inspiration came the
thought of Him Who stilled the waters of Galilee, and Who at this moment
was watching over him.
The lad hesitated no more. On he sped past the open door, towards his
goal. But, alas! Black Bill had noted his light footsteps.
'Stop, boy!' he shouted, 'or it will be the worse for you.'
But never once paused Conrad.
Then the men gave chase, and despair filled the brave young heart.
Mercifully in the darkness the men took a wrong turn, and the boy
mounted quickly up, up, up, until he was safe in the shelter of the
lighthouse tower.
It took him but a few seconds to turn the key in the lock, and to slip
the heavy bolts. Then he was safe from his pursuers.
Meanwhile the good ship _Benares_ was tossing on the angry sea, out of
its course and in sore peril, with no castle light to guide it home.
Then, almost at the moment of its extremity, shot forth a brilliant
gleam, and the gallant vessel was saved--saved by a little lad's courage
and daring.
Black Bill, after hammering vainly at the door, at length turned away,
muttering threats of vengeance.
An hour crept by on leaden wings, and at last, to Conrad's joy, he heard
his grandfather's voice calling him by name. In a very short space of
time they were face to face, and Conrad heard how that one man, more
tender-hearted than the rest, had secretly returned to the castle (after
Black Bill's departure) and freed Sir Matthew from his bonds.
* * * * *
Cairns Castle is now falling into decay, and its light no longer exists.
But on the coast near by stands a magnificent lighthouse, which sends
forth its life-saving gleam across the sea. Conrad has left boyhood far
behind him, and has now little lads and lasses of his own. Many are the
stories which their parents have to tell of the once stately home of the
Cairns family, but the story the children like best to hear is how
Father lit the Castle Light.
M. I. HURRELL.
THE INDIAN CHIEF AND THE BISHOP.
Bishop Whipple, who did so much work among the Indians of North America,
tells how a great Indian chief became a Christian. 'One day,' he writes,
'the chief came to see me, and said that he wished to be a Christian;
that he knew he must die some day, but he had been told of the new life
into which Christians entered after death, and that he also would like
to enter that life.'
'Shall I cut your hair?' asked the Bishop.
This strange question was understood perfectly well by the chief. It
meant that he must cut off the bad old habit of going on the war-path.
'No, I cannot allow you to cut my hair,' he answered, reluctantly, for
he was not ready to give up going on the war-path.
'Well, you cannot become a Christian unless you cut your hair,' said the
Bishop, sorrowfully.
The chief went away, but he still attended the services which the Bishop
held, and after some months came again to the Bishop.
'I want to be sure of that life after death,' he said. 'Please make me a
Christian.'
'Shall I cut your hair?' asked the Bishop again.
'Yes; do whatever you like with me so long as you make me a Christian,'
answered the chief.
Thus the chief eventually became a Christian, and many of his tribe
followed his example.
THE NAUGHTY KITTENS.
'Look at old Puss,' the Kittens said,
'He's fast asleep, he nods his head;
How dull and stupid it must be
To be as slow and old as he!
He lies and sleeps there in the sun,
And does not try to play or run;
Creep up and gives him just a pat--
He ought to run, he gets so fat!'
But Puss awoke. 'Hullo,' said he,
'You think to play your tricks on me?
I know I'm old, I'm glad I'm fat--
My dear, kind mistress sees to that;
I scare the birds while lying here--
They dare not come when I am near,
To steal my mistress's nice fruit;
My time to some good use is put.
'But you! what have you done to-day,
Except to romp and run and play?'
The Kittens, looking quite subdued,
Said, 'We are sorry we were rude.'
'Well then, this time I let you go,'
Old Puss replied, 'for now you know
That older folk are wiser far
Than silly little kittens are.'
With this remark Puss walked away
And left the Kittens to their play.
I'm glad to say they ne'er forgot
The lesson that they had been taught,
And from that day tried hard to be
From naughty, idle ways quite free;
In fact they now behave so well
That I have nothing more to tell.
C. D. B.
THE BEST LESSON.
A good man once had a serious illness, during which his life was several
times despaired of. On his becoming convalescent, a friend said to him,
'It will be a long time before you are able to collect your thoughts to
preach again, or to think of material for your sermons.'
'You are mistaken, friend,' was the answer. 'This illness has taught me
more than all the books and learning I have studied in the whole of my
life before.'
He had been not far from death, and had learnt more fully than any books
could teach him, that there is something greater than mere human wisdom.
A MONKEY'S MEMORY.
A French lady on one occasion saw an organ-grinder ill-treating his
monkey. She was moved with pity, and bought it. It became her chief pet,
and used to follow her about everywhere. Once she invited a party of
guests to a concert. The monkey was allowed to watch; but instead of
staying where she had put it, it took the hat of one of the guests, and
made a collection, much to the delight of the audience, and then emptied
the contents into the player's lap. It had not forgotten its old
habits.
[Illustration: A Monkey's Memory.]
THE BOY TRAMP.
(_Continued from page 7._)
CHAPTER II.
'Jack,' said Captain Knowlton, who had come to see me at Castlemore for
a few hours, 'I have brought some news. Your aunt is going to be
married.'
'Aunt Marion?' I cried.
'You haven't another aunt, have you?' he asked.
'No, of course not,' I answered; 'but I thought she was too old.'
'Anyhow,' he said, 'she is going to marry Major Ruston, and in about a
month I shall come to fetch you to the wedding.'
'But,' I asked, 'what shall I do in the holidays?'
'We must manage as best we can,' he answered. 'You understand that I
have taken you entirely off her hands. In the future you must look to
me. Will you object to that?'
'I shall like it immensely,' I said; and the following morning Mrs.
Windlesham helped me to compose a suitable letter of congratulation to
Aunt Marion.
In due course Captain Knowlton came, according to his promise, to take
me to the wedding, and we were driven direct from the London terminus to
his own rooms in the Albany, where I made the acquaintance of Rogers,
his servant, a pleasant-looking man, about twenty-seven years of age,
who seemed always to wear a blue serge suit. Rogers took me to the
Hippodrome that evening, and the next afternoon to a house at South
Kensington, where I found Aunt Marion looking younger and more smartly
dressed than I had ever seen her before.
'Did Captain Knowlton tell you the news?' she asked, when I had sat by
her side for a few moments.
'I _was_ surprised!' I exclaimed.
'I am sure I don't know why,' she answered, with a peculiar kind of
laugh.
'Is Major Ruston here?' I asked.
'No,' she said; 'you won't see him until Captain Knowlton brings you to
the church to-morrow. It is to be a very quiet wedding, and we shall
start for India the next day.'
When Rogers returned to fetch me an hour later, Aunt Marion put her arms
around my neck and kissed me a great many times, telling me to be good,
and try in every way to please Captain Knowlton--advice which I
considered very unnecessary.
After the wedding ceremony the following day, we went to an hotel, where
the four of us had luncheon, and, later on, Captain Knowlton stood on
the pavement without his hat, and took a white satin slipper from his
pocket, throwing it after the carriage as Major and Mrs. Ruston were
driven away.
[Illustration: "I shook hands with the three in turn."]
'I don't think much of Major Ruston,' I remarked as I walked to the
Albany with Captain Knowlton.
'What is the matter with him?'
'He is too fat, and his face is too red,' I answered, whereupon he
laughed.
After Rogers had cleared the table that evening, and brought two cups of
coffee, and Captain Knowlton had lighted a cigar, 'Jack,' he said, 'how
old are you by this time?'
'Turned fourteen,' I replied.
'Ah, a grand age, isn't it?' he exclaimed. 'I was talking about you to
Windlesham. He gave you a pretty good character on the whole.'
'I am glad of that,' I said, for although I had never thought much about
my character hitherto, it seemed desirable to possess a good one, if
only to please Captain Knowlton.
'A bit mischievous,' he continued, 'and rather headstrong. Inclined to
act too much on the impulse of the moment. It is time you set to work in
earnest, you know, Jack. You will have to look sharp if you wish to go
to Sandhurst.'
'That is just what I should like!' I cried, with a great deal of
excitement.
'That is all right then. You are quite old enough to understand things.
I feel certain your father would have liked you to enter the army. Now,'
he added, 'I am afraid you will have to spend the next holidays at
Castlemore. I have one or two engagements which cannot very well be put
off, and unfortunately there is nobody in the world who can be said to
belong to you.'
I looked up abruptly.
'Well?' he asked.
'Oh--nothing!' I muttered.
'Come, out with it, Jack!'
'There is you,' I said; and he leaned forward, resting a hand on my
knee.
'Quite right,' he answered. 'I want you to feel you have me. Understand,
Jack?'
'Yes,' I cried, and suddenly I seemed to realise what a bad thing it
would be if I had not Captain Knowlton to depend upon.
The next day I returned to Ascot House, naturally disappointed at the
prospect of spending the holiday at school. The other fellows all went
home at the end of March, and about a week later I was surprised when
Elsie Windlesham, the eldest of the five girls, told me that Captain
Knowlton was waiting in the drawing-room. But my satisfaction faded when
he explained that he was going abroad for some months, and that he had
come to say good-bye. 'The fact is I have not been up to the mark,' he
continued, 'so I have bought a small steam yacht.'
'What is her name?' I interrupted.
'The _Seagull_--a jolly little craft, and I hope to make a voyage round
the world in her. I shall get back again before the summer holidays, and
then we will have a good time together. I have had a chat with Mr.
Windlesham,' said Captain Knowlton, 'and told him to keep you well
supplied with pocket-money and so forth. You will be a good chap,' he
added, 'and work hard for Sandhurst.'
As he would probably be absent on my fifteenth birthday, he had brought
a silver watch and chain, which certainly went some way towards
consoling me for his departure. So I said good-bye to Captain Knowlton,
little dreaming of what was destined to occur to both of us in the near
future.
For now events began to happen quickly one on the top of another, and it
was less than a fortnight after Captain Knowlton's departure that Elsie
told me, as a great secret, that her father had been offered a lucrative
living in the north of England.
'But,' I asked, 'how about the school?'
'That is why he has gone to London to-day,' she explained. 'He wants to
sell the school before next term begins, and he has heard of somebody
who will very likely buy it.'
A few days later, Mr. Turton appeared on the scene, accompanied by his
wife and his only son, Augustus. Mr. Turton was not a clergyman,
although he dressed a little like one; he was short, rather stout, with
a pale face and an untidy dark beard. But his wife was tall and lean,
and her face looked gaunt and pinched, while, as for Augustus, it was
difficult to judge whether he ought to be described as a boy or a man.
Taller than Mr. Turton, he had a long, thin face like his mother's, and
a growth of fair down upon his chin. With a boy's jacket he wore a very
high stand-up collar, while his hair sadly needed cutting.
I shook hands with the three in turn, and as I tried to think of
something to say to the painfully bashful Augustus, I overheard a remark
of Mr. Windlesham's which led me to believe I was being spoken of as an
important source of revenue.
The result of Mr. Turton's visit was that the holidays were lengthened
for eight days, to allow the Windleshams to move away and their
successors to take possession of Ascot House. I learnt from Elsie that
the furniture had been bought as it stood, and that Mr. Bosanquet--the
assistant master, and a thoroughly good fellow--was to stay on for one
term, after which Augustus would take his place.
'I have felt a little at a loss,' said Mr. Windlesham, the day before
his departure. 'All the other boys are returning, but in your case I
have been compelled to take Captain Knowlton's approval for granted.
However, I have explained all the circumstances to Mr. Turton, and I
have no doubt you will be very happy and comfortable.'
Still, I had certain doubts, and, in fact, after I had reluctantly said
good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Windlesham, and to Elsie and her sisters, and
the fellows came back from the holidays, a change was at once
perceptible. Perhaps, in some ways, an impartial observer might have
regarded it as a change for the better. Everything was conducted in a
far more orderly manner. We rose an hour earlier in the morning, and
went to bed half an hour earlier at night. We had the same kind of meat
every week-day in regular rotation, and less of it; our bread was cut
thicker, and spread with less butter; we were no longer permitted to
wander about the small town at our own sweet wills.
It became necessary to ask leave before we spent any money, and although
Augustus shared for the present our lessons with Mr. Bosanquet, he acted
as a kind of tyrannical overseer during the rest of the day.
One morning in June, about two months after Captain Knowlton's departure
from England, I was summoned to Mr. Turton's study, and I found him with
a more than usually grave face.
'Everard,' he said, 'you must be prepared for the most serious news.'
'Not about Captain Knowlton?' I cried, for it seemed that there was
really no one else in the world for whom I very much cared.
'What was the name of his vessel?' asked Mr. Turton.
'The _Seagull_. You don't mean that she has been wrecked?' I faltered.
'Unfortunately, that is the fact,' was the answer.
Turning aside, I leaned against the door with my face buried in my
sleeve.
Mr. Turton spoke kindly, as did Mrs. Turton in her rather cold,
unsympathetic way; but nothing that any one could say made the slightest
difference. I felt that I had lost my best and, indeed, my only friend.
(_Continued on page 22._)
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1805.
I.--IN THE PILLORY.
One summer's day in the year 1805, a farmer's wife, carrying a heavy
basket of eggs, was slowly trudging along a lane leading to the market
town, when a woman ran hastily to her, calling out as she passed, 'You
are in luck to-day, Mrs. Hodge! Eggs are so scarce that you can ask any
price you like.'
'Why is that?' asked Mrs. Hodge, surprised.
'Why?' laughed the woman. 'Because every one wants them! A man has just
been put in the pillory for speaking against the King, or the
Parliament, I don't rightly know which; but at any rate he is safe in
the pillory, and folk are having rare fun pelting him,' and the woman
passed on to join in what she called 'the fun!'
Mrs. Hodge, however, was a woman of a different sort. 'I will sell none
of my eggs for such cruel work as that,' she said resolutely. 'Sooner,
by far, would I take the whole lot back unsold, that I would, than
ill-treat an unfortunate man in that way.'
She had now reached the market-place, and there, on a platform raised
several feet above the ground, stood a wide wooden post, with three
round holes in it, through which appeared a man's head and his two
hands. Thus imprisoned and utterly unable to protect himself in any way,
he furnished sport for a thoughtless, cruel mob, who were aiming at him
with rotten eggs, cabbage-stalks, and any rubbish that came to hand.
Mrs. Hodge's blood boiled with indignation as she saw the terror and
agony in the poor man's eyes, as missile after missile hit him, each hit
being greeted with a shout of delight from the populace.
'Shame on you!' cried the honest woman, and hastily leaving her basket
at a shop-door, she somehow pushed her way through the masses, and
climbing the platform, stood right in front of the pillory. 'Shame on
you all, to hit a helpless man!' she cried again.
'Get down! get down!' shouted the mob, furious at any one interfering
with their fun. 'Get down, or we will treat you the same!'
'More shame to you,' said the dauntless woman. 'I shall not leave for
all your threats! Surely there will be one amongst you all who will not
see a helpless man tortured.'
'But he is a bad man. He was trying to set folk against the Government.
He deserves to be punished!' was shouted by different voices in the
crowd.
'If he has done wrong he is being punished for it,' said the woman
firmly, still continuing to shelter the man by standing before him. 'It
is bad enough for him to stand all day in the pillory under this
broiling sun, without having his eyes blinded and his nose broken. We
shall all, maybe, want a friend one day, so let us help this poor fellow
now. Here, Ralph,' she continued, catching the eye of the chief leader
of the rioting, 'you said, when I saved you from bleeding to death in
the hay-field last summer, that you owed me a good turn. Pay it me now!
Leave this poor fellow alone, and get your friends to do the same.'
The man stood irresolute one minute; then his feeling of gratitude
conquered him, and he said, half-sheepishly, 'Have your own way, Mother!
I will see that no one throws any more at him.'
'That is right, Ralph,' said Mrs. Hodge, heartily, for she knew that
Ralph's influence was great. 'Now for a pail of fresh water, and let me
see if I cannot get all this dirt off this poor fellow's face and hair.'
'Thank you, Missis, you have been real good to me,' the man said,
hoarsely. 'I could never have stood it much longer.'
The mob--fickle as mobs so often are--were now as ready to help as
before to injure, and instead of jeering and reviling, there were now
those who remarked that 'perhaps the chap was no worse than the rest of
us,' whilst others were glad they had been stopped in time, for only a
few weeks before a man had been killed, whilst standing in the pillory,
by those who were only 'amusing' themselves in much the same fashion as
folk on that day.
One of the crowd fetched water, and a woman brought a mug of milk, which
was sweet as nectar to the poor man's parched throat, and now, though he
had still many hours before sundown to stand in the pillory, yet it was
shorn of its chief terror, as Ralph undertook to shield him from all
further injury.
So he once more thanked Mrs. Hodge, and she returned to her eggs with a
mind at ease.
* * * * *
It may surprise our readers to know that the punishment of the pillory
remained on the Statute-book of this country until the year 1837, though
it had practically fallen into disuse for many years before it was
repealed.
The pillory came down to us from Anglo-Saxon times, and there was a law
passed in the reign of Henry III., ordering every village to set up a
pillory when required for bakers who used false weights, perjurers, and
so on.
CLARENDON.
[Illustration: "'Shame on you all, to hit a helpless man!'"]
[Illustration: A Countryman's Well-deserved Rebuke.]
NOTHING IS PERFECT.
An Italian artist had painted a little girl holding a basket of
strawberries. One of his friends, who was at the time a great admirer of
his genius, wishing to show the perfection of the picture, said to some
people who were looking at it, 'These strawberries are so very natural
and perfect, that I have seen birds coming down from the trees to peck
them, mistaking them for real strawberries.'
A countryman, on hearing this ridiculous praise, burst out laughing:
'Well, sir,' he cried, 'if the strawberries are so well represented as
you say they are, it must not be the same with the little girl, since
she does not frighten the birds.'
The painter's friend could answer nothing; he had received a
well-deserved rebuke for his flattery.
MORAL.--Excessive praise wrongs rather than benefits the person upon
whom it is bestowed.
W. YARWOOD.
WONDERFUL CAVERNS.
I.--ON CAVERNS IN GENERAL.
Long ago, in the dark ages of the world, when superstitious terrors
ruled the mind of savage man, caverns were looked upon with awe and
peopled with supernatural beings. The mysterious waters that issued from
some, the depth and length of the winding ways of others, the
unaccountable sounds that echoed through the vaults and galleries of
all, gave rise to wonderful legends in many parts of the world.
Beneath the Holy Peak of Kailas, supposed to be the centre of the Hindoo
Universe, are caverns in which, according to legend, live the four
sacred animals, the elephant, the lion, the cow, and the horse, from
whose mouths issue the four great rivers of India, the Ganges, Sutlej,
Indus, and Brahmapootra.
According to Scandinavian mythology, Loke, the incarnation of evil, was
for a long time bound to points of rock in a cavern, with a huge serpent
crouching above and spitting venom on the prisoner.
Hastrand, the nether world of the Vikings, was also depicted as a cavern
of colossal size, furnished with poisonous serpents and unlimited
sources of torture for mind and body.
The Greeks held caverns to be sacred to various gods--Pan, Bacchus,
Pluto, and the Moon. The Romans peopled them with Sibyls, or priestesses
of Fate, and beautiful nymphs; whilst in ancient Germany and Gaul,
fairies, dragons, and evil spirits shared the gloomy recesses which no
mortal might invade and live.
In the Middle Ages there were many legends of evil spirits dwelling in
caves, who beguiled human beings to their rocky homes, whence the
visitors never returned. Probably the truth of this particular fable
lay in the growing spirit of exploration into the recesses of Nature,
the dangers of which--ill provided with light, ropes, and modern means
of security as they were--must have been extreme.
About this era, too, the forests of Northern Europe were largely
thinned, and fairies, dwarfs, and such folk, it was thought, were
obliged to take refuge in caverns and grottoes. Within the last hundred
years a legend was common in the Hartz Mountains, that if a wedding
feast lacked copper or brass kettles, cooking-pans, or plates, the needs
would be supplied on invoking the dwarfs at the entry of their rocky
homes. No payment was asked for or expected, but a little meat left in
the pans on their return was appreciated and might lead to future
civilities.
Moorish children are still brought up to believe that Boabdil, the last
King of Granada, with his mighty host, is still sleeping in a huge
cavern, whence he will some day issue to a last great victory over the
Christians.
So far we have seen only the imaginative ideas of these great hollows of
the earth, for 'hollow' is the true meaning of the Latin word _cavea_,
from which cave or cavern is derived: now we will glance at the more
practical purposes to which the smaller and more superficial caves have
been adapted.
With the dawn of Christianity, many men and women, shocked at the
excesses of Greek and Roman civilisation, retired from the world and led
simple lives as hermits in remote caves. To this day, 'The Hermit's
Cave' is a common name in England, and, though it is not always a
genuine one, it usually denotes that in olden times some hermit or
'anchorite' passed his lonely existence in the spot in question.
Long before this era, in Hindoostan, advantage had been taken of natural
caverns to hew into shape the marvellous rock temples of Elephanta,
Ellora, and Ajunta, still accounted as amongst the wonders of the world.
In New Mexico and Arizona in remote ages whole tribes lived in caves,
some natural, but more often made habitable by the aid of masonry. Most
of these are high up on shelves edging precipitous cliffs, and were
clearly chosen as places of refuge from enemies of the plain.
All over Europe caves are found containing bones of human beings, most
of which are recognised by scientists to belong to an earlier race, who
made use of these homes provided by Nature, both for abiding-places
during life and resting-places for the dead. In many of these caves,
sketches on bone, horn, and ivory have been found, remarkable for their
clear and vigorous drawing at a time when art was an unknown quantity.
It is noticeable that drawings found amongst the Esquimaux relics depict
seals, whales, and walruses, whilst those of more southern races show
mammoths, wild horses, and bisons; the only animals drawn by both being
the reindeer.
Numerous caves in Britain, and indeed all over the world, contain bones
of animals, and from classifying these, learned folk have found out a
great deal respecting the geological and geographical changes which have
taken place on the crust of the earth since the Creation.
Now that we have thought of the terrors with which caverns inspired our
remote forefathers, as well as of the practical uses to which they have
been put by less imaginative men and animals, let us try to see how and
why these mighty hollows came to exist at all.
Earthquakes are often accountable for rocks heaped in wild confusion,
leaving great chasms below. Volcanic agency also deposits huge roofs of
lava over tracts of ice and snow, and the melting of the latter leaves
empty spaces of vast extent. The neighbourhood of Mount Etna, in Sicily,
has various wonderful caverns of this formation. Landslips and
rock-falls on the surface account for many small grottoes, but water is
the main origin of all the most celebrated caverns of the world.
Underground streams and rivers gradually eat their way along the surface
of their rocky flooring, the carbonic acid in the water acting
chemically on the stone in addition to the wearing force of the element.
Once a shallow channel is worn, new forces set to work to deepen it:
sand, pebbles and grit of all kinds, washed down by the current, grind
and wear away the rock. In course of time great depths are hollowed out,
and if it happens that some obstacle turns the course of the water, and
the river finds a new outlet, a long deep gallery is left dry, and here
and there an apparently bottomless pit where the water has acted on
specially soft stone. From above, also, a steady action of moisture has
been eating away the cliff, adding height to the cavern, as well as
coating its roof and sides with a sparkling substance derived from the
union of water and particles of the limestone, in which caves usually
abound.
Nothing can be more beautiful, when illuminated, than a roof of
stalactites, with ascending pillars of stalagmite often meeting and
forming pillars, like those which will be later on described in the
Mammoth Cave and others. The building of these fairy grottoes is really
a simple matter, but one only possible to the Great Architect to whom a
thousand years are as one day; for a very little bit of one of those
stony icicles would take hundreds of years in formation. Water flowing
above a cave is certain to contain carbonic acid, some given to it by
the atmosphere, and some imparted from decaying vegetation. This water
oozes slowly through the rock, and the carbonic acid in passing
dissolves a mite of lime, carrying it through the roof, to which the
lime adheres whilst the water evaporates. Drop follows drop, each tiny
particle sliding down its fellow, until, as weeks and years and
centuries roll by, a lovely long pendant is formed, known as a
stalactite. Sometimes the drops of acidulated watery lime fall through
the roof by an easier passage, and fall right on to the floor of the
cavern, when an upward process takes place, each drop exactly striking
the one before, until one of the stately columns arises known as a
stalagmite.
HELENA HEATH.
AN OCEAN POLICEMAN.
Amid a flutter of flags and the cheers of onlookers, the 'ocean
policeman,' H.M.S. _Speedy_, first took to the water on May 18th, 1893.
Its birthplace was the banks of the Thames at Chiswick, but hardly had
it settled itself on the smooth surface of the river when orders came
from official quarters that it should proceed at once to school. They
were no easy lessons that it had to learn, and the subsequent
examinations were extremely difficult and trying, for they were
conducted by a large crowd of the most learned gentlemen in England and
the Continent connected with naval matters. The school was at Sheerness,
and here the _Speedy_ spent four months in preparation. On September
28th the first run was made, and three weeks later the examiners were
delighted to find that this splendid new boat was able to steam at a
speed of twenty knots an hour. Everything the inventor and designer had
claimed for her was proving true. The new style of tubing in the boilers
made it possible to get up steam very quickly after the fires were
lighted, so that when the order came to start there was no 'Oh, wait a
minute, please; I am not quite ready!'
The engines, four thousand five hundred horse-power in strength, did
their work far more nimbly than those in any previous gunboat of the
same size. The vessel is two hundred and thirty feet long, and can steam
triumphantly through water no more than ten feet deep. That in itself is
enough to terrify evil-doers who would otherwise hope to escape by
getting into shallow water beyond her reach. But in addition, she
carries two large guns and a search-light.
Having thoroughly satisfied the examiners, this huge scholar soon had
the honour of receiving a commission, and is now on duty in the North
Sea among the brown-sailed fishing-smacks, like a gigantic duck watching
over her ducklings. There are several gunboats of the British navy
employed in the same way, but few of them quite so modern as the
_Speedy_, or so capable of guarding the interests of the fishermen. Any
foreign smack or lugger that comes within three miles of the English
coast is 'trespassing,' and is immediately called upon by the _Speedy_
to give an explanation. If the trespasser hesitates, a boat is lowered
from the steamer with an officer on board to make inquiries, and should
the answers to his questions be unsatisfactory, the stranger and his
boat are sent prisoners to the nearest English port.
Thus, up and down among the great fleet of peaceful fishers, the
_Speedy_ plies all day, and even in the darkest night her watching is as
keen and sure, for then her search-light, a dazzling beam, sweeps over
the sea in all directions, and not the tiniest rowboat could escape
unseen. Many a time it has revealed some stealthy marauder who hoped,
under the cover of darkness, to pull in a net of fish from these
forbidden waters and then sail into some French or Dutch port
undetected. All chance of escape, however, is over when once that
dazzling light falls upon the dishonest craft.
[Illustration: An Ocean Policeman by Day.]
[Illustration: An Ocean Policeman by Night.]
And who would begrudge such protection to our fishermen? Their busy
fleets are floating towns of industry, in which some thirty-three
thousand men and boys are employed. In 1901 their harvest represented
eight million six hundred and forty-seven thousand eight hundred and
five hundred-weight of fish, and realised six million eight hundred and
forty-eight thousand one hundred and ninety-two pounds in money. A
very large portion of this came from the North Sea.
But such treasure is only secured at great danger and with loss of life.
In this same year 1901, over three hundred fishermen were drowned, some
in wrecks and collisions, some in missing barks, and many by being
dragged overboard by the cumbersome fishing gear. At all hours of the
day and night, at all seasons of the year, these perilous labours are
carried on, and when we think of this, is it not some gratification to
know that the rights and privileges of our fishermen are jealously
guarded by such stalwart ocean policemen as the _Speedy_?
JOHN LEA.
[Illustration: "I cannot bear to sit out here."]
WAITING.
In London town the streets are gay,
And crowds go quickly by,
It is a glorious summer day,
But I sit here and sigh;
The pavement's hot, my feet are sore,
Yet I must wait outside the door.
I cannot bear to sit out here,
But I am tied up fast,
I saw my master disappear,
But I could not get past;
'No dogs allowed inside this shop'
They said, so here I have to stop.
Ah! here he is, and off we go!
'Tis jolly to be free!
I bark, and do my best to show,
As he caresses me,
How much I love him, for to part
From him I know would break my heart.
C. D. B.
THE FROG AND THE GEESE.
Two wild geese, when about to start southwards for the winter, were
entreated by a frog to take him with them. On the geese consenting to do
so if a means of carrying him could be found, the frog produced a stalk
of long grass, got the two geese to take it one by each end, while he
clung to it in the middle by his mouth. In this manner the three were
making their journey, when they were noticed by some men, who loudly
expressed their admiration of the plan, and wondered who had been clever
enough to discover it. The proud frog, opening his mouth to say, 'It was
I,' lost his hold, fell to the earth, and was dashed to pieces.
_From_ LA FONTAINE.
AN INDIAN CUSTOM.
'Look here!' said a young fellow as he opened the door of the log-house,
in Canada, where he and a friend were 'camping out.' 'See what I have
found dangling from a tree in the forest;' and he held up for his
friend's inspection a tiny pair of leather moccasins gaudily embroidered
with coloured beads.
'You must put those back where you found them,' said his friend quickly.
'They are of no value,' interrupted the other; 'there is a hole in the
toe. I expect some Indian mother hung them there to get rid of them.'
'No! no! they were hung there because the child who wore them is buried
under that tree, and these moccasins are put there for its use in the
next world,' explained his friend.
'Oh, if that's the case!' said the young fellow, 'I will go back at
once, and replace the little shoes, for I would not hurt their feelings
about their dead friends for anything.'
So the little shoes were once more hung on the bough of the big
fir-tree.
Mistaken as are the Red Indian's ideas of the next world, he is yet as
careful as we are to honour the last resting-place of his loved ones.
S. C.
THE BOY TRAMP.
(_Continued from page 15._)
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Turton lent me the newspaper in which he had read the account of the
wreck of the _Seagull_, and upstairs, in the room which I shared with
two other fellows, I sat down on my bed to master it.
It appeared that the skipper of the vessel, with seven of the crew, had
been landed by a British cargo steamer at Hobart Town, Tasmania. The
_Westward Ho!_ had picked them up in a small boat about seven days out
from Capetown.
According to the story of the _Seagull's_ skipper--Captain Wilkinson--she
had experienced extremely bad weather for some days, and, becoming
almost unmanageable, had been run down by a large liner in the middle of
a dark night at the height of the gale.
Whether the liner was British or foreign, Captain Wilkinson could not
state; but, in any case, she had continued on her way without attempting
to stand by to save life. The _Seagull_ foundered in less than ten
minutes, Captain Knowlton persisting in his refusal to leave in the
first, and--as Captain Wilkinson declared--the only, boat which got
away. He had done his utmost to stand by, in spite of the fury of the
gale; but when day broke, and the storm to some degree abated, there was
no sign of either Captain Knowlton or the _Seagull_. That she had
foundered with the remainder of the crew and her owner the skipper had
not the slightest doubt, although he went as far as to admit, to the
newspaper reporter, the possibility that the small boat in which he had
escaped might have drifted some distance from the scene of the wreck in
the darkness.
My only gleam of hope was due to Mr. Bosanquet, although I felt inclined
to discount this, because he was given to look at the brightest side of
things, and often predicted fine weather just before a storm.
'Still,' he urged, 'you do not know for certain that Captain Knowlton
was drowned. I admit there is a great probability that you will never
see him again, but, after all, it is quite within the bounds of
possibility that the skipper's boat drifted away, and that the owner and
the rest of the crew managed to leave the _Seagull_. Of course,' he
added, 'if I am right, you are pretty certain to hear something farther
in a week or two.'
Accordingly I lived in the most acute suspense during the next few days;
but the time passed without news of Captain Knowlton, and such faint
hope as I had cherished faded entirely away. In the meantime it seemed
evident that Mr. and Mrs. Turton had not shared it. I learned from
Augustus that his father had written to Mr. Windlesham, asking that I
might be removed from Ascot House as a bad bargain.
Moreover, I began to observe a kind of resentfulness in Mr. Turton's
demeanour, and especially in his wife's. It was rumoured in the school
that they were 'hard up,' and hence the shorter supplies of meat and
butter. But it was Augustus who first made me realise my new situation.
'I say, Everard,' he said, when we were alone one day, 'I should not
care to stand in your shoes. Now Captain Knowlton is dead you cannot
stay here, you know.'
'Well,' I answered, 'who wants to stay? I am going to Sandhurst soon.'
'I guess you are not, though!' he exclaimed. 'There is no one to pay for
you, and Windlesham is mean enough to say he won't take you off our
hands.'
The entrance of Mr. Bosanquet put an end to Augustus's gloomy forecast
of my future, and, as the assistant master seemed to be the best friend
I had left, I asked his opinion on the subject.
'Of course,' he said, taking my arm, 'it is a rather difficult position.
If Captain Knowlton has left a will with a legacy to you, there need not
be much difference; but Mr. Turton is of opinion that if this were the
case, he would have heard from the solicitor. Mr. Turton is a good deal
perplexed to know what to do with you, though we will hope for the best,
in spite of everything.'
Now, I was fifteen, and fairly tall and strong for my age. I could
easily perceive the difficulties at which Mr. Bosanquet hinted, and
that, if Captain Knowlton were actually dead, and had left me nothing in
his will, there was only Aunt Marion to whom it was possible to look for
help; and she had taken no notice of me since her wedding-day. I was
ignorant of her address in India, and felt that I should be little
better off even if I knew it. So, after a few days' reflection, I
determined to speak to Mr. Turton.
'Well, Everard, what is it now?' he demanded, a little impatiently, as I
entered his study.
'I want to know about the holidays,' I answered. 'Where am I to go?'
'Just what I should like to be in a position to tell you,' he exclaimed.
'At present I have been unable to discover the name and address of
Captain Knowlton's solicitor, but, when I go to London with the boys at
the end of the term, I shall do my best to gain farther information. We
will put off the discussion until my return.'
It was, however, impossible to keep the question of my future in the
background, and no day passed without many speculations. Numerous
out-of-the-way projects had one peculiarity in common--they were all to
end satisfactorily. Even if I were fated to endure certain trials and
hardships, I felt perfectly confident in my ability to rise above them
eventually.
The first important difference which I experienced as a result of the
loss of the _Seagull_ occurred on the Saturday after this interview with
Mr. Turton. It was the custom to go to Mrs. Turton after dinner on
Saturday for our pocket-money; my own allowance since Captain Knowlton's
departure having been a shilling a week.
'What do you want, Everard?' asked Mrs. Turton, when my turn came.
'My shilling, please,' I answered.
But she ominously shook her head.
'I am afraid there will not be any more pocket-money for you this term!'
she exclaimed--and, suddenly understanding, I walked dejectedly away.
Before I had gone many yards Smythe took my arm.
'I can lend you fourpence, old chap,' he said.
'Awful ass if you do,' cried Augustus, who had a knack of overhearing
what was not intended for his ears.
'Why am I an ass?' demanded Smythe.
'Because Everard will never pay you back.'
'Suppose I don't want him to pay me back?'
'Oh, well!' said Augustus, 'of course, if he is beggar enough to take
your money!'
I should have liked to kick Augustus as he walked away with a snigger;
but at least he had made it impossible to take advantage of Smythe's
offer. It was a new and painful experience to stay outside the
confectioner's shop while the other fellows entered, and the matter was
freely discussed in my presence by Smythe and the rest on our return.
Indeed, justice compelled me to agree with Barton's opinion that, as
Turton stood uncommonly little chance of being paid for the current
term's board and tuition, it was scarcely to be expected that he should
feel inclined to provide me with additional pocket-money.
CHAPTER IV.
The end of the term soon came, and on the last afternoon I stood
listening while Smythe, Barton, and the rest of the fellows boasted of
all the wonderful things they intended to do during the holidays.
'I should not care to stand in Everard's shoes,' said Augustus. 'As
likely as not he will have to go to the workhouse before he has done. He
will see when my father comes back from London.'
Before they all set out to the railway station the next morning, Mr.
Bosanquet took me apart for a last word of hope and encouragement. He
was not to return to Ascot House after the holidays, and for my part I
felt extremely sorry to bid him good-bye.
'I feel confident Mr. Turton will do his best for you,' he said. 'But
you must try to make allowances if he seems a little put out. He is not
by any means a rich man, and, of course, he had to pay Mr. Windlesham
for the goodwill of the school. Mr. Turton will feel the loss of your
bill, you understand--that is to say, if Captain Knowlton does not turn
up again.'
'If he had been rescued,' I asked, 'don't you think we should have heard
news of him before now?'
'Well, in all probability we should,' said Mr. Bosanquet. 'But strange
things happen sometimes, you know; and, after all, I do not consider it
impossible that he may be stranded somewhere, and prevented from
communicating with his friends.'
'Still,' I answered, 'all the newspapers and Mr. Turton say he must be
dead.'
'Anyhow,' he insisted, 'there is no positive proof, and even at the
worst his solicitor may be able to satisfy Mr. Turton about your
future.'
(_Continued on page 26._)
[Illustration: "'I can lend you fourpence, old chap,' said Smythe."]
[Illustration: "'Hullo, Susan!' cried Augustus."]
THE BOY TRAMP.
(_Continued from page 23._)
At last the other fellows went to the station with Mr. Turton and Mr.
Bosanquet, leaving me to enjoy the company of Augustus and his mother,
who did not make much of an attempt to disguise her disfavour. It may be
imagined with what anxiety I awaited Mr. Turton's return from London. He
arrived at Ascot House late the following evening, having passed one
night away from home. Although he had a long talk with Mrs. Turton, he
did not speak to me that evening; but an ominous note seemed to be
struck when Augustus told me I was henceforth to breakfast alone in the
schoolroom. So, to my great disgust, the following morning, whilst
Augustus and Mr. and Mrs. Turton breakfasted in the dining-room, a cup
of milk and water, with five thick slices of bread and scrape, were
brought to me on one of the desks; no bacon or egg, or relish of any
kind, accompanied the meal.
Presently the door opened again, and Mr. Turton entered with a troubled
face.
'Well, Everard,' he said, 'I succeeded in finding the address of Captain
Knowlton's solicitor, and I had a long conversation with him.'
'Does he think Captain Knowlton is dead?' I exclaimed.
'I regret to say that he has no doubt about the fact; but, at the same
time, the estate cannot be administered for some months yet. In any case
that will make no difference to you. Captain Knowlton had not made a
will, and everything he died possessed of will pass to his nearest
relatives.'
'Then--then, what am I to do?' I asked.
'The circumstances are extremely unfortunate,' was the answer. 'For me
it is a serious loss, and I confess it is difficult to know what to do
for the best. I understand you have no relatives of any kind.'
'Only my Aunt Marion.'
'Ah, that is the Mrs. Ruston whom Mr. Windlesham mentioned. She is in
India, I believe?'
'Yes,' I answered, 'but I do not know her address.'
'I can no doubt find it out in an Army List,' he said. 'But from what
Captain Knowlton told Mr. Windlesham, I fear little is to be gained in
that direction.'
From that day nothing was the same, and I soon began to realise that my
presence in the house was regarded as a nuisance. All my meals were
solitary, and I seldom had enough to eat.
'Everard!' cried Mrs. Turton, directly I had finished breakfast two
mornings after the above conversation, 'all the servants are very busy
this morning, so you must make your own bed.'
If she had told me to stand on my head, I should not have felt more
surprise.
'Don't you understand?' she demanded.
'Yes, Mrs. Turton.'
'Then why do you stand staring there? Please set about it at once.'
I went upstairs to the bedroom which I had occupied alone since the
beginning of the holidays, and after staring at the bed for a few
moments, I was about to strip off the clothes, when I heard a snigger at
the door.
'Hullo, Susan!' cried Augustus.
Darting to the dressing-table, I seized a hair-brush, and threw it at
his head. Unfortunately it hit him on the forehead, making an ugly cut,
and, of course, he at once went to show Mr. Turton, who came upstairs a
few minutes later, by which time my bed was made--after a fashion.
'What was your reason for attacking my son?' demanded Mr. Turton.
'Well,' I answered, rather sullenly, I am afraid, for I was growing
somewhat desperate, 'he should not be cheeky.'
'You will not leave this room until dinner-time,' he said, 'and your
meal will consist of bread and water.'
I spent a miserable morning staring out of the window on to the garden
and the fields beyond, without a book to pass the time, my only comfort
being the sight of Augustus with a strip of court-plaster above his left
eyebrow.
At half-past one a servant came to tell me to come down to dinner. Alone
in the schoolroom, I at first determined to refuse my food, until hunger
conquered my resolution, and I ate it every scrap. Soon afterwards Mrs.
Turton entered, but she said nothing about Augustus's injury.
'You must not spend your time in idleness,' she exclaimed.
'There was not anything to do in my bedroom,' I answered.
'The house is being cleaned,' she said, 'and all the woodwork has to be
washed. You may as well go down to the kitchen for a pail of hot water
and begin with the wainscotting in the hall.'
'I'm not a servant!' I answered.
'Honest work is no disgrace to anybody,' she said. 'You must try to make
yourself useful in every possible way, and be careful not to splash your
jacket.'
Raging inwardly at my task, I only hesitated a few moments; then, going
down to the kitchen, I asked the good-natured cook for a pail of water.
'I call it a shame!' she muttered. 'Things were different in Mr.
Windlesham's time. A shame I call it.'
'Oh, it doesn't matter,' I answered, feeling not a little embarrassed by
her sympathy.
She filled an iron pail at the boiler-tap, and, as I stood waiting, my
thoughts flew back to earlier days at Acacia Road, and to Jane and her
energetic manner of smacking the oilcloth. But I suppose my ideas had
developed since those times, and certainly I felt this morning that I
was being subjected to the lowest humiliation. However, I carried up the
pail, slopping the water on the stairs at every step, with a
scrubbing-brush in the other hand, and then I set to work. When once I
had begun, I cannot pretend that I found the actual washing of the
wainscot particularly distasteful, although it seemed rather hard, after
I had done my best, that Mrs. Turton should upbraid me for soiling my
clothes.
It was perhaps a week later that the notion of running away definitely
entered my mind. By that time I had cleaned a considerable portion of
the woodwork of the house, lime-whitened a portion of an outside wall,
filled several coal-scuttles, and swept the yard. My clothes were
naturally not at the best at the end of the term; I had grown
considerably since they were new, and now they were splashed with
distemper and soiled with dirt. One Monday morning I noticed the absence
of the boy who cleaned the boots and knives and forks, and remarked upon
it to Augustus.
'You see we shall not want him now,' he answered, with one of his
irritating sniggers, and I fully understood the significance of his
words. I try to do the Turtons no injustice, reminding myself that, to
begin with, they were far from rich, and that they had lost the forty
pounds or more which should have been paid for the last term's board and
schooling. Moreover, they had not known me for some years, as the
Windleshams had done; I was in their house, requiring food and shelter,
and perhaps they could not reconcile their consciences to turning me
out. So they determined to make me useful in the only possible way.
Already I had begun to wonder what would happen when Smythe and the
other fellows came back after the holidays. One thing I knew for
certain, and this was that Augustus would not fail to tell them how I
had spent the time since they left; in fact, he had more than once
hinted at their interest in my proceedings. The dismissal of the
boot-boy made me more and more apprehensive that I should still continue
to be degraded after the beginning of the term, while I felt humiliated
by the conviction that, even in the present circumstances, Mr. and Mrs.
Turton were keeping me only on sufferance.
But this Monday morning brought me to a determination. I had finished
breakfast, and was wondering what I should be set to do next, when
Augustus opened the schoolroom door.
'Everard,' he said, 'you are to clean my boots.'
'Clean them yourself,' I retorted.
'I shall tell Father,' he exclaimed.
'Tell your mother, too, if you like,' I said.
He went to tell them, and a few minutes later Mr. Turton entered the
room.
'Everard,' he said, 'I wish to speak to you.'
'Yes, sir,' I answered.
'You understand,' he continued, 'that I have no desire to say or do
anything to hurt your feelings. I can quite sympathise with you, and I
am grieved that this necessity has arisen. But the fact remains.'
'I am not going to clean Augustus's boots,' I answered.
'Do you think work is disgraceful to you?' he demanded.
'I am not going to clean Augustus's boots,' I insisted.
'You compel me to take harsh measures,' he said. 'I have no wish to take
them, but I shall give orders that you have no food until you obey me.
You have to work for your living. I certainly cannot afford to keep you
in idleness. You will go to your bedroom, and stay there until you clean
the boots and bring them to my study.'
Looking back, I am never able to forgive myself for surrendering. Yet I
did surrender, although not at once. I passed Mr. Turton at the door and
walked slowly upstairs, where I shut myself in the bedroom. Then and
there I finally made up my mind. Without any definite scheme when I
succeeded in reaching my destination, I determined to go to London. I
did not possess a penny of money, but I had my silver watch and chain,
which surely it must possible to sell.
The hundred-miles' walk caused me not the least alarm. I was strong and
well, although I had grown thinner during the holidays; the weather was
warm, and I reckoned on reaching my destination in about a week. As to
what I should do on my arrival I had very little idea; but, for one
thing, I thought I would try to find Rogers and ask his advice. I had
read many books about boys who had gone to London without a penny in
their pockets and made immense fortunes, from Dick Whittington
downwards, and I saw every reason to believe that, in some wonderful
way, I should be equally successful. At all events, I would go. I would
put some clothing into a bundle, and then I would await a favourable
opportunity and take my departure, for at the worst it seemed certain I
should be safe from pursuit. Mr. and Mrs. Turton would be thankful
enough to get me off their hands, although Augustus might miss me as his
butt.
The hours passed very slowly in the bedroom, and, having breakfasted on
bread and water, I began presently to feel more and more hungry.
'I will not clean Augustus's boots,' I repeated at intervals, and I
tightened the strap behind my waistcoat. But, as the long afternoon
began to wear away, and my hunger still increased, I sang to a different
tune. 'What did it matter whether I cleaned the boots or not?' I asked
myself, especially if I could succeed in finding Augustus alone in the
garden for a few quiet minutes before I left the school. Anyhow, it
would be the first and the last time. So, just after the clock struck
seven, I opened my door, went down to the hall, and thence to the
kitchen, and knocked at the door.
'Cook,' I said, 'where do you keep the boot-brushes?'
'In the coal-cellar, Master Everard,' she answered. 'I would have done
them with pleasure, only Mrs. Turton forbid me.'
I went into the coal-cellar, took the brush and blacked the boots, and,
oddly enough, I did not cease until I had made them shine far more
brightly than Augustus's boots had ever shone before. Then I took them
in my right hand and carried them upstairs, knocked at the door of Mr.
Turton's study, and was told to enter.
'I have brought the boots,' I said.
'Ah,' answered Mr. Turton, 'I am glad you have come to a less
unreasonable state of mind. You can go to the kitchen and ask Cook for
some food.'
(_Continued on page 34._)
[Illustration: A PICTURE PUZZLE FROM HISTORY.
(_For Answer see page 130._)]
THE FRIENDLY LIGHT.
Wildly the wind doth rage,
Loudly the waters roar,
And anxious are the hearts of those
That wait upon the shore,
Till through the darkness of the night
The lighthouse sends its friendly light.
Warning and guiding light,
It shines across the bay.
And helps the sailor steer his course
Till safely on the way:
The harbour gained, and home once more,
He greets his loved ones on the shore.
C. D. B.
[Illustration:
1. Water-bug's Lancet (much magnified).
2. Water-bug.
3. Sting of Bee and Poison-dart (both much magnified).]
INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.
I.--STINGS AND LANCETS.
Bees and Spiders, Earwigs, Beetles and Snails, Dragon-flies,
Grasshoppers, and Butterflies are familiar enough to us all; yet how
many realise how 'fearfully and wonderfully' they are made? What a
marvellously complex weapon is the 'sting' of the bee! What a wonderful
'rasp' the snail possesses! How many can tell how an insect smells, and
where its organs of taste and hearing lie? Since these are questions
which young people often ask again and again, some of them will be
answered in the course of these articles. To explain such matters
clearly is a very difficult task, but with the aid of drawings,
specially made for this purpose, the main facts at least should be easy
to grasp.
* * * * *
Most of us agree to treat the bee respectfully, having a wholesome dread
of the vengeance he is likely to inflict on those who offend him. But
how does a bee sting? and what is the sting like?
To take the last question first. The sting of the bee is really an
extremely cunningly devised weapon, so complex that only the bare
outlines of its structure can possibly be described clearly.
If you turn to the illustration of the bee-sting, you will notice, in
the right-hand figure, at the upper end, three pointed projections or
'processes' marked. The two outer ones (S S) we may neglect, for they
are only protecting sheaths; that in the middle (I S) is the sting
proper. This consists of two parts, (1) a strong gouge-like portion, and
(2) a pair of darts of marvellous delicacy. These darts we cannot see in
position because they lie on the other side of the gouge-like piece. But
to the left you will notice a long sword-like blade, drawn separately,
with a curiously crooked handle and a sharp barbed point. This is one of
the pair of darts. Those who have had the misfortune to be stung may be
interested to know that this painful wound was inflicted thus: When the
bee alighted on you, he first thrust through the skin this hard, pointed
gouge; then one of the darts was pushed down, then the other, a little
further; then the gouge penetrated still deeper, and the opposite dart
deeper still, and so on, first one dart, then the other, going deeper
and deeper, the gouge following. As they penetrated, little drops of
poison oozed out from the barbs of the dart, and this caused the pain
and inflammation.
This poison is made in what is called the poison gland, the long,
slender, coiled tube (P _g_) in the picture. As the poison is made, it
is stored in the big bag (marked P) at the back of the sting, and when
this is working, the poison is forced down between the gouge and the
darts, to find its way out at the barbs into the flesh.
But this sting is not only used for the purpose of giving pain. The bee
long ago discovered the fact that food, if it is to be preserved for any
length of time, requires to be specially dealt with. Accordingly the
honey which is destined to be kept is preserved from fermentation by the
addition of a drop of formic acid deposited by the sting.
Only the workers and the queen-bees of a hive have stings: the males are
stingless.
In stinging it often happens that the barbed darts are thrust so far
into the wound that they cannot be withdrawn. As a result, the whole
apparatus is left behind, and the bee pays the penalty with its life.
But whilst some insects, such as the bees, inject poison by means of a
'sting,' others effect the same end by peculiar modifications of the
mouth-parts. The gnat is a case in point: the water-bug, common in our
ponds and ditches, is another.
Strangely enough, the mechanism adopted is precisely similar in character,
though the parts of which this mechanism is made up are of a totally
different kind. Here, the mouth-parts are specially modified, so as to
form a supporting and piercing weapon, like the 'gouge-like' piercing
weapon of the bee, with delicate pointed and barbed weapons corresponding
to the barbs of the bee's sting. This piercing organ may be used for
sapping the tissue of plants, or, as in the case of gnats and fleas,
they may be employed for the purpose of absorbing the blood of animals.
In the latter case, after the surface of the skin is pierced, a poison
is forced down into the wound, for the purpose, it is thought, of making
the blood more fluid. But this poison is of a highly irritant nature,
and leaves a very painful feeling, accompanied by more or less
inflammation of the parts attacked.
The water-boatman, which almost every one must have seen swimming
back-downwards in ponds, can inflict a very painful wound in this
manner. The illustration shows the 'lancet' of _nepa_, the water-bug.
The piercing organ just described is the spear-shaped piece bounded on
either side by two long filaments.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
1.--GEOGRAPHICAL ACROSTIC.
An American Republic, having a hot climate on the coast-line, but cooler
inland. It is a rich and fertile country, where many valuable trees
grow. Useful plants and fruits are produced in great abundance, and
there are many wild animals, and birds of brilliant plumage. Numerous
shallow rivers water the land, and gold, silver, iron, copper, and other
metals are to be found there.
1. A mountain near Athens, famous in old times for honey and marble.
2. A decayed seaport in Italy, with a castle which gave the title to a
celebrated story.
3. A Cornish fishing village, much frequented by artists.
4. A village in Ireland, where a notorious fair was formerly held.
5. A small country or district on the eastern side of an African lake;
its chief town is the terminus of a great caravan route.
6. A city of Virginia, U.S.A., built on a river of the same name.
7. A tea-growing district of British India, abounding in wild animals.
8. The most important seaport of central China.
C. J. B.
2.--ARITHMOGRAPH.
A word of eight letters, naming the hero of a noted poem.
1.--6, 5, 4. A game; also the toy with which the game is played.
2.--7, 3, 4. A wild berry.
3.--1, 3, 6. A covering for the head.
4.--4, 7, 2, 6. A tiny particle.
5.--6, 7, 5, 4. To melt, dissolve, or become fluid.
6.--7, 8, 1, 3. A peculiar kind of fence.
7.--4, 1, 3, 6. An interrogation.
8.--4, 2, 6. Mental faculty.
C. J. B.
[_Answers on page 58._]
THE MYSTERIOUS CHEST.
'It is hard lines it should rain the first day of the holidays,' said
George, somewhat gloomily, as he looked out at the heavy downpour, which
was fast changing the tennis-lawn into a miniature lake.
'No chance of a game!' sighed Pelham, thinking of the swamped
cricket-field.
'If you two lads want an indoor job, I have one for you, and one that
has baffled me,' said Mr. Carteret, looking up from his paper.
'What is it, Father?' asked Pelham, the eldest boy.
'A lot of things were sent here from Vale Place last month, and amongst
them an oak chest, which I cannot unlock, try as I may, so I waited for
you two, as I know you are more handy with your fingers than I am,'
answered his father.
'We will soon tackle it!' said Pelham, confidently.
'Father,' here broke in George, 'I thought _you_ were to have Vale Place
when old Mr. Pelham died?'
'So did I,' said Mr. Carteret shortly.
'But it is left to some one else, is it not?' went on George, anxious to
understand the matter, which had greatly puzzled both boys for some
weeks.
'Yes, I meant to tell you about it when you came home,' said their
father. 'It was no good writing bad news, but you must know it sooner or
later. You know,' he continued, 'that my father and Mr. Pelham were
brother-officers in India, and when both my parents were swept away in
one week by cholera, Mr. Pelham brought me home to Vale Place, where I
was brought up as his son and heir. But after his death, a few months
ago, no will could be found, though he had repeatedly told me that he
had made one, leaving Vale Place to me and my children.'
'Then who has Vale Place now?' asked George, as his father paused a
minute.
'It passed to the heir,' said Mr. Carteret. 'He is a distant cousin, who
cares nothing about the property, and means to sell it for building
land.'
'What a shame!' said Pelham, hotly.
'Well, I do not know that there is any shame about it, for this cousin
has never lived there, and it has none of the old associations for him
that make me regret its loss so deeply. He seems a very considerate man
in some ways, and begged to be allowed to send me all the old furniture
which stood in my room at Vale Place, thinking I should value it, as
indeed I do. So that is how the old chest came to me, and here are the
keys. See what you can do with them.'
'Come on, George!' said Pelham. 'Where is the chest, father?'
'Upstairs in the attic. You will want a candle; it is in a dark corner,'
was the answer.
'I am coming too!' announced Nannie. 'I want to see what is in the
chest. I have fed my birds, and I may not stay out in the rain.'
'Little girls should not be inquisitive,' said George, who dearly loved
to tease his sister. 'You may see more than you want.'
'Oh, George! what?' said Nannie, in rather a shaky voice. 'What do you
think is in the chest?'
'You will see by-and-by, and remember I have warned you!' said George,
mysteriously.
Nannie, though alarmed, bravely stood her ground and watched the two
boys as they tried every key on the bunch; then, finding that none
fitted, they used a screw-driver, and at last were successful.
'Now, Nannie!' shouted George, as Pelham lifted the heavy lid. 'Look
out! I am sure I heard something stirring inside.'
Pelham held up the candle and looked eagerly into the dark chest.
'Empty! quite empty!' he cried, in a tone of the utmost disgust.
'Nothing at all in it but an old letter!' and he threw the paper on to
the ground by the side of the chisel.
'I told you so,' began Nannie, but the sentence was hardly out of her
mouth before she gave a little shriek and leapt high into the air. 'A
rat! a horrid rat!' shrieked the child. 'It ran over my foot.'
George did not shriek; but he, too, was startled, for the rat had
appeared so suddenly.
'It came right out of the chest,' he said, as if to excuse his alarm.
'It could not!' said Pelham, bluntly. 'I was looking in the chest when
Nannie shrieked, and there was nothing in it--that I know! I saw no rat
anywhere.'
'But I saw it!' said George. 'Look! look!' he shouted, excitedly. 'There
it goes! Just by your foot! You may depend upon it this box has a false
bottom. Let us turn it over and see.'
'I believe you are right, George!' said Pelham. 'Hold the candle, Nan,
and we will see where this rat came from.'
The chest, empty as it appeared to be, was yet so heavy that it was with
difficulty that the two boys could turn it over, but they did it at
last, and now there was no doubt where the rat had come from, for the
floor was strewn with little bits of nibbled paper, and there was a
biggish hole in the false bottom by which he had evidently gnawed his
way into the chest.
'Now, then, the fun is beginning!' exclaimed Pelham, excitedly, 'We must
get inside this false bottom; it is full of old letters. I can see that
much! Perhaps we shall find a love-letter of William the Conqueror to
Joan of Arc!'
'Oh, no, you will not!' said Nannie, wisely, 'for Joan of Arc lived many
reigns after William I. I read about her only last week.'
But neither Pelham nor George heeded Nannie's superior information, so
busy were they prizing off the somewhat thin layer of wood which formed
the false bottom of the chest.
It gave way at last, and disclosed a whole heap of letters, some nibbled
into mere powder by the busy rat and some still uninjured, and on the
top of all a yellow parchment folio bearing in large letters the words,
'_Will of George Pelham, Esquire, of Vale Place, Surrey._'
Pelham got very red as he exclaimed, excitedly, 'Surely this is the lost
will!'
'If it is, we owe it to the rat!' said George, half thinking Pelham was
joking.
'I must take it at once to Father,' said Pelham, and he ran down the
attic stairs closely followed by the no less excited George and Nannie.
'See, Father, this will! Is it right? Will you have Vale Place after
all?' said Pelham, eagerly; as he held out the papers.
Mr. Carteret took the bundle, looked at the heading, and then turned it
hastily over to see the signatures at the end.
Yes, it was duly signed and witnessed, and without doubt was the
long-sought will!
* * * * *
Why Mr. Pelham should have so carefully concealed his will was never
explained, but people from time immemorial have done odd things with
their wills, and will probably continue to do so. It was, after all, of
little consequence now where it had been found, so long as the will was
a true one, and of that no doubt was ever raised.
Before many months were over Mr. Carteret and his family were settled at
Vale Place, where the 'mysterious chest,' as Nannie always called it,
has the place of honour in the entrance hall.
S. CLARENDON.
[Illustration: "'We will see where this rat came from.'"]
[Illustration: The Death of a Deserter.]
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1805.
II.--SIGNOR ROSSIGNOL'S PERFORMING BIRDS.
It was April, and the year 1805, when two little fellows, out for the
day from Charterhouse School, stood at the bow window of a large house
on Ludgate Hill, London, waiting for the return of their uncle from his
country house.
'Here he comes!' said the lads, as a portly figure came round the
corner, and the next minute he was in the room, exclaiming, in his
cheery way, 'Well, lads, glad to see you! What must we do this
afternoon? Is it to be the Tower of London, or the river, or the
Monument? Anything you choose will suit me.'
'Then, sir,' said the elder boy, eagerly, 'do let us go and see the
performing birds. All our fellows are talking about them.'
'To be sure we will! I, too, have heard about this Signor Rossignol, as
he calls himself, and we will have a bit of dinner, and start off at
once to Charing Cross.'
The 'bit of dinner' proved to be a very ample meal, to which our
schoolboys did full justice, for school meals a hundred years ago were
far from satisfying, and a dinner like this one was not a thing to be
hurried over. However, there must come a time when even hungry
schoolboys can eat no more, and at last, when even another fig seemed an
impossibility, a start was made for the birds. They arrived at the Hall
in good time, and had excellent seats, just facing the stage.
When the curtain drew up, it disclosed a long table, on which were
placed a dozen cages, each containing a little bird. Their 'tutor,' as
Signor Rossignol styled himself, stood at the head of the table, and,
after a low bow to the audience, he began: 'Behold my little family of
birds! They have all the true military instinct, and are ready, as you
will see, to do all in their power to defend this land of freedom.'
Loud and prolonged cheers greeted this speech, for the Battle of
Trafalgar had not yet taken place, and the dread of a sudden landing of
the French 'tyrant' was never long out of the thoughts of any Briton.
When the cheering had ceased, Rossignol opened the cages one after
another, and each bird hopped out in a sedate way, and placed itself on
the table, waiting for orders.
'Fall in!' shouted Rossignol, in a loud military voice, and at once the
birds formed themselves into two ranks. Then their tutor fitted a little
paper helmet on to each bird's head, and fixed tiny wooden muskets under
their left wings.
Thus equipped, the birds, at the word of command from their tutor, went
through the usual exercises of soldiers amidst the applause of the
audience.
Then another bird, not previously exercised, was brought forward.
'Death of a deserter,' explained the tutor, as six birds placed
themselves three on each side of the new arrival, and solemnly conducted
him from the top to the bottom of the table, where there was a small
brass cannon, charged with a little gunpowder.
The unfortunate deserter was placed in front of this cannon, his guards
retired in an orderly way, and he was left alone to meet his fate. A
lighted match was now put into the claws of another bird, who hopped
slowly up to the cannon and discharged it. At the sound of the explosion
the deserter fell down on to the table, and lay there as if rigid in
death.
'Oh, I say! That is too bad!' said the younger boy. 'I don't think poor
birds ought to be blown from the gun like that. It's cruel, is it not,
sir?'
Before the uncle could reply came the sharp order, 'Stand!' and, behold,
the dead deserter came to life again, and hopped away to join his
friends!
The birds were now replaced in their cages, and it was the signor's turn
to occupy the stage.
First of all he gave a clever imitation of the notes of all birds,
ending up with the prolonged 'jug-jug' of the nightingale, which he did
to such perfection that you could hardly believe there was not a grove
full of those birds on the stage.
'He may well call himself "Rossignol"' (the French for nightingale),
said the boys' uncle as he gave a hearty clap to the clever performer,
'for he seems as real a nightingale as I ever listened to.'
Next Rossignol produced a fiddle without any strings to it, and going
through all the airs and graces of a real violinist, he sawed the air
with an imaginary bow, making the notes with his voice so well that you
could not imagine it was not a real violin playing. This delighted the
audience most of all, and he was encored again and again, and when the
entertainment was finished, the two boys said 'they wished they could
have it all over again!'
* * * * *
For many months Rossignol continued to draw large audiences to hear his
imitation of birds, &c., but one fatal day it was discovered that the
sounds were produced by an instrument--probably a pierced
peach-stone--which he concealed in his mouth, and after that no one
cared to hear him, and he died in great poverty a few years later.
S. CLARENDON.
THE BOY TRAMP.
(_Continued from page 27._)
CHAPTER V.
My chief fear when I went to bed that night was that I might not wake
early the following morning, for in this event my departure would have
to be put off. I must leave Ascot House before any of the Turtons were
up, if I left at all; I was bent upon getting away from Castlemore at
the very earliest moment. In my room there were three beds, two being
unoccupied during the holidays, and there was a chest of drawers which I
shared with my companions. On the knob of one of the drawers hung the
bag in which were kept my brush and comb, and this I thought would serve
to hold the few things I intended to take with me. Not daring to get the
things ready that night, lest Mr. Turton should pay one of his
occasional visits to the bedroom when he turned out the gas, I lay down,
and in spite of the important coming event, soon fell fast asleep. When
I awoke the sun shone into the room, and getting out of bed and looking
at the watch which was to be shortly converted into money, I saw that it
was twenty minutes to six.
Losing no time over dressing, putting on the better of my two
knickerbocker suits, I removed the brush and comb from the bag, putting
in their place two pairs of stockings, a spare flannel shirt, a pair of
gum-shoes, two handkerchiefs, and a flannel cricket cap.
Having little fear that any one but the servants would be about the
house, I tightened the string of my bag, and went quietly downstairs. In
the room where we kept our hats and overcoats I put on my laced boots,
which already were somewhat thin in the soles, and my straw hat, as the
sun had been extremely hot the last few days; and then I began to think
of breakfast, because I made up my mind that it would be wise not to
attempt to dispose of my watch and chain until Castlemore had been left
some distance behind. About ten miles on the London road, although I did
not know the precise distance, stood the small town of Broughton, and
there, I thought, it might be safe to replenish my exchequer.
Consequently, having not a penny in my purse at present, I must wait
until I reached Broughton for breakfast, unless it were possible to
obtain something to eat before I left the school.
So, leaving my bag in the hat-room, I went to the kitchen, where the
cook was in the act of lighting the fire.
'Good morning, Cook,' I said.
'You are up early this morning, Master Everard,' she answered.
'I am most awfully hungry,' I continued. 'Do you think you could give me
something to eat?'
Turning her broad back to the fireplace, she stared at me from head to
foot, seeming especially to be impressed by the fact that I had put on
my boots. But if she had a suspicion of my intention, she kept it to
herself, and going to the larder, returned with a plate on which lay a
thick slice of dry bread and another of cold beef.
Thanking her, I took the bread and meat and left the plate, then,
returning to the hat-room for my bag, unbolted the front door without
making a noise and walked calmly away from the house, beginning to eat
my breakfast as soon as I reached the road. It was a beautiful summer
morning, and the birds sang in the garden trees as I walked towards the
margin of the town. Holding my bag by the long string I let it hang over
my left shoulder, and stepping out briskly soon passed the last houses
in Castlemore. Although my chief feeling was one of relief at having
left Ascot House and the Turtons behind, it was impossible to avoid a
glance back at the days which I had spent so happily with the
Windleshams. I no longer had the least doubt that Captain Knowlton had
been lost with the _Seagull_, and as I covered the first mile or two of
my long journey, I became impressed with a conviction of all the
difference his death had made to my life. Instead of Sandhurst, I could
not tell what lay before me, and yet I scarcely doubted that, whatever
it might be, the end would prove satisfactory.
I determined to lose no time over my first stage, and after walking for
three-quarters of an hour, I passed a finger-post, which conveyed the
information that Broughton lay still eight miles distant. Although I had
told myself yesterday that Mr. Turton was very unlikely to start in
pursuit, that he would be only too glad to get rid of an unremunerative
boarder, this morning seemed to make the affair look different. He might
consider that his duty compelled him to set out in search of the
runaway, so that it would be wise not to rest until the first ten miles
had been put between myself and the school.
I felt anxious to reach Broughton, in order to dispose of my watch and
chain, being already somewhat afraid that there might arise some
difficulty about its disposal. I had never attempted to sell anything
before, nor was it easy to form an opinion concerning the value of the
only things I had to barter. Still, four pounds appeared a likely sum,
or three pounds ten at the lowest, and this would surely serve to
provide food and shelter until I reached London.
Very few persons passed me by the way, but coming within sight of the
first houses of the small town, which was in reality little more than a
large village, I began to overtake and soon passed a man who I little
imagined would cross my path again. Broughton is approached by a long
decline, at the foot of which, on the right, stands a rural inn. Before
its door this morning were a couple of waggons, one laden with hay, the
other with sheep-turnips. A smock-frocked carter stood eating a chunk of
bread and fat bacon, while a fox-terrier begged for scraps. Having
walked ten miles in the hot sunshine, I was glad of any excuse to halt,
so that a few minutes after passing the man in the road, I stopped to
watch the dog.
While I stood there the man caught me up again, and he also came to a
stop, between myself and the waggons. He was quite young, probably not
more than one or two and twenty, tall and well-built, although he walked
with a slouching gait. He wore corduroy trousers fastened round the
waist by a narrow strap, and a blue shirt, with an unbuttoned jacket of
fustian. On his head was a limp-brimmed, dirty, drab felt hat, and in
his left hand he carried a red handkerchief, which apparently contained
all his possessions, and in his right a stout stick which had been
obviously cut from a hedge. His hair was extremely short and black, but
he could not have shaved for some days; his face was deeply sunburnt and
one of the most evil-looking I had ever seen. I imagined that he was
looking for a job at hay-making or harvesting, and in that case he would
have little difficulty in finding one at the present season.
Without entering the inn, he walked on towards the main street, which
contained two dozen or more of small shops, and a few minutes later I
took the same direction, soon beginning to look about for the kind of
shop I wanted. After I had passed the tramp a second time, I saw the
usual sign of a pawnbroker's, and, thinking it would look better to
remove my watch and chain before entering, I took the bar out of my
button-hole.
[Illustration: "The tramp stood outside, watching me with the greatest
intentness."]
Stopping outside the shop, I stood a few minutes gazing in at its
window, which was filled with a miscellaneous collection: teapots,
telescopes, knives, spoons, pipes, and one or two flutes and
concertinas. Presently I summoned enough resolution to enter, and going
to the counter, held out the watch and chain to the rather elderly man
behind it.
'I want to sell this watch and chain,' I said.
'Oh, you do, do you?' he answered, and opening the watch, he began to
examine the works. He looked so doubtful that I began to fear he would
refuse to buy, in which case I scarcely knew what to do, as it seemed
unlikely that I should find another such shop that day. It was already
past eleven o'clock, and after my walk I was beginning to feel hungry.
Certainly he had no right to buy the watch from a boy of my age, but I
suppose that after a little hesitation he was unable to resist the
temptation to make a bargain.
'How much do you want for it?' he asked, as he closed the lid with a
snap.
'Four pounds,' I answered, thinking that a reasonable demand.
Still holding the watch with the chain hanging down between his
fingers, he broke into a laugh which did not sound very merry.
'Four pounds!' he exclaimed. 'Think yourself lucky if you get ten
shillings. I will give you fifteen.'
It was a terrible disappointment, but at the time it did not occur to me
to doubt the man's good faith. I came to the conclusion that I had
ignorantly over-valued my property, and at least fifteen shillings would
be better than nothing.
'Very well,' I answered, and, placing the watch and chain on a shelf
behind him, the man opened a drawer under the counter. While he slowly
counted out the money in silver, I happened to glance at the window. In
a moment my eyes seemed to be riveted by those of the tramp, whose
existence I had quite forgotten. He stood outside the shop, watching me
with the greatest intentness, and suddenly I felt afraid, and wished he
had gone on his way, and left me to go mine. I spent as long a time as
possible counting the money and putting it in my knickerbockers' pocket,
but when I at last left the shop the tramp was still staring in at the
window.
Still, he took no notice of me as I walked away from the door, not even
turning his head. With money in my pocket, my appetite suddenly became
urgent, and seeing a coffee-shop a little further down the street, I
entered and sat down at a table, which sadly required scrubbing. An
untidy girl came to ask what I wanted, but when I suggested a chop--for
'chops and steaks' was painted over the window--she said I could only
have eggs and bacon.
'I will have some eggs and bacon,' I answered.
'Poached or boiled?' she asked.
'Poached, please.'
'Tea or coffee?' she suggested.
'Coffee,' I replied, and, after waiting ten minutes or longer, I was
supplied with a plate of hot eggs and bacon, a thick slice of bread, and
a cup of coffee. Not in a mood to be very particular, I ate every scrap
with the greatest relish, and altogether I could not have spent less
than three-quarters of an hour in the coffee-shop. My meal cost
eightpence, and its effect was to make me feel extremely lazy and
sleepy; but, having a long day before me, I determined to find some
shady spot and rest for an hour or two until the heat of the day had
passed. Then I would push along until I was about twenty miles from
Castlemore, when I must find a lodging for the night.
(_Continued on page 44._)
[Illustration: "The horse nearly carried the King into the French
lines."]
GEORGE II. AT DETTINGEN.
At the battle of Dettingen, George II. was on horseback, and rode
forward to reconnoitre the enemy. The horse, frightened by the
cannonading, ran away with the King, and nearly carried him into the
midst of the French lines. Fortunately, however, one of the attendants
succeeded in stopping him. An ensign seized the horse's bridle, and
enabled the King to dismount.
'Now that I am on my own legs,' said he, 'I am sure that I shall not run
away.'
The King then abandoned his horse, and fought on foot at the head of his
Hanoverian battalions. With his sword drawn and his body placed in the
attitude of a fencing-master who is about to make a lunge, he continued
to expose himself without flinching to the enemy's fire, and in bad
English, but with the utmost pluck and spirit, called to his men to come
on.
This was the last occasion upon which a sovereign of Great Britain was
under the fire of an enemy.
MY FRIEND.
Who is my friend? Not he who seeks
By flattery to sway;
Who, whether I be good or bad,
Gives me his praise alway.
Who is my friend? Not he who frowns
On me when I am wrong,
But never gives encouragement
To make me glad and strong.
Who is my friend? 'Tis he who makes
My highest good his aim;
Whose love sincere is shown alike
In praise or wholesome blame.
E. DYKE.
HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.
I.--'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'[1]
The scene of this story is laid at Land's End in Cornwall, or, to be
precise, to the west of the little village of Sennen Cove, and the time
chosen is toward the end of last century.
The month of the year was November, and the night was wild and
tempestuous, so that the storm beat against the little thatched cottage
in one room of which a woman was dying. Gathered about her bed was her
husband, Owen Tresilian, and their son Philip and daughter Mary. We pass
over the sad scene connected with the death of Mrs. Tresilian, just
referring to her last words to the father of her children. There had
been times in Owen's life when, finding himself without means and
without work, with want staring himself, his wife, and his family, in
the face, he had resorted to bad ways of obtaining money. He would never
have yielded to the temptation had it not been for the persuasive words
and occasionally the threats of his mates. Many of these men were
wreckers; that is to say, they deliberately placed on the coast false
lights which lured passing ships to destruction. It was from the wrecks
of the disabled vessels that they gathered up the treasures carried to
them by the waves, and it was known that one or two of the more
desperate characters among them had not hesitated to throw back into the
water the poor unfortunate creatures whom they had lured to destruction,
as they struggled to reach the shore. Owen, indeed, had never gone thus
far, but he had participated in their illicit gains, and had himself
helped to kindle the lights that were to wreck the boats. His dying
wife, whose trouble when she heard of this was very great, had made him
promise that whatever might occur after her death, he would never again
be guilty of such wicked work. He had promised her faithfully that none
should ever force him again to engage in such undertakings, and he had
added solemnly, 'They may kill me first, but I would rather starve than
do it.' Scarcely had she finished speaking to husband and children, when
wild shouts were heard outside the cottage, from the midst of the storm,
'Come on, men! come on--a wreck! a wreck!' Lights passed the little
windows, and the clatter of many feet along the path close by told the
family what manner of men were about.
The story goes on to tell how Owen, after his wife's death, his son
Philip and his daughter Mary, endeavoured to lead lives very different
from those of the greater number of their neighbours. They had come
under the influence of Wesley's teaching, and were not afraid to let it
be seen that they wished to honour God and keep His commandments. Owen's
mates, who had known him in the days when he had thought very much as
they did, left no stone unturned to show their ill-will to him and his
family now that so marked a change had taken place. There was in the
village a certain Arthur Pendrean. He was the son of old Squire
Pendrean, who had at first greatly opposed his son's wish to become a
clergyman. On one occasion, when Wesley had been preaching in the
village, and had been in danger from the rough crowd, Arthur, then but a
boy, had been so indignant at their behaviour, that he had rushed
forward with the intention of placing himself between the old man and
his rough assailants.
A few days later this story reached the Squire's ears, who, in a violent
passion, sent for his son and told him that if he ever went near the
Methodists again, he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors. A
few years later, when, between sixteen and seventeen years of age, the
youth left school, he told his father boldly that he wished to go to
Oxford, and that he intended to become a clergyman. The boy had a hard
time of it before he won the old Squire's consent, but in time leave was
given.
Arthur Pendrean had from the first taken a keen interest in the
Tresilian family, and had watched most carefully over Philip. He was
aware of the ill-will felt by the rest of the villagers towards his
charges, and made it no secret that he was one of the sternest opponents
of the evil practice of wrecking. It was well known that Arthur had set
his face against their evil designs, and that it was his determination
to have a lighthouse built, no matter at what cost, to warn off ships
from this doubly dangerous spot. The worst-disposed among the men would
have made short work of the young clergyman could they have had their
way and escaped consequences. At least, they would prevent, if it lay in
their power, the carrying out of his cherished plan, the erection of a
lighthouse. It was perhaps natural that hating the 'parson,' they should
not feel kindly disposed towards those who closely followed his advice
and over whom he so carefully watched. It was in these circumstances
that the following occurrences took place. Arthur was about to ride to
St. Sennen one Sunday morning, when his faithful old servant, Roger,
came up to him and said, 'I hear, Mr. Arthur, that a cutter with a
press-gang on board is at anchor off Sennen Cove. Sunday is a favourite
day for those chaps to land; they always find the men at home then, and
so they are easier to catch. I thought I would warn you about it, sir,
because their game is to carry off all the men and lads who are called
Methodists.'
'This is bad news,' Arthur had replied. 'I knew a press-gang was in the
neighbourhood, but never thought of their coming our way. I will gallop
down to Sennen Cove at once.'
Arrived at the Cove, Arthur found everything as usual, the cutter lying
quietly at anchor and a few men and boys sitting or lying lazily on the
beach watching her, and speculating as to the intentions of those on
board.
On Sunday afternoon we again see the young curate; we hear his stern
voice as he asks a group of six stalwart men, 'What are you doing here,
men? Take your hands off those lads at once; what right have you to drag
them away?' We see the men, furious at this repulse, falling upon Arthur
from behind and dragging him to the ground, and Philip with him. The
young clergyman, brave man that he was, was no match for six assailants
at once, and was of course unable to withstand the combined attack.
Promising Philip that he would have him released when he reached
Plymouth, for he was under seventeen, and handing him as a memento a
small Testament, and commending him to the care of God, he was obliged
to witness the rowing away of the boat that carried his young charge
every minute farther out of sight.
Philip's capture would not have been brought about had it not been for
the ill designs of the youths of his own age who were no friends to
Arthur Pendrean. The scheme for decoying him into the immediate
neighbourhood of the press-gang belonged to two of the worst characters
in the village. But we will not enter into details of their scheming. It
is enough to know that for the time being their wicked designs were
successful, and we find Philip within a very short time on board the
_Royal Sovereign_, one of the finest line-of-battle ships in Earl Howe's
fleet.
The trouble and grief of his father and little sister when they learned
what had happened was great. Owen at first refused all comfort. It was
in vain that Mr. Pendrean promised to spare no pains to bring the lad
home again: the bereaved father would not be comforted. It was in this
state of mind that he set out for Falmouth, accompanied by Arthur
Pendrean, as they thought it not improbable that the cutter might put
into this port before proceeding to Plymouth. Her crew were, however,
too wide awake, and the press-gang too anxious to secure prize-money, to
run any risk of losing those whom they had captured, and pressed for his
Majesty's navy; they therefore made straight for the fleet. How Philip
Tresilian subsequently fought in the battle of the first of June, how he
saw for the first time and understood something of the horrors of war,
are all graphically described by the author.
(_Concluded on page 42._)
FOOTNOTE:
[1] This favourite book is by James F. Cobb. (Wells Gardner, Darton, &
Co., London.)
[Illustration: "He told his son he would disinherit him and turn him out
of doors."]
[Illustration: "She was just high enough, and could light the lamps."]
HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.
I.--'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'
(_Concluded from page 39._)
We shall now take a peep at the lighthouse and its first watcher. 'That
will never be finished,' said one of the wreckers, when he saw the work
slowly progressing on the lonely rock at Land's End. But it was
finished. Arthur Pendrean wrote to many rich ship-owners in London and
elsewhere, and at length, by the aid of their money and the toil of
skilful workmen, a light began to burn in the Longships Lighthouse on
September 29, 1795. Those were early days of lighthouses, and experience
had hardly yet proved the risk and the danger of leaving one man alone
on a solitary rock to attend to the lights, often cut off for days, or
even weeks, from all communication with the shore. In these days things
are very different. Three men, and sometimes four, are appointed to take
charge of lighthouses, such as the Longships, Eddystone, and others.
One night a furious gale from the south-west raged along the coast; many
were the watchers at Sennen and other villages along the shore, keeping
a sharp look-out for wrecks; but whether owing to the lighthouse or to
the fact that there were not many vessels about just then, the evil
hopes of those who were longing to profit by the misfortunes of others
were frustrated. Owen felt very anxious about the lonely
lighthouse-keeper, whom he could not help thinking of as trimming his
lamps on the solitary rock with the roar of the ocean around and below
him. He knew that one who had not been there could not possibly have any
idea of the awful noise on the Longships Rock occasioned by the roaring
and the raging of the waves in the caverns underneath. We cannot stay to
describe all that Jordan, the lighthouse-keeper, in his loneliness
experienced, nor to tell how the waves, leaping above the lighthouse,
sometimes completely covered it. We see him as he walks about, now up
and now down, almost terrified by the fierce yells and shrieks which
fell upon his ears, and at last watch him, in despair, fling himself
upon his bed. Oh, that he had never been tempted to come to this
accursed, haunted rock--for haunted he felt certain it was! Like most
sailors, he was more or less superstitious, and the angry roar in the
caverns beneath sounded to him like the roar of hundreds of imprisoned
wild beasts, until, by-and-by, losing all his presence of mind, his hair
turns white in a single night with terror, and he becomes a maniac. It
was thus that Arthur Pendrean found him several days later, when,
seeing, to his great grief, that the lamps were unlit, he put out to
learn the cause in a little boat manned by Owen and one or two of his
friends. How Owen and the others failed to effect a landing on the
rock, and how the brave young clergyman made a bold leap, springing
safely upon a projecting ledge of the Longships, is all thrillingly told
in the chapter headed 'A Hazardous Voyage and a Bold Leap.'
Perhaps the most surprising part of the story is the bravery of Mary
Tresilian, Philip's little sister, who, although only a child, when she
sees that no man can be found to undertake the dangerous and difficult
work of keeping the lamps lit on the Longships, begs her father most
earnestly to himself undertake the task, and permit her to accompany
him. At first he would not hear of it, neither would Arthur Pendrean;
but the child pleaded so earnestly and fearlessly that, in the end, no
one else coming forward to undertake the duty, they yielded to her
prayers. And so we find the light burning again in the lighthouse,
thanks to the courage and unselfishness of a brave little girl.
'Trust me, I will be a match for them, somehow or other,' said Nichols,
when he knew who the new lighthouse-keepers were. 'I have an old grudge
against that Tresilian, and I mean to pay him out. As to that parson,
you all know what I think of him.'
'Well, John, there's many a chap here will be glad enough to help you,'
said Pollard.
A very exciting chapter is that entitled 'A New Conspiracy,' which tells
how Owen, coming ashore with some fish, was waylaid by a ruthless gang
of wreckers and smugglers, who tied him up as a prisoner, and would have
left him to starve had it not been for one of them with a little more
heart than the rest, who cut the cords that bound his wrists, seeing
there was no chance of his escape from the cavern into which they thrust
him, bolting and barring the gate that closed it. A more wretched
dungeon could scarcely be imagined. Dark even in brilliant noon-day,
damp and dripping with slimy sea-weed, the ground full of pools of
stagnant sea water, the air so chilly that it seemed to freeze one to
the very bones, such was the place to which these cowardly enemies
consigned the unfortunate man. And he? His thoughts were of his little
child. Truly his troubles were great; his wife was dead, his son torn
from him, and now his daughter, his only child, doomed, as he thought,
to a terrible fate, while he, her father, was a prisoner and powerless
to help her. But was he powerless? Could he not pray? It was this
thought that caused him to fall on his knees in his lonely prison and
entreat protection for her from the Father in heaven.
And Mary, what was she doing? At first, when she found that her father
did not come back, she gave way to grief. The darkness coming on and the
tempest rising, with trembling hands she tried to make a fire. Suddenly
the thought struck her that the lamps were not lit, and she determined,
brave child that she was, to light them herself. She had often watched
her father do it, and she knew how. She stood on tip-toe to reach the
lamps, but they were far, far above her. Nothing daunted, she piled one
thing above another until every article that she could lay hold of was
in use except the old Bible. Being a very reverent little girl, she
could not bear the idea of treading on the Holy Book; but, at last, when
she had reflected that her standing on the book for the purpose she had
in view, the saving of the lives of many poor sailors, could do it no
harm, she placed it reverently on the top of the pile, and above it,
that she might not tread directly on to it, a large basin. And now she
was just high enough, and found, to her great delight, that she could
light the lamps. Great was the surprise of Nichols and his companions
when they saw, as they ascended rising ground with their false light,
the bright rays of light streaming out from the Longships. For a minute
or two they could say nothing; then a volley of wicked words proceeded
from them.
'Who would have thought it? That child has managed to light the lamps,
and there they are burning as brightly as ever.'
'Who would have thought it indeed?' exclaimed Nichols. 'If it had ever
entered my head that the girl would have been up to those tricks, I'd
have rowed out in Tresilian's boat, carried her off from the lighthouse,
and locked her up with her father; and now here's all my fine plan
spoiled.'
For the beautiful ending of this attractive story, of Owen's release and
Philip's rescue from drowning by his own father, and of the punishment
that befell the wicked men who occasioned the deaths of so many brave
fellows, we can only say that our young readers should go to the book
itself, where they will find these facts all set forth in a thoroughly
interesting manner. To-day a new lighthouse stands on the Longships, and
the light shines out at an elevation of one hundred and ten feet above
high-water mark, and is visible at a distance of eighteen miles.
INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.
II.--SOME WEAPONS OF OFFENCE.
The sting of the bee and the lancet of the gnat, although fashioned of
very different materials, bear a close likeness in their mechanism. In
each case the piercing organ is, in the first place, a gouge-like weapon
which prepares the way for more delicate lancets. But in the spider we
find a very different piece of machinery for the injection of the
poison. It is formed by a pair of peculiarly modified legs which act as
jaws, and are armed each with a powerful claw, at the tip of which, as
in the poison-fang of the viper, is a small hole. Out of this hole a
drop of poison oozes when the prey is seized, and this has the effect of
paralysing the victim. The poison is formed in a curious bag, or 'gland'
(G.L), which communicates with the claw by means of a long tube or duct.
Many people feel a remarkable repugnance or even dread for spiders.
This, in many cases at least, is due to the supposed venom in their
bite. Yet, except the famous 'Tarantula,' no spiders really inflict a
painful wound. Tales of fearsome black spiders are common enough. One of
the spiders known as 'line weavers' is reputed to have a very poisonous
bite. To test the truth of this, one authority on spiders repeatedly
allowed himself to be bitten, yet suffered no inconvenience! In the
early and barbarous days of medical practice, a spider was frequently
applied to the wrists of patients suffering from fever.
Even the virulence of the dreaded Tarantula's bite has been greatly
exaggerated. It was supposed to cause the disease known as Tarantism:
the victim was seized with a mad desire to dance. The mania, while it
lasted, was accompanied with leaping, contortions, gesticulations, and
wild cries, until finally the fit of hysteria, for such it was, wore
itself out. The methods of treatment were many and curious. One of the
most favoured was to bury the patient up to the neck! But the dulcet
strains of music were believed to be the most powerful of all cures, and
certain peculiar tunes came to be regarded as especially effective, and
hence became known as Tarantella!
Parts of India now desert are said to have been deprived of their
inhabitants through the dread caused by certain huge spiders known as
the Galeodes. Their bite is without doubt extremely painful, and may
cause violent headache, fainting fits, or even temporary paralysis.
Camels and sheep are sometimes so severely bitten by these spiders that
death results.
Occasionally the spider catches a Tartar, for wasps and bees now and
again get entangled in the web spread for more helpless victims. Rushing
out in a blind fury, the spider closes with his captive, and then
follows a fight to the death. Sometimes the spider wins, but as often as
not the sting of his would-be victim is thrust home with deadly effect,
for the soft and pulpy body of the spider offers a target not easily
missed.
* * * * *
There is a saying that we should 'eat to live,' but the dragon-flies
seem to have reversed this rule, for they appear almost to 'live to
eat,' their appetites being enormous. This is especially true of the
larval or infantile stages of growth, and the manner of capturing their
prey is peculiar.
Readers of _Chatterbox_, who combine a love of natural history with a
fondness for boating, have probably many a time watched the gauze-winged
dragon-fly hawking for flies. But how many have realised that, below the
surface of the stream, the coming generation of dragon-flies was waging
a precisely similar war--a war, too, even more relentless? The
full-fledged dragon-fly cannot bring himself to venture out, even to
eat, unless the sun be shining; but the budding dragon-fly has not yet
learnt to be so particular, and hunts incessantly, be the weather fine
or wet. The apparatus by which his prey is captured cannot, however, be
easily described. The mouth of an insect is made up of many separate
parts, and that which in other insects forms the 'under-lip,' is in the
young dragon-fly peculiarly modified to form what is known as the
'mask.' This remarkable piece of apparatus may be compared to a pair of
nippers mounted on a jointed and freely movable handle. When not in use
these nippers are kept folded up close under the head; but as soon as
prey comes within reach, the nippers flash out, and the victim is seized
and brought to the powerful jaws, where it is rapidly torn to pieces.
The weapons of offence of the spider and dragon-fly larva differ in one
important particular from those of the bee and the water-bug, and
similar insects: the former are used for the capture of victims intended
as food, whilst the latter are employed, in the case of the bee, for
attack or defence; and in the case of the water-bug for robbing the
animal or plant of a small and quite insignificant quantity of its
blood, or sap, as the case may be.
W. P. PYCRAFT, A.L.S., F.Z.S.
[Illustration:
1. Young Dragon-Fly and "Mask" (magnified).
2. Dragon-fly.
3. Poison Gland of Spider (much magnified).
4. Spider and Bee Fighting.]
THE BOY TRAMP.
(_Continued from page 38._)
Thoughts of the ill-favoured tramp had once or twice come into my head
while I ate my eggs and bacon, but, perhaps as one result of the meal, I
felt very little doubt that he had by this time got some distance ahead,
while the rest which I had determined to take would allow him to leave
me still further behind. On coming into the street again, however, I
took the precaution to look to the right and left, and rejoiced to see
no sign of the man. The houses of Broughton soon grew farther and
farther apart, but I had to walk a mile or more without seeing any
tempting resting-place. The sun was very hot, and my legs were beginning
to ache, when, at the foot of a slight hill, I saw that the road was
edged on each side by a thick wood, whose shade looked particularly
inviting. As soon as I reached the shade, I found that I was not alone,
for sitting in the road were two men wearing wire spectacles and
breaking stones with a hammer. They paid not the slightest attention to
me, while, for my part, I felt rather glad of their presence. The shade
made the spot seem more lonely than the road I had as yet traversed, so
that I stepped into the wood on my right with a pleasant feeling of
security. A few yards from the road I lay down at the foot of a large
beech-tree, and resting my head on my bag, after listening for a few
minutes to the ring of the hammers in the road, I must have fallen
asleep. On reopening my eyes I instinctively felt for my watch, and when
I realised that I should never see it again, it seemed that I had lost a
familiar friend. The sun now shone lower in the sky, and it must in any
case be time that I continued my journey.
Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I walked towards the road, when what
was my dismay to see the tramp, who I imagined had long left me behind,
seated by the roadside, smoking a very short, black pipe and gazing
silently at the stone-breakers. Although he took no notice of my
presence, I now began to wonder whether he had deliberately followed me
from Broughton, or whether his presence in this shady part of the road
was merely a chance coincidence. It was quite possible that he had
hidden himself while I was in the coffee-shop, watched me from its door,
and set forth in my wake. If this were the case, his purpose seemed
scarcely doubtful, for he had certainly seen me receive the money for my
watch and chain.
[Illustration: "His left hand gripped the collar of my jacket."]
Still, it was not possible to stay where I was all day, so reluctantly
turning my back on the stone-breakers, I walked on, trying to hope that,
after all, the tramp might be perfectly harmless in spite of his evil
appearance. Though strongly tempted to look behind and ascertain whether
he was following or not, I warned myself that it would be wiser to
appear to take no notice, till, at last, when the stone-breakers must
have been half a mile to the rear, I looked back, and saw, to my horror,
that the tramp was still dogging my steps.
CHAPTER VI.
Half panic-stricken for the moment, I quickened my pace; but when I
looked behind again ten minutes later, it appeared that the tramp had
lessened the distance between us.
It now began to seem like a nightmare. There was no prospect of getting
away from my pursuer. If I hastened, he walked faster, and I no longer
felt the least doubt that his intention was to rob me. Although the road
was little frequented, it was by no means deserted. An occasional
bicyclist would pass, or a waggon, or a dog-cart, while here and there
stood farm-houses and cottages by the way-side.
I believed that the tramp would dog my steps until dark, and that in the
meantime he would not allow me out of his sight. Yet, until the present,
I had no actual cause for complaint, and when I met a policeman, there
seemed no excuse for referring to the tramp's existence. Feeling bound
to speak to the policeman, however, I stopped to inquire the time, and
he eyed me curiously as he took out his watch. My clothes were by this
time covered with dust, and no doubt I appeared a disreputable figure.
'Five past five,' said the policeman. I must have slept in the wood
longer than I had thought.
'Thank you,' I answered, and he passed on, greatly to my regret.
The finger-posts told me that a place named Polehampton lay ahead, but I
would not inquire the distance, and so tell the policeman that I did not
know much about my destination. But when I fancied he must be close to
the tramp, I looked back, just in time to see them exchange a nod in
passing.
Every time I looked behind after this, my pursuer appeared to be gaining,
although he took care not to overtake me. He could easily have done so
had he wished, because I was becoming extremely tired, the more, no
doubt, because of the fear which oppressed me. As this gained strength,
I did the worst thing possible--playing, as it were, into the tramp's
hands if his purpose was what I suspected. But this walk along the
straight, open road as evening fell became gradually more and more
unbearable. I even began to ask myself whether it could be actually a
nightmare, and I should presently awake to find myself in bed at Ascot
House, scarcely knowing which would be preferable.
Seeing a stile leading to a field-path on my right, I suddenly determined
to climb over it, and though I had no notion whither it lead, to take to
my heels, regardless of everything but the chance of leaving the tramp
behind. In a second I was over, and, doubling my fists, began to run.
There were some cattle in the field, and the path appeared to end at
another stile, beyond which was a plantation of chestnut-trees. To the
left, beyond a hedge, lay a large plot of waste ground; to the right, a
dense wood, where I could hear some pigeons cooing.
I did not stay to look back until I reached the farther stile, a good
deal out of breath, and then, to my intense relief, I saw nobody in the
path. I persuaded myself that the tramp must have reached the first
stile before now, and that, as there was no sign of him, he had gone on
his way. Perhaps, I thought, as I climbed over the second stile, I had
wronged the man after all, and had simply been the prey of my own
timidity. Resting on the top of the stile a moment, I began to look
around. In front was a narrow path through the chestnut plantation, and
it must lead somewhere, though I knew not where. But I determined to
follow it, thus making a slight divergence from the main road, and
finding a way back to it to-morrow. Meantime, I might come to a village,
where it would be possible to obtain some supper and a bed. So,
rejoicing to have shaken off my nightmare, I sprang to the ground on the
other side of the stile, when immediately I felt a hand on my collar,
and saw the dark eyes of the tramp once more peering into my own.
He had, of course, dived into the wood when he saw me climb over the
first stile, and, cutting off the corner, had been coolly awaiting my
arrival. On the whole, I think that being in his grasp was almost
preferable to the feeling that he was dogging my steps. His left hand
gripped the collar of my jacket and flannel shirt, and instantly I began
to wriggle, twisting my leg about his own in an attempt to bring him to
the ground; but the man was of enormous strength, and, freeing himself,
he shook me as a terrier shakes a rat, until I felt there was little
breath left in my body.
Yet I did not give in without another struggle. I knew that he would
take every penny I possessed, and that there was nothing else on which
to raise any money. I was still nearly ninety miles from London, and
already ready for another meal. I butted my head into his stomach, I
struck out madly with my fists, I writhed and kicked, until, raising his
right arm, he brought down his fist on my head, and after that I knew
nothing for some time.
When I regained consciousness, I lay in the plantation about two yards
from the path, just where I had been flung, I suppose. My head and body
seemed to ache all over, but, on attempting to rise to my feet, I found
no difficulty, beyond a slight giddiness. My bag had disappeared, my
knickerbocker pocket, which had contained my total capital of fourteen
shillings and eightpence, was sticking out empty, and, of course, there
was no sign of the tramp. Walking to the stile, I found that my left
ankle pained me, although not very severely; I could also see in the
lessening light that my clothes were considerably torn.
So hopeless appeared the outlook that I confess I rested my arms on the
top of the stile, buried my face on them and sobbed, until the
increasing darkness warned me that crying would not provide a bed for
the night. A bed for the night! But how could I obtain a bed without
money? Still, it was not practicable to remain where I was, while I
thought it would be better to take my chance through the plantation than
to return to the road, where I might even meet the tramp again.
Certainly, whichever direction I followed, I had no wish to walk very
far. I had never felt quite so worn out in my life, as I continued my
way through the plantation and a field beyond, the gate of which opened
into a pleasant country lane. Here I turned to the right, as the main
road lay to the left, and I had not walked many yards before I reached a
pretty farm-house, standing well back, with a barn on its left, in which
some cows were lowing. The sky was by this time of a dark blue, and one
small star twinkled. I could not help looking rather longingly at the
cosy house, and, while I looked, a lamp was carried into one of the
front rooms and a red blind was drawn down. However, it was no use
lingering there, so I walked on beside a hedge, fragrant with
honeysuckle, past one or two fields, until I came to a black gate with
something shadowy behind it. Stopping by the gate, I saw that the object
in the field was part of a haystack, one side being cut into a kind of
terrace. Four black calves came to the gate, but they turned tail and
trotted away again as I put my leg over the top rail, for I at once made
up my mind that there would be no better place to sleep than the
haystack. The night was fine and hot, and my body ached to such a degree
that I felt I could sleep anywhere.
(_Continued on page 54._)
TAKE CARE OF THE DAYS.
The little days come, one by one,
And smile into our face;
Each hath its dawn and set of sun,
Each hath its little place.
Then scorn them not, but use them well,
Treat each one as a friend;
Neglect them not! We cannot tell
How soon our days may end.
Heed not the years! Make _every day_
With love and labour fair;
The years, then, as they roll away,
Will need no further care.
E. D.
THE CAPTAIN'S TURN FIRST.
The captain of a merchant ship, on being appointed to a new vessel,
heard that his crew had a very bad name for the use of oaths. He
determined to put an end to bad language on his ship, and, knowing how
hard it would be to do so by the mere exercise of authority, thought of
a novel plan which was entirely successful. He summoned the men and
addressed them thus:
'I want to ask you all a favour, and I know that British sailors will
hardly refuse a favour to their new captain. It is my duty to take the
lead in everything, and especially in one thing. Now, will you grant me
my favour?'
'Aye, aye, sir,' said the men, not knowing what he would ask.
'It is this, then. I want to take the lead in swearing, and to use the
first oath on board this ship, before any of you begin to swear.'
The men were at first surprised at the strange request, but they soon
recovered and gave the captain a rousing cheer. Needless to say, the
captain's oath was never uttered, and so the men had no excuse for
swearing.
SAVED BY TWENTY GUINEAS.
Thanks to his quickness of brain and fleetness of foot, M. de B----, a
French Royalist officer, was able to use a well-known device and so
effect an escape from imminent death.
On a certain memorable morning, sixty-nine brave soldiers were executed
by the Republicans. The story of these deaths, and of one remarkable
escape, is related by a fellow-prisoner who witnessed the scene.
At nine o'clock in the morning the prisoners were startled by the
entrance of a Republican officer, who held a piece of paper in his hand,
and was attended by an escort of about twenty soldiers. As he came in he
announced:
'Citizens! you are to accompany me. Those whose names I shall call will
not return to this place. As I read out the roll, let each one named
range himself on the right-hand side.'
The men obeyed this order in silence; no one knew what it meant, and all
feared the worst. Only two names were excepted from the roll; the other
prisoners, seventy in number, stood in line, awaiting their unknown
fate.
'The word was given to march,' says the narrator, 'and the whole
seventy-two of us, guarded by a large number of Republican soldiers,
filed out from the gloomy gaol. We were taken to the seashore, where a
halt was made; then the officer in charge read the death-sentence,
adding, as he turned to us--the two whose names were excepted from the
fatal list--these words:
'"These others will not be sentenced until further evidence has been
heard, but they will be present at the execution of those condemned."
'The unhappy men were then and there shot, one by one. This work of
horror went on for an hour, and we, whose time had not yet come, were
forced to stand by, fully expecting that the same fate would shortly be
our own.
'Sixty-nine had fallen, and at last came the turn of De B----. The four
men told off to shoot him said, "We are extremely sorry to do this, but
it is the law, and we cannot help ourselves; and now, if you have any
money about you, please bestow it upon us."
'A happy thought flashed through the Royalist's brain. "I have twenty
guineas," he replied calmly, "but I do not desire to cause any jealousy
amongst you. I will therefore fling down the coins, and let each one get
what he can."
'With a dexterous movement of his hand he sent the golden coins spinning
in all directions. The soldiers, in their greedy eagerness, forgot the
prisoner for a moment, and scrambled for the money; this was what M. de
B---- had reckoned on. As he was an excellent runner, taking to his
heels, he promptly fled, got safely away, and was never recaptured.'
[Illustration: "The soldiers forgot the prisoner, and scrambled for the
money."]
[Illustration: "'Fight against my country! Not for the ransom of a
king!'"]
THE ADMIRAL AND THE FISHERMAN.
M. de Tourville, a French Admiral who lived in the beginning of King
William the Third's reign, proposed to make a descent on the English
coast, and, as his intention was to land somewhere in Sussex, he sent
for a fisherman, a native of that county, who had been taken prisoner by
one of his ships, in hopes of obtaining some useful information
concerning the state of the Government. He asked the fisherman to whom
his countrymen were most attached, to King James or to the Prince of
Orange, styled King William.
The poor man, confounded by these questions, made the Admiral this
reply: 'I have never heard of the gentlemen you mention; they may be
very good lords for anything I know; they never did me any harm, and so
God bless them both. As for the Government, how should I know anything
about it, since I can neither read nor write? All I have to do is to
take care of my boat and my nets, and sell my fish.'
'Then, since you are indifferent to both parties,' said the Admiral,
'and are a good mariner, you can have no objection to serve on board my
ship.'
'I fight against my country!' answered the fisherman, with great vigour.
'No, not for the ransom of a king!'
W. Y.
GOOD-NIGHT, GOOD-DAY!
We got up to welcome the swallows
This morning as soon as the sun;
Then over the hills and the hollows
We went for a beautiful run.
The daisies were ready to meet us--
All over the meadows they grew;
But now we must say:
'Good-night, O good-day!
We've been very happy with you.'
We sang with the busy bees humming
O'er blossoms too bright to forget,
And when the soft breezes were coming
We saw the grass bow as they met.
Oh, may all the hearts that have known you
Now beat with a pleasure like ours,
And cheerfully say:
'Good-night, O good-day!
And thank you for sunshine and flowers.'
JOHN LEA.
WHALEBONE.
Many thrilling stories have been written about the dangers of
whale-fishing. The perils and hardships of whaling expeditions are
braved in order that we may be supplied principally with two
things--whale-oil and whalebone. If you can learn what whalebone is, and
what is its use, you will know a good deal about the habits of the whale
itself.
The substance which we call whalebone is not true bone. It would be much
more correct to call it whales' teeth, as it occupies the same position
as teeth, and, in a measure, serves the same purpose. Moreover, the
whale has a skeleton of true bones underlying its flesh, and serving as
a framework for its huge, bulky body. These bones are very light and
porous, and this is a great advantage to the whale, which spends most of
its time floating upon the surface of the water without having to make
much effort.
There are numerous kinds of whales, and they do not all yield the
substance which we call whalebone. The sperm whale, or cachalot, has
teeth in its lower jaw, and no whalebone whatever. The Greenland whale,
on the other hand, which is the one most sought after for its oil, has
no teeth, but abundance of whalebone, which hangs from the sides of its
upper jaw.
In order to get some idea of what this whalebone is like as it hangs in
the whale's mouth, we must try to picture what the whale itself is like.
The largest of them grow to something like sixty feet in length. The
head is unusually large, and forms about one-third of the whole body,
and the inside of the mouth is about as large as a ship's cabin or a
very small room. The strips of whalebone, which reach from the upper jaw
to the lower one, must, therefore, be very large. The largest strips,
which hang in the middle of the jaws, are rather like large planks,
being from ten to fifteen feet long, and about twelve inches across at
their widest part. They are thinner than planks, however, and perhaps we
might better compare them to long and broad saw-blades. There are
altogether about three hundred of these whalebone planks or blades in
the whale's mouth. They are set transversely--that is to say, one narrow
edge of each piece touches the tongue, while the other edge lies against
the cheek or lip. They lie so close together that from the middle of the
edge of one blade to the middle of the edge of the next the distance is
less than an inch, and yet there is a space between them. The whole set
extends like a huge grate round the whale's mouth, the bars of whalebone
being long in the middle of the sides of the jaws, and growing shorter
near the back and front.
Whalebone is very fibrous or stringy, and it splits very readily. The
lower ends of the pieces in the whale's mouth are split and frayed into
stiff bristles, and the inner edges are frayed in the same way, while
the outer edges are made smooth, so that they do not hurt the inside of
the animal's lips. The roof of the whale's mouth is covered with smaller
pieces of whalebone hanging down like bristled quills. Many of these are
only a few inches long, but they make the whole of the upper part of the
whale's mouth rough and bristly.
The creature's tongue is an enormous one, often measuring six yards long
and three yards wide. Its throat, however, is so small that sailors
often say a herring would choke it. What can be the use of such a large
mouth and tongue, and such large bars of whalebone to a creature which
has so small a throat?
On the surface of the Arctic Sea, where the whale lives, there are
swarms of living creatures. Some of these are jelly-fish, like those
which are often left upon the sea-shore when the tide goes out. But one
of the commonest of these lowly animals is a little soft-bodied
creature about an inch and a half long, which moves along through the
water with the help of two organs like wings or paddles. It is called
the _Clio borealis_, and it is very rarely seen near the shore. It is
upon these creatures that the whale feeds. Opening its mouth wide, it
rushes through the sea, and takes in a crowd of these soft-bodied
animals, along with the water in which they are swimming. Closing its
mouth, it drives out the water through its plates of whalebone, and the
little creatures are caught in the bristles as in a net. Its great
tongue is lifted up, and crushes them all into soft pulp, which is
easily swallowed, even down the whale's small throat.
Thus every part of the whale's mouth is altered to suit its strange mode
of feeding. The hard teeth, which would be of no use for biting small
pulpy animals, are done away with, and a new growth of whalebone
appears, which is of the utmost service in catching the whale its food.
Whalebone has been used for many purposes. It is split up into little
pieces, and used for light frameworks, which are required to be stiff,
but, at the same time, elastic. It used to be used for the ribs of
umbrellas and for ladies' hoops. It was also split very small and used
for the bristles of brushes. But it is now becoming scarce, and other
substances are generally used in its place.
W. A. ATKINSON.
SAVED BY THE ENEMY.
The following story of the Crimean War, told by the Russian author,
Turgenieff, is well authenticated.
A young Russian Lieutenant, named Sergius Ivanovitch, was one cold night
with an attacking party whose object was to drive a body of French
soldiers from their position in front of the Russian lines. Wishing to
be as free from hindrances as possible, this young lieutenant did not
take his military cloak.
The French proved to be well posted on the edge of a wood. At the end of
a desperate fight, the Russians were forced to retreat, leaving behind
them their dead and wounded. Among the latter was Sergius Ivanovitch.
How he now longed for his cloak! He suffered even more from the cold
than from his wound. Although a bullet was in his leg, he knew that the
exposure, rather than the wound, would be the death of him. With many a
shiver and groan, he was trying to examine his leg, when he heard some
one say in French:
'You had better leave it alone. Be patient, and disturb your wound as
little as possible.'
The man who thus spoke was a veteran French captain, who lay close by,
more severely injured than Sergius.
'You are right, no doubt,' said the Russian; 'but I shall die of cold
before morning.'
Then the Frenchman blamed him for coming out in the snow without his
cloak. 'I have learned by experience,' said he, 'never to go out without
mine. This time, however, it will not save me, for I am mortally
wounded.'
'Your people will fetch you presently.'
'No, my dear enemy, I shall not last until help arrives. It is all over
with me, for the shot has gone deep. Here! take my cloak. Wrap yourself
up in it and sleep. One can sleep anywhere at your age.'
The young Russian protested in vain. He felt the cloak laid upon him,
and its warmth sent him to sleep.
When he awoke in the morning, the French captain lay dead at his side.
The Russian never forgot this generous act of one whom the policy of his
nation had made his enemy.
E. D.
WONDERFUL CAVERNS.
II.--FINGAL'S CAVE, STAFFA.
While we shall have to consider some of the most wonderful caverns of
other lands, we must not forget that Great Britain can boast of perhaps
the most beautiful cave in the world. As we are a nation of sailors, it
seems fitting that our marvellous cavern should rise directly from the
sea, and that its pavement should be the mighty ocean. It is claimed as
the most beautiful because it has the advantage of light to exhibit its
wonders, as well as the endless variety of the dancing waves to
illuminate its dark pillars with a never-ending flash of gems, as the
waters dash against its walls in storms, or lap lovingly round them in
the summer sunlight.
Fingal's Cave is one of many fringing the cliffs of the little island of
Staffa, off the coast of Mull, in Scotland. These caves are all formed
of what learned people call basalt, which means rocks moulded by the
action of fire. Basalt contains a good deal of an opaque glassy
substance, and its colour may be pale blue, dark blue, grey, brown, or
black. This rock has a special faculty for building columns with
(usually) six sides, but the form varies as much as the colour. These
pillars are divided at fairly equal distances into lengths, just as
stone pillars in a cathedral are generally built, and, wonderful to say,
the joints, when closely examined, are found to be of the cup-and-ball
pattern, on which our own bones are put into their sockets.
Basalt is usually hard and tough, and it is supposed, though with no
certainty, that the regularity of the columns is the result of the
contraction of the rock in cooling after undergoing great heat.
The name Staffa is a Scandinavian word meaning 'Pillar Island,' and no
doubt its wonders have been known from very remote times. It is quite
near the island of Iona, one of the earliest settlements of the
Christian missionaries from Ireland.
[Illustration: Fingal's Cave Staffa.]
A little distance from the shore is the tiny island of Bouchallie, or
the Herdsman, which is entirely composed of basaltic rocks of great
beauty; and from this islet a colonnade of pillars leads to the entrance
of Fingal's Cave. The mouth of the cave is forty-two feet wide, the roof
is fifty-six feet above, and the length of the cavern is two hundred and
twenty-seven feet.
All down the sides pillars line the walls, and from above hang the ends
of pendant columns. Below is the clear blue water, where even at low
tide there is a depth of eighteen feet.
Sir Walter Scott was so impressed with this marvel of Nature, that he
wrote:
'Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself it seemed would raise
A Minster to her Maker's praise.'
Certainly no service that human tongues could utter could surpass in
impressiveness the strains raised to the glory of the Creator by the
waves as they enter this temple of His own building, and toss aloft
their offerings of glistening water and snowy foam.
Fingal, the hero from whom the cave takes its name, was a mighty man of
renown in the legendary days of both Scotland and Ireland. He figures in
the poems of Ossian, as well as in Gaelic ballads as Fion or Fion na
Gael, and no other lore has ever been so dear to the peasants of these
countries as the record of the marvellous deeds of Fingal.
Another remarkable cave in Staffa is 'Clam-shell Cave,' which is of
immense size. It is really a huge fissure in the cliff, of which one
side is wonderfully like the ribs of a ship or the markings on a
clam-shell. This appearance is the result of immense pillars of basalt
crossing the rock in even lines.
A rough iron stairway has been put up the cliff to enable visitors to
look into the cave from above.
The 'Boat Cave' is smaller than that of Fingal, but the basaltic
formation is even more regular: this cavern runs for one hundred and
fifty feet, and is about twelve feet broad.
Indeed the whole coast of Staffa is studded with caves, into some of
which a boat can enter when the water is smooth, but this is not of very
frequent occurrence on this storm-beaten coast.
HELENA HEATH.
[Illustration: The Teal.]
THE TEAL.
What is the Teal? It is a bird once plentiful in many parts of Britain
from which it has now vanished, owing to the draining of marshes and the
cultivation of coast-lands, for it loves watery places. Being a notable
species of the duck tribe, it is a prize to the hunter of wild-fowl. Not
only is the bird thought a delicacy, but when the hunter comes upon a
party of them he can generally manage to secure several. It is a shy
bird, avoiding the abodes of mankind and large ponds or rivers. What it
likes is a still, rushy pool, or some sluggish brook overhung with
vegetation. About the South of England it is seldom observed except in
winter; occasionally it keeps company with other wild ducks when the
weather is severe. Should one of them be alarmed by the approach of a
possible enemy, while it is on a brook, it usually flies up and skims
just above the water for some distance, when it will quietly settle near
the bank, or it may drop into the water and swim away rapidly.
In their appearance the male and female birds are very different. The
male teal is particularly handsome; the head is chestnut brown, having a
glossy patch on each side; the neck and back are black, pencilled with
grey; the wings exhibit a green spot, set in velvety black, and
underneath, the colours are black and buff. But his female companion has
no bright tints; she is attired in dull black and grey, which is an
advantage to her, helping to her concealment at the period of nesting.
About July the old teals moult, and, losing for a time their quill
feathers, they are unable to fly, though able to walk and swim. Thus
deprived of their fine feathers, the male birds are less handsome, and
resemble the females till spring comes. Often in September and October
teals assemble to migrate, flocks of them flying hundreds of miles to
some winter resort, which they quit when the wonderful instinct given
them by Providence tells them to journey elsewhere to make their nests.
Teals do not like to place the nest flat on the earth, and it is
generally put on the ground rather above the marshes or streamlets, a
hollow being scraped under a small bush. One or other of the parents
lines the nest, perhaps with heather, or perhaps with fragments of
grass. Eight, nine, or ten creamy-white eggs are laid, and then the
hen-bird plucks from her body the soft down underlying the feathers,
which is put round the eggs, making a soft bed for the young when
hatched. They soon swim and run well, following their mother about as
she goes insect-hunting.
J. R. S. C.
THE BOY TRAMP.
(_Continued from page 47._)
The haystack seemed to be cut exactly for my purpose, and, mounting step
by step, I found a terrace more than sufficiently large to allow me to
lie at full length. The scent was warm and sweet, and when I had said my
prayers, I lay staring up at the sky, watching as the stars came out one
by one. For a while, sleep would not visit me, although my head went
round and round, as it were, and I seemed to be conscious of nothing but
the tramp pursuing me along the white, dusty road. Yet I must have
fallen asleep before long, because I was suddenly awakened by the
barking of a dog.
'Heel, Tiger,' said a man's voice. 'Good dog, heel!' I still heard the
dog growl in a painfully threatening manner, then the man's voice again.
It was a somewhat rough voice, yet with a kindly note in it. 'Now,' it
said, 'whoever you are, I advise you to show yourself. I don't want to
hurt you, but if you don't show up in another minute, I shall set my dog
on to you.'
As it was, I felt in mortal dread lest Tiger should spring at me during
my descent; still, I rose to my feet, feeling still a little giddy and
confused, climbed down to the foot of the haystack, and walked a little
timidly towards the gate, where I could distinctly see the tall,
stoutly-built figure of a middle-aged man in the light of the rising
moon.
'What were you doing there?' he demanded.
'I was only asleep,' I answered.
'Think my hayrick is a proper place to sleep on?'
'I had nowhere else,' I cried.
'Well,' he said, 'come along with me, and we will have a better look at
you.'
As I walked by his side, with Tiger, a large retriever, sniffing
suspiciously at my heels, I realised that we were going in the direction
of the cosy-looking farm-house. The possibility of being offered a
comfortable bed, with a chance of taking off my clothes, and of
something to eat, seemed delightful, and, before we came within sight of
the red blind again, I had lost all fear of my companion, although he
had not opened his lips during our short walk.
He came to a standstill in front of a five-barred gate beyond the barn,
in which I could hear the cows chewing. 'Now, then,' he said, and,
without any second bidding, I entered the farmyard. 'This way,' he
continued, and the next minute he was tapping the door of the house with
his stick. It was opened by a short woman, who wore a white apron over a
dark dress, and had one of the ugliest and pleasantest faces I have ever
seen.
'Who is that?' she asked, stepping back in surprise on seeing that the
farmer was not alone.
'I went to see if the calves were all right,' was the answer, 'and the
youngster was asleep on the rick. Tiger found him out--didn't you,
Tiger?'
'Well,' said the woman, 'he looks as if something to eat would do him
good, anyhow.'
'Take him to the kitchen, Eliza,' cried the farmer, and, opening a door
to the left of the passage, she bade me enter and sit down; whereupon I
suppose I must have again fallen asleep, for I was conscious of nothing
farther until I opened my eyes, and saw Eliza in the act of placing a
tray on the deal table; on the tray I rejoiced to see a large pork chop,
a cup of hot cocoa, and a thick slice of bread.
CHAPTER VII.
My spirits seemed to rise with every mouthful of food, and I felt that I
had at last reached a haven after all the unfortunate turmoils of this
first day. Although the evening was hot, the kitchen fire seemed only to
add to the sense of comfort, and although there were no looking-glasses,
there were many things so bright that I could easily have seen my face
in them.
Eliza, who was Mr. Baker's housekeeper, watched me with evident
enjoyment, and before the plate was empty she rose to replenish it. I
felt thankful that Providence had guided me to Mr. Baker's door, and
devoutly hoped that I should not be turned away that night. I realised
instinctively that these were the sort of people who would not turn a
dog from their door if he needed succour, and by the time I had finished
my meat, and had begun to eat a large portion of apple tart with a great
many cloves in it, it appeared certain that there was shelter for one
night, at least. At last I finished the last piece of thick and rather
heavy piecrust, and sat waiting to see what would happen next.
'Now,' said Eliza, 'I should think the next thing ought to be to clean
yourself.'
'I should like it immensely,' I answered.
So she led me to a wash-house behind the kitchen, and brought a large
bowl of enamelled iron, filling it with very hot water. A cake of yellow
soap and a jack-towel were provided, and taking off my jacket and
waistcoat, I enjoyed a thoroughly good wash.
'Let me see what I can do with those,' said Eliza, taking my jacket and
waistcoat, and when she brought them back as I dried my hands they
certainly looked a little less dusty. She lent me a hard brush to brush
my knickerbockers, stockings, and boots, and al
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