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Little Folks

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Title: Little Folks

Author: Various


        
Release date: May 20, 2008 [eBook #25534]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25534

Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Josephine Paolucci
        and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
        http://www.pgdp.net.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE FOLKS ***




Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Josephine Paolucci
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.







LITTLE FOLKS:

_A Magazine for the Young._

_NEW AND ENLARGED SERIES._

CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED

_LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK._

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

Transcriber's Note: The project was listed as the August 1884 edition,
but there is no information indicating that on the scans I worked with.
Minor typos have been corrected. Italics are indicated with underscores
like _this_, bold is indicate like ~this~. Smallcap letters have been
converted to all-caps for the text file.




A LITTLE TOO CLEVER.

_By the Author of "Pen's Perplexities," "Margaret's Enemy," "Maid
Marjory," &c._


CHAPTER IV.--HAS ELSIE FORGOTTEN?

[Illustration]

"Look you, Duncan," Elsie exclaimed, when they had walked on some way in
silence, "I've made up my mind to go, and what's the use o' waitin'? The
sooner the better, for it may turn cold any day now. We shouldn't be
long if it was fine, but if 'twas wet we might have to wait up in
places. I must sit down an' see if I can find out the way to go from the
map."

"We shan't be to school in time," Duncan protested.

"Well, an' I dunno that I care," Elsie replied. "What's the odds o' one
afternoon more or less? It'll be many a day I shall be called truant, I
reckon. But they might be after tellin' of us, an' she'd be lockin' me
up in the loft, which isn't what I want, so we'll get to school to-day,"
she added, meditatively. "Here, take the basket, while I try to make the
map out as we walk along."

Now, Elsie had a great many faults indeed, but there was one thing you
may have noticed about her that had something of a good point about it:
it never occurred to her to desert Duncan. She might have said, "You run
on to the shop with the beans while I study the map," for Duncan knew
his way well enough; but the little fellow had ever depended upon her,
and been her inseparable companion. She would guide him into stray
paths, but it would never occur to her to forsake him, or withdraw from
him the protection of her fearless, daring spirit. One good point,
however small and obscure it is, may be taken as a proof that there is
some good soil in the nature which has developed it where other similar
plants may flourish. We have room to hope, therefore, that Elsie was not
without her better side.

"It don't look far," Elsie said, meditatively, tracing the space with
her finger on the map, which was a small one, and to the inexperienced
eyes that were studying it reduced distance to a mere nothing. "Here's
London printed very big. It's a goodish way down, is London, gettin' on
to the end of England, only England's a very little place, accordin' to
the map. Any way, it wouldn't be so very long, for that old guide
they've got at home with the map in it makes this road look just about
six times as long as it is."

"You're quite sure we're goin' to run away?" Duncan asked, rather
dolefully.

"I won't say whether it'll be walkin' or runnin', but I'm quite sure I
shall go," Elsie replied.

"I think they'll cry when they can't find us," Duncan said,
meditatively.

"Poor bodies! if they cry it'll be with rage to think we're gone," Elsie
said contemptuously. "I just wonder if they'll guess then I've got the
letter, an' that I've found out all about it. I'm no silly like you,
Duncan, or I'd never have made head or tail of it; and then, what 'ud
become of us when we're big?"

"We shan't be hungry, or tired, or anything bad, shall we?" asked the
matter-of-fact Duncan.

Elsie's mind had passed over the trivial matter of the journey, and all
such minor details, to the grand result, when she had found their
father, and would be living with him in a beautiful place, with all that
heart could desire. But Duncan's imagination could put on no such
seven-league boots. It stuck fast at the first disagreeable details, and
was not even rewarded by the prospect which so delighted Elsie, for his
mind could not picture any other life than his present one.

"And what would you be the worse for a wee bit of hunger or tiredness?
Ain't we often that? I'm hungry now without any dinner, an' you'll be
fit to eat your head before you get your tea," said Elsie.

"Only, we shall get it," Duncan replied, in his provokingly straight
way. "If we was long on the road, where'd we get anything at all?"

"I've pennies in my box, an' so have you," Elsie replied impatiently. "A
loaf an' a drop o' milk'll be all we want."

"Oh, yes, it'll do very well on the road. There'll be shops, of course."

"Of course there will. Runnin' away isn't bad. I'd almost like to do it
just for the fun. Lots o' the books teacher's lent me out o' the school
library has got runnin' away in them. Sometimes they get into troubles,
and all sorts o' queer things happen, but it always comes right in the
end. I've noticed that particular."

They were near the village shop now, and as Duncan had no reply to make,
they went on without further conversation till they reached it. "We had
to bring you these instead o' takin' our dinners," Elsie grumbled.

"Dear, dear! poor little bodies!" said the kindly shop-dame,
compassionately. "It's bad for the bairnies to be hungry. I'll fetch you
a bit of cold puddin' with plums enough to put a stop to countin'. You
can eat it as you go along."

She went into her room, and cut two slices.

"There," said Elsie, triumphantly, "I told you anybody 'ud be kind to
children. Mrs. Callam thought it was a shame for us to be hungry, an'
so'd anyone else. I ain't a bit afraid of runnin' away, are you?"

"Afraid?" Duncan replied, with alacrity. "You needn't think I'm afraid."

They reached school in time, and put the borrowed atlas back into its
place unobserved. "I'd like to take it with me," Elsie said to herself,
"only I couldn't give it back, an' then it 'ud be stealin'; but I can't
forget the way."

Duncan got through his tasks in his usual fashion, not brilliantly or
quickly, but pretty accurately. Elsie was in trouble more than once
during the afternoon for inattention, and earned several bad marks, over
which she did not fret.

On their way home Elsie appeared quite to have forgotten her grand
scheme, for she said positively not one word about it. "P'raps she won't
do it after all," thought Duncan, for it was no uncommon thing for Elsie
to utter dreadful-sounding threats, and make boasts which came to
nothing. Duncan grew quite gay and cheerful at this thought, and went
dancing along with all his usual light-heartedness.

But he was quite wrong. Elsie had not tired of her idea, but she was
dreadfully afraid stupid little Duncan might unwittingly betray them,
and so, with the craftiness which soon comes to those who plot, she was
bent upon turning his mind quite away from her schemes until the time
came for action. She even went so far as to talk about all sorts of
things in the most ordinary way, as if she and Duncan were to pass all
their lives in the cottage on the moor.

The afternoon meal was waiting for them when they went in. Their mother
had cooked them a nice slice of bacon, and had baked them each what the
children called a bun, which was a little piece of dough from the
regular bread-making, baked separately. It always seemed much sweeter
than the ordinary loaf, and was crisp and crusty, like our rolls, so I
don't think there was much to grumble over, although they had not had
any dinner.

When it was ended Mrs. MacDougall sat down to her knitting, while Elsie
cleared away. She was making stockings for the coming winter, and was
employed on Elsie's at present.

"It's gettin' a long stocking," the old grandmother said, as she watched
the length of leg and foot dangling from the pins. "You can't get to the
end o' it so quick as you used when it was about three inches from toe
to heel, an' the baby's five toes like so many pink beads."

All the children laughed at the idea. It seemed so funny to think of
Elsie, big-limbed, strong, and sunburnt, as a tiny babe.

"But a bonnie baby was Elsie," the old grandmother went on: "the
bonniest of all, eh, Meg?"

"Elsie was a beautiful baby," Mrs. MacDougall replied. "Her father was
real proud of her, and used to carry her about with him evening times,
long after she ought by good rights to have been a-bed. You remember
that, mother?"

"Eh, well enough," the old woman replied.

Duncan glanced at Elsie uneasily, but he could read nothing in her face.
Then he was guilty of laying a little trap.

"Was Elsie prettier than Robbie, then?" he asked.

"She was a prettier baby," Mrs. MacDougall answered, looking from one to
the other, and putting her hand on Robbie's fair curls, almost as if she
were doing him an injustice to say it. "Yes, I think every one would say
Elsie was the bonnier baby. Robbie was but a puling, pasty-faced little
thing, thin and miserable, not a crowing, bright little thing like the
others. He wanted a deal o' care, did Robbie, an' I will say he's had it
always."

"That he has, that he has," the old grandmother assented, warmly. "His
poor----"

"Father wouldn't know him if he was to see him now," said Mrs.
MacDougall, finishing her old mother's sentence.

For Duncan this little commonplace conversation had much more interest
than those who were speaking could have any idea of. It puzzled him
sorely too, for it seemed to tell such a different tale from the one
Elsie had put together. He was watching Elsie closely, wondering what
she could say to it. It was not so much what she had said that made
Duncan uncomfortable as the way she said it. "Just as if she was our
mother!" he thought to himself. "And then the letter said 'weak and
delicate,' an' after all we was stronger babies than Robbie--leastways,
Elsie was, and father used to be so proud of her. Elsie must have made a
mistake. I feel quite sure she has."

Perhaps Elsie guessed what he was thinking, for the first moment they
were alone she whispered to Duncan, "I can see through it," in a tone of
so much confidence that Duncan was unsettled again. "D'you think I can't
see through that?" Elsie said, contemptuously. "She talks like that o'
purpose to misguide us an' every one else that comes near. She makes
believe she's our mother always, even to granny, who knows she isn't,
for fear anybody should get thinkin' about it. Besides, I doubt not we
grew strong after a bit, maybe; an' if we ain't the babies, I'd like to
know where they are."

"P'raps they was fetched away again after a bit."

"You've always got an answer ready, for all you look so stupid," Elsie
said, crossly. "When did they go away, I'd like to know? Can you
remember? I can't; an' I can call to mind as long ago as when Robbie was
the baby, an father died."

To this Duncan could certainly find no reply. He himself had not the
faintest recollection of any other babies than Robbie, and of course
Elsie could remember better than he. He could not prove Elsie wrong, and
yet he could not bring himself to realise that such a strange thing had
been going on all these years in such a quiet, unnoticeable way--that
Mrs. MacDougall could seem so exactly like a mother to them, and yet not
be one. He was in a state of bewilderment, in which he could neither
believe nor disbelieve, and so he went to sleep with a weary sigh, and
left the mystery to unravel itself.

Not so Elsie. Her thoughts were very busy as she lay awake in her little
room. At last a happy idea seemed to strike her. "Yes, that'll be the
very time," she said softly to herself, and then settled herself to
sleep.


CHAPTER V.--"THE VERY TIME."

Several days passed away, in which Elsie said nothing more to Duncan of
her plans. Robbie's birthday passed off, and Elsie did serve the cake
and milk under the alder-tree, after all. She was even kind to the
little lad, and played with the two boys. Robbie was trying hard to
deserve her attention, running himself quite out of breath after the
ball she threw, and using all his strength to keep up with Duncan, who
was ever so much stronger.

By-and-by, when Elsie proposed a run on the moor, Robbie looked timidly
in her face, and said, "I wish I might come too."

"Well, go an' ask," Elsie said, condescendingly; and Robbie having
obtained permission, coupled with many injunctions not to go far or run
too much, they started, with Robbie in a radiant state of delight. And
Elsie was so gentle with him that Robbie could not help saying, "I do
like coming out here with you," in his own little gentle way; and
Duncan, who loved peace, was quite happy.

Two or three days later there was a slaying of fowls, while Elsie and
Duncan were set to pick a gathering of plums, apples, and beans, and
arrange them in baskets. As a rule, Elsie disliked this day, and went
about when she was at home with a cloudy face and many an impatient
exclamation. This time, however, she seemed quite cheerful, and helped
readily.

Very early the next morning Mrs. MacDougall was waiting at the cottage
door in her bonnet and shawl for Farmer Jarrett's cart. Presently it
came along, the farmer's round jolly face surmounting a heap of baskets,
packed with butter, cheese, eggs, and poultry. Mrs. MacDougall handed
her few baskets up to him, and when these were arranged in various odd
corners she put her foot on the cart-wheel, jumped up by his side, and
off they started for the little market town, where Mrs. MacDougall could
get a better price for the few things she had to sell than in the
village shop, and could also purchase more cheaply the groceries,
calicoes, and other necessaries of her household.

"Tell granny to take care o' Robbie," Mrs. MacDougall called, as she
waved her good-bye. "I shan't be later than six about."

"Take care o' Robbie, indeed!" muttered Elsie, just loud enough for
Duncan to hear. "It's always Robbie. Why should he be taken more care of
than any other body? P'raps she thinks he'll melt in the sun, or be
drowned by the rain, or blown away by the wind, which can't never hurt
us."

As Mrs. MacDougall drove off in the early morning, she looked somewhat
anxiously at the heavy mist which hung over the moor, and remarked to
her neighbour that there was a chilliness about the air this morning
which felt like the approach of cold weather.

"Well, we mustn't grumble," the farmer said, in his northern dialect;
"it's over fine for the time o' year; but when the weather does break we
shall have the winter early upon us, and a long, hard one too, I
reckon."

"If I have a good day I'll just take some warm stuff home for the
children," Mrs. MacDougall said to herself. Then she pulled out her
purse and looked over its contents, turning them over and over, and
reckoning them up, as if by dint of careful arithmetic they might,
perchance, come to a little more. In one part of it there was a little
packet of money done up in paper, marked "Robbie." There was more there
than in all the other divisions put together. It was clear Robbie would
not go short. Mrs. MacDougall looked at it with a little sigh.

[Illustration: "'WE ARE VERY TIRED,' ELSIE SAID" (_p. 71_).]

"I must get yarn to finish Elsie's stockings," she said to herself.
"Duncan will have her old ones that she's grown out of. A fine lassie
she'll be in a few more years, growing like this; but it's hard work to
keep them without a man's earnings to look to."

[Illustration]

"You're thinking out some very hard question, judging by your silence,"
the farmer said, after a while.

"Yes, it's just a puzzle to know how to bring the children up," Mrs.
MacDougall replied. "Since my good man died and left me with them, it's
been a hard matter at times, but never so hard as now. There's my Elsie,
growing as fine a lass as may be, though a deal bit wilful without a man
to intimidate her. She'll have to take service in a few years more, for
what else can I do with her? an' I'm thinking she'll take it hard, for
she's got rare notions, an' is a bit clever above the common. Duncan's
over young yet to fret about; Robbie'll be provided for, no doubt, when
the proper time comes."

"I wouldn't fret at all," the farmer replied, heartily; "you've done the
best, and worked hard for the bairnies since your good man was taken.
They'll find a good provision, I doubt not. There's a special protection
for the fatherless and the widow, so the minister's always saying."

"It's just the one interest of my life to see the children started,"
Mrs. MacDougall replied, "although sometimes I get pretty nigh
disheartened."

"You've had a sorrowful life," the farmer said. "Some dead, others false
and mean, but you've much to be proud of. The bairnies are strong an'
winsome, an' I'm sure the little one's just a real credit to you."

"Ah! the poor little lad. I think his father would be astonished to see
him. Yes, I'm bound to say he's done well, all things considered."

"But, if I may say it, I think you're a bit mistaken to treat him any
differently from the others. Surely he's strong an' hearty enough now."

"Mother talks like that," Mrs. MacDougall replied; "but I must be just.
There's many a time when I'd be glad to give the others a little more
and Robbie a little less, but I regard it as a temptation to be
resisted. He has a double claim upon me, an' if I were to push him to
the wall, or let him be sacrificed in any way, the dead would rise up
an' reproach me."

"But his father never intended you to make a difference between the
children," the farmer continued. "I'm thinking if it mightn't make a
jealousy among 'em, which wouldn't be a good thing for any of them."

"Children don't remark much," Mrs. MacDougall replied. "They know how
weakly he is, an' they wouldn't be jealous. It's circumstances has made
the difference. If their father had lived there'd have been plenty for
all, doubtless, but now the strong ones must go without, since they
can't all have everything; an' they know it must be so."

"Well, well, you do your best; but I will say I agree with the old
dame," Farmer Jarrett replied; and then they changed the subject.

In the meantime Elsie, having seen her mother depart, and had her
grumble against Robbie, turned back into the cottage. Mrs. MacDougall
was very greatly mistaken in supposing that Elsie was not jealous.
Duncan's matter-of-fact mind took things as he found them, and did not
trouble to inquire why they were so or whether they should be different,
but Elsie was quite the opposite. She was always troubling herself about
things that did not concern her, and not being of an open, ingenuous
disposition, which turns naturally to some other person for a solution
of its difficulties, she formed her own conclusions, which, more often
than not, were very erroneous ones.

It was not yet seven, so that there were more than two hours wanting to
school-time. Elsie was very busy about the house for a little time; she
changed her week-day clothes for her Sunday ones, and made Duncan do the
same; she opened their money-boxes, and carefully counted the coppers
they contained: they amounted altogether to elevenpence, halfpennies and
farthings included. These she tied up in a handkerchief, and put in her
pocket. Then she went to the pantry, and took from it a loaf of bread
and some Dutch cheese, which she put into a basket.

This done, she called sharply to Duncan to make haste, for she was
"going to have a run on the moor before school." Robbie asked timidly if
he might come too, but Elsie would not hear of it.

"You can tell granny when she comes downstairs that we're not coming
home to dinner. I've taken our dinner in a basket," she said to Robbie.

The little fellow stood at the door, and watched them wistfully as they
ran off. It was dull to turn back into the empty kitchen, and wait there
till the old dame came downstairs. If Robbie could have put his feelings
into words, he would have said that he would have been happier roughing
it with Duncan and Elsie than with the constant care and consideration
that separated him from them. Perhaps, after all, Farmer Jarrett was
right.

Elsie was in an extraordinary state of excitement this morning. She
danced along, laughing and talking merrily. Duncan wondered to see her
in such spirits, for it was seldom that she had nothing to grumble at.

By-and-by they reached a point where there were two roads: the one
leading to the village, the other a short cut to the school, running
along the back of the village. Elsie took the long one.

"Where are you going?" Duncan asked, in astonishment.

Elsie looked at him gleefully, and burst out laughing. "I don't mind
telling you now," she replied; "you can't let it out. We're going to
England, and we've got the whole day before us, for granny won't expect
us home till after afternoon school, and mother won't be home till
sunset. Oh! wasn't it just a capital idea of mine?"

"To England?" echoed Duncan, somewhat ruefully, for the idea was, after
all, sudden enough to take him aback. "Then let's be quick, Elsie. Shall
we get there to-night?"

"That depends," Elsie returned, with the air of a person who knows all
about it. "If we get a lift on the road, we shall get along quickly."

It had occurred to her that they might not reach London that evening,
but she was not daunted by the thought, for she had a plan in her mind
in case of such an event, only she considered it wiser to keep Duncan in
ignorance of any possible difficulty.


CHAPTER VI.--ON THE WAY.

As far as the village the way was straight enough. Elsie and Duncan
skipped along merrily. Presently the sun began to struggle through the
clouds and disperse the haze. The day promised to be fine and warm,
which was certainly a great advantage.

The few straggling houses that formed the village of Dunster were soon
passed, and then arose the first difficulty. The road for some little
distance was direct enough, but at last it came to a sudden termination,
or rather, opened out into a wider space, where there was a dirty pond,
a patch of grass, and two roads: the one to the left, the other to the
right. Right before them, filling up the way they ought to take in order
to carry out Elsie's plan of keeping straight on, stood a tiny crofter's
cottage, surrounded by its meagre crops enclosed within low stone walls.
Beyond it the ground began to rise into hills, and far away in the
distance rose the black-looking peaks of mountains.

Elsie stood still for a few minutes in puzzled thought. "If we begin to
take turnings we are sure to lose our way," she said to herself, in
woeful disappointment at this sudden check; but presently her spirits
revived. "I see it all!" she cried, "Of course, if the road went
straight on, apart from having to go right through the croft, it would
lead us just straight away into the mountains; an' I'd like to know how
we'd ever get over the top of that big one, with the clouds hanging over
it. The road takes you clear away through the glen, of course, and it
runs a bit to the side, no doubt. We'll just keep in the right
direction, an' it'll be right enough. Let us think a minute. Is London
to the right or the left, Duncan? Which think you?"

"It's more on the right side of the map, I think," Duncan replied,
doubtfully.

"Ah! but, you little silly, we're up in Scotland, and we're to walk down
the map. You must just reverse it, to be sure," Elsie replied.

"The map's a funny sort of shape, where it joins on to England," Duncan
muttered. "It seems to run off more sideways like; we ought to twist
about, I'm sure, or else we'll be going straight through the bottom of
Scotland into the sea!"

"Oh, you baby!" Elsie cried, scornfully. "Do you think we couldn't walk
along the edge? I'm not so sure it wouldn't be the best. We should be
certain to know our way then, when once we got to the coast."

"S'pose we was to fall over?" urged Duncan.

"Oh, it is just the best idea of all!" Elsie cried, clapping her hands.
"We'll just find the sea first of all; and won't it be a real bonny
sight, with the ships sailing on it. Then we'll go along till we get
into England, and any one'll tell us the way to London. This turning
seems the most like going straight, so we'll take it."

This knotty point decided, Elsie tripped along with no sort of
misgiving. Duncan was by no means so sure. He had received geography
lessons, in which he had been told how many hundred miles long Scotland
was, and he had a sort of dim suspicion that London must be farther off
than Elsie thought; but he did not feel much uneasiness.

After a while the road became rough and uneven, and at last it turned
sharp round in the wrong direction, but just beyond them the low wall
suddenly ended in a scattered heap of stony fragments, and the grass
stretched fresh and green away to the hills.

"Come on, Duncan!" Elsie cried, dragging him after her on to the grass.
"We'll be seeing the sea from that hill, I'll be bound!"

The hill was farther away than it looked, but they reached it after a
good sharp scamper. "And now we'll just be after eating a bit of
something before we go any farther," Elsie said, dropping down on the
grass, very hot and breathless.

"I s'pose there'll be shops by-and-by," Duncan said, "or a farm, where
we can get a drink of milk."

Elsie was thirsty, but she was not going to be daunted by such a small
inconvenience.

They began hopefully to climb the hill. As they mounted they began to
find it steep and tiring. After ten minutes they stopped short, fairly
out of breath. To her disgust and surprise, Elsie found that the
distance to the top of the hill looked even greater than when they had
been quite down at the bottom of it, and steeper a very great deal.
They rested for a while, catching hold of the tough heather stalks to
prevent them from slipping, then went on again, on and on, with
by-and-by another pause for breath. There was plenty of fun and
excitement in the climb, the only drawback being the weight and
inconvenience of their strong rough boots and Elsie's basket, which,
however, were each of them too useful to be left behind.

At last, however, the children reached the top, and Elsie stood still,
and looked all round in eager hope.

But, alas! the sight that met her view was one of keen disappointment.
The side of the hill descended very steeply into a narrow valley,
through which flowed a small stream. Beyond were hills stretching as far
as she could see, until their tall peaks mingled with the clouds. Just
then the sun disappeared, black shadows crept rapidly over the
mountain-tops, the whole landscape appeared dark, gloomy, and frowning.
Nowhere all around was a sight of any living thing, except a few sheep
perched far up on a steep crag. Presently masses of vapour gathered over
the hills, and began to roll down their sides, hiding first one and then
another. Elsie turned away with a shudder. The cows feeding on the
smooth grass below, the very sight of the road, lonely and deserted
though it was, seemed cheerful indeed, compared with the awful
loneliness of those grim, endless hills.

"It's no use going this way," she said, with a little shiver. "The sea
is farther off than I thought. We should lose ourselves among the hills;
and it's so cold up here, and not a soul to tell us the way, not even a
shepherd. Let's go back."

They began to descend by a circuitous route, for the side was steep
enough to make it a matter for care, and in places the soil was boggy,
and in others the rocky ground had broken and crumbled away, leaving
sharp precipitous edges.

When at last they reached the even space, there was no sign of a road to
be seen. "It must be just over there," Elsie said, in some bewilderment.
"Perhaps there's a bank at the side hiding it."

"We've come down quite a different place to where we went up," said
Duncan, slowly. "D'you think we're lost, Elsie?"

"No, of course not," Elsie replied, confidently. "Come on, Duncan; the
road can't be far off."

Duncan followed without a word. He was beginning to feel a bit tired,
and somehow he could not help giving a thought to the snug kitchen at
home, with the little wooden arm-chair in which he was accustomed to sit
when he was done up with running about. The sight of the cottage would
have been far more welcome to him even than that of the unknown father
they were seeking. But he kept his thoughts to himself.

They found a roadway after a goodish bit of running hither and thither.
Elsie had been wise enough to avoid the hills, for the day had clouded
over and a chill breeze had sprung up. It was dull enough even here, far
worse away among the steeps and hollows.

"I don't think we shall get to London very soon," Duncan ventured to
say, after a while. "There isn't any one to ask the way. Do you think
we've got near the end of Scotland yet?"

"We shan't get to London to-night," Elsie said, with the air of one who
knew all about it. "Of course I knew that all along. We shall have to
get a night's lodging, and go on to-morrow."

"But who'll give it to us?" asked the practical Duncan. "There isn't any
houses."

"Oh, well! we shall come to some," Elsie said.

"Do you think I might take off my boots and stockings? they seem so
heavy like," Duncan asked.

"If you like to carry 'em," Elsie replied shortly. "We'll want 'em when
we get to London. Hark! I can hear a cart coming."

Yes, sure enough there was a sound of wheels, and presently there came
into sight a man driving a small cart, drawn by a miserable,
starved-looking horse, that shambled along with its head held down as if
ready to drop. The cart was a dilapidated-looking affair, and the man
who drove was well in keeping with his vehicle. He was clad in tattered
garments, surmounted by an old sack, fastened together round his
shoulders with a wooden skewer. His hair was coarse and matted, looking
as if a comb had never made acquaintance with it, his face unmistakably
emaciated, in spite of the dark hue it wore from constant exposure.

As he gradually overtook them, Elsie stood by the roadside, and beckoned
to him to stop.

"How far are we from the houses?" she asked.

The man scratched his head and stared for a few seconds, then he
replied, "Don't know of none this side o' Killochrie."

"How far is Killochrie?" Elsie asked.

"Weel, seven miles and a bittock--so--more or less."

Elsie stood still in perplexity. A Scottish mile is reckoned to be two
English ones, and the bittock might mean anything--another Scottish mile
or two, as the case might be. The prospect was not encouraging.

"Isn't there any house at all?" Elsie asked.

"Well, there's not to say a house--a croft or two an' a cottage. Where
would you be going?"

"Oh, to Killochrie, that's just where!" Elsie answered very quickly,
with a glance at Duncan.

"Ah, weel!" the man replied, waiting in stock silence for some one else
to speak.

"Can you tell us the time?" Elsie asked.

"It might be five, or getting on to six, thereabouts," the man replied.

So late, and a matter of fifteen miles about to the nearest
resting-place! What was to be done?

"Are you going to Killochrie?" Elsie asked suddenly.

"Weel, noa, not that--along the road."

"Would you mind our getting into the cart?"

The man scratched his head again, and looked at her in silence. Elsie
began to think he was a little daft. Presently he replied, "You maun sit
on it, if you like."

"On what?" Elsie asked sharply.

"The fish," the man replied.

Elsie and Duncan had both noticed a strange odour, which Elsie
attributed to a stagnant pool of water near which they were standing.
She now peered over the side of the cart, which was more like a lidless
box on wheels than anything else, and she perceived that it was full of
fish. The man occupied the only available sitting-place in front. What
was to be done? Elsie looked all along the road. There was no sign of
any other vehicle, not even a person to be seen. Their choice plainly
lay between walking the whole distance or riding in the cart.

"We are very tired," Elsie said, dubiously. "Shall we get in, Duncan?"

Oh, how the vision of home rose up before Duncan's longing eyes! Mother
would be at home now, just sitting down to tea, perhaps.

"If you'd like to," he said, without much interest.

"Ye might take the sack," the man said good-naturedly, unskewering it,
and laying it down on top of the mass the cart contained. It was really
a kind action, for Elsie noticed that the rags he wore had nothing of
warmth about them, and the air was already tolerably sharp and keen.

The children scrambled in on the top of the sack, and the man bent his
energies to starting his old horse once more on his shambling trot.

When the children had got a little bit accustomed to the cart Elsie
opened her basket to get some bread, for they were ravenously hungry.
Just then the man turned round; his eye lighted with a hungry, almost
wolfish, glance on the sweet white bread and firm yellow cheese. "Will
you have some?" Elsie asked, almost in fear, for he looked so fierce.

In reply he stretched out his hand, greedily seized the remaining
portion of their loaf which Elsie was just about to divide, and without
a word of apology, devoured it like a hungry animal.


CHAPTER VII.--THE CROFTER'S COTTAGE.

So far as speed went, the children might as well have walked. The poor
old horse, as miserable and starved-looking as his master, kept steadily
on, with a sort of halting trot, varied every now and then by an awkward
stumble, which was saved from being a fall by the man's prompt use of
the reins.

It seemed as if they were hours on the road. The murky atmosphere,
obscured by storm-clouds, made the evening grow dark earlier than is
usual in northern latitudes. The heavy rumbling of the wretched vehicle,
the cramped position in which they were obliged to sit, the fatigue of a
long day's walking without rest or refreshment, the dreariness of the
road and chill aspect of the weather, combined to make this journey as
miserable a one as it well could be. Yet it was only the very beginning
of the troubles Elsie had brought upon herself and Duncan.

She was not feeling in the best spirits just now, but she buoyed herself
up by thinking of the future, and telling herself that every one who
ever ran away from home had some adventures that seemed trying at the
time, though they were quite interesting to hear of afterwards, and she
tried to picture herself being put in a book as a heroine. And she was
not in the least daunted, only inclined to feel very cross and snappish.

Duncan sat huddled up in a corner, with a face that might have served
for a Dutch doll, it was so blank and wooden. He was not the sort of boy
to cry, but down in his heart there was a very forlorn feeling, which he
would not like Elsie to have known anything about.

Presently a drop of rain spattered on to Elsie's forehead--another, and
another--and then, down it came in torrents. To Elsie's despair, the
horse slackened his already slow pace, and finally stood still,
trembling and snorting. They were on an open road, with not even a tree
near by for shelter.

"Why don't he go on?" Elsie cried out.

"The rain blinds her. She can't see," the man replied.

"Then why don't you lead her?" Elsie cried, in her peremptory fashion.

Elsie was more inclined than ever to think that the man must be a little
daft. He got down, and did as she had told him. It seemed as if he had
not thought of it before. He was so dazed and muddle-headed, that he
would have sat apathetically on his seat, waiting for the horse to go
on, although he could certainly get no wetter than he was by walking.

The rain had added the last drop to their cup of discomfort. The
children were wet through in a very short time, and they were far better
clad than the man.

They went along in dismal procession, all reeking wet. It was now
tolerably dark, and not a soul passed them. There was clearly nothing
for it but to persuade the man to take them in at his cottage. Elsie
began now to wonder what sort of a place so miserable-looking a creature
lived in.

During this latter part of their journey, Duncan, too, had been
wondering where they would sleep; but it was no good asking, he said to
himself, for if Elsie didn't know she couldn't tell him, and he supposed
she'd find out some place as soon as she could.

At last Elsie, straining her eyes through the gloom, could make out a
twinkling light or two, and something like a cottage. The roadside was
no longer open, but had the low stone walls so familiar to Scottish
eyes. As they drew near Elsie could see that the tiny tenement was only
some crofter's cottage, and that the walls enclosed his bit of land, not
large enough to dignify with the name of farm. Then it suddenly dawned
upon her that their friend of the cart was most likely one of these
crofters, whose poverty and hardships she had often heard her mother and
grandmother talk of.

They stopped at last before another of these tiny hovels, much farther
up the road. A faint light struggled through the small thick panes of
glass of a window little more than a half-yard square. The door opened
as they drew up, and a woman came out, talking very fast and shrilly in
the native Gaelic, which the children had often heard spoken, but
understood scarcely at all. Elsie could make out that she was scolding
very much, but that was all. As she came near her eyes fell upon the two
children. She stood still for a moment, her voluble speech checked by
amazement and dismay.

Elsie sprang out, and seized the moment. "We are wet through with the
rain," she said; "and it is a long way yet to Killochrie. I have some
pennies I will give you if you will let us stay to-night in your
cottage."

The woman stood eyeing her cautiously. So little as Elsie could see of
her, she was not a pleasant-looking individual. She seemed to be a big
bony creature, with loose locks of hair hanging about her face, and
great bare arms held a-kimbo.

"Show me the money," the woman said, holding out her hand greedily.

Elsie hesitated, for the incident with the bread made her afraid of
letting her whole stock be seen, but the rain was still pouring down,
and a night's shelter must be secured somehow. She drew her handkerchief
out of her pocket, and untying the knots, tried to slip a few pennies
out, and keep the others unobserved among the folds.

[Illustration: "THE CHILDREN ... MADE THEIR WAY UP TO THE COTTAGE
DOOR."]

But the woman watched her fumbling movements very narrowly, and suddenly
made a dart at the handkerchief, chinking the copper coins together,
with a rattle that betrayed them at once.

"I will take care of them," the woman said, holding out her hand. "Go
in, then--you can," she added, with a shrug of the shoulder which did
not express a very warm welcome.

However, there was nothing else to be done, so the children, Elsie
leading Duncan by the hand, made their way up to the cottage door, while
the woman went off with her husband to some unknown region, either to
assist him with the horse, or, what was much more likely, to talk to him
about the strange load he had brought home with him.

Elsie thought she had never seen anything so horrible as the sight that
greeted her when she pushed the door wide open, and stood on the
threshold of the crofter's home.

[Illustration]

The tiny place was dirty in the extreme. The floor, which had been of
boards, had rotted away in several places, showing the bare ground
beneath. A broken rickety table and a few dilapidated chairs and stools
were the only furniture, with the exception of an old clock standing
against one of the walls. A shelf in one corner displayed a few odd
pieces of coarse crockery, for the most part chipped and cracked, and
some pieces of bread.

Elsie perceiving a door, ventured to lift the latch and look in. It
opened into a still smaller apartment, the principal part of which was
occupied by something on the floor intended for a bed, where two
children lay sleeping. The ceiling was very low, and had an open space
at one end, with a ladder, which appeared to lead into a kind of loft,
where onions seemed to be stored, by the odour coming from it. As far as
she could discover, these comprised the whole accommodation of the
crofter's cottage.

While Elsie was wondering where they would have to sleep, the man and
woman came in. Elsie had stripped off her soaking jacket, and was
standing near the smoky peat fire, endeavouring to dry her wet skirts
and feet. Poor Duncan had no outer coat to protect him, and was
consequently wet to the very skin. He was standing in his shirt-sleeves,
shivering, by Elsie's side.

"What is your name?" the woman asked of Elsie, in the slow measured
accents of one who speaks a language not perfectly familiar.

"Our name is Grosvenor," Elsie said, with a warning glance at Duncan,
which, however, the woman's quick eyes noted.

"What for you are going to Killochrie by yourselves?"

"Our mother is dead, and we are going to find our father," Elsie
replied. "We were living with some one who was unkind to us."

"Oh, Elsie!" Duncan whispered, under his breath; but Elsie checked him
peremptorily. Poor Duncan had never felt so wretched in his life before.

"Where was that?" the woman asked.

"Oh! a long way off," Elsie replied. "We've come miles and miles."

"What you call the place you ran away from?" the woman asked, angrily.

"It hadn't got any particular name," Elsie replied. "It was out on the
moor."

"You will know the way back?" the woman asked.

"But I am not going back," Elsie said, defiantly. "We are going to
Killochrie to-morrow morning."

The woman only smiled grimly, and pointing to two stools, signified to
the children that they might sit down.

"Will you give us something to eat?" Elsie asked. "We are hungry--he
took our bread and cheese."

"Cheese?" the woman said, eagerly. "Where is it?"

"He ate it," Elsie replied.

"The pig! the greedy one!" the woman cried, angrily, as she reached down
a plate of bread from the corner shelf.

It was coarse and stale, but the children were too hungry to be
disdainful. At home they would have scorned such a supper with infinite
disgust, but now they ate it readily.

Presently, however, the woman got some more plates, and taking the lid
off an iron pot that stood beside the fire, she ladled out a mass of
what proved to be boiled onions. Having served her husband and herself,
she handed a small quantity to the children, which they found palatable
and comfortable in their wet, cold condition.

When this frugal meal was ended, she signed to them to follow her, and
taking them into the next apartment, led the way up the ladder. They
found themselves presently in a tiny loft, where all sorts of rubbish
was stored, together with a stack of onions. The woman cleared a space
by piling the things together in a more huddled mass than they were
already, and bringing several sacks out of the confusion, threw them
down on the floor to form a bed.

"Is that where we are to sleep?" Elsie asked. "What are we to have over
us?"

The woman pointed to one of the sacks.

"Look how wet my frock is!" Elsie cried, almost in despair. "Can't you
give us something to put over us while our things are getting dry?"

The woman went rummaging among the lumber, and presently brought out a
ragged, old gown of her own. Elsie took it from her almost with a
shudder of loathing.

She took off her sopping frock, and gave it to the woman to hang up.
Then she rolled Robbie up in one of the sacks as well as she could, and
spread another for him to lie down upon, leaving herself one sack to
serve as a bed, and only the old rags the woman had given her for a
covering.

They lay down, not in the highest possible spirits. Elsie was so angry
at being robbed of her food and of her money, that she dwelt more upon
this grievance than the wretched discomfort they were enduring, until
she heard a faint sound of sobbing emerging from the sack in which
Duncan was encased.

That sound smote her with an uncomfortable sense of reproach. "Never
mind, dear," she whispered softly; "it'll be all right to-morrow. Get to
sleep and forget it."

"If it were not for being poked up in this loft, I'd slip out, without
bidding them 'good-bye,' as soon as it is light to-morrow morning,"
Elsie said to herself, with an uneasy reflection of what disagreeable
greedy people they seemed to be. "Any way, we won't stay a minute longer
than we're obliged."

Fortunately for Elsie, she had no idea how long that was to be. Nance
Ferguson knew what she was doing, and why she had put them up in the
loft.

(_To be continued._)




HINTS ON CANVASINE PAINTING.


This is the art of colouring a photograph so as to imitate an
oil-painting. Although we know that no imitation of this kind can ever
reach the perfection of the real article, yet we can obtain very fair
copies. The work, when well done, is really pretty, and it makes a good
show on the walls. It is not at all difficult, and those who have a
slight knowledge of painting can easily accomplish some creditable
pieces that they will enjoy seeing in their rooms, and that their
friends will consider welcome presents. The colours are unobjectionable
as regards smell, for they have none, and the work is clean, and can be
rapidly done.

The choice of the photograph is of importance, for it must be a good
one, and suitable for the purpose. Those taken from the pictures in the
Munich, Dresden, and Italian galleries will be found best to select
from. The outlines of the subject should be well defined, and the whole
photograph clear and distinct. It is advisable to begin on figure
subjects, as they are easiest, and certainly the most effective. The
picture should not contain many figures, or they must necessarily in
that case be small, and some difficulty will, in consequence, be met
with in colouring them. Young amateurs seem to think that small pieces
are more within their province: they are afraid to attempt a larger
size, but we assure them this is a fallacy. Minute details require great
care, and it is more awkward to get small washes level than larger ones.

The first thing to be done is to buy our materials, and these we can get
all neatly arranged in a box. The colours are: two flesh tints, light
and golden yellow, vermilion and carmine, blue, violet, purple, light
and wood brown, green, and black. All the colours are dry, except black;
and ordinary Chinese white is used, as there is no white specially made
for canvasine.

There are two bottles of medium, one adhesive and one preservative.
Camel's-hair brushes of various sizes, canvas and stretchers, a roller,
and a squeegee, or presser, are also requisite.

Having all our materials at hand, let us set to work. The stretcher has
been bought to suit the size of the photograph, but probably the latter
will have to be cut a little round the edges, to make it just about an
eighth of an inch smaller than the former. Take some of the prepared
canvas, and cut it an inch and a half larger than the photo; wet it
thoroughly, and fasten it to a board with drawing-pins, the prepared
side uppermost. The back of the photo will require to be rubbed with
glass-paper, if it is a thick one; not otherwise, for fear of making
holes in it. To manage this carefully is important.

A sheet of clean paper should be laid on a drawing-board, and the photo
placed on it face downwards, and firmly secured with drawing-pins. Now
rub it gently with the glass-paper, until the picture is rendered
semi-transparent. Then take it from the board, and give it a bath in the
solution. Lay it in a dish, and cover it entirely with the solution,
letting it remain there for a few minutes; lift it out, and again lay it
on the board face downwards, and with a small sponge dab off any
superfluity of liquid. Pour that which is left in the dish back into the
bottle.

The bottle of canvasine adhesive is next needed. With a brush well
filled with it, lay a thick coating all over the back of the photo as
evenly as possible, then take up the picture, and place it in exact
position on the canvas which is stretched on the board, and now the face
must be uppermost. Notice particularly that the photo lies straight with
the threads of canvas; if it is crookedly placed it cannot be expected
to look well; the perpendicular and horizontal threads should run
perfectly level with the top and bottom and sides of the picture. Press
down the photo with the hand, and then slightly roll it out.

Take another piece of canvas of the same size as the first: this has now
to be pressed thoroughly, the roller being passed in every direction
over the surface. Continue rolling it for five minutes or more, so that
the canvas lines become indented in the paper and are distinctly
visible. Watch it constantly during the process, and if it does not
adhere quite firmly to the stretched canvas, put a little more adhesive
solution round the edges, and pass the presser quickly up and down over
the photo, still with the spare canvas between, to rid it of all
air-bubbles; then repeat the rolling.

Not until every part of the photo adheres, and all the canvas lines are
clearly marked, must the process of rolling be discontinued. After this,
the photo must be allowed to dry gradually, still stretched on the
board. No painting must be attempted until it is quite dry, which it
will be in about three hours. Some prefer to paint it when it is so far
prepared, and afterwards to fix it on the stretcher; others consider the
better plan is to fix it first on the wooden stretcher and then to paint
it; but this is a matter of choice, and workers may follow either plan
with equal chances of success.

To stretch it, we must proceed in the following manner. Lay the canvas
evenly on the frame and nail it over the back; when all four sides are
thus secured, take the wedges, and hammer them into the holes made
purposely for them until the canvas is sufficiently stretched. Be
careful to place the board in a good light for painting; it takes much
longer to do, and cannot be done half as well either, if the worker sits
so that the shadow of her hand falls on the picture. A piece of clean
writing-paper to place at times under the hand to prevent finger-marks
may be found useful.

Now for the painting. We will begin with the face. In colouring
photographs, the paints have to be constantly washed off, and it is a
well-known fact that nothing does this so well as the tongue, because it
acts on the photo so as to remove all grease better than anything else
will: but some people will perhaps be somewhat afraid thus to wet the
surface, on account of the nature of the paints. The tongue may,
however, be used at any rate for the flesh parts, and a small wet sponge
can be employed for the rest of the picture. Wet the complexion over
with the tongue, then wash in the shadows with some flesh shadow
mixture, to which a little canvasine medium and water have been added,
and wipe it off again at once. Pay attention to the shadows that they
are of the right tints: for fair children they will be of a slightly
blue hue; for dark complexions a little wood brown must be added to the
shadow colour. Now lay over the complexion a wash of flesh-tint No. 1,
and wipe it off again directly; repeat the wash as often as necessary
until a good colour is obtained. Sometimes as many as six applications
are needed; the great point is to get a good even layer of colour. In
rendering dark complexions, a trifle of wood brown may be added to flesh
No. 2, and this will give the requisite depth of colour. Put in the warm
complexion-tints with flesh No. 2. Place a drop of it, modified with No.
1, over the whole cheek, and wipe it off again immediately. Repeat until
the right strength of colour is secured; deepen the tint as it nears the
centre of the cheek, so as to preserve the rounded appearance that is
one of the greatest charms that youth and beauty possess. Strengthen the
shadows under eyes and eyebrows, round the nostrils, and on the chin.

Mixtures of blue and brown, and of green and brown, serve for the
demi-tints which soften the deep shadows by gentle gradations into the
local colouring. The tints may be effectually blended into one another
by an occasional wash of flesh No. 1 being carried over the whole.

Between each operation the colour must be dabbed off as soon as it has
had time to sink into the photograph; it must not in any case be
allowed to rest long, or the wash will dry spotty, and when that
happens it is exceedingly difficult to remedy. The draperies are washed
in before the details of the face are begun, as when the latter are
painted the colours must not be wiped off afterwards; they are not
treated in the same way as the washes, but more as finishing-touches.

Draperies and backgrounds are laid in with a full brush in broad washes,
the photograph being first damped slightly with canvasine medium; the
colours are laid on freely with decisive strokes, and sponged off, the
washes being continued until the tint is dark enough. Skies may be
represented with blue tinged with green, and when dry, some light clouds
may be dabbled in with Chinese white.

Now we return to the face. With flesh No. 2 touch in the lips carefully,
and shade the tint off gently, for they must on no account look hard;
also mark in the nostrils with a little of the same, but now the colour
must not be washed off. For the eyes, use blue, brown, or grey, as
requisite; grey is composed of a mixture of blue and brown. The pupil of
the eye is put in with black, and the light with a touch of Chinese
white. In the corner of the eye a trifle of flesh No. 2 will be needed.
The eyebrows should be rather darker in colour than the hair, but they
must not be too heavily painted; the best plan is to wash them in with a
lighter tint first, working them up afterwards with a fine brush and
almost dry colour of a darker shade. The eyelashes, too, must be washed
in along the eyelid, and then a few hairs marked out with the point of
the brush. It would never do to put them in entirely in thin fine
strokes, for they would be sure to look hard. A little blue added to
brown will make a tint dark enough for most purposes, and the use of
black should be avoided whenever possible.

The hair will need our next consideration. For fair hair, golden brown
must be employed; it is applied in washes, wiped off as before, and
repeated until the desired depth of local colouring is obtained; the
shadows are worked in with light brown, the lights with a little Chinese
white. For dark hair, use wood-brown and sienna; and the darkest hair
may be rendered with washes of blue, which must be applied before the
sienna, with Chinese white used freely for the lights. Colour which has
once been allowed to sink in cannot be removed, therefore we must be
careful not to use a wrong one, or even too dark a shade. Then, again,
colours dry darker than they appear when first laid on, so we must take
the precaution to make our washes lighter than we intend them to be when
finished.

Beautiful tints can be produced by the admixture of the colours, and
charming effects by the juxtaposition of colours that form an agreeable
contrast.

[Illustration: "A FOX AND OTHER COUNTRY FOLK UPON THE BEACH HAD MET."]




A RACE ON THE SANDS.


    One cool and pleasant afternoon,
      Before the sun was set,
    A fox and other country folk
      Upon the beach had met.
    The creeping tide far out had ebb'd,
      And by the shelving strand
    There stretch'd a wide and level plain
      Of glist'ning yellow sand.

    The hare, the hound, the neighing steed,
      The lowing ox, the deer,
    The sheep, the hog, the braying ass,
      The sea-gulls hovering near,
    With groups of various birds and beasts,
      Of sorts both tall and scrimp,
    Were gather'd there upon the sands;
      And thither came a shrimp.

    Now Reynard, who was eager bent
      Upon some cunning wile,
    Did boldly challenge any beast
      To race with him a mile.
    But when nor horse, nor hare, nor hound
      His challenge would receive,
    Up started Shrimp, and cried, "Good sir,
      To race you give me leave."

    A burst of merriment then brake
      From all the beasts around,
    The westward-sinking sun did smile,
      Though he utter'd not a sound.
    Then out spoke Reynard, red with rage,
      "Thou mak'st a mocking boast!"
    But near him whisper'd Master Hare,
      "Forget not how I lost."

    The race anon was quickly plann'd,
      Eftsoons a judge was nam'd,
    And Fox and Shrimp quite ready stood,
      Though Shrimp seem'd half-asham'd.
    And now they start, one, two, away!
      See, Reynard darts ahead,
    Unconscious that sly Shrimp had jump'd
      Upon his tail outspread.

    There snug he lay, so close and warm,
      While Reynard tore apace,
    And laugh'd, as only shrimps can laugh,
      In his comfortable place.
    At length, as Reynard near'd the goal,
      He slowly slacken'd speed,
    And stopping, ere he touch'd the post,
      He turn'd--he did indeed.

    Then off hopp'd Shrimp, and stood at once
      Up at the winning-place;
    While Reynard still look'd back and cried,
      "How now, who wins the race!
    Where are you, villain? where are you?
      Not e'en in sight, I trow!"
    "Nay, pardon, sir," behind him cried
      That sly Shrimp with a bow.

    Then Reynard, all abash'd, did stare
      To find himself outdone!
    While the jeering crowd, in high delight,
      Went wild at all the fun.
    But Reynard could not bear their gibes:
      He slunk in haste away;
    Nor ever guess'd how Shrimp contriv'd
      To win the race that day.




THE KING AND QUEEN'S QUARREL.

(NARRATED BY A DOLL).


I was very pleased indeed, when I first came into the world, to find
that I was to become the property of a King and Queen. I had seen a
great deal of life through my shop-window, and had come to the
conclusion that I was formed for high society. So therefore, when my new
mistress said to me, "Dolly, I am the Queen to-day, and Bertie is the
King," I was not at all surprised, but held myself as firmly as before.

[Illustration: "THE KING AND QUEEN SAT TOGETHER."]

The King and Queen sat together on one chair, which I suppose is the
constant habit of Kings and Queens. They were both very nice and neat,
for the nurse had just brushed their hair. The Queen was four years old,
and the King was six. And they were both the very prettiest children you
could see.

The little Queen had a blue print frock, and a little round face. She
had pretty shy eyes that looked out from beneath a shock of curly hair.
The little King was very pretty too. And he liked to play with dolls,
which I always think is a nice trait of character in a boy.

"Oh, what a lovely doll!" cried the Queen, when she first saw me. I may
repeat it without vanity, for I suppose it was true. Anyway it is
exactly what everybody said the moment they set eyes on me. People
always praise dolls to their faces, and that is what makes us look so
conceited. Even when we are old, and battered, and worn-out we still
preserve a somewhat conceited air--we still look pleased and proud of
ourselves so long as there is one little child who loves us, and who
thinks us pretty still.

The King and Queen sat down together on their throne, and were as happy
as happy could be. The little Queen's feet dangled a good way off the
ground, but she did not mind that in the least. She put one chubby arm
round her brother to keep her quite firm, and the other arm was round
me.

When a nice little fat, dimpled arm holds me tightly against a loving
heart, I feel very pleased and happy. If I were a pussy-cat I should
purr, for I feel that I am in my right place.

"Now I am King and you are Queen," said the little boy; "and everybody
that comes in must bow to us."

"Dolly shall be the Princess," said the little girl, in a voice like
that of a cooing dove.

"Her name must be Sophonisba," said the little boy gravely. "That sounds
something like a Princess."

"Topanithba," repeated the little girl, very much pleased; and she
pressed me close to her heart.

Suddenly a cloud passed over the face of the little boy. He looked at me
hard for a minute, and then he spoke.

"No, that won't do at all," he said; "I am an old French King, and we're
under the old Salic law. She mustn't be a Princess, or she'll never come
to the throne. We must pretend she is a Prince, and we'll call her
Jack."

You should have seen the little girl's face at this. All the dimples
went out of it, and she looked quite frightened.

"Oh, don't call her Jack, dear," she cried; "it's so ugly. And I'd
rather she was a Princess."

[Illustration: "HE TURNED HIS BACK TO HER" (_p. 79_).]

"Then she'll never come to the throne," said the boy solemnly. "I read
it lately in my history."

Here the little girl looked much inclined to cry.

"Oh, don't say she won't come to the throne!" she cried piteously. "I
like my Princess Sophonisba so much."

"She'll never come to the throne," said the King, laying down the law
with his fore-finger; "a Princess is no good at all. She's a stupid."

"Well, she shan't be called Jack," said the Queen, plucking up a little
spirit.

[Illustration: "IN A MOMENT SHE WAS UPON A CHAIR" (_p. 81_).]

"Then I shan't play," said the little King, at once jumping down off the
chair.

The little Queen put her finger in her mouth, and looked as if she did
not quite know what to do. She did not care to play without Bertie, but
she wanted to have her own way. She glanced at Bertie out of the corner
of her eye. He turned his back to her directly, and would not look her
in the face. Yes, there was no doubt about it--she could tell it from
the look of his shoulders--Bertie was in the sulks.

All their play was spoilt. The throne was deserted, the sceptre laid
down. They did not care to be King or Queen by themselves.

"I shall go down to mamma, then," said the Queen, and she put me down on
the chair, and went off.

For some time Bertie stood in the corner, looking very cross. Then he
looked round, and began wondering when May would come back. Next he
commenced to cry.

"Naughty girl! naughty girl! I don't want her to come back!" and he took
a piece of string out of his pocket, and kept slashing it against his
sleeve as he spoke.

Suddenly, in the midst of his temper, he caught sight of me.

"Nasty doll!" he cried; "we should never have quarrelled if it hadn't
been for you! You shall be a boy," he added, sternly; "for I'll cut all
your hair off!"

A shudder went through me. Unfortunately the nursery scissors were lying
on the table--he took them up, and in a minute it was done. Clip, clip,
went the scissors, as if they were pleased, and nearly the whole of my
flaxen curls lay scattered on the floor. How I looked I don't know, but
I think Bertie was a little frightened when he saw what he had done. I
don't think he was anxious for his sister to see me, so he jumped up on
the fender and put me on top of the mantel-piece.

Here I lay, with my feet dangling down off the side, about as
uncomfortable as a doll could be. Nearly all my hair was cut short, my
hat had fallen off in the fray, and I found myself in a position of much
discomfort, and even danger. I could see nothing that went on in the
room, and the heat of the stove was fast melting my beautiful
complexion. I tried to look like a Princess, but it was hard.

The nursery-door opened, and the little girl came back. In a minute she
ran up to the chair where she had left me, and then looked at her
brother.

"Where's dolly?" she cried, and she looked anxiously round.

"I shan't tell you," said Bertie, beginning to look frightened.

"Oh, dolly, dolly; where is my dolly?" cried the little girl, and how I
longed for a voice that could answer her. I could hear her going all
round the room, pulling open drawers and cupboards, and hunting for me,
but I never said a word.

Suddenly I heard a cry. She had come to the hearth-rug, where lay the
scissors, and nearly all my beautiful flaxen curls on the floor.

[Illustration: "SO THEY MADE IT UP" (_p. 81_).]

"Oh, my dear dolly! my dear dolly! He's cut off her hair. Oh, you cruel
boy!" cried the little Queen, and she sat down and cried as if her heart
would break. Then she glanced up, and caught sight of where I lay,
placidly reposing on the mantel-piece with my eyes turned up to the
ceiling. In a moment she was upon a chair, and ready to fetch me down,
when what with the chair being unsteady, and her eyes being full of
tears, the chair slipped beneath her, and down she fell on the floor.

[Illustration: THE DISCONTENTED KINGFISHER. (_See p. 81._)]

Poor little Queen, she was in a very bad way! Her head fell against the
fender, and hurt her very much, she sobbed and cried both with the
fright and the pain. Nurse came running up, and took her on her knee,
and it was a long time before she could console her.

"My dolly, my dolly!" she cried between her tears, and the nurse took me
down from the mantel-piece, and gave me to her. How she did cry over me!
I felt dreadfully vexed, because tears are fatal to my complexion.

Bertie stood looking on frightened, and came up to look at his sister.

"Go away, you naughty boy," cried nurse; "it's all your doing, and your
sister will make herself ill with crying."

When my little Queen heard Bertie being blamed she grew very quiet all
at once. She gave her eyes a final wipe with her handkerchief, and she
got off nurse's knee, and turned to Bertie. Bertie was crying too, and
he had gone quite white with the fright that he got when he saw little
May fall down.

"Oh, May, I am so sorry, dear," he said; "will you kiss me, dear, and
make it up? Do, please."

No need to ask the little Queen twice; she threw her little arms round
Bertie.

"I am so sorry, May," he said; "I didn't know you would have cared so
much."

"Never mind, Bertie, dear," said the little Queen gently; and she tried
to look cheerful, though I knew she was grieved to the heart. "Perhaps
it's almost for the best," she whispered, softly; "for now she can be
Prince or Princess, just whichever you like."

So they made it up, and cried and laughed again, as is the way with
these inferior mortals. I had remained calm all the time, which is the
correct frame of mind in which a doll should take all vicissitudes of
fortune, but the poor little Queen had cried till she had washed nearly
all the colour off my face.

I lived with the children for a long time after this, but I never saw
them quarrel again. I took my part in many a game, and was sometimes a
Princess to please the Queen, and sometimes a Prince because the King
liked it best. I have even been dressed up as the Lord Chamberlain
before now, and sometimes I have taken the part of the scullery-maid.
But neither the King nor the Queen nor I have ever lost our temper
again, and I flatter myself whatever part I have taken I have borne
myself with dignity.

    LUCIE COBBE.




THE KINGFISHER AND THE FISHES.


A Kingfisher sat on the edge of a boat that a young man had prepared for
a fishing expedition. A box of bait and a bucket to hold the fish were
on one of the benches, whilst a fishing-rod lay across the boat, and its
long line had a float at the end of it.

"What a shame it is!" said the Kingfisher, casting his eye upon the
float. "Why should this man be taking fish from this part of the river,
close by the spot where I have built my nest? And what a preparation he
has made! Hooks, and all kinds of cruelty are known to him. I should be
very sorry to be a man with such a love for killing."

And the Kingfisher shook his head gravely, and looked into the water.

"Yes," said he, "fish are moving towards that decoy. What a number of
them! I may as well make a pounce myself. Since the man has put it
there, why shouldn't I take advantage of it."

So saying he gently rose and spread out his wings as softly as he could,
but the movement scared the watchful fishes, who swam rapidly away
towards the river-bank, whither the Kingfisher pursued them, perching on
the bough of a tree and making a dart from it. He had almost succeeded
in capturing one, but it escaped him. And then an old fish popping up
her head for a minute said--

"People are very ready to condemn others for doing what they are
constantly doing themselves. Here are you trying to catch us yourself
and yet professing to be very angry with those who are wishing to do the
same."

Thus saying she disappeared, leaving the Kingfisher to moralise upon her
speech.

This he did, observing--

"There is something in what the fish says, and yet there's a difference
between me and the young gentleman to whom the boat belongs. I am
getting food for my family, whilst he is only amusing himself with
angling for the fishes. His killing is sport, mine is necessity."

    G.




OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

THE DREAM OF THE BARLEY CAKE.


[Illustration: VIEW OF GAZA.]

The Israelites were wild with terror. With blanched faces and starting
eyes, they gazed upon one another in unspeakable agony, unable to ask
the question which was pressing so heavily upon each heart--What would
the end be?

They had seen locusts coming in the distance, in swarms so dense as to
darken the sky, more effectually than thickest, blackest clouds. They
had watched them settle down on tree, bush, bright green meadow, and
fields of waving corn. And they had trembled. For they knew that in an
incredibly short time not a vestige of anything green would be left. For
a swarm of locusts to visit the land they had thought one of the direst
calamities that could come upon them. But now invaders as numerous and
far more terrible had made their appearance.

Crossing the Jordan by the ford near Bethshean, and pouring, like a
torrent of infuriated waters, through the Valley of Jezreel, properly so
called, which was the central of the three eastern arms of the great
Plain of Esdraelon, had come vast hordes of Midianites, Amalekites, and
other children of the East, true sons of the desert, who, like the Arabs
of the present day, lived by plunder.

Foremost amongst them rode their two great sheiks, or kings, whose
haughty and lofty bearing bespoke their rank, and the obedience and
submission which they were accustomed to receive. They were mounted on
the finest of dromedaries, which seemed proud to carry their royal
masters. Over the gay scarlet cloaks in which they were attired they
wore chains of gold, with large drops, probably set with pearls; and
their many moon-shaped ornaments and long bright spears glittered in the
sunshine, as they rode proudly along.

By their side, and also mounted on dromedaries, and with long sharp
spears dangling over their shoulders, rode two subordinate sheiks, or
"princes," the dark complexion and jet black hair of the one having
given him the name of Oreb, or the raven, whilst the fierce countenance
of the other had gained for him the title of Zeeb, or the wolf.
Thousands upon thousands of men followed them, with ruthless faces
dreadful to behold.

On and on they went, through the Valley of Jezreel, across the smiling
Plain of Esdraelon, along the banks of the Kishon, and into the fertile
Plain of Akka, which lies round the Bay of Acre, and extends northwards
for some distance along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

Their object was not to conquer, only to plunder. But what terrible
ravages they made! Better, far better, if the most dreaded cloud of
locusts that had ever been known had come, and devoured all before them!
A few days, and the destructive insects would have disappeared; but as
for these heartless plunderers, when would their wild depredations
cease?

Before they entered the Plain of Esdraelon, fields of precious corn
nodded in the breeze, and long grasses waved to and fro. Oxen, sheep,
and asses grazed peacefully in rich green pastures; and the busy hum of
populous cities and thriving villages might be heard afar. But as they
went along, they destroyed or seized all that came in their way. The
animals were slaughtered, the corn was reaped, and the green grass was
trampled down by myriads of camels.

The inhabitants of the villages, and even of the walled cities, fled at
their approach, leaving, in their hurry, all their goods behind them,
and their homes, that had been so happy, were ransacked.

Never before had the verdant plains presented so desolate an appearance;
and not an Israelite dared tarry behind to witness the destruction.

The scared Israelites fled to the mountains, there taking refuge in the
holes or caves that were ready for them, or hewing out, in the hard
rock, rough chambers in which to hide.

And still the mighty host went on; and still they were followed by fresh
hordes as mighty and as reckless, till there seemed to be no end of them
and their camels.

Killing, plundering, laying waste, as they poured along, they left the
land a sorrowful wreck behind them, and having utterly spoiled the plain
of Akka, they turned southwards, and continued their march as far as
Gaza, the southern limit of the territory of Israel.

God was surely punishing them for their sins, the Israelites rightly
thought; and they began to call to mind how they had forsaken His ways,
and grieved Him with the blackness of their sins. What must become of
them they scarcely dared think, as they huddled together in the dark
holes in the rocks, their sunken-eyed wives wringing their hands in
despair, and their hungry children crying for bread. No one would ever
be able to drive out the terrible invaders. Not the boldest man in all
Israel dared face them. Unopposed, they would continue their ravages;
and the land that had flowed with milk and honey would soon be one vast
ruin.

The wild men of the desert spread their black tents over the land, and
for multitude they could only be compared to the sands of the sea-shore,
or uncountable myriads of locusts.

All the Israelites together would but be as a handful, compared with the
wild Arabs; and how could they hope ever to drive them out?

"O Israel, trust thou in the Lord: He is their help and their shield!"
When the human arm fails, there is help in the Lord Jehovah; and He can
drive out the most dreaded foe.

A solitary man, who was of the tribe of Manasseh, and who had got his
name of Gideon, or _the hewer_, from his stature and his great strength,
was threshing wheat by a winepress in Ophrah. His father had had a large
farm, with smiling cornfields and sunny meadows; and Gideon had seen the
day when he had ploughed with his yoked oxen, and when his patient
animals had trodden out for him heaps of precious corn, and there was no
sign of lack to any. But now, what a change had come! Instead of
well-stored barns, he had only a little wheat, which he had contrived to
conceal from the Arab invaders; and, instead of its being trodden out by
plump oxen, he was glad to beat it with a stick, not possessing even the
poor man's flail, and hiding in a winepress, where no one would expect
to find him.

Striking only gentle blows lest he should be discovered, and sorrowfully
contrasting the present with the past, his heart sank within him, when
raising his head he was startled to find that he was no longer alone.

Close beside him, under an oak-tree, sat One who appeared to be a
traveller resting, with his staff lying beside him. He was, however, no
traveller, but that wondrous Being who in the Old Testament is so often
called the _Angel of the Lord_; and He had come to the help of Israel.

"The Lord be with thee, thou mighty man of valour," he said, addressing
Gideon. But Gideon's sad heart gave no responsive throb. Tall and
powerful as he was, and strong as was his arm, he felt as he thought of
the fierce Arab sheiks but like a puny dwarf, who must sit down
helplessly and suffer.

"Thou shalt go in this thy might that I have sent thee," the heavenly
visitant continued; "and thou shalt save Israel from the Midianites."

"But, my lord," remonstrated Gideon, in conscious weakness and deep
humility, "how shall I ever be able to save Israel? I but belong to the
tribe of Manasseh, that has never taken the lead amongst the Twelve, and
even of my father's family I am not an important member."

Gideon thought that to overcome the terrible invader God must needs
raise up some tall giant, big as Og, the King of Bashan. But he was soon
to learn that the weak things of this world are used to confound the
mighty.

"_I_ will be with thee," the Angel of the Lord said, "and thou shalt
smite the hosts of Midian as one man."

The wondrous Being, in His great condescension, gave Gideon a sign that
He would fulfil His word, and by his hands save Israel from the dreaded
foe. He touched with his staff the rock on which Gideon had placed his
offering; and fire came out and consumed both the flesh and the sweet
cakes, and then He disappeared.

Then Gideon blew his trumpet, and the Israelites came out of their
holes, and rallied round him in great numbers. But still his heart
failed; for he could not recall his truant thoughts from the wolf-like
Arab chiefs, nor help contrasting his half-starved men who had suffered
so long from cruel oppression and famine with their strong sons of the
desert.

In his self-distrust he asked for two signs more, and God gave them to
him. First, a fleece of wool was saturated in the night with dew while
the ground all around was dry; and the next night the fleece was dry
while the ground was wet.

Thus re-assured, Gideon assembled his followers for the battle; but by
God's directions their number was reduced to only three hundred.

"By these three hundred men," God said, "will I save Israel, and deliver
the Midianites into thine hands."

Gideon encamped, with his three hundred men, by the spring of Jezreel,
on the slope of Mount Gilboa; while, on the north side of the valley,
but farther down the descent to the Jordan, was drawn up the host of
Midian.

From the height on which he stood Gideon could see the Midianites below,
spread over the land like countless grasshoppers. Only three hundred
weak men to face the wild Arabs with whom the valley was teeming! Would
his little handful of followers indeed be able to overcome them? he
wondered within himself. For though he believed God, who had brought
Israel through the Red Sea, still deep down in his heart, and
unexpressed, was a misgiving. And God, who does not scorn the littleness
of a sincere man's faith, but rather tries to increase it, gave him,
unasked and unexpected, another sign.

"Go down to the host," God said to him in the night; "for I have
delivered it into thine hand. But, if thou art afraid, go down first
with Phurah, thy servant, and hear what they say; and then shall thine
heart be strengthened for the battle."

So Gideon took Phurah, his servant, crept softly down the slope of the
mountain, and went along, under cover of the darkness, till he came
close enough to the outside of the Midianites' camp to hear any
conversation that might be going on.

The Arab host lay wrapped in deep sleep, whilst, all around, their
reposing camels were couched on the ground; and not a sound was to be
heard.

Presently, in one of the tents, in which lay two Midianites, there was a
slight movement. Gideon heard that one of them was waking the other, and
he drew near to listen.

"I have had such a dream," the disturbed sleeper said to his companion,
when he had roused him. "I dreamed that a cake of barley bread tumbled
into the host of Midian, and, rolling against a tent, overturned it, so
that it lay on the ground."

And his companion, who understood the dream better than himself,
replied in low tones, that told how great was his fear:--"This is
nothing else save the sword of Gideon; for into his hand hath God
delivered Midian and all the host."

The two weary men turned over and fell asleep again, trying to forget
the warning that they had received of the fate that awaited them. But
Gideon brightened up. His faith waxed strong, and he grasped his sword
tightly, feeling that whilst it was his sword it was pre-eminently "the
sword of the Lord."

He knew well the meaning of the dream--that the small round cake of
barley, which was inferior to wheat, and was a symbol of weakness, was
his own weak, insignificant self; and that, just as this tiny cake upset
a tent thousands of times bigger than itself and firmly fastened to the
ground with strong cords and long pegs, so by his weak arm the mighty
host, that now lay asleep, would be overthrown.

Re-ascending the valley he gave orders to his men, went down, and fell
upon the unsuspecting host, and with his few followers gained one of the
greatest victories ever won by the Israelites.

Before long, the proud kings, Zeba and Zalmunna, and their two fierce
princes, the Raven and the Wolf, with all their followers, lay in the
silence and helplessness of death; and the land, that had been so long
and so cruelly oppressed was freed from the formidable Arab invaders.

    H. D.




BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.


13. Where does Jesus tell us that those who do the will of God are to
Him as brother, sister, and mother?

14. Where are we told that a brother is born for adversity?

15. Where is God said to be "slow to anger"?

16. From what passage in the New Testament is it seen that John the
Baptist followed the custom of the Jewish rabbis in giving his disciples
a form of prayer?

17. Where are we told that an angry man stirs up strife, while one who
is slow to anger appeases it?

18. Where do we read that he who is slow to anger is better than the
mighty?

19. Where in the Bible is Adam called "the son of God"?

20. From what passage in the New Testament do we see that Rahab became
the mother of the line from which David sprang?

21. Where does God call the rainbow "My bow"?

22. Where are rainbows mentioned in the New Testament?

23. What women are mentioned as ministering, with others, to the
temporal wants of Jesus?

24. Where are we assured that the Keeper of Israel neither slumbers nor
sleeps?




ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (1-12. _See p. 20_).


1. The Feeding of the Five Thousand (St. Matt, xiv. 15-21; St Mark vi.
35-44; Luke ix. 12-17; St. John vi. 5-14.)

2. Shechem (Judges ix. 34, 45).

3. Eleven; the leper healed on our Lord's descent from the Mount of
Beatitudes (St. Matt. viii. 1-4; St. Mark 1. 40-45; St. Luke v. 12-15);
and the ten lepers, on the borders of Samaria and Galilee (St. Luke
xvii. 11-19).

4. It was given to him by David, who had received it from God (1 Chron.
xxviii. 11-19).

5. In Ps. xlii. 11; and xliii. 5.

6. In the boat, on the rising of the storm, on the Sea of Galilee (St.
Matt viii. 24; St. Mark. iv. 38; St. Luke viii. 23).

7. In Acts 1. 14.

8. In 2 Chron. 1. 3, 4; 1 Chron. xv. 1; 2 Sam. vi. 17.

9. At Gibeon (1 Chron. xvi. 39).

10. In 1 Kings iii. 4-15; 2 Chron. 1. 3-6.

11. In 2 Kings xiv. 25.

12. "And when _they_ were put to death," &c. (Acts xxvi. 10).




THE CHILDREN'S LIGHT BRIGADE.


[Illustration: "BUT JACK AND THE OLD UMBRELLA STOOD FIRM, AND KNEW NO
FEAR."]

    Jack and Willie, and little maid May
      Went down to the summer sea;
    And it's merry and gay for a long holiday,
      But what is their game to be?

    They were tired of building castles
      When serious Johnny said--
    "Now what do you say, supposing we play
      The Charge of the Light Brigade?

    "This old umbrella that's been our tent
      Will serve for a cannon--of course;
    You two must play the Light Brigade,
      And I'll be the Russian Force."

    Willie and May ran up the beach,
      Then charged straight down on Jack;
    But Jack dropped cleverly on one knee,
      And drove the onset back.

    Again and again the charge came on
      With a rush and a ringing cheer,
    But Jack and the old umbrella
      Stood firm, and knew no fear.

    "Charge for the guns!" cried Willie once more,
      There's a crack, and a moment after
    The Russians (that's Jack) are rolled in the sand,
      Amid shouts of conquering laughter.

    Said Jack as he rose, "This isn't quite
      According to the story;
    We'll have this play again some day
      We've done enough for glory."

    ROBERT RICHARDSON.




SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.

_By_ HENRY FRITH.


II.--THE "WILD IRISHMAN."

The "Wild Irishman" is the train which carries the Irish mails, the
American letter-bags, from Holyhead to London, and _vice versa_. There
are four "Irishmen," two in the daytime and two at night. The morning
Irish mail from London leaves Euston Square at a quarter-past seven, and
it is by this train which we have elected to travel, as we shall see the
country better.

Here we are at Euston. The engine is already attached to the train--a
fine, rather elegant-looking locomotive, with its name on a neat brass
plate on the great "driving" wheel. Perhaps we shall find it called the
"Lady of the Lake," or "Rokeby." At any rate, it looks very neat and
clean, though not such a giant as our friend the "Dutchman."

If your eyes are sharp and you are fond of engines, and like to "pat"
them, as I do, you will notice that the cranks and piston-rods work
outside the wheels, not between them, and underneath the boiler, as in
the Great Western engines. You will have just time to look at the wheels
and the name when the man on the platform will wave his flag, and the
"Irishman" will start very gently. As we are quite invisible, we just
step up beside the driver as the engine moves, and he knows nothing
about us. Ha! ha! Mr. Driver; but we intend to know something about your
"Wild Irishman!"

Our driver and fireman ("stoker," perhaps you call the latter) are very
great men. They have a great deal done for them. Do you think they light
the fire and polish the engine? Do you think they go and take in coal
and water at Crewe, or elsewhere, while they wait for a "return" train?
Oh dear no! Another pair of men are ready, and our "mail-men" go and sit
in the drivers' "cabin" and have their tea, and chat till the train is
ready to start again.

It is not at all a bad position, though a very responsible one, to be an
engine-driver on the London and North-Western Railway, particularly when
you have worked yourself up to the "top of the tree." I could tell you
many anecdotes of this railway, on which I lived for many years; but we
must not forget the "Wild Irishman" has run through Camden Town, and is
even now in the Primrose Hill tunnel.

It is very unpleasant being in a tunnel for the first time on an engine.
The noise is very great, and the smoke and water come down at times
unpleasantly. The end of the tunnel looks so tiny in the sunlight
beyond, and the opening gradually gets larger and larger till the engine
rushes out into the pure air again!

On we go! Stopping for a few minutes at Willesden Junction, our Irish
horse pulls harder, and bolts with us for Rugby and some intermediate
stations. It is just half-past seven a.m., a beautiful day. There is
Harrow on the left, we can see the well-known spire, and we recall the
days when we came up for the cricket-match against Eton, and how we all
went back in a body after the match.

Before we reach Watford, we come to the peculiar water arrangement by
which the thirsty engines are enabled to have a drink as they rush
along. Between the rails for a considerable distance is a tank, and into
this tank a pipe is let down from the tender of the engine. The speed at
which the train travels causes the water to be forced up the pipe, and
the supply of steam is assured.

Watford, named from the Roman road "Watling Street," which ran from
Dover through London northwards, is near St. Albans, renowned in English
history. But the "Wild Irishman" will not wait for us; he rushes through
the tunnel and by Berkhampstead to Bletchley, where he pauses for a
minute or two. We have scarcely time to look about when we are off
again, past Wolverton, where the North-Western Company make their
railway carriages, and where they used to repair their engines. We run
not very far from Naseby after a while, and think of the great battle
between Charles and Cromwell's troops. What would they think of our
"Wild Irishman"? I wonder.

Rugby is passed; Atherstone, near which was the great Battle of Bosworth
Field, lies behind us now. The struggle for the crown between Richard
and Richmond may be recalled, but we have no time to examine the field
seven miles away. We have to get to Crewe at eleven o'clock, and so we
shall. We run through Stafford-on-the-Sowe, a town celebrated as the
birthplace of Izaak Walton. The castle was demolished, like many others,
in the Civil War.

A long whistle warns us that Crewe is in sight, and before long we enter
the station, through which more than 200 trains pass daily. Here are the
celebrated Locomotive Works, which employ an army of workmen, for whose
children there are schools and playgrounds, with church, library, and
assembly-room for the whole railway working population.

A visit to Crewe to see the great engines will repay any little folk who
like machinery.

From Crewe to Chester is half an hour's run, and as we approach the old
city on the Dee we feel wrapped in history. Such a history has Chester
that we are afraid to enter upon it for fear we should be carried away,
and lose ourselves wandering around the dear old walls, towers, gates,
and ramparts. The Danes came here; the Saxons made it a port. Hugh
Lupus, at the Conquest, resided here. The city was made the
starting-point for expeditions against the Welsh by Edward I. Besieged
by the Parliament--but no more; the "Wild Irishman" whistles, and we
must go to you, my lad.

Hawarden Castle is close by. It was at one time of importance as a
fortress. It now derives its celebrity from its owner, Mr. Gladstone,
for the castle itself has almost disappeared. We soon pass Holywell, so
called from the holy well which sprang from the place where Princess
Winifrede's head fell. Caradoc, a Welsh prince, wickedly cut it off, and
it rolled down the hill. Where it stopped the spring burst forth; and
the head being picked up was placed on Miss Winifrede's body again. It
became fixed, and she lived for many years afterwards, a little red mark
round her white throat being the only token of her decapitation! So the
story goes.

We are now approaching Abergele, near which such a terrible accident
happened to the Irish mail in 1868. Some trucks had been shunted from a
train in front, and they, by some mistake, came running down the hill to
meet the "Irishman." The driver saw them, and the shock was not severe,
but unfortunately they were filled with oil barrels, which broke open,
the petroleum caught fire, and in two minutes all the fore part of the
train was enveloped in flames.

Nothing could be done; the poor people in the carriages--lords and
ladies and gentlemen--were burned, and with difficulty any escaped. This
was a fearful catastrophe, and quite puts aside any ordinary accidents
which (not a few) have happened to the "Wild Irishman."

Let us leave the scene and come on to Llandudno Junction and Conway
Castle, by which is the first "Tubular Bridge." We have all heard of
Conway Castle, founded by Edward I. If you little folk ever go to Conway
be sure and see the castle, and go all over the thick walls, which will
afford you a pretty view.

But I have something else to tell you about Conway "Tube"--the bridge
through which the railway runs over the river.

Once upon a time--a good many years ago--a lady and gentleman got
permission to walk through the new tubular bridge, which was then a
curiosity. A railway porter was with them and told them no train was
expected on that line, so they went into the tube and darkness.

A strange gentleman who had joined them went on first because the lady
could not go so quickly, and of course her husband remained to assist
her over the rails, and stones, and the girders which support the sides.

But when the lady and gentleman had got halfway through, the first man
was at the end, and saw the down Irish mail approaching on the very line
on which his acquaintances were! He called out--

"Take care of yourselves, a train is coming!" and then he waved his
hands to the engine-driver.

The lady and gentleman in the "tube" could not stand up at the side, and
so they hurried back. It was a terrible race. The "Wild Irishman"
whistling and roaring, hissing and straining at the brakes close behind;
in front only a few yards to the station, but such long yards! On came
the train, and just as the gentleman rushed from the "tube" and dragged
the lady down, the express came out grinding and growling. They were
only just saved by two yards from a terrible death.

Now let me tell you something else. The year after that nearly fatal
accident, I--the writer of this anecdote--was visiting the "Britannia"
Tubular Bridge which crosses the Menai Straits, and through which the
"Wild Irishman" rushes on its way to Holyhead. I was with my parents,
and we talked to the caretaker at the bridge.

"Yes, sir," he said, "it _is_ dangerous to go into the tubes. We do not
allow it now. Last year a lady and gentleman were nearly killed in the
Conway tube. I was the guard of the mail train; they had a very narrow
escape."

"What became of the tipsy porter who guided them in?" asked my father.

"He lay flat down, and the train went over him--he was dismissed--but
how did you know, sir?"

"Because this lady and myself were the two people who were in the tube,"
said my father. "I assure you we remember the incident very well
indeed."

That is what most people would, call a "curious coincidence," and it is,
moreover, quite true.

But we are nearing Holyhead. Our "Wild Irishman" has not far to run now.
We are through the "Britannia" bridge, upon whose unfinished summit we
have raced on slippery plates of iron, one hundred feet above the
straits, and gazed down into the Menai waters beneath, as the ships
went up almost touching the tube apparently. Ah! this was many years
ago, and even now as we rattle on we can recall the scene and shiver.

Away by Llanfair--something--a long Welsh word--away by the lake and the
river; over the marsh comes the scent of the sea, and then in ten
minutes the "Wild Irishman" walks down the pier. Mail-bags are put on
board the steamer; passengers hurry down; the carriage doors are shut.
The paddle-wheels revolve; we quit the harbour of Holyhead, and lose
sight of the "Wild Irishman."




MASTER TOM'S "RAINY WEATHER."


"Ettie," said Master Tom, "do you like to be naughty or good?"

"Naughty," replied Ettie promptly.

Ettie was five years old, and Master Tom nine.

Ettie and Master Tom were at the far end of the kitchen-garden, going
through the gate that led into a small paddock, when Ettie suddenly
said--

"Pigs."

"Where?" exclaimed Master Tom.

"Poor pigs in pen all shut up," answered Ettie.

"What a shame!" said Master Tom. "I say, Mrs. Pig, wouldn't you like
your little piggies to have a run this fine day?

    "There's grass around in plenty
      For the little ones to eat,
    And in the kitchen-garden
      There's cabbage for a treat.

Now, Ettie, get out of the way; I am going to open the door of the
pigstye."

And Master Tom threw the door wide open, and out rushed not only the ten
little pigs, but Mrs. Pig herself. They came with such a rush that
Ettie, not getting out of the way quickly enough, was knocked down. But
she did not cry; for she was used to falling in her expeditions with
Tom.

Through the garden gate, into the garden, over the beds, went the pigs,
and after them went Master Tom and Ettie, driving them until they went
into the middle of the crisp early cabbages.

"Now then, eat to your hearts' content," said Master Tom. "Eat away, eat
away! How they do enjoy themselves; there won't be a cabbage left. Won't
Joseph be surprised. Let us get up into the great pear-tree and watch
them. You can climb up if I push you."

"Yes," responded Ettie, grasping the trunk and putting her foot on a
jutting-out knob.

"That's famous," said Master Tom, as he helped his little sister up
until he landed her in one of the highest boughs.

"Isn't it nice?" said he.

And he began swaying the branches to and fro, whilst Ettie held on
tightly and laughed with delight.

"Oh dear! oh dear! how can the pigs have got in?"

"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Master Tom from the pear-tree, mimicking the
gardener's voice.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Ettie in her shrill voice.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Joseph in dismay; "the children up in the
pear-tree such a height; they'll tumble down and break their necks. Oh,
Master Tom, Master Tom, whatever did you go up there for, and take
little Missy with you? What shall I do?--the pigs, the children, the
children, the pigs! I daren't leave the children; and yet if I don't go
after the pigs the garden will be ruined. Oh, my lettuces, my peas, my
cauliflowers, my fine young cabbages!"

And then Joseph suddenly raised his voice and shouted as loud as he
could--

"Help! help! help! Hallo! hallo! hallo!"

In a few seconds out came several of the servants, and amongst them was
Nurse. "Oh! what is the matter?" she cried; "is it Master Tom again?"

"I should think it was," said Joseph; "he's in the pear-tree, and Miss
Ettie's with him. Jack, get a ladder to get her out of the tree."

Jack, the boy, went off, and now the branches were seen to sway
backwards and forwards, the two children chuckling with delight.

"And here I come first," said Master Tom, suddenly descending in so
rapid a manner that he seemed to tumble down amongst the group, and,
stumbling against Joseph, the gardener was tripped up and fell to the
ground.

Nurse tried to seize upon Master Tom, who, however, shook himself free,
leaving it to Joseph and the boy to get Ettie out of the pear-tree.


II.

When Nurse returned to the house with Ettie the first thing she saw was
the turf beneath the nursery window strewn with every possible thing
that Master Tom could find. He himself was looking out of the nursery
window with an armful of Ettie's frocks and sashes, which he aimed at
Nurse and her charge as they came nearer the house.

[Illustration: PLAYING AT RAINY WEATHER. (_See p. 90._)]

"Oh dear! shan't I be glad when you go back to school, Master Tom.
Here's an hour's good work for me in carrying back all these things."

And Nurse wrathfully ascended to the nursery, but Master Tom was not
there.

"Well," said Nurse, "it's a good thing he's gone off by himself, and not
got Miss Ettie with him. You stay here and play with your dolls, and
I'll run down and pick up your frocks and shoes."

So Nurse, having settled Ettie with her playthings, departed.

But she had not been gone a minute before Master Tom put his head in at
the door.

"Ettie," said he, "come down into the drawing-room, and we'll have the
greatest fun in the world. I've got a large umbrella and water-bottles,
so we'll play at rainy weather."

Up jumped Ettie.

"Hush! don't make a noise, or some one will hear us. Come very softly."

And Ettie, on tiptoes, followed Tom to the drawing-room, where, having
locked the door, he provided Ettie with a large umbrella.

"Now sit down on the floor," said he, "and hold it over you. You must
pretend that it is a rainy day, and that you are obliged to shelter
under it."

Down went Ettie on the floor, and up went the umbrella.

"Now," continued Master Tom (who had borrowed a pair of high boots so
that, at least, _he_ should not get wet), "I shall pour water over the
umbrella and it will splash down like rain. You must say, 'What a
dreadful day! What a dreadful storm!'"

"Yes," answered Ettie. "Splash, splash, splash! what a storm! what a
storm!"

And down came the water, splashing Ettie's velvet frock and wetting her
shoes, and making pools on the drawing-room carpet. What fun it was! so
Master Tom thought, and so did Ettie; and the more he emptied the
water-bottles the more they both shouted with glee.

Guided by the noise, Nurse soon arrived at the door.

"Open the door! open the door!"

But Master Tom took no notice. Nurse might batter away as she liked; he
was safe inside.

"What are you doing?"

"Playing at rain," cried Ettie; "my frock and my shoes all wet. It is
rainy day, Nurse."

"The road is all of puddles," said Master Tom; "splash, splash; don't
you hear it?"

Yes, Nurse _did_ hear it, and wondered what it was.

"I've finished the bottles," said Master Tom; "now for the watering-can,
it's quite full. It will come down like a shower-bath, Ettie."

"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped Ettie, for the umbrella slipped from her hand and
she received the contents of the watering-can on her head, neck, and
arms. Then Ettie, for the first time, began to cry.

"You bad boy," cried Nurse in a state of despair; "open the door or I
will have it broken open."

Master Tom unlocked the door, and then making a rapid retreat to one of
the windows, he leaped through it almost before Nurse had opened the
door.

Nurse held up her hands in dismay. The beautiful drawing-room carpet was
soaked with water, and in the midst, crouched on the floor, sat Ettie,
with her hair and her fine velvet frock dripping.

"Tom poured water," sobbed Ettie, as Nurse lifted her off the ground.

Nurse rang the bell lustily, and the housemaid came running to see what
was the matter.

"What will the mistress say?" said Jane as she looked at the carpet; "I
shouldn't wonder if it is spoiled altogether."

"I know what I should say, and what I shall say!" said Nurse; "I shall
tell the mistress that if something isn't done to curb Master Tom, he'll
be such a plague, that no one will care to see him. I've had such a day
with him to-day as I don't intend to have again!"

And Nurse carried Ettie off to the nursery, where she took off her wet
clothes, and put her into a warm bed. For Ettie was shivering, though it
was a hot day, and Nurse gave out that she thought Master Tom would make
his sister quite ill.

Which opinion reached Tom's ears; so he crept upstairs cautiously.

"Nurse, nurse," he said, "is Ettie very bad?"

"She's got a shivering and a shaking, and it may be an inflammation,"
said Nurse severely, "and what shall you say if, by your mischievous
doings, you have hurt your sister!"

Master Tom's soul was filled with terror.

"I don't know how it may end," continued Nurse, "but the best thing you
can do is to go downstairs and sit in the dining-room till master and
mistress come home. Go away from here."

And Nurse shut the door and bolted it; and Tom, feeling more miserable
than he had ever felt in his life, went away, but not to the
dining-room.

He went to his own little room, where, with a white face, he watched,
till his mother came home. He would tell her everything, and he knew
that she would let him just look at Ettie before he went to bed. And he
said to himself--

"I will never get into mischief again."

It was a good resolve; let us hope that he kept it.




THE MAIDS AND THE MAGPIE.


    Three little maids and a magpie
      Went out one day for a walk;
    The little maids hunted for flowers,
      The magpie did nothing but talk.

    "I've three little maidens to care for,
      Each one from dangers to save--
    Wild dogs or runaway horses--
      What a good thing I am brave!"

    Soon they were laden with flowers--
      Bunches of red, white, and blue;
    Great ox-eyed, snowy-leaved daisies,
      Harebells, and bright poppies too.

    Then they turned homeward together,
      Magpie still hopping before,
    Passed through the wood and the village,
      Came to the rectory door.

    There stood a quiet grey pussy--
      Magpie flew off in a fright.
    So, after all his vain boasting,
      Proved himself coward--not knight!

    FRANCES HAY.




CHILDREN'S GAMES IN DAYS OF OLD.


[Illustration]

Both my little nieces had been unwell. They were not very ill, but they
were shut up in one room for a time, and they found it rather difficult
to amuse themselves all day long, without having their lessons to do or
their brothers to play with. I told them a tale every afternoon, when
the light was getting dim, and the fire was poked into a bright blaze;
but I came to the end of my store at last.

"Oh, auntie! what shall we do now if you can't tell us any more
stories?" said Maggie. "We read such a lot that we really don't want to
be read to."

"Let us have a nice talk," I said.

"But what shall we talk about?" asked Edith, looking into the fire, as
if she could read something there. "Oh, I know, auntie! tell us about
the time when you were a little girl; tell us all about your pet toys."

"Auntie has told us that so often," said Maggie.

"Let us talk about something very old, and yet quite new to both of
you," I said. "What do you think the children played with hundreds and
hundreds of years ago?"

"Didn't they have dolls?" asked Maggie.

"Yes, they had dolls, but not like yours. They were small, and their
arms and legs were fastened on with bits of wire or wood."

"What were they made of?" asked Edith.

"They were generally made of clay or terra-cotta, but sometimes of wood
or wax. The hair was often ornamented with rows of beads, and sometimes
the dolls were painted all over with very bright colours, to please the
little ones to whom they were given. They used to make little toy
animals, too, and in Greece they had those small dancing figures which
we call marionets."

"Have they found anything besides dolls?"

"Yes; there are some little toys at the British Museum which were found
in Greece and Turkey. One of them is a woman kneading bread; another is
a black boy sitting on a pony, with a basket of fruit in front of him.
If ever you see them, you will think you are very fortunate little
children to have such beautiful toys."

"But I don't care about dolls," said Edith, blushing a little, for she
had been grumbling because her mother would not buy her a new one. "I'd
rather have a big ball. Did those old children play at ball, auntie?"

"Oh, yes! The very oldest we know of--the Egyptian children--had balls
of leather and some of painted china."

"I shouldn't like that," remarked Edith. "Fancy Charlie with an
earthenware ball! he'd break all the windows in the house."

"I don't suppose they let the children throw the hard balls about much.
The Greeks in later times loved ball as much as you do, but they played
it in a different way. They used to sing and dance at the same time. Can
you think of any word that we have which means dancing, and yet sounds
like a game?"

"Like a game of ball, auntie?" said Maggie.

"I know!" cried Edith clapping her hands; "you've just said it,
Maggie--a _ball_. Don't you know people always dance at a ball."

The children were very much pleased to find out that the grown-up
people's amusement took its name from one of their toys, and that the
short songs, or _ballads_, which we sing came from the songs which the
Greeks sang whilst they played ball.

"Did they play ball in any other way?" asked Maggie.

"Sometimes it was put on the middle line, between the two parties
playing, and each party tried to seize it, and throw it over the
adversary's goal-line."

"Why, that's like our own football, isn't it, auntie?"

"Yes; the Epikoinos, or common game of ball played by the Greek
children, is really the great-great-great-grandfather of our football."

"Had those children any hoops?" asked Edith.

"The Romans had hoops, and even the same kind of hooked stick, but they
played very differently from what we do. They tried to snatch the hoop
from each other with the hook."

"I'm glad I am not a Roman, then," said Edith, "for I do love a good
straight run with my hoop; and that must have been more like fighting
than playing. But do tell us some more about those children's games. It
seems so strange to think they had balls and hoops like us."

"They had whip-tops, too," I said. "And some people say that the great
Emperor Augustus used to play at marbles when he was a boy. You have
seen Charlie and Tom play with knucklebones; the Greek children had them
too, and sometimes there were numbers on them, and each bone had a
different name. Backgammon and draughts were played by the Greeks, and
we see by some of the pictures on the tombs in Egypt that the game of
draughts was very popular there."

"But hadn't they any nice romping games?" asked Maggie.

"Yes. Blind man's buff was a great favourite with the Greeks and Romans.
And they were very fond of playing a game which was known as
oyster-shell."

"Do you mean making grottoes? I don't call that romping."

"The children were divided into equal numbers on each side of a line
drawn on the ground; one party would be called white, the other black.
They then tossed an oyster-shell into the air, and whichever side came
upwards, one of that party ran off. If it was the dark, one of the
blacks ran away, and one of the whites dashed after him. As soon as Mr.
Black was caught, he had to take Mr. White on his shoulders and carry
him to the camp, where he remained till all the others were caught. This
is the origin of our prisoner's base.'"

"But that is a boy's game," said Maggie. "I want to know about the
girls'."

"They played blind man's buff, as I told you just now; then there was
'runaway,' or 'touch,' which was like our game. One girl would shut her
eyes whilst the others hid. A place of refuge, or, as we call it,
_home_, was fixed upon, and she had to try and touch some of the others
before they could get safe there. Kiss-in-the-ring was very popular too,
but the girl used to hold the boy by the ears as she kissed him, and
this was called pitcher-fashion."

"Our pitchers have not two handles," remarked Edith.

"No, but they had a handle on each side in those days. Then the Greeks
used to play a game like our follow-my-leader, called 'Commands,' and
all sorts of funny things were ordered to be done by those who took part
in it."

Just then the bell rang for me to go down to dinner.

"Oh, auntie, don't go yet!" cried both children; "we haven't heard half
enough."

"I will just tell you one thing more, and then I must go," I said.
"There was a very favourite game played hundreds of years ago in Asia,
called 'Kings and Subjects.' One day a little boy named Cyrus was
playing at it with the children of the village in which he lived. This
little boy was about ten years old, and had been adopted by a shepherd.
He was chosen king by the boys, and having appointed his ministers, he
set each of his companions to do certain work. One boy refused, and
Cyrus ordered him to be flogged. The boy was angry, and ran off to tell
his father, who was one of the chief men in the place. This man was very
indignant that his boy should be beaten by a common shepherd's son, and
went to King Astyages to complain. The king sent for Cyrus, and asked
him how he dared to treat the son of a great man in that way.

"Cyrus answered bravely that he had only done what was just; he had been
chosen king, and he ought to have been obeyed. Astyages was very much
surprised by this answer, and began to look more closely at the fearless
boy; then he saw that he was very like himself. He sent for the
shepherd, and after many questions, he found that this little Cyrus was
his own grandson who was supposed to be dead. So the sham king really
became the heir to the throne, and in time was a real king."

"Why, auntie, that's as good as a fairy tale!" said Edith.

"Better," I replied; "for it is true, and it teaches us that we ought
always to try to do right, even in our games, and then we shall never be
ashamed."

    E. M. W.




THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

_By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c._

[Illustration: "AUNT AMY HAD STEPPED FORWARD" (_p. 95_).]


CHAPTER IV.--A TERRIBLE SURPRISE.

Mr. Gregory and Mr. Clair arrived at Riversdale early the next day, and
Mr. Gregory at once took the management of everything into his own
hands. The greater part of the afternoon he was shut up in the library
with the lawyer, and when he found the boys in the dining-room, he
looked very grave and anxious, and even reproved Mr. Clair for amusing
the children by making caricatures, and illustrating some of their
story-books. No two people could be more unlike than those two uncles,
who would probably be the guardians of Edward and Bertie Rivers. Mr.
Gregory was a tall, portly gentleman, with grey hair and keen eager
eyes; his voice was loud, his manner always stern and abrupt. People
usually feared and respected him more than they loved him; he was always
very busy and fussy and important, and had an idea that nothing in
London would go on quite right without him. However, Mrs. Rivers had
been his only sister; the boys were her children, and he was their
nearest relative and natural protector. On his way down he had arranged
all his plans: the boys should go to school, and he would let Riversdale
till Edward came of age; he knew some one in the City who was just in
want of such a place. Mr. Clair, on the other hand, thought very little
of the future; he was sorry to see the children look so sad, and did his
best to cheer them up; but then, every one said Mr. Clair was the most
unpractical person in the world. He was an artist by profession, and had
married Mr. Rivers' sister Amy, an offence for which he was never
pardoned, either by Mr. Rivers or Mr. Gregory. However, as the marriage
proved a very happy one, Mr. Clair did not fret about that, neither was
he in the least offended at the coldness and neglect of his wife's
relatives. He loved his profession, he loved his wife, he loved his
shabby roomy old house in Fitzroy Square: in fact, the chief
characteristic of Mr. Harry Clair was that he loved everything and
everybody, and now he was quite willing to take to his heart his wife's
orphan nephews and niece. But Uncle Gregory was made of sterner stuff,
and the young heir of Riversdale, he thought, was a person to be
reverenced and treated with deference; besides, he was not either very
affectionate or very demonstrative in his manner, therefore the
children, who were hungry for love and sympathy, turned to Uncle Clair.
The next day Aunt Amy arrived, and both the boys felt they had found a
true and loving friend, while Agnes clung to her, trembling and sobbing,
for since her uncle's death she had felt strangely alone in the house,
just as if she belonged to nobody, and until it was known what provision
had been made for her, no one could say what was to become of her. As
the days passed Mr. Gregory looked more anxious and worried. A strange
gentleman from London remained in the house, and spent several hours
every day in the library examining letters and papers; lawyers were
constantly coming and going, and at last it became clear, even to the
boys, that something was wrong; the gloom deepened on every face, even
the servants stood in little groups and talked in whispers; only Uncle
Clair seemed unconcerned, though Aunt Amy's eyes often filled with tears
as she looked at the boys. But none of them seemed quite prepared for
the terrible tidings Mr. Gregory had to unfold. Mr. Rivers had been
buried in the family vault at Riversdale very quietly, as his wish had
always been. The boys, their uncles, the doctor and lawyer and the
strange gentleman, whose name and real business no one seemed to know,
attended as mourners, and when they returned to the house Mr. Gregory
led the way to the library, and the family lawyer read the will. It was
very simple: Riversdale to Edward; five thousand pounds to Bertie when
he came of age, and the choice of a profession, the expenses of which
were to be paid for out of the estate; and a few legacies to faithful
servants and deserving charities; not a word of poor little Agnes, for
the simple reason that the will was made several years before she came
to Riversdale; not a single word of any person else, except that Mr.
Frank Rivers, his brother, Mr. Gregory, his brother-in-law, and Mr.
Harry Clair, his brother-in-law, were appointed executors and guardians.
The boys' minority was to be spent according to their direction. Every
one breathed a sigh of relief: they had all expected much worse; but
Bertie, happening to glance at his Uncle Gregory's face, started, and
cried suddenly, "There's something else, sir. I'm sure there's something
you are keeping from us."

[Illustration]

"Yes, my lad, unfortunately there is. When your father made this will
his property was his own to bequeath how he liked; since then he has
been unfortunate. He has speculated largely in mines that he hoped would
prove a success: they have failed; a few days since the utter failure of
a bank in which his whole private fortune was invested gave him a shock
from which he never recovered. Riversdale is fully mortgaged; the income
of the estate will barely pay the interest now, for your father has
parted with most of his property. In a word, this is the state of
affairs: you must either sell Riversdale, then this gentleman tells me
there may be a few thousands to spare for you boys; or you may let the
place stand, put your shoulders to the wheel, and work both of you to
redeem your home. You are only boys, but some boys with energy,
patience, perseverance, and, above all, a cherished object in view, can
achieve much. This gentleman tells me that by careful management there
may be a trifle saved every year, which should go towards lessening the
principal, then every year will be making the interest less too. But the
grave question is, what in the meantime is to become of you boys?"

"And Agnes?" Bertie cried; "we must not forget Agnes?"

Mr. Gregory looked rather coldly at the shrinking, timid little girl;
she had not entered into his calculations at all. She was not his
sister's child, and he really saw no way of helping her.

"I am, as you know, only a London merchant," Mr. Gregory continued,
ignoring Bertie's earnest remark, "and I cannot do much for you, but
this I can offer: you may both have a place in my office, and, believe
me, many lads have found the humblest seat in a London counting-house
the road to fortune. Once started in business under my protection,
everything will depend on yourselves. Merit, industry, integrity must
make their own way. What do you say, Edward? Mind, as your guardian, I
have a right to command, but I want to hear what you think."

"I--I don't care for business, Uncle Gregory; I have no taste, no talent
for it," Eddie replied humbly, though his eyes flashed. "I always wished
to be an artist, and papa promised I should be one day."

"Unfortunately, many of your papa's promises are not easily fulfilled
_now_," Mr. Gregory said coldly. "If you will not enter my office, may I
ask what you intend to do, Edward?"

"I don't know, uncle. I had hoped to go to college, and then travel, and
study abroad, and become an artist."

"Impossible!" Mr. Gregory interrupted sharply. "Where's the money to
come from?"

"I don't know, uncle; I have not had time to think;" and Eddie cast an
imploring glance at his Uncle Clair.

"Well, my lad," that gentleman said, laying his hand kindly on Eddie's
shoulder, "if you really are determined to become an artist, I will do
all I can to assist you on certain conditions, and subject to the
approval of your other guardian. You can come and live with me, and I'll
teach you the groundwork and details of art: inspiration, genius,
success are not mine to bestow; nor shall I send you to a university. In
the first place, I can't afford it; in the next, I don't think it
necessary; but if I see you have a real love of and taste for art, I'll
send you to study abroad for a few years, if possible; but first of all
you must work. You can live with me; my house will be your home, your
aunt will take care of you. Your mornings must be spent in my studio,
your afternoons devoted to continuing your studies; but I want you
clearly to understand, lad, that you are not coming to visit or to play,
but to learn a profession--and an honourable profession. You will find
many things irksome perhaps, and have to perform many unpleasant duties,
but if you work with a single heart, and try to make the best of
everything, you will find, taking the rough with the smooth of it, that
art is a noble profession. But I cannot honestly call it the high road
to fortune. Your Uncle Gregory has made his proposal; I have made mine.
Think before you decide."

"I will go with you, Uncle Clair," Eddie answered, drawing nearer to the
artist. "There is no need to think; I never could be a merchant; I must
be a painter. My mind is thoroughly made up."

"As you will, boy. Your Uncle Clair has made you a liberal offer;
according to his means, he offers you of his best freely and kindly. I
hope you may prove worthy of his trust in you, but as I do not want my
sister's son to be entirely dependent on a stranger----"

"Uncle Harry said I could _work_," Eddie said, drawing still nearer to
his favourite relative.

"Yes, Mr. Gregory, the boy must be independent. If I find him useful,
I'll pay him a small salary," Mr. Clair replied gently, no way ruffled
by Mr. Gregory's cold, scornful tones. "That matter is decided: Edward
is to come to us."

"And you?" Mr. Gregory continued, turning to Bertie. "Are you also
anxious to become an artist?"

"No, uncle; I want to make my fortune and get back Riversdale."

"Well spoken, my lad. Then you decide to come with me?"

"Yes, please; I should like to be a great, rich, powerful merchant, and
own ships and things. But, Uncle Gregory, who's to take care of dear
little Cousin Agnes?"

"I am really quite at a loss to know," Mr. Gregory said, frowning. "Has
she no friends of her mother's? The child has no claim on me."

"But she has on us," Bertie replied promptly. "She's our cousin; her
papa was our Uncle Frank, and we must take care of her."

Mr. Gregory frowned and looked thoughtful, but Aunt Amy had stepped
forward, and taken Agnes into her arms. "We'll take care of her," she
said, with a loving look at Bertie, who had spoken so bravely for his
little cousin, while Eddie had entirely forgotten her. "Don't be afraid,
Bertie; while your Uncle Harry and I have a home Agnes shall share it."

"Thank you, aunt; and I hope Uncle Gregory will let me come and see you
often. It is so nice to think that we shall all be in London together;"
and then Bertie smothered a sigh as he remembered how he disliked cities
and loved the country, how he would miss the dear delights of
Riversdale, and how he dreaded the duties of an office. But he had
plenty of courage, and he resolved not to begin by being unhappy or
discontented; "besides, it mayn't be so bad," he said to himself; "and
Dr. Mayson declares it's worth a thousand a year to be able to look at
the bright side of everything."

[Illustration: "MR. GREGORY PLACED TWO SOVEREIGNS IN BERTIE'S HAND" (_p.
98_).]

Agnes was weeping silently with joy: no other arrangement could have
given her half as much pleasure as going back with her Aunt Amy and
Uncle Clair; she could surely pick up some crumbs of instruction in the
studio, and then she would always be at hand to help Eddie, and little
Agnes did not wish for any greater happiness than that. But Eddie did
not seem altogether so well pleased by the arrangement. He did not like
a rival, either in affection or talent, and he knew that both his Aunt
and Uncle Clair loved Agnes, and also that she was a great deal cleverer
with her pencil than himself, though she was very shy and nervous, and
distrusted her own powers. However, the arrangement was the only one
that seemed possible, and the very next day they all returned to London,
Agnes and Eddie going in a four-wheeler with their aunt and uncle to
Fitzroy Square, Bertie accompanying his Uncle Gregory to a splendid
house in Kensington Gardens, where he was rather coldly received by his
aunt and cousins, and informed that, for a time at least, it was to be
his home.

[Illustration]


CHAPTER V.--BERTIE BEGINS LIFE.

It was a long time before Eddie and Bertie Rivers could realise that
Riversdale was no longer their home--that they were quite poor lads,
dependent on the kindness of their relatives, and that if they wished to
win fame and fortune, there was nothing for it but hard work. Bertie
was the first to realise the great change in his position. Mr. Gregory
was not unkind, but he was stern and cold, and after introducing him to
the head clerk (who showed him a corner in the office where he might
sit, and explained his work), Mr. Gregory took no more notice of him
than of the other lads. After the first day, he found that he would have
to go to the City by himself, and return alone; his uncle gave him a
second-class season ticket, and desired him to catch the half-past eight
train every morning. He also told him where he was to have his dinner,
and for the first month desired one of the older clerks to see to him,
and pay only a certain sum; then he was to return to Kensington at
half-past five every evening, have his tea in the school-room, and read
or amuse himself as best he could till bed-time. His aunt, he rarely
saw; she was not up when he left in the morning, and always was either
entertaining visitors at home or going out to parties in the evening.
His two cousins were quite grown-up young ladies, who seldom
condescended to notice the little office-boy, as they called him, and
two other cousins, about his own age and Eddie's, were away at Eton. So
that poor Bertie would not have had a very lively time, had he not
possessed a wonderful capacity for enjoyment, and a perfect genius for
finding occupation and amusement for himself. He had undisturbed
possession of the deserted school-room, and before long it was a sort of
little museum. He had a number of pets; then he begged corks from the
butler, and manufactured ingenious flower-pots and stands, in which he
grew dainty little mosses and ferns; he made cork frames for some of
Agnes' pretty little pictures, and his grandest achievement was a boat
that he built and rigged entirely himself. Often in the early mornings
he would go for a walk as far into the country as he could, and
sometimes, before going home in the evenings, he would have a run in the
park, and those were all his pleasures. Mr. Gregory scarcely ever
thought of him out of the office; there he always observed every one
closely, and he saw that Bertie was quiet, attentive, industrious, and,
best of all, quick: he never had to be told to do anything a second
time. On Saturdays and Sundays he might go and see his brother, provided
he returned in good time, for he dined with the family on Sundays; but
Eddie was never invited to Gore House, and Uncle Clair was never
mentioned without contempt. But to Bertie, the hours spent in the dingy
old house in Fitzroy Square were the pleasantest of his life. He was too
happy when he got there to notice that Eddie looked gloomy sometimes,
but little Agnes was always sweet and happy, and Aunt Amy's welcome was
worth anything.

"How I do wish I could come and live here!" Bertie cried one wet
afternoon, when they were all gathered round the fire in Mrs. Clair's
old-fashioned parlour. "I should not mind being in the office a bit if I
could see you all in the evenings; but it is dull at home!"

"It's dull everywhere at times, dear," Aunt Amy said gently, remembering
how very gloomy Eddie often looked. "You must try and make the best of
it."

"I do, auntie," Bertie replied; "and I suppose I won't have to live with
Uncle Gregory always."

"Gore House is pleasanter than Fitzroy Square, I think," Eddie said, a
little crossly.

"And Fitzroy Square is ever so much pleasanter than Mincing Lane,"
Bertie replied. "Why, if you were in our office, Eddie, I don't know
what would become of you! You would have to sit on a high stool all day,
copying things into big books, or else copying things out of them. Then
you have to add up columns of figures till your eyes ache, and if you
are even one wrong, Mr. Wilson seems to know just by instinct. I
wonder," Bertie added suddenly, "how many columns I shall have to add
up, and how many ledgers fill with entries, before I begin to grow
rich?"

"I wonder how many pictures I'll have to paint before I begin to grow
famous?" Eddie replied; and then, as Aunt Amy left the room, he jumped
up impatiently. "I'll never be an artist, Bert, if Uncle Clair keeps me
drawing lines and triangles and cubes. Any one can do them; I want to
begin to paint!"

"Then why don't you do just as Uncle Harry says; he knows best!" Bertie
replied gravely. "I always do exactly as Uncle Gregory says, no matter
what it is; and now it's time for me to go back. Oh, I forgot to tell
you something: our cousins, Dick and Harry, are coming home in a few
weeks; I'll bring them to see you. It won't be so bad when they come,
but it is dull at home these long evenings."

"It does me good to see Bertie: he's always so happy and cheerful," Aunt
Amy said, after she had kissed him, and watched him a little way down
the street. "I wish, Eddie dear, you would try to be contented and
happy."

"I do try, Aunt Amy, but I can't while I have to do so many unpleasant
things," Eddie replied, drawing near her. One comfort was, he was always
sure of ready sympathy from her, while Uncle Harry sometimes laughed at
his fretful impatience. "If uncle would only let me begin a picture!"

"All in good time, dear. Be patient, Eddie: that's the alphabet of art,
and you must learn it; besides, Uncle Harry knows best, and remember,
the sooner you master the alphabet the sooner you can begin to work.
Just see how Agnes gets on!"

Eddie flushed and hurried away. He would not for the world acknowledge
it, but his cousin's success was the secret of Eddie's discontent. He
could not bear to see Agnes do everything better than he did himself,
and he was ashamed of his jealousy, instead of trying to overcome it. He
had been just three months with his uncle, and every day he complained
that he had done nothing; his uncle complained too, in a very kind,
gentle way, that Eddie did not try, but he was far too easy-tempered and
good-natured to be severe on Eddie, for he thought the poor lad had not
become quite accustomed to his altered fortune. And in truth, Eddie did
miss Riversdale, and his pony, and the other luxuries he had been
accustomed to all his life; he had not the same happy temper as Bertie,
and he often grieved his Aunt Amy by lamenting over his loss of fortune,
and the gloomy view he took of the future. It was in vain that Agnes
begged of him to do just the work that came to his hand, to listen
attentively to Uncle Clair's instructions and explanations; in vain Aunt
Amy entreated him fondly to be patient, and despise not the day of small
things; Eddie sulked, grumbled, worst of all, idled, or worked
indifferently, and kept on telling himself that he was misunderstood and
undervalued, and would not be even allowed to show what he could do; for
on that point at least Uncle Clair was firm: Eddie must learn to draw
before he began to paint. But in spite of the mortifications of the
studio, life was not all dull for Eddie. There were many pleasant
mornings spent with his uncle in the National Gallery, where Mr. Clair
pointed out the master-pieces of art, and spoke eloquently on their
particular merits and beauties; and Eddie almost forgot himself and his
own ambitious dreams in gazing on the wonderful productions of Titian,
Sebastian, and Guido, for those three masters were his great favourites.
Then there were pleasant hours in the British Museum, studying rare old
prints and illuminations; visits to the numerous other picture
galleries; and, best of all, pleasant hours in other artists' studios,
where Eddie heard a good deal of discussion and criticism, and thought
himself a very important person. Then there were pleasant evenings at
home, when friends dropped in, and the conversation was still of art and
artists, of "studies," "designs," "models," and other matters of
absorbing interest to painters; and Uncle Clair would sit in his big
easy-chair by the fire, and talk in his soft, pleasant voice of the
picture he was going to paint for the Academy some day, when he got
tired of portrait-painting. He would dwell upon his subject lovingly,
describing it in minute detail, and then forget all about it, while some
one else went and painted it, and won money and fame thereby. Being of
an easy temper, and entirely devoid of ambition, Mr. Clair was unable to
sympathise with Eddie's impatience; but though not enthusiastic about
art, he had a thorough knowledge of its technicalities, and Eddie might
have learned much from him if he would. Meantime, Agnes was studying
hard and making wonderful progress, but her aunt one day observed that
she was growing thin and pale again, and her sight becoming weaker; so
the drawing-materials had to be laid aside, except for one hour a day,
and then Agnes and Aunt Amy began visiting the picture-galleries too,
and walking through the parks, and enjoying the bright, cold, frosty
mornings out of doors, while Uncle Clair worked at his portraits, and
Eddie too often sulked in the studio; and Bertie went to his office
every day, and in spite of all his efforts, felt very dull and
dispirited in the cold school-room during the long winter evenings,
cheered only by the thought that his cousins would soon be home, and
then he nothing doubted they would spend a great deal of their time with
him; for of course he would have a good long holiday too.


CHAPTER VI.--A NEW ARRANGEMENT.

"Uncle Gregory, may I spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square?" Bertie said
one morning before the holidays began; and Mr. Gregory looked at him
curiously as he repeated his words.

"Spend Christmas at Fitzroy Square? why? Are you not comfortable at Gore
House?"

"Yes, sir; but it's just a little too dull sometimes in the evenings,"
Bertie replied, very humbly.

"Hum! what do you do in the evenings?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Oh, nothing! Well, you may go to Fitzroy Square if you like, and stay
till--let me see--stay till the second of January." Bertie's heart gave
a great bound, and his eyes fairly sparkled. "I always give my boys a
present at Christmas," and Mr. Gregory placed two sovereigns in Bertie's
hand, and positively smiled at him. "I'm very pleased with you, my lad,
and when you return we will have a new arrangement. You shall have
Dalton's place in my office, to help with the correspondence, and I'll
pay you a small salary. You can never begin being independent too
soon--and there may be other alterations," Mr. Gregory continued, "but
we will speak of them when you return. Tuesday, the second of January,
mind, and don't be late. You may go at once if you like."

"Thank you, sir. Good-bye, uncle," Bertie said, with a radiant smile;
and ten minutes after he was hurrying towards the Mansion House Station
on his way back to Kensington, fairly hugging his two sovereigns. He was
beginning to get rich already; never had he quite so much money of his
own before, and as he hurried along, he began wondering what he should
do with it. "I know," he said to himself, with a triumphant smile, as he
leaned back in his corner: "I'll give Agnes ten shillings and Eddie ten,
I'll keep ten for myself, and put ten in the savings' bank. Uncle
Gregory says that the way to become rich is to save some of everything,
no matter how little. Ten shillings won't do much towards getting back
Riversdale, but it's a beginning. I hope Eddie has begun to save too."
When he reached home, Bertie found his aunt and cousins just going out
for a drive, and they all seemed a little surprised to see him.

"What's the matter? is anything wrong?" Mrs. Gregory asked, stopping him
in the hall.

"No, aunt; only I've got leave to spend the holidays at Fitzroy Square.
Good-bye, aunt; good-bye, cousins," he added hastily, for he did not
want to lose a moment.

"Wait a moment, Bertie," Mrs. Gregory said, more kindly than she had
ever spoken before; "John will drive you over in the dog-cart, and I
must send your brother and cousin their Christmas gifts; and I hope you
will enjoy yourself very much. Good-bye, my dear;" and Mrs. Gregory went
into the dining-room to order a hamper of good things to be packed for
Fitzroy Square, and then she selected from her enormous store of
presents a workbox for Agnes, a capital volume for Eddie--though the
book had been intended for her own Dick, but it would be easy to get
another copy for him--and a knife for Bertie himself, that gladdened his
heart for many a day. The truth is, that when Mrs. Gregory saw Bertie,
her conscience smote her. She was not really unkind, but very
thoughtless; and ever since her boys came from Eton she had entirely
forgotten him. Had he been at home all day, he might perhaps have shared
in their pleasures; as it was, he scarcely ever even saw them. When he
returned from the City they were generally off to some place of
entertainment, and arrived home barely in time for dinner; when that was
over, they were off again, their mother never being tired of going about
with her two handsome lads, while the equally handsome "office-boy"
spent his evenings in the solitary school-room. Still, it should be
said, she had not wilfully ignored and neglected Bertie, and when she
saw how delighted he was to get away from Gore House, she felt naturally
ashamed of herself, and resolved to be kinder to him when he came back,
for he was really a very good, quiet boy, who never gave any trouble.
Meantime she filled a hamper with dainties, packed up the presents, even
sent her love to Uncle and Aunt Clair, and a very handsome card; and
half-an-hour after Bertie was driving briskly through the park, looking
proudly at the hamper and parcel, and wondering if there were so happy a
boy in all London that bright, frosty day. Just as he turned into
Fitzroy Square a sudden thought struck him: Aunt Amy and Uncle Clair had
not invited him, did not even know he was coming, and the fact damped
his spirits for a moment. But he laughed off the uneasy sensation. And
before long he was flying up the steps; but ere he could reach the
knocker, the door swung open, and he was in Aunt Amy's arms.

"My dear, how glad I am to see you, and so are all of us!" she said,
kissing him tenderly. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise for us,
Bertie!"

"I've come for ten days, auntie," he cried: "that is, if you will have
me; but I never thought of asking you till I saw the house; but I may
stay, may I not?"

"Stay! I should think so. Why, child, I'm delighted!" and Aunt Amy
kissed Bertie again, and then bustled out to see after his things; but
John had already deposited them in the hall. Bertie forgot nothing but
his own personal belongings. "I am so sorry," he cried, "but I've
forgotten my things and my dressing-case. I was so excited, I really did
not know what was doing."

"I'll bring them over in the morning, Master Bertie," John said,
good-naturedly, though he could not help wondering at his forgetting his
wardrobe; but that was because he did not know Bertie, who never forgot
his friends, or neglected a single living creature that he once
undertook to care for.

"What a delightful surprise this will be for Eddie and Agnes!" Mrs.
Clair said, when they were alone in the parlour. "They are out for a
walk with Uncle Harry. It was only this morning they were saying what
gay times you would have at Gore House now your cousins are at home, and
that you would not think of us; but I knew better, Bertie."

"Why, Aunt Amy, I've scarcely ever spoken to my cousins: they're always
out enjoying themselves; and I was longing to come here. Was it not good
of Uncle Gregory to let me come, and give me such a long holiday? and
look, auntie, two sovereigns for a Christmas present, and" (dragging in
the hamper and parcel) "Aunt Gregory sent these--a workbox for Agnes,
and a book for Eddie, and such a knife for me! And it was she told John
to drive me over in the dog-cart. And, best news of all, when I go back
to the office there's to be a new arrangement. I'm going into Uncle
Gregory's private office and am to have a salary; think of that, Aunt
Amy! I'm beginning to make my fortune already, and I dare say I'll be
rich before very long, then Eddie and Agnes shall have Riversdale; but I
think I'll be a merchant always, and perhaps be Lord Mayor of London
some day, like Whittington, though instead of having a favourite cat
I've only white mice!"

Aunt Amy laughed almost as heartily as Bertie. It was good to see the
boy's happy, honest face, and hear his cheery voice. Whatever Bertie
Rivers undertook to do he certainly did with all his heart, and that was
the true secret of his happiness. While they were still enjoying the
idea of Bertie being a Lord Mayor, the door opened, and Uncle Clair,
Agnes, and Eddie entered the room, and it was hard to say whether they
were more amazed or pleased to see Bertie established there.

(_To be continued._)




THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN AUGUST.


[Illustration]

Beds and borders which have been very showy and pretty from the latter
part of May to the end of July will now have reached their highest stage
of perfection. Such plants as geraniums, calceolarias, lobelias, &c.,
make an exceedingly small amount of growth all through the summer, but
so soon as the dewy nights and often wet days of August and September
arrive, they start into growth with the greatest of rapidity. This state
of things is, of course, almost an infallible sign that the irksome
labour of watering can be dispensed with. At the same time, the plants
must on no account be allowed to flag from want of water, and this
matter needs very careful attention; it will be often found, even after
what seems to be a heavy shower of rain, that the earth is perfectly
dust-dry half an inch under the surface. This circumstance is a most
misleading one, and a valuable plant is quickly lost through neglecting
to take necessary precautions.

       *       *       *       *       *

Whilst making the strong growth just mentioned, it will be very
necessary to properly train the young shoots in such a manner as to
ensure a neat and compact growth. All decaying vegetation, such as
leaves, stems, &c., must be promptly removed, and that before they cause
other leaves, &c., to become equally diseased. Nothing looks so
excessively deplorable as to see what was at one time a neat bed of
plants in a semi-rotten state. When a stem or leaf of a geranium becomes
wholly or partly separated, it rapidly decays; hence the great
importance of removing such before it becomes a mass of decomposition.
It is the same with the fuchsia and many others. Hoeing and otherwise
cleaning the surfaces of beds and borders must be carried out where
practicable. Weeds and objectionable vegetation of all sorts should be
removed to the rubbish-heap at the earliest possible moment, thereby
securing a general tidy appearance to the place.

       *       *       *       *       *

Almost every day will occasion some new operation to be carried out, and
all plants having a naturally rambling habit, such as petunias and
verbenas, must be strictly kept within bounds by being pegged down. This
can be done by using what are known as "verbena-pins," and these can be
purchased at a cheap rate from any local seedsman, or may be easily made
by converting pieces of galvanised or any thin wire into sizes and
shapes identical with small hair-pins. Each shoot must be carefully
secured close to the earth with one of these. It must be remembered that
the young shoots are very tender, and that the least clumsy handling
will destroy them. Hollyhocks and dahlias, and, indeed, all tall-growing
herbaceous plants, will require very careful looking after, in the
matter of tying and training more especially. Dahlias and hollyhocks are
really the supreme ornaments of the garden during the latter part of the
summer and throughout the autumnal months. The latter-named,
unfortunately, is extremely liable to the attacks of a virulent form of
fungoid disease, which rapidly destroys it. We know of no real
preventative, and the only plan we can recommend is to select strong
young plants, which are in no degree affected with it, and on the very
first appearance of the disease to destroy all those infested.

       *       *       *       *       *

The rose--that "Queen of flowers"--will, in all probability, require
attention; extra strong and gross-growing shoots may be cut back, and
train all young growth with the view of securing not only a well-formed
specimen, but also a robust growth. As a general rule, the training of
roses must be left to a good practical gardener, but we strongly advise
all our young friends to pay careful attention to what he does, and to
the advice he gives, so that they may themselves at another time perform
the necessary operations, with, of course, a considerable amount more
pleasure. We may here remark that all young people must never be above
taking hints and advice from gardeners, because the power to give such
has been almost invariably acquired by long experience, and is given
with the best of intentions. And, moreover, few things are more pleasing
to a gardener than to see young folk taking a practical interest in his
favourite pursuit.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cuttings may now be made of a great number of plants, and cold frames or
shady spots in the garden may be utilised for growing them. As a rule,
the separation should be made a little way under the joint. A cutting
has been truly defined as a part of a plant with growing appendages at
either end, and a space between to keep them sufficiently apart, so that
one part shall be in the soil to form roots, and the other in the air
to form leaves and stem. They are usually obtained from the young wood,
and strike most freely in sand. It is easy to determine whether a shoot
be in a proper state for making a cutting: bend it carefully back, and
if it breaks or snaps it is in a right condition, and if it bends
without snapping it is then too hard. The most general "cut" is a
slanting one, but we have invariably found a level one both easiest made
and quickest rooted. Whichever is done, let it be done with a sharp
knife, and let the cut be "clean," not jagged--this is an important
consideration.

       *       *       *       *       *

The kitchen-gardens of young folk will require but little attention
during the month of August, although just the reverse is the case in
large establishments. However, all the necessary weeding, raking, and
hoeing should be done without fail. Seeds also may be now sown of cress,
mustard, and radishes, but they must all be gathered when in a very
young state. Seeds of the American Red-stone Turnip or other good sort
can be sown in any odd piece of ordinary garden soil. Delicious little
turnips will be produced in about five or six weeks very easily, if a
small amount of care is given, the chief requirements being water when
the weather is dry, thinning-out where they come up very close together,
and keeping thoroughly clear of weeds--mere matters of detail, which
require but little time to carry out, and which will ensure a very good
crop of a most desirable vegetable.




JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE.

_By the Author of "Claimed at Last" &c._


[Illustration]

Jemmy was five, I seven--two quaint little people we must have looked,
as we trotted out through the lengthening shadows from the old Manor
Farmhouse, where we had been sojourning with our grandmother and Uncle
John, all the summer-time. Now August was fast glowing itself away
towards September, and all was rich, ripe grain, happy toiling and
mirth, in the far-stretching fields. Out from the old flower-wreathed
porch we both of us trudged, and away on an expedition of our own.

"We mustn't be idle--the bees are not idle, are they?" piped Jemmy,
turning to watch the bees working in the flower-beds. And I responded--

"No, nor are we idle if we try to be busy."

"And seeing other folk work is like working ourselves, isn't it?"
reasoned Jemmy.

"And picking flowers for grandmamma is real work," was my complacent
rejoinder, pressing the wooden basket I carried closer to my side, and
thinking myself a very industrious little woman.

Away on the downs, all beautiful colours were chasing each other among
the sunbeams, and the trees waved overhead, as if they liked to fan all
the busy toilers on the earth. And by the old beech-tree, at the
cross-roads, we met Uncle John.

"Well," was his greeting; "where do you two midges think you're off to?"

"I'm going to look after the harvest folk," quoth Jemmy, with a swagger.

"And I'm going to gather flowers for grandmamma--and we're not midges,
uncle," said I, with a girl's protest.

"Ah! what are you, then, little fluffy hair?" was his smiling reply,
putting back my yellow curls from my forehead with his finger.

"Two busy people that don't like to be idle."

"Ah! well, go on, you make-believes; mind and be home by sundown, and
don't lose yourselves." Thus he admonished us; then he went his way, and
we ours.

"Sundown is a long time, isn't it, Nell?" remarked Jemmy; "and we're not
such sillies as to lose ourselves."

"No; uncle doesn't know how wise we are," I answered; and then we
travelled on all through the rich, ripe harvest-glory of cornfields.

But the harvest folk seemed very far off; the silent fields lay basking
in the sunshine, with the lengthening shadows stretching athwart them,
some with the golden grain cut and ready for carting, some still
standing awaiting the sickle. But no happy toilers were to be seen. Yes,
we alighted upon one, a lad sitting manufacturing a whistle-pipe, and
watching some sheep wandering in a field, where the wheat had been
reaped and gleaned.

"Where are the harvest folk?" questioned Jemmy, with dignity.

"Harvest folk, young sir! That's a wide question, 'cause them's
everywhere," replied the lad, with a grin.

"I don't see them," was the reply.

"I'm a harvest folk, and so is them--them's havin' their harvest,"
saying which the boy jerked his thumb in the direction of the sheep.

"They're not folk, they are sheep," dissented Jemmy, with scorn.

"Well, follow your noses, youngsters;' and you'll find some harvest
folk, if ye go far enough."

"He's a great rude boy, Nell, come away," quoth Jemmy to me, taking my
hand, and boy-like leading me on. And as we went we met a mite of a boy
of about Jemmy's age, with a small bundle of corn on his shoulder, like
a miniature man.

"Are you come from the harvest people?" asked Jemmy.

"Yes," was the child's reply.

"And where are they?"

"I don't know; ever so far away. I'm carrying home mother's corn." With
that the little man trudged on his way, and we went flitting here and
there, I picking corn-flowers, and Jemmy looking for fat toads and
shrews. And all the while our shadows standing by our sides warned us of
what would befall us ere long.

"I think," said I, presently, "that I'll sit down here by these sheaves
awhile;" but ere we had bent our tired little limbs, out flew a
beautiful bird from their midst, all blue and gold, and many other tints
intermingling to our imaginative eyes, viewing it in the sunlight.

"Oh, Nell, what a beauty!" cried Jemmy, and hand in hand we drew near to
admire it, as it poised itself in mid air over our heads. To our
childish fancy it was a stranger bird, a wanderer from some foreign
clime.

"Oh, if I could sketch it!" I sighed.

"Oh, if I could catch it!" cried more matter-of-fact Jemmy; and then, as
the bird flew away, we followed it as if we were charmed, spell-bound.

Away and away, across the fields, up the steep hill-side, our backs to
the sun, our faces--ah, me! that pretty bird led us far astray; and now
we were in the copse, on the sloping hill-side. Thus our bird had wiled
us on; we heard it sing to us, as in merry laughter, as we wandered here
and there seeking it in the shady tangle, but we never found it, nor
caught a glimpse of it; we saw it wing its way thither, and that was
all. When we emerged upon the open downs again, the sun had set, the
cornfields below looked dim and gloomy, as if something were lost, dead,
and over the wild waste of downs, shadows were creeping and crawling.
And oh, how our little legs ached! We were fain to sit down and rest
awhile. What was worse, we had turned and twisted, and gone hither and
thither, till we did not know in what direction lay our home. We rose
and turned to right and left, east, west, north, and south, but those
dark, deepening shadows seemed to be creeping after us, and monsters
came crawling and stealing up the hill-side, and went we knew not
whither. Then a mist gathered over, not deep and blinding, but just
enough to make everything look unreal and terrible to us small, lonely
creatures.

"Oh, Jemmy, what is that?" cried I, as a great, dark something loomed
near us.

"Oh, I don't know," said he, in a frightened whisper; but he threw his
arm about me, his boy-nature strong within him.

Then the wind swept cold and bleak, bringing with it a low growl--at
least so it sounded to our poor frightened senses, and we fairly clung
to each other.

"That's wolves!" moaned Jemmy, while that great threatening something at
our side seemed to fade away, others stealing up and taking its place.

[Illustration: IN THE HARVEST FIELD.

"_JEMMY'S AND MY ADVENTURE_" (_p. 102_).]

"Wolves don't live in England," said I.

"They did when little William was a boy," returned Jemmy, and I, as I
remembered the tragic story of the little woodman and his dog Caesar,
felt that we too, for aught we knew, were to pass through a time of
terror, as did he.

In an instant the incidents of that story rose before me like living
pictures. The death of little William's father, his cruel brothers
banding together, and taking him three days' journey into the forest,
just to be free of him, to let him die of hunger or what not, shutting
up his only friend, his trusty dog Caesar, at home. Their stealing away
on the third night while he slept, his awakening, his long, weary
waiting for their return during the day, his terror at nightfall. Then I
saw him praying, as the weird sounds of the wood made his little heart
quake. Then followed the unmistakable howl of the wolves, his flight
hither and thither, his climbing a tree to be safe from the hideous
animals, and his seeing a light while there. Next, I saw him rushing
toward it, a wolf on his track, the glare of fiery eyes behind him, the
pat of feet, the panting breath; the river which barred his progress,
and stayed his flying, stumbling, uncertain feet; the leaping of the
animal on his back, which proved to be his dear little dog Caesar, broke
loose from home, and come to find him; Caesar's fight with a wolf which
followed, and, oh, joy! his coming upon his grandmother's cottage, to
home and safety. Tears rushed to my eyes as it all rose before me.

"Let us hide away in the copse," said I, for I fancied that growling,
wailing sound came sweeping up to us from over the downs.

"I think if we could get out on the other side, that would be our way
home," said I to my wee brother, as we groped and threaded our way.

But the other side of the copse was like this side, a tangle, a mystery;
we were like two birds caught in a net. We sat down and cried bitterly.

And now there was a stirring among the bushes, and that howling,
moaning, fearful sound seemed now upon us, now afar, till it lost itself
in space. Crash, crash, crash, came something through the brambles and
bushes, and, as by instinct, we leaped to our feet and ran. None but a
child knows a child's terror: so weak, so puny, so unaccustomed to rely
on itself for protection, for a means to escape from danger and peril.
Hand in hand, we rushed forward like the wandering babes in the wood;
now we fell, tripped up by a root of a tree; now that moan swept over
us, that terrible moan more like a roar, and we were on our feet,
scudding on as before.

On, on, still on--glancing over my shoulder, what did I espy but two
fiery eyes gleaming through the darkness, as did poor hapless William,
and the rush of some eager animal bent on prey, which would not be
driven back, came distinct and clear. I did not tell Jemmy what my
startled eyes beheld, but hurried him on, on--whither?

Now came the pant, pant of the creature's breath, and now--as in the
story of little William--there stretched before us a stream of water.
What could we do?

I glanced behind me as we halted by the river in front, into which we
had well-nigh rushed.

Ah! those burning eyes were upon us, so to speak, the creature's breath
fanned my cheek. Now his paws were on my shoulders to tear me down. I
shrieked as to some unknown hand to save me, and Jemmy belaboured him
with a stick he caught up in desperation. But the beast did not bite me,
only whined out his joy, and licked my face. It was Ben, Uncle John's
old dog Ben; and oh, joy! there was Uncle John himself bearing down upon
us, like some giant in the gloom.

"Well, you youngsters, what have you to say for yourselves to Ben and
me?" so he questioned, as we clung tightly to him, each holding a hand.

"Uncle," said I, after I had kissed the dear old dog, and Jemmy had
caressed him, "uncle, did you hear anything growling all about? We did,
and thought 'twas wolves, same as little William heard."

"No, Nell, I heard no sound of wolves--how could I when there are no
wolves to hear? That was the wind you heard, little one," was the reply.

"And we saw great monsters that crawled, and crept, and frightened us
ever so much," I told him, with a quaver in my voice.

"That was the mist wreathing and curling, which your frightened little
hearts made monsters of. But come, you've not answered my question--what
have you to say to Mr. Ben and me for leading us this long dance?"

"It was a bird's fault, uncle," said I, true to my sex in making my
excuse, "a dear, lovely bird, which flew away in here, and we followed
it, and so--and so we forgot and were lost."

"Ah! children," said Uncle John, as he led us home, one on either side
of him, I wearing uncle's pocket-handkerchief on my head, knotted into
something like a turban, Ben trotting on before--"Ah, children, little
feet shouldn't wander far from home; little heads shouldn't think
themselves overwise; and little things like pretty birds shouldn't make
small people forget their uncle's command to be home before sundown.
Now, if you will only just get home by moondown, 'twill do very well."




MORNINGS AT THE ZOO.


VII.--ABOUT THE BATS.

[Illustration: HEAD OF BARBASTELLE BAT.]

Perhaps none of the inmates of the Zoological Gardens, London, cause
such serious disappointment as the Bats. Indeed, it may fairly be
questioned whether one half of the visitors are aware that the Gardens
contain specimens of these really interesting animals. The fact is, the
creatures do not obtrude themselves upon any person's notice, and those
who do not know their whereabouts, but want to see them, might spend a
day in vainly looking for them, unless they invoked the aid of one of
the keepers. Yet the bats are often enough discovered quite by accident
where they are least expected. Their cages will be found in the
monkey-house, screened from the light by a blind. Raise the blind and
you will observe them hanging by their hind feet, with their wings
wrapped round them like a cloak. They are no doubt asleep, but the
raising of the screen may rouse some of them, who will turn their wee
sharp noses and bright eyes towards the inquisitive stranger, and utter
a little "cheeping" cry of complaint at having their repose disturbed.
Night being the season of their activity, the bats do not favourably
impress the casual visitor. After the Gardens have closed, however, they
get more lively, though the smallness of their domicile prevents them
from flying. They crawl about their cages and fight for the titbits of
food. Tame bats may be trained to display some amount of fondness for
their keeper. If set free they will creep about his person and get on to
his shoulder and lick his face like a dog.

Until the time of the illustrious Linnaeus the bats had been more or less
a puzzle both to scientific folk and to common people. The general
notion was that they were a kind of bird with wings of skin, while the
German name for the creature, _Fledermaus_, or fluttering mouse, points
to another opinion that they were neither bird nor beast, but a mixture
of both. Other delusions remained in force up to a recent period. "Blind
as a bat," is an old saying so much the reverse of fact, that it is not
easy to explain how it ever obtained currency among people who had seen
the animal. So far from being afflicted with blindness, they are, says
Mr. Dallas, "furnished with very efficient eyes, although, in most
cases, these are little bead-like organs, very unlike the eyes usually
seen in animals whose activity is nocturnal."

Nevertheless bats are not dependent upon their eyesight for a means of
getting about in the dark. They are able to fly with great speed and
accuracy, to avoid obstacles, and to enter small holes without making
the least mistake. Experiments have shown that this singular power of
direction is due to a remarkable development of the sense of touch
especially to be found in their great expanse of wing. Further, these
animals possess large ears and curious nostrils, some of which are
leaf-like formations of the most extraordinary description. These skin
growths are all supposed to have reference to the skill with which the
creatures wing their way in the darkest caves.

As regards diet their wants are simple. Most bats feed on insects which
they catch on the wing; some of them eat fruit; and a few enjoy a bad
name because they suck the blood of other animals. Of these last are the
so-called vampire bats, respecting which it used to be said that they
fanned their victim with their wings while they sucked its life's blood.
Though it is quite true that horses and cattle in South America are
attacked by some bats, this hideous tale is altogether fabulous.

In considering the habits of these queer beings we shall confine
ourselves to the fruit-eaters, to which the bats in the Zoo belong. In
their native haunts the flying foxes, as they are called, are terribly
destructive creatures. In Ceylon they hang upon some trees in such
numbers that the branches often give way beneath their weight. While
hovering round the trees stripping them of their fruit, the beating of
their broad wings creates quite a hum. In the forenoon they take a
"constitutional," just for a little exercise, and to air and dry their
fur after the dews of the early morning. Then they return to the
shadiest nook they can find till nightfall. Sometimes an attempt is made
by its fellows to plunder a bat before it can manage to retire to a safe
and snug retreat where it may enjoy its dinner in peace and quiet. Then
fighting takes place, during which they tear one another with their
hooks, screaming angrily the while. At last the would-be victim
contrives to escape by flight to a distant spot, where in hot haste it
devours its fruit. When the flying foxes drink, they lap by hanging head
downwards from a branch over the water. Some of the Indian fruit bats,
according to Mr. Francis Day, "often pass the night partaking of the
toddy from the chatties in the cocoa-nut trees, which results either in
their returning home in the early morning in a state of extreme and
riotous intoxication, or in being found the next day at the foot of the
trees sleeping off the effects of their midnight drinking." These
"chatties," I may explain, are bowls containing various liquors
belonging to natives, which are placed in the trees to keep them cool.

The margined fruit bat--so called from the white border that surrounds
its ears--works great mischief in the plantations upon which it feeds.
They will fly as many as thirty or forty miles and back the same night
in search of food. It is a greedy animal, individuals kept in captivity
seeming to be always eating. The fruit bats are found in Asia, Africa,
and Australia.

Many readers have doubtless seen bats in the course of their evening
walks, and it may, therefore, be worth while to remind them that British
bats--the long-eared and the barbastelle bats, for example,--feed upon
insects. The blood-suckers, again, do not appear to belong to any other
country but South America. All the fruit-eaters are, comparatively
speaking, big bats. In size they range from the Great Kalong, the
largest of all bats, which measures fourteen inches long, and has a wing
expansion of upwards of four feet, to the dwarf long-tongued fruit bat,
which is only from two and a half to three inches in length, with an
expanse of wing of from eight to ten inches. The conditions of existence
in the Zoo at present entirely prevent the captive bats from ever having
an opportunity of doing justice to themselves. Perhaps at some date,
more or less distant, they may be accommodated with a cage roomy enough
to enable them to use their wings freely, and otherwise to display their
powers.

    JAMES A. MANSON.




A GAME OF CRICKET IN ELFLAND.

A FAIRY STORY.


It was a large gander, and it seemed to be a fierce gander, for it
hissed loudly when Felix waved a switch before it, and pointed his
finger at it crying, "Bohoo, bohoo, you goosey gander."

It was not very polite, and the gander seemed to grow more and more
angry, and yet it would not leave Felix. At length Felix still pointing
at the gander, said--

    "Goosey, goosey, gander,
    Whither shall we wander,
    Up the hill, or through the vale,
    Or in the pinewoods yonder."

And to his great surprise the gander drew in his head, and replied
promptly--

"Pinewoods."

And a goose in the distance cried out--

"Make haste then."

Felix dropped the switch, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at
both the birds.

"Come," said the gander, spreading out his wings; "get on my back, and

          Away we'll sail
    Down the river in the vale,
    Away to the pinewoods, away, away."

Splash, splash, such a spluttering in the water, and Felix, holding on
by the gander's neck, shivered as the water touched him, for it was very
cold; which much surprised him, as the day was hot, and the sun was
shining.

[Illustration: IT HISSED LOUDLY.]

How large the gander had grown! he had seemed a large gander before, but
now he seemed quite monstrous. And the river grew wider, and the trees
appeared to reach the sky, and the flags and bulrushes were like young
palm-trees, and the flowers shot up to a great size. There was one clump
of lilies of the valley much taller than Felix, and quite overshadowing
a girl in a large cap with a blue ribbon in it, who seemed to be
gathering some flowers growing in the water.

As Felix approached the bank the lily bells swayed to and fro with a
melodious sound as if bells of the purest silver were ringing.

"Welcoming us to Elfland," observed the gander.

"Isn't it the Pinewood?" asked Felix.

"It's all the same," answered the gander.

"Who is the little girl? She is coming to speak to us."

[Illustration: "THE LILY-BELLS SWAYED."]

"Little girl, indeed," returned the gander contemptuously; "it's the
Pine Queen; she has been asking you to come for weeks, but you took no
notice of her. She sent messages by the swallows and the blackbirds, and
the butterflies, and the grasshopper, but you did not heed them."

"I never heard them," said Felix, somewhat bewildered.

"Of course not; boys never do; they are always thinking of toys and
games, and tarts and plum-cake, and the birds and butterflies speak to
them in vain."

"I don't understand," said Felix.

"Of course not, but now," said the gander, suddenly rising in the water
and flapping his wings; "having done my duty in bringing you here, I
leave you to take care of yourself."

So saying he tossed Felix off his back to the bank, at the feet of the
Pine Queen.

As Felix looked at the Pine Queen he noticed that she was dressed in
silk and satin, and that her cap had turned into a crown of diamonds,
and that she had diamond buckles on her shoes, and that she seemed very
glittering and dazzling altogether.

She looked at Felix, and then said--

    "Two little maidens winding wool all day,
    If you want to see them please to walk this way."

"I don't care about seeing them," said Felix, who thought this a very
odd way of beginning a conversation; nevertheless he followed the Pine
Queen along the path through the trees.

It was very pleasant, the great straight pines with their tufted
branches, and the sun sending slanting rays of gold through them; whilst
the wild strawberries shone like heaps of rubies at his feet. Wonderful
birds and butterflies were darting hither and thither amongst the
loveliest flowers. And on a grassy nook not far from a waterfall he
perceived some white marble steps on which two little girls sat. The one
was holding a great skein of wool, and the other was winding it. There
was a great heap of wool of all colours on the ground.

    "We wind, we wind till we've wound enough
    Of wool a hundred balls to stuff."

sang the little maidens.

"What for?" asked Felix.

    "For cricket-balls we work away,
    With which pine-cricket players play."

sang the maidens.

"But cricket-balls should be hard," said Felix.

"Not in Elfland," answered the Pine Queen, smiling; "it's a different
game altogether; we hit 'soft' instead of 'hard,' and our bats are
brushes, and we make no scores."

"It must be a queer game," said Felix.

"_We_ think it a much better game than yours," answered the Queen, "pads
are never wanted; and there are no wickets, and no one is ever caught
out."

[Illustration: "HE PERCEIVED ... TWO LITTLE GIRLS."]

"How funny!" exclaimed Felix; "I should not care to play at such a
game."

The Queen made no answer, and they walked on until they met a girl with
a pail of water, who curtseyed respectfully.

"She's going to wash the cricket-ground," explained the Pine Queen.

"Oh!" said Felix, which was all that he could say, for the fact was
everything seemed so very strange to him.

    "Scour the ground, mop it, and dry it with care,
      Sprinkle it over with Eau-de-Cologne.
    Roses in flower-pots put round here and there,
      And the roses must all be full-blown."

[Illustration: "THEY MET A GIRL WITH A PAIL."]

The eyes of Felix grew rounder and rounder, as the Pine Queen gave these
directions, and he rubbed them to be quite certain that he was awake.

"_We_ roll and mow the grass," he half whispered.

"_We_ scour, and mop, and dry, and polish," murmured the Queen.

"_We_ play with bats," Felix went on.

"_We_ play with brushes," continued the Queen; "and here is one of our
players in full costume."

Felix glanced round, but he only saw a boy who looked like a street
sweeper, with a hand-brush in one hand and a broom in the other. He had
on a sailor's hat, and he touched the brim of it with the broom-handle,
as a salutation to the Queen.

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" thought Felix.

"Are you a good brusher?" asked the boy, suddenly; "can you brush the
balls well?"

Felix stared at him.

"Oh!" said the boy; "I thought you would be sure to be a good
cricketer."

"So I am," returned Felix; "I am a good batter. I've got a prize bat."

The boy burst out laughing, so did some magpies and squirrels. So did
the streamlet that was running along so fast. Even the little fishes
popped up their heads and laughed--

"Haha! haha! hoho! hoho!"

There was such a noise that Felix had to ask several times before he got
an answer.

"What are they laughing at?"

"At you," answered the boy.

"It's very rude of them," said Felix, taking up a stone to throw at the
magpies, which were chattering.

"Don't, don't," said the stone. "I don't want to hurt any one."

Felix, in his surprise, dropped the stone, and it fell to the ground,
saying--

"Thank you! thank you!"

"Queer, queerer, queerest!" said Felix to himself. But the Pine Queen
knew what he was saying, for she said--

"Wait till you have seen the practice." Felix rubbed his eyes again, for
though the sun was shining, there was certainly snow upon the ground,
and the two little players, who stood with brush and ball in their
hands, were clad in warm coats and gloves and winter boots, which Felix
thought must prevent their running well. The girl had a scarlet feather
in her felt hat, and the boy a long blue tassel hanging from his velvet
cap. The girl was raising her brush to ward off the ball that the boy
was about to throw.

"Isn't it pretty?" said the Pine Queen--

    "Throw, throw, hit, hit!
    No danger, not a bit."

But Felix was thinking about "Scour, mop, and dry it," as he looked at
the snow-covered patch of land.

"Ah!" continued the Pine Queen, divining his thoughts, "snow is soft, so
that if the players fall it does not hurt them. But there is no snow to
be seen when the regular game begins."

And the Queen waved a rose that she held in her hand, and in a moment
the scene was changed, and Felix saw before him a smooth piece of lawn
that looked like shining velvet. The flower-pots with full-blown roses
were there, so was the girl with the pail and the player with the long
broom, looking quite hot, as if they had been at work for hours.

"A good morning's work," observed the Queen. "See how neat it is."

[Illustration: "HE ONLY SAW A BOY ... LIKE A STREET-SWEEPER."]

Felix grew more and more perplexed. How could they scour and sweep under
the snow? And how did the flower-pots get there, and the players; for
the ground was all covered with the pine-wood cricket-players, dressed
in the gayest and airiest of costumes. Half had brushes and half had
balls. And the balls were flying here and there, and if the players hit
them so that they rose in the air, they burst, and butterflies of the
loveliest colours issued forth; whilst if the balls fell to the ground,
frogs innumerable hopped out of them, and making their way to the banks
of the river, sat there singing in a most delightful manner.

[Illustration: "THE GIRL WAS RAISING HER BRUSH" (_p. 107_).]

Yet, sweet as it was, the music seemed to confuse him as much as the
game, which grew every moment more and more intricate; the players,
brandishing their brushes, flew round, and the balls flashed about, and
at last all that Felix could see was a mass of dazzling rainbow colours
whirling past him.

All at once he heard a loud hissing, and he saw the large gander
waddling up from the river; and beside him was the little girl with the
large cap with the blue bow in it, and she held out her hand, saying--

"Good-bye, Felix. Come and see us again."

"That I will," replied Felix.

But he never did.

For from that day he never saw the gander again; nor could he ever find
the way to the pine-forest, though he fancied he had remembered it quite
well; nor did he ever see the game of brush-cricket played again.

Sometimes he even doubted whether he had been to Pineland, and had seen
the wonderful game.

"But yet," said he, "if I had not seen it, how should I know anything
about the forest and the Pine Queen? and how should I know how
brush-cricket is played?"

And how should he?

    JULIA GODDARD.




HARVEST DAYS.


    Over the cornfield fell the sunlight,
      And turned all the stubble to gold,
    And 'neath the pale cloud-shades of evening
      Deep crimson and purple unrolled.

    The gleaners were busily gleaning
      The yellow corn scattered around;
    The waggons, all heavily laden,
      Were tracing with furrows the ground.

    The farmer stood lazily viewing
      The harvesting in of his wheat,
    His daughters were standing beside him,
      His faithful dog lay at his feet.

    There came by a shy little gleaner,
      Flaxen-headed, with eyes bright and blue,
    And the farmer smiled down, "Little maiden,
      Come here--here's a gleaning for you."

[Illustration: THE GLEANER. (_See p. 108._)]

    He pulled from the waggon an armful
      Of corn; and the gleaner's eyes gleamed:
    She dimpled, she flushed, and she curtsied,
      Such a great golden treasure it seemed.

    "Ay, sowing, and reaping, and harvest,"
      The farmer soft spake as she passed,
    And he thought of earth's sowing and reaping,
      And the harvest that must come at last.




LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.--VIII.

_By_ PHILLIS BROWNE, _Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do,"
&c._


When Margaret and Mary entered the kitchen on the day on which the
children were to learn how to bake meat, they found Mrs. Herbert already
there. As usual, everything was laid ready for them. The meat was on a
dish, the tins and various utensils were clean and bright, and there was
a clear bright fire, while a general feeling of warmth and comfort
pervaded everything, which was very agreeable, as it was a cold day.

"You have cleared out the flues properly and cleaned the oven for us, I
hope, cook," said Mrs. Herbert.

"Oh yes, ma'am; it is all as it should be," replied cook, with a
satisfied look as she watched Mrs. Herbert open the oven door, glance
quickly in all the corners, put her hand inside for a moment to test the
heat, then draw it out, and shut the oven door once more.

"That is well," said Mrs. Herbert. "Now remember, children, when you are
going to bake meat, the first thing you have to look after is the
condition of the oven. If the soot has not been swept away from the back
and round about, your oven will not heat satisfactorily, no matter how
much coal you pile on the fire; and if the shelves are dirty, that is,
if a little syrup from the last pie which was baked in it, or splashes
of fat from the last joint, are left to burn on the shelves, the meat
will taste unpleasantly, and very likely be indigestible also."

"But we cannot prevent syrup boiling over," said Margaret.

"Perhaps not; but you can scrape off what was spilt before it has time
to burn on the shelves, and you can clean out thoroughly, and wash the
shelves with weak vinegar and water, to make them fresh and sweet. We
very often hear people say they do not like baked meat, because it
tastes of the oven."

"Yes, I have often heard them say so," said Margaret.

"Ah! This remark would not be made so frequently as it is if cooks were
careful to keep the oven _perfectly_ clean. Cleanliness is most
important in all cookery, and never more so than with regard to an
oven."

"What is that little iron slide which you pushed in when you opened the
oven, mother?" said Margaret.

"It is a ventilator, and is intended to let fresh air into the oven, and
to allow the smell of the roasting meat and the fumes which rise from it
to escape. I shut it because we are just going to put in the meat, and I
wish it to remain shut for about ten minutes, so as to make the oven
very hot till the outside is cooked."

"I know what that is for," said Mary, hurriedly: "to harden the outside,
and make a case to keep in the juice."

"Quite right, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, smiling. "In ten minutes,
however, we will push the slide out again, and that will admit the fresh
air, slightly cool the oven, and allow the fumes to escape. Always
recollect, however, that the oven must be hot. We need a good hot oven
for roasting meat."

"Cook has put two dripping-tins here," said Margaret. "We do not want
two tins."

"Yes, we do. To use two tins is another way of preventing the taste of
the oven which is so objectionable. Usually I should use what is called
a hot-water tin for baking meat. That is a tin made for the purpose,
with a place inside for holding hot water. I shall not do so to-day,
however, because I want to show you how to manage when there is no
hot-water tin. See, I lay two or three thick sticks in the larger of the
two tins, and put the smaller tin inside the other. Then I fill the
bottom tin with hot water. I put this small stand in the uppermost tin,
and place the meat on this, and then I put the whole affair into the
oven."

"But what is the good of it all?" said Margaret.

"This is the good: when the meat has been a little while in the oven,
the fat will melt, and will fall into the dripping-tin."

"I know that," said Margaret.

"Well, then, if we were to let the meat lie in the tin, don't you think
it would get soaked in fat? Of course it would, and that wouldn't be
agreeable."

"And the hot water: what is that for?"

"If we were to leave a tin containing melted dripping in a hot oven it
would get brown, burnt, smoky, and disagreeable?"

"But what has the water to do with the fat burning?" persisted Margaret.

"I will try to explain, if you on your part will try to understand
something which is difficult to understand. First of all, what is
boiling water?"

"It is water which is so hot that it bubbles all over, and steam rises
from it."

"Quite so. If we were using a thermometer, and were to put it into water
which was bubbling all over, we should find that the silvery line, or
mercury, in the thermometer rose until it came to 212 deg.. We might put a
hotter fire under the water, but under ordinary circumstances we should
never get the mercury higher than 212 deg.. Under extraordinary
circumstances, I confess we could get it higher. For instance, if we
were at the bottom of a mine, boiling-point would be two degrees higher,
and if we were to put some salt in the water, boiling-point would be
four degrees higher."

The little girls listened very attentively while Mrs. Herbert was
speaking. When she paused, they looked very solemn, and said nothing.

"Fat, on the other hand, can be made very much hotter: more than three
times as hot as boiling water. When heat is first applied to fat, it
bubbles, but as it gets hotter it becomes still. As it gets hotter and
hotter, it remains still, but it turns dark, and smokes, and smells
burnt. This is what would happen to our fat in the tin if we were to let
it come in contact with the heat of the oven shelf; but you can see that
when water, which never rises beyond 212 deg., is under it, it cannot burn
in this way."

"I see that perfectly," said Margaret, joyfully. "I like to be told
difficult things when once I understand them. But, mother, will not the
water boil away?"

"Yes; we must watch it, and as it does so, we must add fresh boiling
water. It would never do to add cold water, because that would make the
fat too cool, and would lessen the heat of the oven also."

"We should have to open the door, though, to see how the water was
getting on," said Mary. "Would not that be a pity?"

"It would have to be done in any case to baste the meat," said Mrs.
Herbert. "Remember, we can no more dispense with basting in baking meat
than we can in roasting it before the fire. If we try to do so, our meat
will be spoilt. We must baste every quarter of an hour, and to do this
we must lift the meat right out of the oven, and shut the door as soon
as possible. If we were to baste the meat while it was in the oven, the
latter would become cool, and we wish to keep the heat up the whole
time. We should be careful also to shut the oven door gently. If we slam
it, we shall force some of the hot air out of it."

"I never saw anything like it," said Margaret. "In cookery there are so
many little things to remember."

"That is the case with whatever we learn, my dear little girl, if we try
to learn thoroughly. And there is still another point to remember: when
we take the meat out of the oven to baste it, we must notice whether it
is browner in one part than another, and if it is, we must turn the tin,
so that the side which is less cooked may take its turn in going to the
hottest part of the oven. You know that one part of the oven is always
hotter than another. In the same way, you should turn the meat over once
or twice, that it may be equally cooked."

"How long will it have to be in the oven, ma'am?" said Mary.

"If you use the ventilator as I have told you to do, you may follow the
same rules in baking meat that would hold good for roasting it: that is,
you may allow a quarter of an hour to the pound, and a quarter of an
hour over for red meats, and twenty minutes to the pound for white
meats. But if the ventilator is not used, the oven would get very hot,
and ten minutes to the pound, with ten minutes over, would probably be
sufficient, excepting in cases where the meat was very thick and solid."

"And do we make gravy for baked meat in the same way that we make it for
roast meat, ma'am?" said Mary.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Herbert.

"Well, I must say," said Margaret, when in course of time the baked meat
was dished and set on the table, "that I think baked meat tastes quite
as well as roast meat, and it is much less troublesome to cook."

"I do not agree with you, Margaret," replied her mother. "I do not
consider baked meat is equal to roast meat. Nevertheless, if it is
carefully cooked, if the ventilator is left open, and if the meat is
well basted, there is not much difference between the two, and certainly
baking is a very convenient mode of dressing meat. Besides this, it is a
way which nine people out of every ten must adopt; they have no choice
in the matter. Therefore, I hope you will try to remember what I have
told you about baking."

"Indeed we will," said both the children.

(_To be continued._)




A Harvest Song.

_Words by_ GEORGE DAVIES.

_Music by_ J. M. BENTLEY, Mus. Doc.

[Illustration]

    1. With the set-ting  of the sun   All the work is  near-ly done,
    And the last up-lift-ed sheaf Brings the toil-ers sweet  re-lief.

    2. Down the nar-row coun-try lane  Trails the hea-vy-la-den wain;
    Men and wo-men, old and young, Singing loud their sim-ple  song.

    3. Now the barn the corn re-ceives--Piled up high the gold-en sheaves;
    While the jol-ly  reap-ers sing Till the  ve-ry raft-ers  ring.

    Repeat in CHORUS.
    Greet the reap-ers  as they come     With a wel-come har-vest-home!




WAITING FOR FATHER.


[Illustration: "ON THE SHORE STAND WATCHING."]

    Father's boat comes sailing,
      Sailing from the west;
    On the shore stand watching
      Those who love him best.

    Blooms the gorse so golden
      On the breezy down,
    Comes a sound of joy-bells
      From the busy town.

    In the fisher's cottage
      Mother's work is done,
    Through the open window
      Streams the sinking sun.

    Cheerily the kettle
      Sings upon the fire,
    Ticks the old clock loudly,
      Creep the shadows higher.

    Just now, in the gloaming,
      When the boat is in,
    And the fish are counted
      With a merry din,

    All those five together
      Up the cliff will come,
    Peacefully and gladly,
      To their cosy home.




STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

_By_ EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").


II.--THE CORONATIONS IN THE ABBEY.

Come with me now inside the Abbey. We take off our hats here with great
reverence, for we are not only in the House of God, but in the midst of
the memorials of some of the most gifted of our countrymen. It is Poet's
Corner. But we will not linger here; I want you to come right away into
the chapel of Edward the Confessor, and as we pass along picture to
yourselves how the Abbey looked on Coronation days, when the light from
the great stained glass windows fell upon crowds of brave men and fair
women, all robed in costumes of state to see the crown of England placed
upon a monarch's head. You must try and imagine the moment when, as the
Coronation rubric has it, "the Dean of Westminster bringeth the crown,
and the Archbishop taking it of him, putteth it reverently upon the
Queen's head. At the sight whereof the people with loud and repeated
shouts cry, 'God save the Queen!' and trumpets sound, and by a signal
given the great guns at the Tower are shot off."

Well, now we are in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, and I see you
all look at that chair standing by the screen. It is well worth looking
at, for it is doubtful whether there is any curiosity in all England to
compare with it in interest. It is King Edward's chair, upon which
English monarchs have been crowned for many centuries, and while we
stand near it, I shall tell you very briefly about the crowning of some
of our kings and queens.

For more than 800 years the coronations of English monarchs have
regularly taken place in Westminster Abbey. Duke William of Normandy
claimed the throne as lawful successor of Edward the Confessor, and upon
the Confessor's gravestone the burly Norman stood to receive the crown
of England. There were two nations represented in the throng assembled
here that day. Godfrey, Bishop of Coutances, made a speech in French,
Alred, Archbishop of York, spoke in English, and then the crowd, some in
French and some in English, hailed William the Conqueror as their king.
While this was going on inside the Abbey the Norman cavalry were without
sitting on their war-horses, ready to quell any disturbance should it
arise. They had not long to wait. It seems that they were not aware that
their leader was to go through the form of receiving by popular vote the
crown which he had already won by his sword, and when they heard the
excited shouting inside the building they thought something had gone
wrong, and so they set fire to the gates of the Abbey. Then the crowd
inside the building were sure there was something wrong without, and
they rushed out, only to be trodden down by the Norman horse-hoofs. Only
monks and prelates remained within, and the ceremony of coronation was
hurried through, while William, for the first time in his life, it is
said, trembled from head to foot; and so ended the first coronation in
the Abbey of which we have any authentic information.

Nothing of importance marks the coronation of William Rufus. When he
perished in the New Forest, within four days Henry I. was in the Abbey
claiming the crown, and making all sorts of promises in order to get the
thing done speedily. So he was crowned by the Bishop of London, being in
too great a hurry to wait for the arrival of either of the archbishops,
who were away from London.

In those days, when times were troublous, kings were not so anxious to
have throngs of people in fine dresses, and specially composed music and
all that sort of thing. They only wanted men with good swords, and as
much speed in being crowned as possible, for "delays were dangerous."
Stephen was almost as prompt as his predecessor; Henry ate his supper of
lampreys on December the 1st, and Stephen was crowned on St. Stephen's
Day, December 26th, 1135. At the next coronation, that of Henry II.,
Norman and Saxon rejoiced together at the prospect of an era of peace.
Prince Henry, son of Henry II., was crowned during his father's
lifetime, on June 14th, 1170. At the coronation banquet, when his
father stood behind him, the Prince remarked, "The son of an earl may
well wait on the son of a king." The event took place during the height
of the quarrel between Henry II. and Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury,
whose right it was to put the crown on the royal head. Accordingly
Becket excommunicated the Archbishop of York and the assistant bishops
who had officiated on the occasion. This led to the murder of Becket,
with disastrous consequences too numerous for me to allude to here.

At the coronation of Richard I. there was a grand array of nobles and
prelates, who came with the king from his palace to the Abbey and
witnessed the ceremony. Ill omens attended the occasion; a bat fluttered
round and round the throne at mid-day, and at night (they say) there was
a peal upon the bells, of which no one could give an explanation. But
the day was also marked by real horrors. From superstitious fears the
Jews had been forbidden to witness the ceremony. But at the banquet some
of them were discovered amongst the bystanders. They were at once beaten
almost to death. The mob began plundering the Jews' houses, and
murdering the inmates, and at York and other cities similar scenes
quickly followed.

At John's coronation the custom began of having the canopy over the
king's head carried by the five Barons of the Cinque Ports. This was in
return for their aid to John in his frequent voyages. When Henry III.
succeeded, Westminster was in the hands of Prince Louis of France, "the
Dauphin" of Shakespeare's play. The king was accordingly crowned at
Winchester; but he had a second coronation in Westminster Abbey, on May
17, 1220, having on the previous day laid the foundation-stone of his
Lady Chapel, which was to be the germ of an entirely new edifice. All
previous coronations were said to be outdone by the feasting and
joviality on this occasion.

There was high rejoicing when Edward I. came back from the Holy Land,
two years after his accession, and was crowned in company with his
beloved Eleanor, the first royal couple who were crowned in the Abbey
together. Alexander III. of Scotland did homage on the following day,
and in his honour 500 great horses were let loose in the crowd for any
persons to catch and keep that could.

Edward I. brought from Scotland the noted stone upon which for centuries
the Scottish monarchs had been installed, and had it placed in this
oaken chair which still covers it. According to tradition, this stone
was the one on which Jacob slept at Bethel, and which by a series of
remarkable adventures had been transported successively to Egypt,
Sicily, Spain, and Ireland. In Ireland they say it stood on the hill of
Tara, and that upon it were enthroned the ancient Irish kings. Fergus,
founder of the Scottish monarchy, took the stone to Dunstaffnage Castle,
and Kenneth II. (here we get hold of historic fact) placed it at Scone
in the ninth century. Wherever it may have wandered, it is
unquestionably a piece of sandstone from the western coasts of Scotland,
and is most probably (says Stanley) the stony pillow of St. Columba, on
which his dying head was laid in the Abbey of Iona. On this stone the
reign of every English monarch from Edward I. to Victoria has been
inaugurated. Only once has it been taken out of the Abbey, and that was
for Oliver Cromwell to be installed upon it as Lord Protector in
Westminster Hall.

At the coronation of Edward II. the crown was carried by Piers Gaveston,
the unworthy favourite whom it had been the dying wish of Edward I. to
have excluded from the court. In 1327, Edward III. (by consent of his
deposed father) was crowned whilst his mother Isabella, "the she-wolf of
France" (as Gray calls her), pretended to weep all through the ceremony.
Of the coronation of Richard II. full details are preserved in the
"Liber Regalis," a book drawn up by Abbot Littlington, and ever since
carefully preserved by the Abbots and Deans, as it sets forth the order
which has been observed in all subsequent ceremonials. Proceedings
commenced with a grand procession through the city from the Tower, a
custom which was kept up till the time of Charles I. The young king rode
bareheaded, and was escorted by a body of knights, created for the
occasion, and who, from the bath they took in company before assuming
their armour, were styled the Knights of the Bath. The young king was
taken out fainting from the long ceremonial just as Sir John Dymote, as
champion, rode up to the Abbey gates on his charger, to challenge any
who dared to dispute the royal succession. It is the first time we hear
of the Champion; but it was an age of knightly revivals, and this was
probably one of them.

We next see Henry IV. and Henry V. successively installed on the Stone
of Scone; and then comes Henry VI., a child of nine, "beholding all the
people about sadly and wisely;" his queen, Margaret of Anjou, was
crowned here fourteen years afterwards. The coronation of Edward IV.
presents no particular feature of interest. For that of Edward V. all
was ready, robes for the guests, provisions for the banquet. But the
Tower beheld the "midnight murder" of the only English monarch who never
wore the crown. Then with splendid ceremonial Richard III. tried to
cover the defects of his title. Six thousand gentlemen rode with him to
Westminster Hall on June 26th, 1483, and a few days afterwards there was
a very grand procession to the Abbey, when Richard and his wife were
anointed King and Queen of England. Amongst the Queen's train was
Margaret of Richmond, little dreaming that within three years her son
should be crowned here as Henry VII. But this monarch's real coronation
had already taken place, when the crown of England was found in the
hawthorn bush on Bosworth Field, and placed on Richmond's head by Lord
Stanley. The public ceremonial was only a poor display. Not so the next
event of this character, when Henry VIII. and Catherine of Arragon were
crowned with great splendour, and when for the last time a Roman
Catholic Archbishop performed the ceremony. Anne Boleyn's coronation
(commemorated by Shakespeare) was a noticeable one, and Cranmer, fresh
from sentencing Catherine, performed the ceremony.

Edward VI. came to the Abbey, now a Cathedral, amidst much curious
pageantry, and for the first time a Bible was presented to the
sovereign.... Mary's procession to the Abbey is signalised by the
exploits of a Dutchman, who sat astride on the weathercock of St. Paul's
five hundred feet in the air, as the Queen passed. The two Archbishops
and the Bishop of London were all in the Tower, so Gardiner, Bishop of
Winchester, put the crown on Mary's head. On Jan. 14th, 1559, London was
wild with joy, as Elizabeth passed from the Tower to the Abbey. The
women flung flowers into her lap, groups of children sang welcomes, even
old men wept for gladness. The Bishop of Carlisle crowned the Queen.

James I. was crowned in the time of the Plague, so there was no
procession. There was a slight hitch because his wife refused the
sacrament. She had "changed once from Lutheran to Presbyterian, and that
was enough." The coronation of Charles I. was marked by a slight
earthquake shock. This was not the only bad omen. The dove of gold on
the staff of Edward the Confessor had been broken, none knew how, and
had to be replaced. Oliver Cromwell did not venture on a ceremony in the
Abbey; he was enthroned, as I have already said, in Westminster Hall.

At the Restoration, Charles II. was crowned "with the greatest solemnity
and glory," as the old historian says. The Regalia was all new, to
replace that which had been lost during the Commonwealth. The crown was
placed on the king's head by the weak and aged Archbishop Juxon, who had
attended Charles I. on the scaffold. At the coronation of James II., a
hundred thousand pounds were spent over the Queen's robes and jewels,
and the procession was omitted to save expense, much to the wrath of the
Londoners. As the crown was placed on James's head, it tottered and
would have fallen, but for the Keeper of the Robes, who held it up.

The next coronation, that of William and Ma

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