Chapter VIII…

Chapter VIII

I must have slept for many hours in the shed, for, when I opened my eyes, the sun was high in the sky. I think it must have been past ten o'clock, and it took some minutes before I could succeed in determining which of my recent experiences were real, and which the result of dreams. Little by little I began to put together the circumstances, which had occurred since yesterday morning, in their proper order, and my cheeks tingled with shame as I tried to imagine the feelings of Mr. Baker and Eliza when they discovered my flight. They had treated me with genuine kindness, and it must appear that I had repaid them with the basest ingratitude; while yet I cannot pretend to have repented of my flight from the farm-house, for I knew that, in similar circumstances, I should act in the same way.

At first I felt tempted to lie down and go to sleep again, but this might be to run no little risk. It was impossible to decide whether I was still on Mr. Baker's land or not, for, although I had covered some miles last night, there was no proof that I had run in a straight line, and it seemed quite likely that I had described something resembling a circle.

So I rose and stood gazing down at my legs, which now bore no traces of the brush which Eliza had lent me after supper. My boots were completely coated with mud as the result of the ditches into which I had floundered in my headlong flight, my stockings were splashed, and even my knickerbockers were freely covered with dry mud.

On stepping out from the shelter of the hut, the sun shining full in my eyes reminded me that I had not put on my hat, and, entering again, I looked about for it for a few seconds before remembering that it had, of course, been left behind at the farm-house.

As I crossed the field, the situation seemed peculiarly depressing, and it was impossible not to contrast it with my circumstances at the same hour yesterday. It was one consolation that nobody could rob me to-day, for I had not a penny in my pocket. Every one of my limbs seemed to have a separate ache, and although I had not been accustomed to very luxurious fare of late, I felt a great longing for breakfast.

Although my confidence in the good fortune awaiting me in London had been somewhat shaken since I left Castlemore, I still determined to set my face in that direction. Where else could I go unless I returned to Mr. Turton? An unthinkable proposition. Making my way towards a black five-barred gate, I rejoiced to see a lane on the other side of it, and, without a notion of my locality, I thought it better to turn to the left. The lane, a mere cart-track, led to a wider road, prettily undulated, and, for half a mile or so, entirely deserted. The first person I saw that morning (it must have been about half-past eleven) was a young man of about three-and-twenty years of age, engaged in mending a puncture in his bicycle-tyre. The machine was turned wheels upwards, while he stood pressing the punctured portion of the collapsed tyre between two pennies. From curiosity, and the desire, perhaps, to be near some one for a few minutes, I stopped, while he chalked the patch, stooped to replace the outer covering, and then, turning the bicycle right way up again, took off the pump.

(Continued on page 69.)

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

II.--M. CHARLES AND HIS PARIS BALLOON.

News, like sound, travels fast; and the applause which greeted the ascent of the Montgolfier balloon at Annonay had hardly ceased when it seemed to reach the ears of the people in Paris, and put the whole town in quite a flutter of excitement. Some of those who had been present at the great experiment wrote an account of it to their friends in Paris, who at once began to make arrangements for inviting the Montgolfiers to send up another balloon from the capital. But these arrangements took too long to satisfy the impatience of the people of Paris, and they were better pleased when M. de Saint-Fond opened a subscription to pay expenses for a separate experiment.

No one in all France had heard of the event at Annonay with more interest and delight than a certain M. James Alexander Cæsar Charles, a young and clever scientist who took great pleasure in showing people the wonderful things he had discovered. When Franklin brought lightning out of the clouds with a kite, M. Charles followed the road thus pointed out to him, and soon found new wonders which he had a great talent for explaining. Thus, though he might not be a great original discoverer, he was quick to see in what direction truth lay, and was able to lead those who were less learned than himself. What wonder, then, that the people of Paris were full of expectation when they heard that M. Charles had put away his electrical studies to devote his attention to balloons? Sufficient money having been collected he set to work with the assistance of two brothers named Robert, and constructed an 'envelope' of silk, which, when filled, would make a balloon twelve feet two inches in diameter. This was very small when compared with the giant of Annonay, but the gas that M. Charles was going to use would make it thirteen times stronger. 'You see,' said he, 'the air that the Montgolfiers use is twice as light as the atmosphere. I shall use inflammable gas' (as hydrogen was then called), 'which is fourteen times lighter; though to retain this it will be necessary to paint the silk with rubber dissolved in turpentine.'

But if the gentlemen who sat around the platform at Annonay had gathered to see this baby balloon inflated they would have grown very weary, for it took nearly four days. Every morning outside Charles's house a notice was hung up to inform the eager crowds how the wonderful little giant was growing; and at last it became necessary for mounted police to protect his door, so great was the crush. Then, on the twenty-sixth of August, though the balloon was not quite full, it was decided to carry it to the Champs de Mars, the open space from which the ascent was to be made. There the filling could be completed. But as not even a king, travelling in state, would be likely to draw such excited throngs as this balloon, arrangements were made for moving the silk bag in the middle of the night. First, all the tools which would be required at the launching were sent in advance; then, at two o'clock in the morning, the procession set out. A strong body of mounted soldiers accompanied the waggon on which the half-filled balloon was placed, while in front of it marched a body of men carrying torches. The journey was only two miles long, yet in that short distance the cavalcade was greeted with enough applause to satisfy the most ambitious. All vehicles encountered en route were drawn aside, and the drivers doffed their caps as they watched it pass. As the balloon swayed solemnly from side to side, an imaginative on-looker might have fancied that it was acknowledging these respectful salutations.

In due course the scene of action was safely reached and the filling process continued. As the gas had to be made from sulphuric acid and iron filings, it naturally took some time, but when the clocks of Paris were striking five on the evening of August 27th, 1783, Charles's cloud-cruiser was ready for the voyage. The bells had hardly done chiming when a cannon-shot was heard. It was the signal for departure. The thousands of spectators heard it with a thrill of interest, and as its echoes reverberated over Paris, the watchers of the high towers of Notre Dame, and the military school, directed their telescopes to the Champs de Mars. One of the guests was Stephen Montgolfier, for though Charles might add improvements to others' inventions, he always acknowledged to whom the first honour belonged.

In spite of the heavy rain that was falling, the balloon shot into the air with great rapidity, and in the space of a minute or two disappeared behind a cloud. The moment it vanished another cannon was fired as though in farewell, but the watchers (richly dressed gentlemen and fine ladies) regardless of the weather, continued to keep their eyes upon the clouds, and were surprised to see it once more, far above them, sailing in the direction of Gonesse, fifteen miles away. Here in a field it settled, three-quarters of an hour after leaving Paris, and--met its doom. The country people, imagining it to be a large and unknown bird, approached in fear, until one, bolder than the rest, stabbed it with a pitchfork, when the sighing sound, made by the out-rushing gas, only confirmed their conviction that it was endowed with life. In vain did the village curé try to dissuade them, and when at last the silk bag lay flat and 'lifeless' on the ground, they tied it to a horse's tail and set him galloping through the field. With wild excitement they followed in chase, till hardly a shred of poor M. Charles's carefully-built balloon remained to be trodden on.

When the country folk were so ignorant as this, we can hardly be surprised to read that the Government soon found it advisable to make Montgolfier's discovery widely known, so as to allay 'the terror which it might otherwise excite among the people.'

JOHN LEA.

MY GARDEN CONCERT.

I hear a splendid concert in my garden every day, When the breezes find by grove and lawn some instrument to play; They shake the shiny laurel with the clatter of the 'bones,' And from the lofty sycamore draw deeper 'cello tones, And giving thus the signal that the concert should begin, The brook beside the pebbled path strikes up its mandoline.

Then all the garden wakes to sound, for not a bird is mute: The robin pipes the piccolo; the blackbird plays the flute; While high upon a cedar-top a thrush with bubbling throat Lifts up to this accompaniment her clear soprano note.

Then by-and-by there softly sounds, beside some flowering tree The oboe of the dancing gnat, the cornet of the bee. Such tiny notes--and yet with ease their cadence I can trace, While over-head some passing rook puts in his noisy bass, Or from a green and shady copse, a daisied field away, I hear the jarring discords of a magpie and a jay.

The Wind conducts the orchestra, and as he beats the time The flood of music sinks and swells in melody sublime; Till, when the darkness deepens and the sun sets in the West, They all put up their instruments and settle down to rest; And when I seek my slumber, like the daisy or the bird, My rest is all the better for the concert I have heard.

THE LEGEND OF HELFENSTEIN.

A German version of an old story.

In former times there ruled at Olmütz, in Moravia, a Duke who allowed himself, when in anger, to do many cruel things. One day, Bruno, his falconer, came trembling before his master and announced to him that the finest of the falcons was dead. When the Duke heard this, he flew into a passion, and commanded his servants to chastise the man severely. Bruno, however, succeeded in escaping the intended punishment, and hid himself in the thick forest which extends from Olmütz to the Oder valley. There he lived by hunting, and occupied himself with charcoal-burning.

It happened one day that as Bruno, armed with bow and arrow and battle-axe, was going through the forest, he suddenly heard the well-known hunting-cry of the Duke. He quickly hid himself behind an oak-tree, in order that his master should not discover him, and saw, to his horror, that his master was pursued by a wild bison. The Duke would have lost his life, if Bruno, with his battle-axe, had not courageously attacked the furious animal and given it a mortal wound. Deeply touched, the Duke thanked the deliverer of his life for his proved fidelity, and bade him ask any favour he pleased.

Bruno did so. He asked to be allowed to possess as much land as he could encircle with the skin of the dead bison. Smilingly, the Duke promised to grant the request.

The falconer began to cut the skin into small strips, and with them encircled the whole hill upon which he had saved his prince's life. The Duke was highly pleased with this proof of Bruno's cleverness as well as courage, made him into a knight, and put him in a position of honour at his court. Bruno became dearer to his master every day, and rendered him many and great services. In later times he built a castle on the hill, which, in memory of the Duke's deliverance, he called Helfenstein.

W. Y.

CHASED BY SEAGULLS.

Seagulls are a very distinct tribe of birds, mostly lovers of the sea, yet from time to time showing themselves inland. They look larger than they really are, owing to their having a quantity of down and feathers, the wings being also long and the head large. They are equipped with a strong and straight bill, by means of which they devour a great variety of food. They will occasionally go out to sea hundreds of miles from land, but they are not welcome sights to the mariner, for he usually regards them as signs that bad weather is approaching. The most familiar species is the common seagull, white and grey, with greenish legs.

One of the peculiarities of the seagull is its habit of dashing in parties after any object that attracts its notice. This now and then furnishes amusement to men and boys who are strolling along the Thames banks or bridges. Supplying themselves with bits of bread or fragments of meat, they fling these upon the river, and watch the birds eagerly pursue the food.

Seagulls will also give chase to birds of other species they may come across. Not long ago the Cunard steamer Campania, from New York, was nearly due south of Nova Scotia, when the look-out observed a bird close at hand flying rapidly. In fact, it went faster than the ship, which was then moving twenty-four statute miles an hour. A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive, but could not make enough speed to catch it. At length the bird settled upon the deck, wearied, and proved to be a fine specimen of the snowy owl.

The snowy owl is a species chiefly found in the Arctic Circle, especially about Greenland and Iceland. It is a hardy bird, and has its nest among the rocks. The bill is hooked like a hawk's, having round the base a few stiff feathers. Its plumage is snowy white touched with some brown.

J. R. S. C.

THE CAPTAIN AND THE INVALID.

A fine instance of moral courage occurred not long ago at a small seaport. The captain of a little passenger-boat, a tall, sun-browned man, stood on his craft superintending the labours of his men, when the boat train came in, and about twelve minutes after, a party of half-a-dozen gentlemen came along, and, deliberately walking up to the captain, thus addressed him:--

'Sir, we wish to go by this boat, but our further progress to-day depends upon you. In the train we have just left there is a sick man, whose presence is extremely disagreeable to us. We have been chosen as a committee by the passengers, to ask that you will deny this man a passage on your boat; if he goes, we remain here.'

By this time others had come from the train.

'Gentlemen,' said the captain, 'I have heard the passengers through your committee. Has the invalid any representatives here? I wish to hear both sides of the question.'

To this unexpected inquiry there was not a single answer. Without a pause, the captain crossed to the car, and, entering, beheld a poor, emaciated, worn-out creature, who was obviously very weak and ill.

The man's head was bowed in his hands, and he was weeping. The captain advanced and spoke kindly to him.

'Oh, sir,' said the invalid, looking up, his face lit up with hope and expectation, 'are you the captain, and will you take me? The passengers shun me, and are so unkind. You see, sir, I am dying; but if I can live to see my mother, I shall die happy. She lives at B----, sir, and my journey is more than half performed. I am a poor printer, and the only child of her in whose arms I would wish to die.'

'You shall go,' said the captain, 'if I lose every passenger for the trip.'

By this time the whole crowd of passengers were grouped around the gangway, with their baggage piled on the pier, waiting for the decision of the captain, before engaging their passage.

A moment more, and that decision was made known, for they saw him coming from the cars with the sick man cradled in his strong arms. Pushing directly through the crowd with his burden, he ordered a mattress to be put in the cabin, where he laid the invalid with all the care of a parent.

Then, scarcely deigning to cast a look at the astonished crowd, he called loudly to his men: 'Let go!'

But a new feeling seemed to possess the passengers, that of shame and contrition at their own inhumanity. With a common impulse each seized his own baggage, and went in a shamefaced way on board the boat.

In a short time a message was sent to the captain, asking his presence in the cabin. He went, and one of the passengers, speaking for the rest, with faltering voice told the rough captain that he had taught them a lesson--that they felt humble before him, and they asked his forgiveness.

W. Y.

BOUQUETS.

Buttercups and daisies, Violets and May, Pimpernels and cowslips, Make a sweet bouquet. Not a rose among them; Nought the garden yields. Yet a lot of beauty Taken from the fields, Gathered in the sunshine, Through the happy hours-- What a sweet bouquet, dears, Made of simple flowers!

Patience and forgiveness, Kindness to the weak; Willing in our labour All the happy week; No exalted actions Striving after praise, Yet a lot of beauty From life's lowly ways, Gathered through the day, dear, By the heart that heeds-- What a sweet bouquet, dear! Made of simple deeds.

J. L.

McLEOD OF CLERE.

Founded on Fact.

I.

The moonlight lay in soft brilliance over the land of Burmah. Its rays pierced the small slit windows in the cell of the fanatic An-we-lota, and lighted up the fierce faces of the dacoits and desperate men, who from time to time stealthily entered, until a close-packed band had collected. Near and far a message had reached these malcontents that an attack would be made on some of the British outposts scattered here and there over the newly conquered territory, and held by English officers and a brave force of Sikhs and Pathans.

'We are as nothing,' said An-we-lota; 'these Ingalay' (Englishmen) 'have taken our country, and are now setting up their camps everywhere among us, for these men to spy on us. They say the glorious King Theebaw is dead. Know we not well that he will come again and reign over us? I am myself possessed of magic power. I have swallowed the all-powerful mercury, which makes me proof against bullet and steel, which turn to water as they touch me. Have I not also the coins of invulnerability bound in the flesh and blood of my arm?' and the fanatic stripped up the sleeve of his yellow robe and showed his bare, skinny upper arm, where the edges of buried coins were visible in deep cuts. 'I am king as well as priest; I am the Prince Setkia Muntna, who was drowned in the Irrawaddy seventy years ago. I have come to life again--behold, I am he.'

Dusky hands were raised in salutation, and one evil-looking warrior stepped forward: 'I am also proof against bullets. Was I not Theebaw's chief "Boh"?' (head warrior). 'I am ready to lead any expedition against these robbing English. See, we are all armed.'

The moonlight flashed on the murderous-looking 'dah' knives raised for an instant from the folds of the garments of the assembled men.

'Our first attack,' said An-we-lota, 'shall be on the Sardu Station. Our scout, Al Met, has brought word that much of their force has been called away to quell the Wahs. Our attack shall be swift and sure, and with our band here we shall outnumber them, and exterminate the whole while they are sleeping. When shall we start?'

'No time like the present,' was the cry, and the dahs flew out again and were uplifted.

In a few minutes the cell was emptied, and the stealthy march began, by rock and jungle and secret paths, to the doomed outpost station.

The hours passed, and the early morning light showed pale on the blazing huts of Sardu Fort, and on dead and dying scattered about. Where the dead were thickest lay a young English officer gasping, 'Inez, my darling, we shall meet again soon, and our little son----'

Close at hand lay the fanatic, An-we-lota, dead, his magic coins and mercury-fed body no proof against British steel.

From the distance there came the tread of a returning force--too late!--and in the deepest shades of the jungle a native woman, with horror-stricken face, pressed forward through tangle and thorn, with a living, wailing bundle clasped close to her breast.

How many days she spent in weary wandering over well-nigh a hundred miles of jungle and plain, helped by log-boat up strange waters, ever heading for the homes of her people, the Karens--a bourne she was never to reach--who can say?

* * * * *

It was early morning. The first faint streaks of dawn were chasing the night shadows from hill and valley. Early risers in a little jungle village far distant from Fort Sardu shivered as they rose from their sleeping-places, and pushing aside the curiously woven mats, hung from the eaves of the sloping roofs, descended to the waking world outside. The native dogs howled hideously as they were unceremoniously driven from the still smouldering embers of last night's fires.

Maung Yet, one of the first astir, twisted the folds of his waist-cloth closer round him, and looked forth upon the morning. The rising sun was turning into gold and bronze the ripening paddy fields close at hand, glorifying the reed roofs of the native huts under the feathery palms, and gilding the distant belt of jungle, stretching away to the horizon.

The huts of the Tounghi tribe were raised breast-high on stout posts, as protection against wild beasts and snakes. Many dark-skinned natives moving around in busy preparation showed that the labours of the day would be beginning early.

It was the time of the Burmese harvest, and the first of the ripe paddy fields would be gathered in that day. Already might be heard the hoarse voice of crows, and the screams of hundreds of bright-hued parrakeets, descending for their feast on the precious grain. At the sound, many of the village youths ran up quickly, and with cries and rude bird-clappers scared the birds away, only to set to work again at some more distant spot.

Many and various were the sounds echoing around Maung Yet, and ever and anon he seemed to distinguish from among them a sound like a human cry. Once more it came, and Maung stood keenly listening. Yes, a cry for help, certainly, and a dog's strange, shrill bark, too--and both from the far-off jungle. Maung Yet trembled. Was it the cry, perchance, of some robber luring him to destruction, or was it really a fellow-creature's cry for help?

The Burman, like all his race, was very superstitious, and avoided the jungle as being haunted; but his heart was kind. Arming himself with his primitive sickle, he beckoned to Lan Wee, his young brother, who was squatting on the ground eating a huge mass of rice, and set off at full speed towards the spot whence the cries proceeded, attracted onward against his will by the voice of misery. The youth followed him closely, his eyes wide open with fear, as they neared the dreaded jungle. In its dark shadows who could say what dangers lurked? They pressed on, however, through trails of prickly foliage, clinging undergrowth, and fallen timber, which lay like so many traps for unwary feet. The cry had sunk to a moan, but the dog's whine was shriller and more urgent as they neared the end of their quest.

Both Burmen were tattooed over breast and shoulders with a glorious blazonry of red--a decoration performed with religious rites as a protection against 'evil spirits.' Few Burmen would face the jungle unless thus fortified. Maung felt a few qualms even in spite of his tattoo, but invoking the 'aing-sohn' (the good spirits), he and his young companion, breathless and panting, struggled on, and came to what they sought at last.

Half resting against a fallen tree-trunk lay an apparently dead native woman, reduced to almost a skeleton. Her bare feet told of long, rough journeying, and from wrist to elbow of the left arm was a half-healed wound, such as Maung Yet knew well the keen 'dah' could leave. From her neck was slung a baby, and standing fiercely on guard, a lean, whitish dog.

With the curious canine instinct, divining rightly friend or foe, the dog allowed the approach of the two Burmen. Maung knelt and raised the prostrate woman; the weak head fell heavily on his shoulder, then stirred uneasily, the eyes opened, and the dying lips tried again and again to find utterance. Broken words at last whispered faintly over and over again, 'Bébé Ingalay--Mah Kloo! Thakin Missee Bébé!' Then the wasted hands tried to remove the baby. Maung understood, and signed to the youth to lift it from her neck. The movement woke the child, and it uttered a thin cry. The sound roused the flickering life of the dying woman for an instant; with a last movement she lightly touched the wee dark head, smiled faintly, and died.

A shallow grave was hastily dug. A pouch in the tattered garments contained a few coins of money and a curious small gold cross. Maung Yet touched his tattoo anxiously as he took the latter: it must be, he thought, some strange charm. Then he placed the coins in the mouth of the dead woman, in the belief that this provided ferry-hire over the death river, and he and Lan Wee lifted the woman into the grave. Then, with all speed, the two Burmen left the hated jungle, carrying the tiny infant, the lean dog following closely.

(Continued on page 78.)

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 61.)

The cyclist was a good-looking, short, but well-built man, clad in a light, home-spun suit, with knickerbockers and a Panama hat. On the frame of his bicycle was an ordinary mackintosh haversack, and, strapped behind the saddle, a paint-box, a folding sketching-stool, and a good-sized sketching-block. Fixing the pump, he knelt down to inflate the tyre; but the pump was rather small, the sun was hot (as I felt, having no hat), and the man seemed soon to weary of his job. He had glanced once or twice in my direction, and now he rose, blew out his cheeks, and cried: "Hi, boy! do you want to earn a copper?"

'Rather!' I answered, thinking of breakfast.

'Just pump up this tyre for me, then,' he said; and, going down on my knees by the roadside, I began to pump with a will, while he took out a pipe and began to fill it. 'Think that's all right?' he asked, as I rose to my feet.

'It feels pretty hard,' I answered.

'Well, here's twopence for you,' he cried.

'Thanks, awfully,' I said, putting out my hand.

Holding his machine, on the point of wheeling it into the middle of the road, he paused, staring into my face.

'Where are you bound for?' he inquired.

'London,' I replied. 'Can you tell me which is the road?'

He stared again for what seemed a long time, and it was evident that I caused him a little perplexity.

'Of course,' he muttered, half to himself; 'it must be the holidays just now.'

'They began last month,' I answered.

'Yet I am sure you are running away,' he cried.

Somewhat alarmed, in consequence of my recent experiences, I thought it time to get on my way.

'Don't be in a hurry,' he said. 'I think you and I ought to have a little talk.'

'I want to get along,' I retorted.

'Where to?'

'To get some breakfast,' I replied.

'Hungry, eh?' he asked.

'A little.'

With that he looked at his watch; then, saying that it was nearly twelve, he took from a side pocket of his jacket a tin case, packed with tempting-looking sandwiches.

'Just put yourself outside those,' he said, handing me the tin.

'But--but,' I suggested with an effort, 'won't you want them?'

'I am all right,' he said, with a laugh; 'you needn't bother about me. Sit down and start.'

Needing no further persuasion, I sat down on the grass by the way-side, and steadily emptied the sandwich tin. Before this was accomplished, however, he produced a flask, pouring some of its contents into a small cup which fitted on to one end. It seemed to put fresh life into me.

'Feel better?' he inquired, as he replaced the flask in his pocket.

'Ever so much,' I answered.

'Well, then, suppose you tell me all about yourself.'

'I would much rather not,' I insisted.

'Why?'

'Because you--you might try to take me back!'

'Think for a moment, and don't be stupid,' he said. 'How can I take you back if you don't tell me where you have come from? Besides, you would be as much as I could carry with my bike, you know. So fire away,' he added, and I sat on the grass and once more told my story from the beginning, except that this time I omitted to mention Mr. Turton's name or address.

'When you reach London,' he asked after I had become silent, 'what are you going to do?'

'Other fellows have been able to do things,' I answered.

'But, you know,' he said, with a kind sort of smile, 'you have not even got a cat.'

'I believe I shall be all right if only I get there,' I persisted. 'If you would not mind telling me the way to the main road.'

'Well,' he said, 'all roads lead to London.'

'Any one will do for me,' I answered, and upon that he wheeled his machine into the middle of the road.

'Ever ridden on a step?' he asked.

'Rather!'

'Then get up behind me, only don't upset my baggage.'

He mounted as he spoke, and in a second I was standing on the step behind him. In spite of the circumstances, I thoroughly enjoyed that eight miles ride, and felt sincerely sorry when it ended. Now we coasted down a hill, now we both dismounted to walk up one, and, after one such walk, my companion stopped, unfastened his haversack, and took out a cloth cap.

'Think you could wear that?' he asked, and, trying it on, I found it was only slightly too big.

'Thank you most awfully,' I said as we rode on again, and then we did not stop until we reached four cross-roads. Seeing the word 'Polehampton' on a finger-post, I perceived that I had returned to the road from Castlemore to London, which I had left to cross the fields in my futile endeavour to avoid the tramp. It was true that I had made a fairly wide circuit, for my new friend told me I should still have five miles to walk to Polehampton.

'I am immensely obliged to you for the lift and--and everything,' I said, as he seemed to be on the point of starting. I felt extremely reluctant to part from him.

'That is all right,' he answered, thrusting his hand in his knickerbocker pocket. 'This may help you on your way.' He put something into my hand as he pressed it, then, without another word, mounted his bicycle and rode away. Opening my hand, I found five two-shilling pieces. For the next few yards I did not see things very clearly, for I felt too thankful.

After looking back once or twice until he was out of sight, I set out in a business-like manner to walk the five miles to Polehampton. The events of the morning had filled me with fresh courage, and now that my face was once set towards London, earlier hopes began to reawaken. I should have liked to know my companion's name, to keep in my memory with that of Mr. Baker and Eliza, but I never saw or heard of him again. Still, I have not forgotten him or the good turn he did me, and I wish that this story might come into his hands to show that I am not ungrateful.

Having passed through so much in a short time, I was inclined to expect every mile to bring forth its own peculiar adventure, but Polehampton came into sight without any remarkable occurrence. I scarcely enjoyed the walk, as my legs ached more than ever, and I rested many times by the roadside.

To-day being Friday, I determined, on the strength of my ten shillings, to look for a cheap temperance hotel, or some place of the kind, and make a bargain with the proprietor to stay over Saturday and Sunday. This would give me time to rest and make myself a little more presentable, because, in my present muddy condition, I knew that it would be impossible to obtain any kind of work.

For that was what I intended to do. Instead of hoping to reach London in six days, as at first, I would try to earn a little money by the way, because I perceived that it would be no use entering in such a condition as I was at present.

Polehampton appeared to be even a smaller place than Broughton, and by no stretch of imagination could it be described as a town. Still, it felt pleasant to see a few people about; and noticing a clean-looking whitewashed cottage, with a few bottles of sweets and ginger-beer in the window, I entered, sitting down on an empty box while a white-haired, round-backed old woman opened a bottle of ginger-beer, and a spaniel came from a back room and began to lick my hands. Having paid my penny, I sat sipping the ginger-beer, when it occurred to me that it would be a capital place to lodge, if only the old woman would take me.

'I say,' I exclaimed, 'do you know where I could get a lodging?'

She looked a little suspiciously at my muddy legs.

'For yourself?' she inquired.

'Yes.'

'How long for?'

'Till Monday morning,' I answered. 'You see, I want to know how much it would cost for a bed and food until then.'

'That is three nights,' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is a small room I might make up a bed in, on the floor, if that would suit you, and there will be a joint of pork for Sunday.'

'To-day's only Friday,' I hinted.

'There is a bit of cheese and a bit of bacon,' she explained. 'Till Monday morning, you say? I should not think five shillings would hurt you.'

So I gave her five shillings, thus leaving only five and a penny in my pocket; but so sorely at that moment did I feel the need of rest that I did not hesitate. The old woman--Mrs. Riddles--lived alone with her old brown spaniel. There was a room behind the shop, which served the purpose of a kitchen, a sitting-room, and a wash-house. In one corner stood a step-ladder, leading to one bedroom and a kind of cupboard, without either window or fireplace, or any furniture but one bottomless chair. This I discovered was intended for my own use, and, indeed, so long as I might lie down in it, I cared about little else.

After an early supper, consisting of bread, some very fat cold streaky bacon, and cheese, Mrs. Riddles put a sofa-cushion, a pillow, two thin blankets, and a sheet on the cupboard floor, and advising me to leave the door open for the sake of air, retired to her own room. It was a vastly different kind of bed from that which had been given to me by Eliza at Mr. Baker's farmhouse, but at least it did not prevent me from sleeping the moment my head touched the pillow. I did not reopen my eyes until Mrs. Riddles brought me a can of cold water and a basin, with soap and a towel, on Saturday morning.

'It is seven o'clock,' she said, 'and breakfast is ready when you are.' For Mrs. Riddles' credit I must confess that I have seldom enjoyed a breakfast more. It consisted of dry bread, oatmeal porridge, and coffee. Oddly enough, the coffee was delicious, and the porridge was equally good, so that, thoroughly refreshed by a long night's sleep and an ample breakfast, I brushed my knickerbockers, cleaned my boots, and went forth into the main street of Polehampton feeling fit for anything that might happen.

(Continued on page 74.)

THE GENEROUS BAKERS!

A deputation of a guild of bakers once presented themselves before the chief magistrate, asking for permission to raise the price of bread, which in those days was regulated by the corporation. When the time came for leaving, one of the deputies dexterously left upon the table a bag containing six hundred pounds in money. Some days afterwards they came again, fully believing that the purse had pleaded very powerfully for them. But the magistrate said to them, 'Gentlemen, I have weighed your reasons in the scales of justice, and have not found them of sufficient weight. It has not seemed just to me to make an entire town suffer by an advance so ill-understood. Besides, I have had distributed between the two hospitals in the town the money which you left me, not doubting that you would wish it to be put to such a use. I also believe that, being rich enough to make similar alms, you cannot be losing in your trade as you say.'

W. YARWOOD.

AFFECTIONATE EAGLES.

A True Anecdote.

A man working on a farm one day saw an eagle fluttering over the barn-yard, no doubt meaning sooner or later to swoop down in search of prey. He determined to save his chickens, and fetching a gun, fired at the would-be robber. But he only succeeded in hurting its wing. Instead of falling to the ground it flapped about in the air in a helpless sort of way, uttering loud cries of pain.

The man was just going to fire again when he noticed another eagle coming up in the distance. It was evidently the mate of the one he had wounded, for it came straight to its rescue. Seeing that the first eagle could not fly away itself, the new-comer seized its wounded mate with its beak and claws, and, half carrying it, helped it to fly slowly away to the mountain-side, where it put it down, as it thought, in a safe place. For a whole week the men on the farm saw it, day after day, carrying food to the disabled bird. It would have been quite easy for them to have killed both the eagles during this time; but the farmer forbade his men to molest them in any way, because he was so pleased at the affection and courage the one had shown on behalf of the other. After a time the wounded eagle got well, and they both flew away.

STEEPLE-CLIMBERS.

Cleverness or skill in doing some particular thing has been noticed to recur in families, and steeple-climbing is one example, we are told. At Nottingham there was a family named Wootton, members of which had for centuries the reputation of being daring steeple-climbers, not for adventure, but in the way of business. Such persons were also called steeplejacks, and they were paid liberally for their exploits, as they deserved to be.

Robert Wootton, who lived in the time of King George III., was famous for repairing steeples and spires without using a scaffold; he did his work by the help of ladders, hooks, and ropes. When he repaired St. Peter's spire, Nottingham, in 1789, having finished his work, he beat a drum at its top, thousands of people looking on. Another of the Woottons undertook the perilous task of ascending the spire of St. Mary's, Manchester, which was very lofty. By a tremendous wind the ball and cross had been bent down, and looked dangerous. This steeple-climber raised ladders one after the other, assisted by blocks and ropes, and secured each in succession to the stonework with clamps. When he got near the top of the spire the work became more difficult, and the spectators anxiously watched him as he fixed the last ladder. Having accomplished this feat, Wootton stepped from the ladder on to the crown or pinnacle of the steeple, and stood quite upright, with his hands free. Then he raised a cheer, which was responded to by the crowds below. More extraordinary still, one of these steeple-climbers is said to have performed the feat of standing upon his head on a steeple's top; but there is some doubt about the story.

J. R. S. C.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 71.)

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Chapter IX

It was agreeable to think that I had nothing to do, and with my hands in my pockets I turned to the right, strolling towards the railway station, a few yards from which was a level crossing. The station yard and booking office stood on the left, and before the entrance were one or two old-fashioned-looking cabs; one in particular I noticed, having a body like a small stage-coach and yellow wheels.

As I hung about the doorway it was alarming to realise that in spite of my two days' journeying, and of all the accompanying dangers, I might take a ticket and reach Castlemore in little over half an hour, and that consequently any one else could travel from Castlemore to Polehampton in the same short time. But it was easy to persuade myself that nobody would feel the least desire to travel a yard on my account, although I denied myself the pleasure of going on to the platform. Leaving the station yard, I turned towards Mrs. Riddles' cottage again, and passing this came to a standstill in front of a few shops on the opposite side of the way. One was a butcher's; next to the butcher's was a grocer's, and in its window I saw a card:

'ACTIVE LAD WANTED.'

I read, and as I stood gazing at the card, a short, red-haired man came to the door, rubbing his hands and looking smilingly about him.

'Do you want a berth?' he asked, after he had eyed me once or twice.

'I don't know,' I answered.

'A stranger here?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Ah, well,' he answered, 'even if you wanted a job, I could not take you without a character. But Mr. Raikes, at the Home Farm down the road, would take any one this morning. He has got his large field of hay down, and it will probably rain before Monday. If he does not get it carried to-night, as likely as not half will be spoilt.'

With that he re-entered his shop, while I strolled on at first aimlessly down the street.

I began to wonder how far it was to the Home Farm. A day's hay-making seemed to be a kind of play, and if one could be paid for such amusement, so much the better. For now that I had paid Mrs. Riddles I had only five shillings, and when once I started again they would not go very far. I had sufficient forethought to return to the cottage and ask for some luncheon to put in my pocket; then, armed with a slice of bread and a chunk of the fat bacon from which I had supped the previous night, I set out for the farm.

There was a large field adjoining the road, with an open gate. At the farther end, two carts were being loaded, but nearer the road, several men and women were busily making the rows of hay into cocks. Close at hand stood a tall, sparely built farmer with a cane in his hand and a fox-terrier by his side. He seemed to be trying to hurry everybody along, and there was an air of bustle and haste about the whole scene. Although the sun shone hotly, threatening clouds were coming up, and it would require a hard day's work to get all the hay carried by nightfall.

'Here, youngster!' he cried, as soon as he saw me, 'do you want a job?'

'Yes, please,' I answered.

'Fire away then. You will find a fork against the hedge. Go and join those men,' and he pointed to the haymakers with his cane. Taking the fork, I ran across the field and set to work with a will. But the sun shone fiercely, and when twelve o'clock came I would gladly have lain down in the shade of the hedge. The moment we had finished dinner the farmer urged us to work again, and so we kept at it through the afternoon, until the last load was carried at seven o'clock and we all drew round the farmer for our money. He gave me a shilling for my day's work, and I confess I walked back rather proudly to Mrs. Riddles' cottage, feeling that I had made a beginning and earned my first shilling.

There was no difficulty about sleeping that night. The bells were ringing for service while I dressed the next morning. Having made my appearance as decent as possible, I walked across some fields to a small church. On the way home to dinner I noticed a stream which looked extremely tempting. Mrs. Riddles had spread a clean but much-darned tablecloth, and the roast pork was ready. During the meal, the rain, which had been threatening since yesterday, began to fall, but when it ceased at half-past three I borrowed a towel, and ran across the damp fields to the river and soon plunged in.

The swim was delightful, and having partly dressed again, I sat on the bank and washed my socks, which I carried home in my hands. On the whole it was a good day, although the wet which set in again towards the evening made me anxious about to-morrow. If the rain continued, all my plans would be upset. I had determined to sleep out of doors for the next night or two, thus eking out my money, but I could not very well sleep without shelter unless it were fine and dry.

Unfortunately, Monday proved to be a drizzling morning, so that instead of setting forth as I had intended before eight, I hung about the door of the cottage, hoping the weather might improve. Towards ten o'clock, the rain began to cease, and looking inside the back room I said 'good-bye' to Mrs. Riddles, who inquired in which direction I was going.

'To London,' I answered, and this was the first sign of curiosity she had betrayed concerning either myself or my destination. She was a very old woman and somewhat deaf, treating my presence entirely as a matter of course.

However, I bade her good-bye, and was on the point of stepping from the shop into the small front garden, when instinctively I sprang back and shut the door.

To my horror I had seen Mr. Turton and Augustus walking along the middle of the road, each carrying an umbrella; Mr. Turton had an anxious expression on his pale, bearded face. As I crouched, peeping between the bottles of sweets in the window, I saw them pass the gate and come to a standstill. They had the manner of persons on the look-out for some one, and it seemed impossible to doubt that the some one was myself.

I confess that I felt surprised. Why should Mr. Turton want me back at Castlemore, unless, indeed, for the sake of taking revenge for my flight? At least, I could conceive no other reason, and while feeling deeply thankful for my narrow escape, I determined to spare no effort to make this effectual. That Mr. Turton should have hit upon my precise locality did not appear very remarkable.

These thoughts passed through my mind in far less time than it takes to set them down on paper. I remembered that my friend on the bicycle had said that all roads led to London, and now the idea occurred that the best way to evade Mr. Turton and yet to attain my purpose, would be to make a dash across to some other main road, keeping almost paralled with my pursuers.

After appearing to hesitate in the middle of the road, only a few yards from my hiding-place, Augustus and his father approached the door of the opposite butcher's shop, presumably with the intention of inquiring whether a boy of my description had been seen in the place. I regretted now my short conversation with the grocer, who had nodded to me in a friendly way as I came home from church on Sunday, and no doubt had seen me enter Mrs. Riddles' cottage.

If he directed Mr. Turton thither, I was lost, unless I could succeed in leaving Polehampton before the Turtons came out again. Now, close to the station yard was a lane, which led I knew not whither, but at least it could be reached without passing the opposite shops. Opening the door, as Mr. Turton left the butcher's and entered the grocer's, while his back and his son's were towards me, I made a dash through the garden, turned to my right, nor looked behind until I had reached the other side of the street. Then to my alarm I saw Mrs. Riddles standing at her door, which I had just left, while Mr. Turton and Augustus were hurrying across the roadway towards her. Fortunately they seemed too excited to look about them, so that I guessed that the grocer had set them on my track.

Taking to my heels I sped down the lane, soon leaving the few cottages behind and finding myself between low hedges with wheat growing on one hand and sheep-turnips on the other. A short distance ahead, I saw a butcher's cart on the point of leaving a cottage door.

'Are you going straight on?' I cried to the boy, only a little older than myself, who was driving.

'What if I am?' he demanded.

'You might give me a lift, that's all.'

'Oh yes, I dare say!' he answered.

'I will give you sixpence,' I said.

'Up you jump,' he exclaimed, and the next instant I was seated by his side, clinging to an iron railing on the top of the cart.

'How far are you going?' I inquired.

'Only to Hincham--about two miles,' he answered. 'I have got to fetch a calf.'

Two miles would be better than no start at all, for I felt certain that Mr. Turton would follow me. Mrs. Riddles had seen the direction I had taken, and he might hire one of the railway-station cabs to overtake me. Fortunately, the butcher's boy drove at a smart pace--faster, I thought, than any cab; but when we reached Hincham and I paid his sixpence and alighted, I scarcely knew what to do.

My experience on leaving the road for the fields on the first day had not been encouraging, so without much notion of where I was going, I determined to push along the lane for some distance, keeping a frequent look-out in the rear. Turning at intervals to look back along the straight, level lane, I walked on for a few miles, while the rain continued to hold off and the sun came out again. Stopping once more to make certain there was no pursuit, I saw to my dismay a vehicle rapidly approaching.

Recognising it as the queer-looking fly I had noticed on Saturday in the railway-station yard, I felt no doubt that it contained Mr. Turton and Augustus. The driver turned and stooped down towards the off-side window, as if to speak to them, while the next instant, a head being thrust out, he pointed in my direction with his whip.

Now what was I to do? It seemed that although they might be able to see that I was a boy, the distance was too great to enable Mr. Turton to recognise me, with any certainty, as his runaway pupil. Fortunately, the lane began to wind to the right a few yards ahead, and taking to my heels, I was soon out of sight of the occupants of the cab.

A few yards further still, the lane bent again, and more sharply, so, seizing the opportunity, I climbed over a gate on the left into a large meadow, which contained a great many sheep and cattle.

(Continued on page 85.)

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.--HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

When we come to examine the methods by which the more lowly creatures take up their food, we cannot but feel astonished at the marvellous number of contrivances by which this is done. To bring home this fact, let us compare the methods of feeding of two of our commonest insects with those adopted by another and very different group of animals--the Mollusca, taking the common snail as an example.

By the butterflies and moths the food is taken in a liquid form--honey procured from flowers--by means of a most marvellously complex 'tongue' or 'proboscis.' This organ, when not in use, is coiled up so as to be out of harm's way, but when the creature desires to feed it can be extended with wonderful rapidity. Its length is astonishing: in many cases, as in some of the hawk-moths, it attains a length of four to five times that of the body, and in some species it may be as long as ten inches! The general shape of this tongue you will see in the figure marked A, which shows what the tongue is like when seen under the microscope.

Carefully examined by the aid of a microscope, this tongue will be found to be made up of two separate tubes lying side by side, and, as each tube is grooved along its inner side, it follows that when the two separate halves are brought together, a third tube lying between the two outer ones is formed. So closely do these two halves fit when closed that this middle tube is perfectly air-tight. This union is secured by a number of hairy projections which interlock, much as one's clasped fingers interlock. Only the middle tube is used for the passage of the honey, the side tubes being used, as some think, for breathing purposes, while others hold that they serve to help in pumping up the fluids into the mouth. By this interlocking contrivance the tube can easily be opened and cleaned, should the passage become blocked by solid particles.

Delicate as this wonderful 'tongue' appears to be, it is in some cases capable of inflicting wounds on the tissues of the food plants. A species of moth, for instance, causes considerable damage to crops of oranges by inserting its trunk through the peel so as to suck the juices of the enclosed pulp. The sucking action is performed by means of a small bag inside the head, the size of which can be alternately increased and decreased by the action of muscles, thus causing a pumping action.

It will probably surprise many readers of Chatterbox to learn that this wonderful tongue is by no means always found in butterflies, for there are many species which have no mouth, and take no food whatever after they emerge from the chrysalis stage. They simply live long enough to lay their eggs, and then die!

The tongue of the fly is every bit as wonderful as that of the butterfly. Strictly speaking, perhaps it ought not to be called either a tongue or a proboscis, for it is really a spout-like mouth bent upon itself, and furnished at its end with a curious pair of flaps or lobes. You may get an idea of what it is like if you imagine the spout of a teapot to turn downwards at first instead of upwards, and then picture the spout turned sharply forwards near its middle. The body of the teapot corresponds to the fly's head; the end of the spout would correspond to the mouth of the fly. On each side of this mouth there will be found in the fly a pair of ear-shaped flaps or lobes, and these play a very important part. Each flap or lobe (see fig. B), where it joins the mouth, contains a long tube, and this tube gives off, along its outer side, about thirty smaller tubes, which are open below. Now, when the 'tongue,' as it is called, is extended, as in feeding, a copious flow of saliva is sent down the long tubular mouth into the tube of each flap, and when this is full the liquid escapes into the smaller tubes, and as these are open below, it flows out, of course, on to the food. Let us imagine this to be sugar. The saliva meets the sugar, and the syrup which is of course formed is then drawn up along the same channel as that by which the saliva came down. New surfaces for the saliva to work upon are constantly exposed by means of some fifty or sixty exceedingly tiny 'teeth,' which, by the aid of the microscope, will be found at the opening of the mouth, just where the tube-bearing flaps join it. The two rod-shaped, hairy organs at the base of the 'tongue,' in the illustration, are organs of touch, and not part of the 'tongue' proper.

(Concluded at page 109.)

THE ELEPHANT AND THE CROCODILE.

A Fable.

An Elephant and a Crocodile were once standing beside a river. They were disputing as to which was the better animal.

'Look at my strength,' said the Elephant. 'I can tear up a tree, roots and all, with my trunk.'

'Ah! but quantity is not quality, and your skin is not nearly so tough as mine,' replied the Crocodile, 'for neither spear, arrow, nor sword can pierce it.'

Just as they were coming to blows, a Lion happened to pass.

'Heyday, sirs!' said His Majesty, going up to them, 'let me know the cause of your quarrel.'

'Will you kindly tell us which is the better animal?' cried both at once.

'Certainly,' said the Lion. 'Do you see that soldier's steel helmet on yonder wall?' pointing at the same time across the river.

'Yes!' replied the beasts.

'Well, then,' continued the Lion, 'go and fetch it, and bring it to me, and I shall be able then to decide between you.'

Upon hearing this, off they started. The Crocodile, being used to the water, reached the opposite bank of the river first, and was not long in standing beside the wall.

Here he waited till the Elephant came up. The latter, seeing at a glance how matters stood, extended his long trunk, and reached the helmet quite easily.

They then made their way together back again across the river. The Elephant, anxious to keep up with the Crocodile in the water, forgot that he was carrying the helmet on his back, and a sudden lurch caused the prize to slip off and sink to the bottom. The Crocodile noticed the accident, so down he dived, and brought it up in his capacious mouth. They then returned, and the Crocodile laid the helmet at the Lion's feet. His Majesty took up the helmet, and addressing the Elephant, said:--

'You, on account of your size and trunk, were able to reach the prize on the wall but, having lost it, you were unable to recover it. And you,' said the Lion, turning to the Crocodile, 'although unable to reach the helmet, were able to dive for it and save it. You are both wise and clever in your respective ways. Neither is better than the other.'

MORAL: Every one has his special use in the world.

H. BERKELEY SCORE.

McLEOD OF CLERE.

(Continued from page 68.)

There was much excitement in the Tounghi huts when the story was told, and Maung Yet's wife took possession of the 'Bébé Ingalay.' Much talking and gesticulation, too, among the mothers of the tribe over the white skin of the little stranger. Frail and weak, he seemed at first inclined to slip away from his adventurous life, but Mah Soh had a big motherly heart under her dark skin, and loved Bébé with a great love, and tended him with all the care she knew.

Thus, in spite of strange food and surroundings, the little one throve. His dark eyes took in the brightness of sunshine and moonrays, he slept on his red sleeping-mat under the shade of gorgeous blossoms, waking to the sound of water and the scream of red and green parrakeets, and his tiny hands were raised, with coos of excitement, to catch these bright-hued creatures flitting from branch to branch above him. There he heard the cries of the boys as they goaded the lazy oxen to pull the clumsy carts faster as they came laden from the steaming paddy fields. Bébé learned to love even the pye-dogs which congregated under the huts, and would let him touch them. He loved Mah Soh the best, of course, but almost as much his own white dog, who guarded Bébé jealously, and gave alarm if any evil threatened him. Bébé soon learnt to twist his tiny fingers in the dog's metal collar to keep him near.

When the rice was all gathered, the paddy boats were laden and shipped down the river to the market at Rangoon. Then quieter days began, and Mah Soh, dressed in her best on gala days, would stand at the hut door and chat to the neighbours in their curious musical language.

'How could the Bébé Ingalay have got into the jungle?' 'It was the woman who had died who had brought him there.' 'Did she not call herself Mah Kloo, and had not Maung thought she was a Karen woman?' 'Yes, that was so, but Bébé could not have been her child; had she not said he was Ingalay?' 'It must have been sad for a "Mem" or a "Thakin Ingalay" to lose him.'

Ah, it was hard to understand, and there was the queer charm the woman had, but it and Bébé had brought good fortune--never had Maung Yet gathered in a better harvest. And the little subject of all this talk, dressed like a Burmese baby in Mah Soh's arms, heard all, and understood nothing, not knowing how all-important it was to him.

The rainy season was unusually severe that year, and came all too soon; then fever broke out in the jungle villages--it came to Maung Yet's house, and Mah Soh was one of the first to die. Bébé cried, and when no one knew, he crawled to her. They took him away when they found him there; he lay hot and restless on his sleeping-mat, for he too had taken the fever. Maung Yet was a sad man that day, and he and his fellows talked much of the trouble. They said the evil spirits must be angry, and some dread thing would happen if the white baby died. Had they not tied round its neck the metal charm, and it had worked no cure yet? Then one told of a camp of white men, Thakins (captains) and native soldiers, who had raised many tents and huts by the big lake: would it not be wise to take Bébé to them?

Maung Yet resolved to do so; they would start at moonrise. Wrapped in cloth and skins tenderly by the women, Bébé was placed in the tappa (a Burmese basket of creel-shape), and slung over Maung's shoulder. They paced rapidly through the night, he and his fellows, until at sunrise they saw the shining of Lake Ownwi, and later the sentries and huts of a camp, and knew that their wandering was nearly ended.

II.

It was the first day of the summer term, at Oakwood Preparatory School, and the head master, Dr. Rayne, was interviewing in his study various parents bringing new boys, all of the latter more or less subdued by so august a presence.

A ring had heralded a fresh arrival, and the butler announced 'Captain Ferrers.' A middle-aged man, bronzed and tall, and followed by a dark, handsome boy some ten years old, entered, and was warmly greeted by Dr. Rayne, who, grasping him by both hands, exclaimed: 'Welcome back to England, Ferrers! It is good to see you again. I got your note, and am most interested--this is your little charge, of course--glad to see you, my little man.'

'Yes, this is Paul. I have been telling him a lot about my old days here, and how I was one of your first boys. I have to hurry away to-day, and would like a few words with you first. Paul could perhaps----'

'I will give him into my daughter's hands. New boys are her special function. Come with me,' and a kind arm was passed round the boy's shoulders.

'Shall I see you again?' The child's big, dark eyes were turned wistfully to Captain Ferrers.

'Oh, yes, dear boy, and you can show your dog to Miss Rayne; it is waiting outside.'

'Now for our chat,' said Dr. Rayne, returning. 'I want to hear all you can tell me about this child. He is a fine boy truly.'

'And a fine character, too, proud and passionate, but affectionate and honourable to a degree; among natives he has often helped me by his fearless truth and sense of right. It is more than nine years since he came to me. I was at the time newly arrived at Fort Caidman, one of the stations in the Shan Highlands on the China-Burmese frontier. As you know, my men are all Sikhs and Pathans, and only I and my fellow-officers were British. One morning early, my man came to me saying that some natives wished to speak to me. I went directly. I found they were Tounghis, a friendly people a long way from my station. The spokesman carried a tappa (a native carrying-basket) over his back, and in it, wrapped in a blanket, a child apparently about a year old, dying, as far as I could see. It was brown with exposure, and its cheeks and eyes bright with fever. I took it for a native infant, but the man assured me by an interpreter that it was white. His story was rather involved, but I gathered that he had received the child from a dying woman in the jungle--a "Karen" he called her. It was moons ago, and how the woman had got it he did not know--she had said "Bébé" and "Ingalay" and had died. Yes, she had said "Mah Kloo," which must have been her name. These Burmese women generally have the prefix "Mah," and so this was little clue. They call anything white "Ingalay" (English) as a rule, so that also is no guide. I thought possibly the child might be half-caste, but feel sure now he is pure European, more suggestive of Spanish or Italian blood, I think. However, I am going from my story. I hesitated what to do, but the man was in such trouble, and so insistent, repeating over and over the necessity of propitiating the "good spirit," that I called my wife, and she decided we must take the little waif, or it would die in the basket.

'For many days it seemed only just alive. My wife was doctor and nurse, however, and we managed to pull him through, and in a few months he was a beautiful walking and talking boy, the pet of the whole station; and while my wife lived, he was her bright, happy shadow; his black head, with a curious white lock (possibly from some bad cut), was always cuddled close against her shoulder, and how she loved him! But she died some months ago, and I gave up my outpost work for a time, with a year's leave, and have come to England until my next billet is fixed. We named the boy "Paul" after myself, and have given him the surname which was with difficulty made out on the brass collar of a dog which came with him--the name of "Fife," presumably that of its former master. I seemed to gather from the man that the dog had been found with the child, but cannot be sure. It is a breed I do not know. Inquiries and advertisements were of no avail--no white child seemed to be inquired for, and we had so little to go upon, as you see. And now he must be educated, and there is no one else in the world I can turn to so surely, or leave him with so thankfully, as you, Dr. Rayne.'

Dr. Rayne thanked him for his confidence, and they went back to see Paul again. Mary Rayne, the Doctor's bright-faced daughter, was making friends with little Paul, who sat on the floor, his arms round his dog's neck. The Captain stooped, and lifting the boy, kissed him tenderly. 'Good-bye, dear old man; you will be happy, I know, and get a clever boy, besides lots of football and cricket. I will take care of "Boh," and we will have no end of a good time in the holidays.' As Captain Ferrers spoke he slipped a thin chain into the dog's collar, and led him away. Pressed against the window a little lonely boy, with clenched hands, trying to keep back the tears that would come, watched those he loved best disappearing down the long drive.

(Continued on page 82.)

McLEOD OF CLERE.

(Continued from page 79.)

'Hullo, new kid, what's your name?'

'Paul Fife,' said the newcomer, who had just been left by Dr. Rayne in the school playground, where boys of all sorts and sizes, from ten to fourteen, were congregated, newly arrived from home and holidays, and while they waited for the tea-bell, were inspecting the 'new boys.'

'Oh, "Paul," what a jolly name. "Paul Pry," "Poll parrot," "Polly put the kettle on." Well, Polly, and where do you come from?'

'Let him alone, Briggs,' said the school captain (a pleasant-faced, tall boy). 'Dr. Rayne asked me to look after him a bit. I say, though, young 'un, call yourself "Fife," that's quite enough; we don't have Christian names here, you know.'

'Well, Christy, you needn't punch my head, I don't want to harm the infant,' cried Briggs. 'He can tell me where he comes from, anyhow--can't you, new kid?'

'I lived at Fort Caidman, in the Shan States--Burmah, you know.'

'And what can you do, play football and cricket?'

'No, I have not really played them, but I want to. There were no white boys besides me, but I can shoot, and ride, and row, and fence, and throw darts.'

A group of boys had gathered round--little Paul tried not to feel shy.

'Where did you row?' asked one; 'was there a river?'

'Not near, but there was a big lake like a sea--the Inthas live there. They are called lake-dwellers, and their huts stand on the top of the water--Uncle Ferrers took me to their huts sometimes. The Inthas row so funnily, partly with their legs. They can row, oh, so fast, and fish, and hold an umbrella, all at the same time!'

'Oh, I say, that must be a cram, anyhow. Tell the infant he must not tell lies, Christy.'

'I don't, and I won't tell you things if you say that,' and the child drew himself up haughtily and turned away, clenching his small brown fists.

'It is a shame, you chaps,' said Christy. 'I know he has come from some queer place in Burmah.'

'Did you see his hair?' said Fane. 'It's as black as a coal, and just in one place is a white streak--he is a regular magpie. Hurrah! there's the tea-bell.'

'Oh, I have heard my mother say some one she knew had a lock of white hair--it looks rather jolly,' rejoined Christy. 'I say, little piebald, don't mind our ragging. I'm awfully hungry, and I dare say you are. There is cold beef always for tea first night of term--worth having, I can tell you. Come along with me, and I will show you where to sit.'

* * * * *

Paul soon began to feel more at home as a small unit in the hundred boys at Oakwood.

'Wonderful at mathematics and no idea of classics' (was the verdict of the masters), 'but can talk Gramouki and Pushtan dialects like a native.'

'No good at football and cricket, but promises well,' said the boys, 'and can climb and jump anything, and use his fists, too.'

Ten days had passed, and Dr. Rayne, at work in his library, was disturbed by a knock, and the matron entered.

'I am sorry to interrupt you, sir, but it is about that new little boy, Paul Fife. I cannot get him to eat his dinner properly; he seems hungry at first, and then leaves off--later, I look at his plate and it is cleared. I find from some of the boys that he puts the greater part of the meat in his pocket, and, I suppose, throws it away. I thought I had better come to you.'

'Certainly; send Fife to me.'

A timid step, and the small boy came shyly in.

'Come here, little man,' the Doctor called, pleasantly. 'I want to talk to you. You are not too big to get on my knee. No, I thought not. You see, you are one of my little boys now, and we all want to be as happy as possible. You are very thin; do they give you enough to eat?'

'Oh, yes, sir,' the child pressed his hands nervously together.

'And you like what you get, I hope. We have not Burmese and Indian cooks, you know.'

'Yes, I like it all, thank you.'

'And yet Miss Owen tells me you do not eat your dinner, but pocket it--I hope you don't waste and throw away good food, Paul.'

'No, sir--indeed, no,' the boy looked up earnestly.

'Then see that it doesn't happen again, for I don't want to punish you.'

'Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do?' and to the astonishment of the doctor, the child covered his face, and his whole body shook with sobs.

'Control yourself, dear boy. No, I cannot allow such crying, you will make yourself ill. That is better. Now tell me anything in confidence, and I will see what can be done.'

With an effort Paul gradually quieted, and then said: 'Yes, I will tell you; please--please, I didn't mean to be naughty, but I do love Boh so much. It is my dog; you saw him, and Uncle Ferrers took him away. I don't know how he got loose, but several days ago he came running up to me in the cricket field--he was so thin, and his ear was torn--I was eating my lunch bun, and I gave him all I had left. He just gobbled it. When some of the fellows came up, I sent Boh off, and he ran into the wood, but each day I whistle, when I can get by myself, and he comes; he is thinner than ever, so now I eat only part of my dinner even if I am hungry, but I save nearly all the meat for Boh. He is the oldest friend I have, for Uncle Ferrers says he came with me. He looks often as though he could speak and tell me whose little boy I used to be. Please, sir, I can do quite well with half a dinner, if he may have the other.'

Dr. Rayne stroked the smooth, dark head, deeply touched by the boy's story. 'There,' he said, 'come with me, and let us see about this dog.'

So hand in hand child and master passed through the big school buildings, and out towards the breeze-swept cricket ground.

'It is a curious name for your dog,' said the Doctor; 'how do you spell it, B-e-a-u?'

'Oh, no, sir, B-o-h--it is Burmese. It means "head warrior" or chief fighting-man. Uncle Ferrers' Sikhs and Pathan soldiers called him that, because whenever he fought with the pye-dogs or other dogs, Boh always won. May I call Boh now?' (for they had reached the high ridge near the wood).

'Yes; I only hope he is still there.'

'Boh! Boh!' the clear voice shouted, and then followed endearing words of Eastern dialect. A few seconds, and a joyful bark announced the delighted animal, who leapt up rapturously, his paws on the shoulders of his little master. The boy's eyes shone as he raised them to Dr. Rayne, fearlessly, but the voice trembled as he urged: 'If I might just see him now and then, we should neither of us mind so much.'

'You shall, I will see to it. Now, bring Boh round to the stables, and John shall find him a kennel and a good dinner. There, there, I didn't want so many thanks, dear boy; I wish I had thought of it before. Now, off to your form master, and I shall expect no more complaints from Miss Owen.'

So Boh also became a member of Oakwood, and a letter was dispatched at once to Captain Ferrers relieving his mind as to the missing dog, who had found his way through so many miles of unknown country safe to his happy owner.

(Concluded on page 90.)

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

III.--THE MAMMOTH CAVE.

In the State of Kentucky, in the United States, not far from Louisville, is a table-land formed of limestone, perforated with holes like a sponge, down which rain rushes with great force. Far below run rivers, and there are also still, deep lakes partially fed by the water from above; and, as might have been expected, here also are the most wonderful caverns in the world. It is said that to explore all the halls and galleries communicating with each other, and connected with the Mammoth Cave alone, it would be necessary to walk or climb one hundred and fifty miles. This may well be believed when we hear that the cave contains fifty-seven domes, eleven lakes, seven rivers, eight cataracts, and two hundred and fifty-six avenues, besides thirty-two pits or abysses, and a Gothic church.

The great Mammoth Dome is over four hundred feet high, and light comes in from above through holes which, at such a height, look like stars shining in a dark sky. One of the chief lakes is called the Dead Sea, from its stillness and gloom, and when light is flashed over it from above it is wonderfully impressive, with its surrounding fringe of gleaming stalactites.

A terrible abyss is known as the Bottomless Pit, the depths of which have never been sounded. On one of its sides rises a huge crystallisation in the form of a spinning chair, which gleams out from the surrounding blackness, and is called the Devil's Chair. This appalling chasm is credited with various terrible tales. One is of two young lovers who hid in the Mammoth Cave, but finding themselves pursued, tied themselves together with the girl's girdle, and jumped into the abyss. However misguided and foolish we may think these young folk, we can have nothing but pity for two runaway slaves from Alabama, who, after horrible sufferings and privations in the swamps and forests, hoped to have found a resting-place in the great cavern. Alas for their hopes! before long they heard the voices of their pursuers, the cracking of their heavy whips, the baying of the bloodhounds which had tracked them to their refuge. Further and further they retreated in the darkness, only to hear the dreadful sounds draw nearer and nearer, until they found that they could go no further, as they had arrived at a small rocky platform overhanging the Bottomless Pit. Before was certain death, though it was hidden in the horrors of mystery and darkness; behind were the terrors of a death of protracted agony, as a warning to other fugitive slaves! One second's hesitation, and then, as their captors reached out to seize their prey, the despairing men leapt from the rock into the awful pit.

One very singular cave is known as the Church, and is curiously like the crypt of an English Cathedral, such as Gloucester or Canterbury. It is very nearly the same size as the latter. Here stalactites and stalagmites of colossal size have joined to form pillars, united by Norman arches, with wonderful effect. Religious services have often been held in this veritable 'temple not made with hands.'

Indian mummies have been met with in parts of the cavern, proving that it was known to native tribes in past ages. The skeleton of a mastodon, an extinct form of elephant, stands in one of the great halls, and a few live creatures still inhabit the gloomy depths. A cave-rat as large as a rabbit was caught, which, although it had very bright eyes, was quite blind when taken from the cave; but after a month's experience of daylight it gradually began to make use of its eyes. Various kinds of eyeless fish and crabs live in the dark waters, and a live frog was seen wearing an unhappy expression of countenance.

The slow rate at which stalagmites grow has been tested in this cavern by a lantern which was dropped in 1812 and found cemented to the floor in 1843, since which its upward progress has been carefully watched. The Mammoth Cave contains immense quantities of nitre. During the great American Civil War, most of that used was found here, and as gunpowder contains two-thirds of nitre to all its other ingredients, these caverns were of great value to the nation. The Mammoth Cave is now private property, belonging to Dr. John Crogan, who gave ten thousand dollars for it.

HELENA HEATH.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 76.)

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Chapter X

Beyond the meadow lay a field of wheat, tall and yellow, although not yet quite ripe for the sickle. Stooping until my hands almost touched the ground, I ran as fast as possible under the shelter of the friendly hedge, until, reaching the cornfield, I scrambled through another hedge, and lay down on my face amidst the wheat.

But still it was impossible to feel in the slightest degree safe, the road being only a few yards distant, while I distinctly heard the sound of approaching wheels. If it had not been for the bend in the lane, I should scarcely have been able to delay capture many minutes, and even as it was, I lay quaking while I wondered whether Mr. Turton would be able to see me from the road.

The cab passed my hiding-place, however, so that I began to hope it might not be going to stop, until on the point of rising, I heard the horse pulled up, heard the door opened, and recognised Mr. Turton's voice as he told Augustus to alight.

'The boy must be hiding somewhere hereabouts,' he exclaimed.

'He might easily have got into that wood,' said Augustus, and I regretted that in my haste I had not taken to the wood on the other side of the road.

While Augustus and his father must have gone to inspect the woods, I heard the sound of an approaching motor-car, and guessed that it had stopped close to the cab on the other side of the hedge.

I lay on my face with the thick wheat growing high all around, my eyes raised to the hedge, above which I could see the top of a man's straw hat. I supposed that his motor-car had broken down, but at any rate, his companion alighted and came on to the raised path, so that I could see her hat and face.

She looked about my own age, although she must have been unusually tall. Young as she was, she wore a thick veil, which she had turned back under the brim of her white hat. A quantity of fair hair hung loose, and she had dark, rather mischievous, but friendly-looking eyes.

The next moment I heard Mr. Turton and Augustus returning from the wood, to inquire whether the driver of the motor-car had seen any one answering to my description. For the car had been coming to meet the cab, as if the driver were making for Polehampton.

'A boy of about fifteen,' said Mr. Turton, as they all drew nearer to the hedge. 'I saw him--I am almost certain it was he--about this spot. Then I lost him in the bend of the lane, and I thought it was possible that you might have seen him running to meet you.'

'I don't remember seeing a boy,' was the answer; 'but then, this wretched car is enough to occupy all my attention. Did you see a boy, Jacintha?' he added.

'No, Uncle,' she answered, and I thought what a strange name it was--one which I certainly had not heard before. 'Has he run away from school?' she asked, with obvious interest, the next moment.

'Yes,' said Mr. Turton, while I could imagine Augustus's snigger; 'he has caused me an immense deal of trouble, and I am extremely anxious to take him back with me--extremely anxious.'

While I lay in the wheat, able to see the tops of their heads as they moved closer to the hedge, it did not seem altogether improbable that Mr. Turton would gain his wish; and while he was still discussing me with the driver of the motor-car, whom 'Jacintha' had addressed as 'Uncle,' the girl came quite close to the hedge, turning to look at the ripening corn. As my eyes were upraised, they looked straight into hers, which seemed to hold them as if I were fascinated.

Now, I thought, everything is over with me! I had not realised that I could be so easily seen by any one looking down into the field from the higher path. Jacintha was evidently startled; she stepped abruptly backwards, as I supposed, to tell Mr. Turton that she had found the object of his search. I was already making up my mind how to act. Mr. Turton was unlikely to be a very swift runner, while I knew that I could give Augustus a pretty good start. The moment Jacintha came back to the hedge to point out my hiding-place I determined to rise from the ground, dart towards the adjoining field where the sheep were pastured, and taking a line across country, at the worst I would lead them all a good chase before I gave in.

A second later, though it seemed a long second in my suspense, Jacintha returned to the hedge and again looked down into my upturned face. Gradually her lips parted in a smile, and then my heart began to thump against my ribs, for I knew that she was not going to betray me. As I smiled back in my relief, she nodded her head ever so slightly, and turning, walked away from the hedge.

'Why don't you drive on to Barton?' she cried, raising her voice, I supposed, for my especial benefit.

'Barton? How far is that?' asked Mr. Turton.

'Five miles, isn't it, Uncle?' she answered.

'Five and a half,' he said. 'You keep bearing to your right.'

'But,' suggested Augustus, 'I feel certain Everard disappeared about here.'

'Is that his name?' asked Jacintha.

'Yes, Jack Everard.'

'Perhaps he has gone down through a trap-door,' said Jacintha with a laugh, and Augustus sniggered in return. How I wished there had only been Augustus to deal with, with perhaps Jacintha to look on during the process. But it would not have been his boots that I should have blacked!

'Uncle!' cried Jacintha, 'do you remember the steep lane we passed on our left?--that would be on your right,' she added, evidently turning to Mr. Turton.

'What about it?' he asked.

'There was a finger-post which said "Pathway to Barton." If they were to take that path don't you think they would get to Barton more quickly?'

'Why, yes, of course,' was the answer.

'Then,' said Mr. Turton, 'if we follow the road, we might be able to intercept the boy. I am very much obliged to this young lady. But in case you should see him after all,' he continued, 'allow me to give you this card. If you could manage to detain him while you communicate with me at Castlemore you would confer the greatest favour.'

I could not catch the answer, but a few minutes later, I heard the cab-door shut and knew that Mr. Turton and Augustus, thanks to Jacintha, had been driven off in the direction of Barton, five and a half miles distant. So that they would have eleven miles to drive before they returned to this spot, leaving me at least two hours (reckoning for the search at Barton and so forth) to make good my escape.

In the meantime the motor-car still continued to make strange noises, and every now and then its owner gave vent to curious exclamations.

'Don't you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'it would be best to try to get as far as the farrier's we passed opposite the footpath to Barton?'

'Upon my word, I almost think it would!' was the answer. 'Come, suppose you take your seat.'

'Oh!' cried Jacintha, 'but if you don't mind I think I would sooner walk--it is not far, you know.'

So a few moments later the motor-car made stranger noises than ever and moved away, evidently with difficulty, and when it had gone a little distance Jacintha came to the hedge again.

'It's all right now,' she cried, and rising I came to the edge of the field.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said.

'What made you run away?' she asked eagerly.

'I was not going to stand all that,' I answered.

'All what?' she asked.

'I don't think I had better stay,' I said. 'Because they might change their minds and come back.'

But Jacintha shook her head.

'I don't think they will,' she answered. 'Because I heard him tell the driver to go to Barton. What shall you do?' she asked.

'I shall go to the left as they have gone to the right.'

'I wish we could give you a lift,' she cried.

'Where are you going?' I inquired.

'You see,' she explained, 'I really live in London, only I am staying now with my uncle and aunt--I always come to stay with them in the summer.'

'Do you live near here?'

'Why,' she returned, 'we have come miles and miles this morning. My uncle has just bought a motor-car--a beauty. We started quite early--soon after seven, and it began to rain just before, so my aunt wouldn't come. We were going to Polehampton, and we have broken down lots of times, though we get along splendidly in between.'

'I slept at Polehampton last night,' I said.

'Where are you going?' she asked.

'To London.'

'Why didn't you take the train?' inquired Jacintha.

'You see I had no money,' I explained. 'I sold my watch and chain, but a tramp robbed me.'

'Where do your people live in London?' she asked.

'I have no people.'

'Oh, I am sorry!' she exclaimed. 'What are you going to do?'

'Well,' I said, 'I don't quite know till I get there.'

Jacintha's face grew very solemn.

'I wish I could tell Uncle,' she said. 'You know he is most awfully nice, only I am afraid he might put you in the motor-car and drive after the cab--we could catch it easily if we tried.'

'Yes, of course,' I answered.

'Uncle will be wondering why I am so long,' she continued. 'I expect we shall go straight back now the motor-car has gone wrong.'

'Where to?' I inquired, from sheer curiosity to learn as much about her as possible.

'Uncle lives at Colebrook Park,' she answered.

'Where is that?'

'About a mile this side of Hazleton,' she said, on the point of going away. 'I do hope those people won't catch you,' she continued, 'and that you will reach London all right, though it doesn't seem much use if you haven't got any people. I never knew any one who had run away before,' she added, regarding me with evident interest, and with that to my great regret Jacintha walked away.

'Thank you ever so much,' I cried, and then in order to see the last of her, I came round into the road, standing on the path watching until a bend took her out of sight. Even then I did not at once set out on my journey, but, having taken the precaution to bring some bread and cheese in my pocket, I sat down to eat it, near the spot where Jacintha had recently stood, when I saw something shining on the path.

Taking it in my hand, I found that it was a heart-shaped locket, which doubtless belonged to Jacintha. I imagined that she had worn it suspended from a chain round her neck, that it had caught in one of the twigs of the hedge and been broken off when she started back in astonishment on first seeing me lying amidst the corn.

Ignoring any possible risk from her uncle, I now thought only of returning the locket, and accordingly set forth at a run, nor stopped until I reached the farrier's shop, opposite the footpath to Barton. Then I saw, to my extreme disappointment, no sign of a motor-car before the door.

(Continued on page 94.)

A STORY OF STANLEY.

Sir H. M. Stanley, the famous African explorer, once had a strange and unpleasant experience, from which he was saved by his presence of mind and readiness of resource. He was travelling in Africa, and had to stay some time at a village. The people here were extremely ignorant and superstitious and quite unused to the ways of white men. After a time some of them noticed him making entries in his note book--for this was new country to him, and it was important that he should remember what he saw--and not understanding what he was doing they jumped to the conclusion that he was bewitching them in some mysterious way. This report spread all over the village, and a crowd of about five hundred savages collected, and threatened to kill the explorer at once unless he destroyed the book. Stanley was, naturally, very unwilling to give up all the notes which had cost him so much trouble and danger to collect, but on the other hand it would be very much worse to lose his life. Suddenly he had a bright idea. He happened to have with him a volume of Shakespeare's plays: he thought that in all probability the savages would not know one book from another, so he offered it to them instead of his note-book. The natives were quite taken in. They accepted the Shakespeare, and, amid much rejoicing, burnt it to ashes, thus breaking, as they thought, the spell that Stanley had cast upon them.

THE CAPTAIN'S CIGAR.

The ship was on fire! The boats were lowered, and were quickly filled by the terrified passengers and crew. Amid the general excitement, the captain alone remained cool and collected, and when the time came for him to follow the others, he did a very curious thing. Before descending the ladder into the boat, he shouted to his sailors, 'Hold on for a minute!' Then he drew a cigar from his pocket, and deliberately lighted it with a scrap of the burning rope which lay close by. This done, he went down steadily and slowly, and ordered his men to push off.

One of the passengers asked him afterwards, 'How could you stop at such a moment to light a cigar?'

'Because,' replied the captain, 'it seemed to me that unless I did something to divert the minds of the people in the boat, there would probably be a panic. Then the boat would have been upset, for, as you know, it was over-crowded. My seemingly strange act attracted your attention. Watching me, you forgot your fright and your own danger for the moment, and so we got off in safety.'

Apparent folly is sometimes wisdom in disguise.

E. D.

THE PUFF-ADDER.

The Puff-adder is the most common, as well as the most deadly, of African snakes. It is generally about four feet long; the evil-looking head is broad and flat, while the body, which is as thick as a man's arm, tapers very suddenly towards the tail. The puff-adder is of a uniform brown colour, checked with bars of darker brown and white. It is slow and torpid in all its movements, and is peculiarly dangerous from its habit of lying half buried in the sandy track, not caring to move out of the way of passers-by, as other snakes generally do; still, if not molested or trodden upon, it does not attack man. If any unfortunate creature, however, should be bitten by this reptile, death occurs in a few hours. When irritated or alarmed, this snake has the power of swelling out the whole body, from which fact it derives its popular name.

McLEOD OF CLERE.

(Concluded from page 83.)

III.

It was Sports day at Oakwood School, a glorious 18th of June. Guests were gathering from near and far, and every lodging and primitive inn in the neighbouring villages was reaping a harvest from the invasion of relatives and friends of boys past and present. On the school tower, a landmark for miles, the house flag and the Union Jack floated proudly. The hundred boys looked a goodly sight below, clad alike in white with varying racing colours in broad sashes and ties.

It was Paul Fife's third term, and he had just been welcoming Captain Ferrers. 'I must go directly,' said the boy; 'I am in the sack race for boys under twelve. I must tie Boh up first, or he will come rushing after me and spoil my chance.'

Alert and active, Paul hurried off, and Captain Ferrers joined Dr. Rayne.

'So glad you think we are taking care of him,' said the Doctor. 'He is a favourite with us all; not quite a typical English boy yet, though. I am glad to see so many "old boys" here to-day, and parents too. Bless me, there's General McLeod of Clere; I have not seen him for years. It must bring back many sad memories: his son was here years ago, a splendid fellow--his death was a terrible blow,' and Dr. Rayne went off to speak to his old friend.

The bell rang for the sack race, and there was a general movement to the starting-post, where the eight small boys in for the final were standing, each tied up to the neck in his sack, ready for the start. The old General was keenly interested, and was standing immediately behind Paul.

The master starter yielded to the request, 'May we have our caps off?' and uncovered one after the other each little competitor's head. General McLeod made a hurried exclamation as the dark head before him was bared. Paul heard him, but had no time to look round, for with an 'Are you ready?--are you ready?--off!' the boys were started. Blundering, tumbling, struggling up again, they rounded the opposite post, and came hopping in, Paul an easy first. As he touched the winning tape, his uplifted face beaming with pride, the old General turned white to the lips, and stretching out his trembling hand he laid it on the head of the laughing boy, and gasped uncertainly, 'Miguel Sarreco!'

* * * * *

There was very earnest talk in the Head Master's study that night, between Dr. Rayne and the General and Captain Ferrers, glad of a quiet hour at last.

'If I might suggest it,' said Dr. Rayne, 'you should tell your story first, General; it may throw light on small things, which otherwise may escape my friend Ferrers's notice and remembrance of all concerning this poor little child.'

'I quite agree with you, and will reserve my story until after,' and Captain Ferrers sat down, listening eagerly while the General began.

'I must go back many years. My wife, as you know, Rayne, was of Portuguese descent, an ancestor of hers having married a señora in Lisbon, after the Peninsular war. She (my wife) inherited a little property there, and in some business connected with it I had met, at different times, a far distant connection of hers, Don Manuel Sarreco, with whom I became fast friends. About fifteen years ago I received an urgent message to go to him at once. I travelled day and night, only to find him dying--he had been mortally wounded in a duel. He knew me, and urged on me his last request, to take his two children and bring them up as my own in England. I hesitated, but his entreaties and the love I had for him prevailed, and I took on myself the charge. The eldest was a beautiful girl of seventeen, Miguel two years younger. They were wonderfully alike, only in the boy's case the raven black hair had a lock of white on one side, the "Sarreco streak," as it was proudly called, which appeared in the family generation after generation. I brought the children home with certain of their most cherished possessions, some fine riding-horses, and a pair of curious dogs of Andalusian breed.

'My son, Hugh (as you know) had joined the army, and having helped in the final subjugation of Burmah, was then stationed at Mandalay, in command of native troops. I sent the boy Miguel to Harton, and Inez rapidly picked up English at home. Two years later Hugh returned, as he had obtained a year's leave. To make a long story short, he fell in love with Inez, and they were married before he returned to Burmah.

'I ought to mention that, some months before, the addition of two fine puppies of the Andalusian stock had become the pride of our kennels: they were born the day of the wedding of the Princess Louise with the Duke of Fife, and were unanimously christened "Fife" and "Louise." The dog I saw to-day was the same breed. When Hugh and Inez went away, Fife was an important part of the luggage. We went to see them on board, waving good-byes as the vessel steamed away, and I never saw them again.'

The General's voice faltered and failed, but soon he resumed: 'You may perhaps remember the sad bathing accident at Harton School, of which no one quite knew the end. Miguel Sarreco was one of the two boys drowned; his dog, Louise, had apparently tried to save him, for their bodies were washed in together some hours after the accident. The boy had been the only young one left with us at Clere: he was the darling of us all. Judge, therefore, the shock I felt to-day when a face like his looked into mine, and his own dog apparently jumped as formerly round him.

'Inez was so shocked by the news that a change from Mandalay was suggested, and Hugh obtained the command of Fort Sardu, one of the outpost stations in the Shan States. The Dacoit attack on this fort you will remember. We were just rejoicing over a letter from Hugh, telling of the birth of a little son, when we were stunned by the ghastly news of the massacre of every living soul at Fort Sardu.

'I travelled out to Burmah at once, hoping against hope. But all had perished. A sentry near the jungle alone was living, sorely wounded. When questioned, he was delirious, but just before he died he had quieted, and said that Pahna, the Karen woman, had got away into the jungle, but her arm was wounded, and as she went he heard the wailing of a child, and a dog with burning hair had rushed out from one of the huts after her. No one could say if it was truth or delirium, but every inquiry was made. No such woman had been heard of, nor had she returned to any of the Karen encampments, so if she had got away she must have died in the jungle, they said. The body of an infant had been seen among the dead at the fort and buried with the others, so that the sentry's tale seemed but a myth.

'Many months later, a letter, delayed some while, reached me from my boy. It had been written the day after the child's birth apparently. I have it here. After some private matter he says: "Our little son is a fine fellow, very dark, and his thick black hair has the 'Sarreco streak' very visible, which Inez is absurdly delighted at. The English nurse has jungle fever, and is kept away, but Pahna, the Karen woman, is a splendid substitute: she is the wife of my faithful native servant. Pahna is devoted to 'Bébé Ingalay.' Her English is curious; Inez she usually called 'Missee Sahib,' but now she has got to 'Missee Mahkloo,' 'Thakin Mahkloo' meaning me--her nearest rendering of McLeod." You start, Captain Ferrers?'

'Yes; I will say why presently--please go on,' said Captain Ferrers. 'I cannot say how interested I am.'

'The letter goes on,' resumed the General: '"Inez hung the Ragged Cross, the 'Sarreco badge,' round the baby's neck for a few moments to dub him true 'Sarreco.' Pahna looks on it as a charm especially his own, and hangs it over his cot. 'Fife' watches the little one jealously, so he is well protected."

'That is practically all,' said the General, folding the thin letter reverently with hands that trembled; 'but I feel surer and surer--my heart tells me that the little boy Paul Fife must be my own flesh and blood. He is Miguel Sarreco's very image: the same haughty poise of the head, and lean, sinewy body; but when he speaks, the voice is my son's, and the curve of the lips his also.'

'I think I can help you,' said Captain Ferrers, rising. 'I have here in my pocket-book the exact description of the finding the dying woman and the child in the jungle as given me by the Tounghi, "Maung Yet"--he is still to be found, I believe, if more is required. Her dying words over and over were as you see: "Thakin Ingalay--Bébé--Mah Kloo." He took the last to be the woman's own name, and impressed me with the same idea. But it must be meant for Macleod. This alone, coupled with the white lock of hair, is almost proof-positive. But still further, the dog was there, and on his brass collar (which I removed at once, not to risk losing it) was the word "Fife," the name of his owner, we thought, and so we called the child Fife too. Last, but not least, I believe I have in safe keeping the veritable "Sarreco badge" you mention, a curious kind of gold cross, fastened to a thin gold chain. Maung Yet gave it to me as a charm found on the dead woman. I may add that these Karen women are wonderfully faithful; probably both husband and her own infant were slain early in the fight, and she had alone been able to take away the English baby, and had carried him all those weary miles, saving him only to die herself. The hardships endured are terrible to think of.'

There was a pause--the old General's head was bowed over his clasped hands. Then he rose to his full height and said: 'It is quite enough to assure me of what I felt sure of before. I thank God for all His mercy! and now I should just like to kiss my little grandson before I go. I will be here again early to-morrow.'

Captain Ferrers and Dr. Rayne, both frequent visitors at Clere, assert that the General grows younger. It may well be so, for the dark clouds of sorrow have lifted, and the sun shines for him with the laughter of a happy child. He can look hopefully forward now to life's evening. He is not the last of the McLeods.

MARTIA.

THE STARTLED HARES.

Four hares were at dinner one day-- The sweetest of herbage was theirs-- And as they all nibbled away They seemed to be rid of their cares; For the grass was so green and the sky was so blue, They had plenty to eat and nothing to do.

The sun shone so brightly that day, They did not think danger was near; The hunters and dogs were away, There was nothing around to cause fear. When, alas! from the sky there dropped with a plump, A something which made their poor hearts give a jump.

Poor Fred was knocked backward at once, And Charlie fell flat on the ground, While Peter stretched out his long legs And fled without making a sound; But Tom, who was boastful, cried, 'Stop! Don't you see, It is only a kite from its string broken free!

'Just let me catch hold of that boy, I'll give him a box on the ear-- I'll teach him to fly his old kite Beside us, to cause us such fear.... Why, there is the boy! After all, I will wait-- I must hurry off home, it is getting quite late!'

Then off with a rush went brave Tom, His heart beating loud with dismay; While Charlie, and Peter, and Fred Cried, 'Isn't Tom valiant to-day?' And the boy shook with laughter to see Tom in flight, For he knew that fine words never drive away fright!

D. B. M.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 87.)

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Chapter XI

The blacksmith, a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a leather apron, stood at the door with a hammer in his right hand, his shop being a kind of barn beneath a tall elm-tree, directly opposite the narrow lane, with a board signifying that it was a footpath to Barton. It was exactly the place I should have selected in order to get away from the main road had I known of its existence.

'Has the motor-car gone?' I inquired, stopping in front of the blacksmith's.

'Don't see much sign of it, do you?' he answered, rather gruffly.

'How long ago did it start?' I asked.

'About a quarter of an hour,' said the smith, and I saw that it would be useless to think of following it in the hope of overtaking Jacintha. Perhaps it was just as well, as she had suggested that her uncle might take me forcibly back to Mr. Turton, whose eagerness to bring me once more to Castlemore still furnished matter for surprise.

But still, even if I ran some risk, I was determined to lose no time in returning the locket to its owner, who had certainly done me a good turn. My direction, which a little while ago had appeared uncertain, was now decided for me, and henceforth, instead of directing my steps towards London, I aimed at reaching Hazleton, whence the journey could be continued with greater safety from pursuit.

'Can you tell me how far it is to Hazleton?' I asked before moving on from the smithy.

'Jim,' cried the blacksmith, turning towards a man who was hammering a horse-shoe, 'here's the champion walker wants to know how far to Hazleton.'

'About thirty miles,' said Jim.

'Which is the way?' I demanded.

'Bear to your left till you come to the main road,' said the smith, 'then take the left again.'

Having thanked the man, I walked on, still looking sharply out for Mr. Turton's cab, until I came to a small village with a green, on which a few boys were playing cricket. Here there were two forked roads, and after staying five minutes to watch the game, I followed that to the left. I took the precaution to place the locket in my empty watch-pocket for greater safety, and as I left the village behind, I took out all the money in my possession--four shillings and sevenpence--and counted it, although I knew perfectly well what it amounted to. Even if the weather remained fine, which appeared extremely doubtful, I could not hope to reach Hazleton in less than two days, and then I must hang about the entrance to Colebrook Park until I succeeded in seeing Jacintha alone. As to what was to happen after that, I did not trouble myself; Hazleton had now become my fixed destination, and by securing a free bed in the open air for two nights, I reckoned it would be possible to fare well on the way.

Now that I had set my back towards Barton, I felt perfectly safe from Mr. Turton, and the road became so hilly and beautiful, with woods and undulating fields on each hand, that it soon began to engage all my attention. Villages came close together, and, indeed, the only drawback that afternoon was the lowering sky, which certainly foreboded a bad night.

At about five o'clock I passed through a kind of model village, with some quaint cottages and a few nourishing shops, in one of whose windows I saw some extremely tempting-looking small pork pies. Having eaten only bread and cheese for dinner, I was beginning to feel ravenously hungry, so, entering the shop, I inquired the price.

'Twopence each,' said the girl behind the counter, 'fresh made this morning.'

'I will have one,' I answered, when it occurred to me that if I was going to sleep out of doors, it might be wise to buy two, keeping one in reserve for supper. Then I asked for a glass of milk, and as there was a penny change out of sixpence, I bought a large cake of chocolate.

On leaving the shop, the sky looked blacker and more threatening than ever, and I wondered whether Jacintha and her uncle had arrived home yet. Eating one of the pork pies as I walked on, I followed it by half the cake of chocolate, and then the rain began, with large drops, which made me dread a thunder-storm.

After a little while the rain ceased, however, and quickening my steps, I began to think I should be driven to pay for a night's lodging after all. Presently I came to a kind of open moor, covered with bracken, bramble, and brilliant patches of heath. A rabbit scampered across the road, but there was no one to be seen, although a railway ran close at hand through a cutting on the right. I could see the tops of the signal-posts and hear the rush of passing trains now and then. When I had walked a mile or more across the moor, the rain began again with flashes of vivid lightning and long rolls of thunder. I turned up my collar and buttoned my jacket, which was soon nearly wet through, and at last stood up in the wet bracken under a beech-tree. A more vivid flash of lightning, however, reminded me that I had heard of the danger of standing beneath trees in storms; so, plunging into the deluge again, I followed the road up a steep hill, in the hope of seeing a village, or some kind of shelter, from the crest.

But the only human habitation in sight was a solitary house, which looked curious enough amidst those lonely surroundings. It stood at the corner of a cross-road still several hundred yards distant, a new-looking house, built of red bricks, with a tiled roof, with a garden and railings in front. Determined to find shelter somewhere, I set off down the hill at a run, and, as I drew near the house, rejoiced to see that it was apparently empty. By the iron railings stood a black board, announcing that it was to be let unfurnished, while the wisps of straw about the path seemed to show that the tenants had but recently forsaken it, because of its lonely situation, no doubt. Opening the gate, I went up the stone steps and stood beneath a small porch before its front door, where at least I was out of the rain, which now poured down in torrents. On each side of the small porch was a shelf, evidently intended to support flower-pots, and underneath one of the shelves I saw an old sack.

This I picked up and examined, and finding that it was not very dirty, I thought there could be no harm in taking possession of it, for if the rain continued, the sack would serve the purpose of a cape to protect my shoulders. Placing it round them at once, I stood gazing at the rain, while the evening gradually darkened. The thunder sounded as if it were exactly overhead, and the lightning seemed to dance around me. Presently I began to wonder how to pass the night, since it would be madness to leave this shelter in the deluge, while yet I could not very comfortably remain where I was.

It must have been between seven and eight o'clock when a happy thought occurred. How idiotic to feel doubtful where to sleep when here was a whole house apparently at my disposal! It could not injure anybody if I made it a shelter for myself for the night, whereas it would be an immense boon to have a roof over one's head until the rain ceased--although it looked as if it never would leave off.

Drawing the sack over my head, I came forth from my shelter and inspected the front of the house, only to find that every window was securely fastened. Going round to the side gate of lattice-work, I found it unlocked, however, and made my way at once to the back garden. There, by great good fortune, was a window with the bottom pane broken, and having enlarged the hole, I was able to put in a hand and push back the fastener, so that to open the window and effect an entrance was the work of a few seconds.

Having shut the window, I looked about, and saw that I stood in a kind of breakfast-room, entirely empty; but on going to the adjoining kitchen, there was a heap of shavings and paper by a packing-case in one corner, and on this I determined to make a bed. The rain still pelted, the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed, while the interior of the house seemed dismal and oppressive, I confess to a feeling of timidity which I had not experienced since I left Castlemore--such as, indeed, I had scarcely been conscious of in my life before. The evening was already dark, and the night promised to be absolutely black. When I went to the kitchen door and looked out into the stone-floored passage, I could scarcely see my hand before me, and there was no means of obtaining a light.

Returning to the kitchen, I shut the door, and, making the most of the still remaining light, I began to prepare my bed for the night, but as I turned the shavings a mouse ran over my hand, and for the moment I felt so startled that I walked to the farther side of the room.

There I began to persuade myself that there was no danger to be feared from a mouse, and presently, returning to the corner, I shook out the shavings and pieces of paper until they somewhat resembled the shape of a bed. A few minutes later, however, it seemed to become suddenly black, save when the flashes of lightning lighted the room, for, of course, the windows were without blinds. Sitting down on the bed, I determined to eat my supper and try to sleep, not caring how early I woke, so long as it was daylight. I congratulated myself on the possession of the second pork-pie and the chocolate, and lest the morning should prove as wet as the night, I only ate half of my provender, although I could very readily have dispatched the whole.

Then, having taken off my boots and spread the sack out to dry, I said my prayers and lay down at full length; but, instead of falling asleep at once, my thoughts turned to the past, and I seemed to live over again every interview I had ever had with Captain Knowlton. When I remembered his cheerful personality, it seemed impossible to realise that he could be dead, and yet by this time I had not the slightest hope of ever seeing him again. I tried to dwell on Mr. Bosanquet's encouraging words, but it was useless to-night as I lay watching the lightning; and, oppressed by grief at Captain Knowlton's loss, I could not keep back a few tears. Then I must have fallen asleep, for, I know not how much later, although the kitchen was still in total blackness, I found myself sitting up, and thinking for the moment that I was back in my room with Smythe and the other fellows at Mr. Turton's. Before I had quite realised the actual surroundings, I grew cold from head to foot, with that uncomfortable sensation called goose-flesh, as if every individual hair were standing on end. My teeth began to chatter as I strained my ears to listen.

There could be no doubt about it. I could distinctly hear a low, pitiful weeping apparently just above my head. That the sounds came from some human being in intense distress I entertained no doubt whatever, and yet, inconsistently enough, I felt frightened out of my wits. Rising, I felt my way by the empty dresser to the door, and there stood listening. Still the melancholy sound continued; such a dismal wailing as I had never heard before. How I longed for the day to break, or even for the lightning, which had now ceased, although in unison with the sounds of continuous weeping I heard the rain beating against the window-panes.

Afraid to open the door, feeling that I would gladly endure any penalty in exchange for a box of matches, I did not make the least attempt to go to sleep again, but stood close to the kitchen window on the look-out for the first sign of dawn. Never had time seemed to pass so slowly. The sounds of mice in one corner made me shudder, and for once in my life I was thoroughly and shamefully terrified.

The first shade of grey on the ceiling caused a feeling of intense relief, and I began to upbraid myself for timidity. As the light gained brightness, courage returned, and when at last it was day, although nothing could have appeared much more dismal than the outlook from the window, I determined to pull myself together and to make a tour of inspection.

(Continued on page 102.)

THE BEST BEGINNING.

Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, was not only an excellent ruler and fine general, but deeply religious.

On one occasion, at the beginning of a great war, he landed his troops in Germany. Directly he landed in the early morning, after giving some necessary orders to some of his officers, he retired a few paces from them and knelt down to pray. He noticed that this action on his part appeared to surprise some of his men; whereupon he said, 'The man who has finished his prayers has done one half of his daily work.'

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

5.--ARITHMOGRAPH.

A word of ten letters; a woman's name.

1.--4, 8, 7, 10. A great river. 2.--7, 1, 3, 4. Not fat. 3.--7, 8, 10, 5, 6. A vassal, or the lord to whom he is bound. 4.--2, 1, 3, 7. Young meat. 5.--2, 8, 7, 10. Very bad. 6.--9, 3, 8, 7. A horny substance; and a small, pointed piece of metal. 7.--5, 6, 4, 10, 2, 3. A city in Switzerland. 8.--9, 3, 2, 10. The body of a church. 9.--5, 3, 8, 9.--Something obtained.

C. J. B.

[Answer on page 130.]

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 58.

3.--1. Bucharest. 2. Rouen. 3. Brunswick. 4. Budapest. 5. Santiago. 6. San Francisco. 7. Benares. 8. Prague 9. Valparaiso. 10. Nantes.

4.--Amble-side, in the Lake District, near which place lived Wordsworth, Dr. Arnold, and Harriet Martineau.

THE INDIAN'S CONSCIENCE.

An Indian once asked his neighbour for some tobacco. The neighbour put his hand in his pocket and gave him a handful. The next morning the Indian came again, and brought a quarter-dollar which he had found between the tobacco. The neighbour was surprised at such honesty, and asked the Indian why he had not kept the money.

'It is just like this,' he answered. 'In my heart I have a good man and a bad man. The good man said, "The money does not belong to you; give it back to its owner." The bad man said, "It has been given to you; it belongs to you." The good man replied, "That is not true, and such conduct is evil; the tobacco belongs to you, but the money belongs to him who has given it away by mistake; you must give it back again." The bad man answered, "Think no more about it, and do not let such a trifle disturb you. Keep the money." I was in doubt as to which voice of my heart I should listen to. At last I lay down in bed, but the good man and the bad man quarrelled so all the night in my heart that I had no peace, so I felt obliged to bring you back your money.'

THE LIME OR LINDEN.

The Lime, or Linden, is very notable amongst our trees on account of its beauty and usefulness, and also because it will grow anywhere. It is especially a London tree, for we see it in parks, squares, many private gardens, and along some roads in the metropolis. But the smoke of London seldom allows the tree to attain its full size. Often the stroller in July, passing along a road or lane, becomes suddenly aware of a delicious scent floating upon the summer breeze. He looks up, to find this perfume comes from a lime, putting forth its clusters of flowers upon their leafy branches--flowers to which, by day or night, crowds of bees, flies, and other insects resort. About the suburbs of London the lively sparrows often have their assemblies in lime or plane-trees; and in most years, the London limes, towards autumn, put forth a few fresh leaves.

The lime is a hardy tree, and flourishes even in the cold regions of Sweden and Russia. It is supposed to have been introduced to Britain by the Romans, who brought trees and plants into these islands from various countries where the Roman banners had been carried. Amongst the Swiss, this tree has been regarded as an emblem of liberty, and planted for a memorial. From the lime, called in Sweden 'lind,' the greatest of our early botanists took his name; it was chosen by him because a large lime-tree overhung his father's house, and so he has always been known as Linnæus.

'Linden' comes from the Swedish name, but 'lime' is an ignorant mistake, which cannot be altered now. Properly, the tree belongs to the citron family, akin to the orange and lemon, and the other name of the linden seems at first to have been 'line,' because the bark was used for making cord and other lines.

From 'bast,' as the inner bark is called, a great number of mats are made in Russia, and sent all over Europe; a small quantity is also woven in Lincolnshire and Monmouthshire. Hats and shoes have been made from lime-bark, and the solid wood is serviceable in many ways. It has supplied bowls, plates, sounding-boards for pianos; and some beautiful carving--that of Gibbons, for example--has been executed in lime-wood. It is white, but very tough when properly dried.

A handsome tree when solitary, the lime is particularly beautiful in an avenue. There is a famous avenue of large size at Ware Park, and another remarkable one in the Cathedral yard at Winchester.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

III.--PROFESSOR CHARLES' FIRST VOYAGE.

Notwithstanding the superior power of Professor Charles' gas balloon, the Montgolfiers stuck to their hot air, 'for,' said they, 'see how much cheaper it is, and how much more quickly the balloon can be inflated--about ten minutes against three days.' So, in answer to frequent demands, their air-ships sailed into the skies, and even the applause of royal hands increased the uproar with which each successful experiment was greeted.

On the morning of September 19th, 1783, the road between Paris and Versailles was crowded to excess. The stream of carriages seemed endless, and the eager throng pushed its way between the vehicles till there was hardly room for horse or man to move. The windows all along the route were full of faces, while the house-tops themselves were invaded by sight-seers. And all this excitement was because the King had commanded Stephen Montgolfier to send a balloon up from the gardens at Versailles. This time, however, there were to be passengers, and as no human being had ever breathed the upper air before, it was questioned whether he could do so and live. The pioneers, therefore, should not be human, and in due course a cock, a sheep, and a goose were chosen. These were the first living passengers in the cloud-cruisers, and after a voyage at a great height, of eight minutes in duration, they returned to the earth in perfect health. But what bird or animal could have wondered if, after that 19th of September, they had quacked, and crowed, and bleated with more pride than before?

Then Montgolfier was busier still, and on November 21st, in a fire-balloon specially decorated for such a great occasion, two gentlemen, named Pilâtre de Rozier and D'Arlande, made the first ascent. Of the former of these we shall have to speak again.

But as hot air, as a means of flight, has been surpassed by hydrogen gas, we ought to give more attention here to the grand voyage made eleven days later by Professor Charles and his skilful helper, M. Robert. During the preparations all went well. The balloon was made and fitted at the Tuileries, with a lovely car in the shape of a fairy's boat, bright with blue panels and golden ornaments. But when things had gone thus far, trouble began.

On November 29th a rumour (too soon confirmed) ran through Paris that the King forbade the ascent to be made. At midnight Charles was aroused from sleep and summoned to appear before a high official, who presented him with the royal order to give up his project. We may readily believe that after this he passed a restless night, and his trouble became harder to bear when his enemies whispered that he himself had asked for the order to be made because, at the last moment, his courage had failed him. Sad to say, such whispers as these will travel as fast and far as shouts of praise, and Professor Charles felt thoroughly depressed. But there was some comfort in the heavy rain that fell, for no one could expect the balloon to ascend in such weather, and before the clouds cleared away perhaps his difficulties would clear away too.

The King, however, was deaf to all appeals; maybe he thought Professor Charles was too valuable to France to run the risk of being killed. But if this was the reason, there were four hundred thousand people in Paris who did not agree with him, and when the next morning broke quite cloudless, they gathered at the Tuileries in a somewhat impatient manner. Who was to be obeyed, the people or the King? Well, up to the last minute Professor Charles would not decide. The arrangements were continued. The great balloon was moved into the open space, with a small one, five and a half feet in diameter, beside it. This was to be sent up first, to see if the air was sufficiently quiet. The rope which controlled it was placed in the hand of Stephen Montgolfier, 'for,' said Professor Charles, 'it was you who first showed us the way to the clouds.' At a signal given, M. Montgolfier cut the rope, and for a moment the attention of the spectators was engrossed by this little pioneer as it rose into the blue above them.

Finally, at a quarter past one, M. Charles made up his mind to keep his promise to the people, and disobey the King for once, and, accompanied by M. Robert, stepped into the blue and golden car. Amid a deafening tumult, that must have been heard at Versailles, they rose slowly into the air. His own description of the voyage has been preserved, and as he was a man who could describe what he felt and saw (and let all 'chatterboxes' know that this is harder than it seems), no story could be more interesting. They rose straight up for one thousand eight hundred feet, and then hung poised in the air. The view was entrancing, and as the aeronauts looked down at the Tuileries and the buzzing crowd, Professor Charles felt as though he had escaped from a swarm of wasps ready to sting him without mercy if he failed to please them. However, his troubles from that point of view were over, and he turned his thoughts to the delights of his voyage. Presently they heard the report of a cannon, which meant that the people of Paris could no longer see them. Far below, like a silver brook, wound the river Seine, and twice the balloon floated across it. Village after village drifted away beneath them, till, at the end of two happy hours, they settled in a broad meadow at Nesle, twenty-seven miles from Paris. Here they were joined by three Englishmen who had ridden after them from Paris on horseback. These Englishmen, together with the village clergyman, signed Professor Charles' papers to prove that they had witnessed his descent, while the awestruck peasants gathered round and helped to hold the balloon.

The sun had already set, but the gas was not all gone, and so Professor Charles went up once more, this time alone. He clapped his hands as a signal to the peasants to let go, and ten minutes later was soaring at a height of nine thousand feet. In that ten minutes he had passed from an atmosphere of spring to that of winter; for although it was December 1st, it was warm weather on the earth. Perfect silence was around him, and when he clapped his hands the noise was quite startling. As already stated, the sun had set when he left the earth, but now he saw it again just above the far horizon. All below was dark with shadow, and on him and his balloon alone the sun was shining. Delighted by these new experiences, he turned his eyes in all directions. Not a human being was visible, not a human voice could be heard, and while he looked and listened the sun sank out of sight once more. Professor Charles, for the first time in his life, had seen two sunsets in one day. Perhaps he thought that was enough, for he pulled the valve-line, and a few minutes later alighted in a field two miles from his starting-place, and the home of one of the Englishmen. The next morning he and Robert entered Paris in triumph, and a few hours later, through another gate, the balloon entered in triumph too, being escorted by bands of music and crowds of people.

The kind old King evidently forgave Professor Charles for disobeying him, for he immediately presented him with a pension, and first-class lodgings in the Tuileries, where he continued his studies till his death in 1823.

JOHN LEA.

THE JEALOUS KITTENS.

When Jack and Tom were little kits, No settled home had they; But Mother found within the barn A hamper full of hay, And there she took her children two, And told them what they ought to do.

She said, 'Now, darlings, make no noise, And if you do no harm, And learn your business, you will live In comfort at the farm. Just catch a mouse--for that's your trade-- And then your fortune will be made.'

Now, when the kits were left alone They soon began to play, For neither cats nor children can Be busy all the day; But as they tossed the hay about, A little mouse came creeping out!

'Look! look!' cried Jack, with eager eyes. 'I see!' cried Tom, 'I see! You go and seek another mouse, And leave this mouse to me.' 'Indeed, I won't!' cried Jack at once; 'You surely take me for a dunce!

'That mouse is mine--I saw it first; So, Tom, away you go, And let me tackle it at once, And lay the rascal low.' But naughty Tom would not submit; He said, 'It's mine--I'll capture it.'

But while they quarrelled loud and long, They quite forgot their prey, And when at last they made it up Miss Mouse had slipped away-- For if you fight and disagree, You ne'er will catch the enemy.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 95.)

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Chapter XII

The most probable explanation of the noise I had heard seemed to be that the house had not after all been empty--indeed, it could not be empty! Although the regular occupants had gone they might have left some one behind as a caretaker, who certainly must be in the depths of despair. Heedless of the fact that my presence might be resented, I opened the kitchen door, crossed the stone-paved passage, and going up a few stairs, came to a fair-sized hall. Here there were four doors, one leading out to the porch where I had found shelter yesterday afternoon, one to a room right at the back, and two which apparently opened respectively into the drawing-room and dining-room.

As the front room was above the kitchen I determined to try that first, for thence the weird sounds of the night had seemed to come. Advancing rather nervously towards it, I gathered sufficient courage to turn the handle, when, discovering that the door had been locked from the outside, I began to hesitate about turning the key.

Unless somebody had been shut in by mistake, how had he or she obtained admission? But as I stood there hesitating, I suddenly broke into a laugh of perfect relief. The truth now seemed plain enough. I could hear scampering feet, and an eager whine, which ended in an impatient bark. Opening the door, I saw a small rough-coated terrier with a patch by his tail; bounding forward he began to yelp and spring and fawn upon me, licking my hands and showing every sign of joy and satisfaction.

I think my own pleasure was almost equal to the terrier's. It is impossible to make any one understand the intense joy of finding a companion after the night I had passed. Although he looked rather thin, his condition did not suggest that he had been locked up longer than a day or two; but picking him up in my arms while he whined and licked my face, I carried him downstairs, and turning on the tap over the sink let him drink as much water as he wished. Fortunately I had still half of the pork-pie in my pocket, and it was good to see him eat it bit by bit from my hand. It was true that my remaining small piece of chocolate made an unsatisfactory breakfast, and that the terrier eyed me a little reproachfully even when I ate that, but he would not leave me for an instant, and in less than half an hour it seemed as if he had belonged to me all my life.

'What's your name, old chap?' I asked, and he wagged his stump of a tail as if he would have told me if he could. 'Anyhow,' I said, 'you must have a name of some sort. What shall it be?'

It took some time to decide upon a suitable name, and then we did not arrive at anything more original than 'Patch.' Having settled this pressing question, I stripped to the waist and had a good wash at the sink, drying myself as well as I could on the shavings which had served as a bed. By this time the rain had almost ceased, and I began to think that it might be advisable to get outside the house before I chanced to be seen. So, having got through the window with Patch in my arms, I shut it again and was going round to the front when I saw that the terrier was poking his muzzle into every nook and corner, as if in search of his lawful owner.

Still, he came to my whistle, and not forgetting the sack, I went round to the front of the house, standing under the porch at the top of the steps until presently the rain entirely ceased, the clouds broke, and the sun shone in a feeble kind of way.

The first order of the day was breakfast, then to make my way to Hazleton with the object of returning Jacintha's locket. With the sack rolled up beneath my arm, with Patch running excitedly around me, I set forth along the muddy road across the moor. Having left this behind and followed a winding lane for some distance, we seemed to be approaching a village. Passing one or two houses, we crossed over a railway bridge, passed a dozen or more cottages, and then, at the corner of two roads, I saw what appeared to be a kind of mixture between a temperance hotel and a mission hall.

After the various escapades through which I had passed since leaving Castlemore, my clothes were in a sad condition, my boots especially being coated with mud, so that for a moment I shrank from entering the building. Summoning courage, however, I pushed open the door and found myself in a bare-looking room with several large illuminated texts on the walls, and three wooden tables, at one of which a man was seated drinking a cup of tea.

A clock over the mantelpiece showed that it was a quarter-past ten, although I had thought it considerably later. As Patch followed me into the room, leaving damp footmarks on the clean linoleum, a short thin-faced woman, with fair hair drawn very tightly back, entered from the opposite door with a wet dish in one hand and a cloth in the other.

'We can't have dogs in here!' she cried by way of greeting.

'Will it matter if I nurse him?' I asked.

'If he doesn't spoil my floor,' she answered, and as I took Patch up in my arms she added, 'What is it you want?'

'I should like some breakfast.'

'Tea and bread and butter?' she asked.

'How much are eggs?' I inquired.

'Three-halfpence each. Tea a penny the cup, bread and butter a halfpenny a slice.'

I made a hasty calculation in my mind, and being extremely hungry determined to spend sixpence, though it made a rather serious inroad into my remaining four shillings and a penny.

'I will have two boiled eggs, four slices of bread and butter, and a cup of tea,' I answered. Soon afterwards, while I sat with Patch on my knees, the other customer left the room. When the woman returned with my breakfast and received the sixpence in exchange, I was agreeably surprised by her altered manner. At first she had created an unfavourable impression, but now as I ate she stood watching with kindly interest, presently remarking, however, that it was beginning to rain again.

'How far is it to Hazleton?' I asked.

'Close on twenty-six miles,' she answered.

'I was told that it was thirty yesterday,' I said, 'and I know I have walked ten miles since.'

'Are you walking to Hazleton?' she inquired.

'Yes.'

'Well, you won't be able to get far on your way in this rain,' she replied, and indeed it was again coming down in torrents. 'We make up beds here,' she added. While she was speaking, a small, fair-headed child of four or five years ran into the room, and, encouraged by the way the woman caught him up and kissed him, I thought that I would confide in her.

'You see,' I explained, 'I have only three and sixpence to last me to Hazleton, and this weather I can't get along very quickly--that is the worst of it.'

She pursed her lips as she looked into my face. 'Well,' she answered, 'I can give you a bed for sixpence if you're not too particular. Then there's dinner----'

'I shall not care about dinner,' I said, feeling perfectly satisfied after two eggs and four thick slices of bread and butter, 'if I could have some bread and cheese for supper.'

Finally, she agreed to give me some tea in the afternoon, some supper, a bed, and a plain breakfast the following morning, for one and ninepence; this would leave the same sum to carry me to Hazleton, beyond which my plans did not at present extend. The woman, moreover, offered to tie Patch up in an out-house and give him some scraps, and later in the day she said that if I would go to bed early she would wash my shirt, which sadly needed such attention. Altogether it seemed that I had found a friend; and as the rain did not cease all day, I amused myself reading such books as the place contained. At six o'clock I had supper and went to bed, putting everything but my cap and cloth clothes outside my door, where, after a long night's sleep, I found them nicely ironed and folded. On coming downstairs, I borrowed some boot-brushes, so that on Wednesday morning I set out looking far more respectable than I had done on my arrival, in excellent spirits, with one and ninepence in my pocket and Patch at my heels.

A short distance from the reading-room, or whatever it ought to be called, I met a postman who told me it was only twenty-three miles to Hazleton, although, after I had covered quite four miles more, a member of the county police told me it was still twenty-two miles. Seeing that it would be impossible in any event to reach Colebrook Park to-day, although I could easily manage the distance to-morrow, I did not hurry, but, the sun being hot, allowed Patch several rests by the way, until on making another inquiry at about half-past five that evening, I was informed that Hazleton was still eighteen miles distant.

Although the day had been fine, the ground was still wet, far too wet to sleep out of doors with comfort. I had economised as much as possible, but walking is hungry work, and now I found myself with only one and fourpence by way of capital. The consequence was that a free lodging of some kind must be discovered, and I looked about vainly for another empty house.

At about six o'clock I happened to pass a farm; a good-natured-looking man stood leaning against a gate, smoking a pipe.

'Should you mind if I were to sleep in one of those barns?' I asked.

'On the tramp?' he exclaimed.

'To Hazleton,' I said.

'Pretty near twenty miles.'

'No one seems to know exactly how far it is,' I answered, and he chuckled as he puffed at his pipe. Then he began to eye me inquisitively, and presently, knocking out his pipe with a good deal of deliberation, he turned and walked away. I was beginning to feel that I had met with a rebuff, when he looked back and told me to follow him.

'Better pick up that terrier,' he said, 'because of the chickens.'

With Patch in my arms I followed the farmer round the house to an empty shed behind.

'You can have a shake-down here if you don't mind being locked in,' he said; and, although I would rather not have had the key turned, I at once consented. It was a large shed, and quite clean and fresh, but entirely bare. When I had been there about half an hour a maid opened the door, with a plate of cold beef and potatoes in her hand, and she stayed talking while Patch and I shared the meal. Soon after she had gone, taking the plate and knife and fork, the farmer came again, followed by a man with an armful of straw.

'I shall not lock you up,' he said, 'though I have been done so often you can't tell whom to trust and whom not. If you go to the back door to-morrow morning, you will get some breakfast.'

I have slept in more comfortable places, but still the shed was quite as good as anything I had a right to expect, while Patch's presence proved the greatest comfort. He lay down close beside me, artfully taking advantage of the straw, and when I felt very lonely--for I could not get to sleep for some time--I put out a hand and felt his coat.

(Continued on page 106.)

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 103.)

It was half-past six the next morning when I went to the farmer's back door, where the rough-looking maid provided me with a cup of coffee and a chunk of bread and butter, then, followed by Patch, I set out that Thursday morning on the road to Hazleton. The weather could not have been better, although the middle of the day promised to be excessively hot.

As I trudged along the pleasant road, I had some wild idea of reaching Hazleton that evening, but this was soon destroyed, for about a mile from the farm where we had slept, I noticed that Patch was limping. Sitting down on a heap of stones by the roadside, I looked at his near hind paw, and saw that it was nastily cut, so that he could only walk in great pain. I suppose he had trodden on a piece of glass in the road.

Now I realised that I was in an awkward plight. Of course, Patch must on no account be left behind; but, on the other hand, how was I to get him along? Tearing a piece off the edge of the sack, I frayed out some of the thread and made a kind of bag, which I put over the wounded paw, tying it round the leg. This took some time, and, as the job was finished and Patch was licking my hand by way of thanks, I saw a large van approaching from the direction of the farm, driven by one of the fattest men I had ever seen. The cart was laden with bottles of ginger-beer and mineral waters, but, as it passed us by, at a fair pace, a nosebag, which was tied behind, fell off into the road.

The driver, alone in the van, was entirely unaware of his loss until, rising from the heap of stones, I shouted to him to stop, and, picking up the nosebag, ran after the van. Pulling up his horse, he leaned down to take the bag, and then asked where I was going.

'To Hazleton,' I answered, as usual.

'That is about seventeen miles,' he said.

'The worst of it is,' I continued, 'my dog has cut his foot and can't walk.'

'Like a lift, doggie?' asked the fat driver.

'We should most awfully!' I exclaimed, eagerly.

'Well, now, listen to me,' was the answer. 'My round doesn't take me as far as Hazleton, but I am going to Watcombe, and that's ten miles short. We shall not get there much afore evening, because you see I have to travel a good bit out of the main road, and stop at ever so many places on the way.'

At any rate, the proffered lift would take me within ten miles of Colebrook Park, whereas without such help I did not see how I was to get even so far unless I carried Patch in my arms. Besides, the drive was tempting in itself, the only drawback being that my remaining capital of one and fourpence would have to bear an extra strain, and, in case of more bad weather, it would probably be exhausted before I reached my destination. However, in a very few moments Patch and I were seated on the top of a wooden box full of lemonade bottles, the fat driver whipped up his horse, and we sped gaily along the country road.

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Chapter XIII

As I sat on the box of lemonade bottles, with a hand on Patch lest he should show a desire to jump down from the van, I noticed that he was sniffing curiously at the back of the driver's coat; and presently the driver in his turn began to look with equal interest at the terrier.

'He seems to know you,' I remarked.

'Come to that,' was the answer, 'I seem to know him. Looks to me most uncommon like Mr. Westrop's dog, he does.'

'Who is Mr. Westrop?' I inquired, holding Patch more tightly.

For a few minutes, without answering (for the fat driver was slow of speech and spoke in a deep voice which seemed to come from the direction of his boots), he divided his attention between the horse and the dog, and then fixed his small eyes on my face.

'The question is,' he said slowly, 'where did you get him?'

'You see, I found him,' I replied.

'Mr. Westrop's been in a bad way about his dog,' continued the driver. 'A very bad way. What do you think about it, Sam, old chap?'

The terrier, to my sorrow, showed what he thought about it by wagging his stumpy tail and whining with satisfaction, so that it would have been ridiculous to attempt to persuade myself that he failed to recognise the name of 'Sam.'

'I know most people betwixt here and Barton,' said the driver, laying his whip gently across the horse. 'Come to that, so I ought.'

'Do you live at Barton?' I asked, thinking of Mr. Turton and Augustus, and their wasted drive to that town.

'Just this side,' was the answer. 'That's where our factory is--half a mile this side of Barton. And every day of every week, for fifteen years or more, I've driven round the country with this van.'

'Are you going back to-night?' I inquired.

'Why, of course,' he exclaimed. 'Back by the straight road, after I've done my round.'

We had already left the wider road, and as the driver spoke he pulled up the horse at the door of a small rustic inn. Fastening his reins to a hook on his seat, he slowly dismounted, took a box of bottles from the van, carried it into the inn, returning after a short interval with the same box filled by a similar number of empty bottles. Then he climbed up to his seat again, unhooked the reins, and cried 'Gee-up' to the horse, which at once started at a smart trot along the lane.

'Now about this dog,' he began. 'Mr. Westrop used to live at the Beacon on Ramleigh Forest--I can remember before the house was built. He moved out last Friday to a house near Barton, and sure enough he has lost his terrier. Where did you find him? That's what I should like to know.'

'I don't know whether the house was called the Beacon,' I answered, 'because I didn't see any name. Patch had got locked in the drawing-room.'

'Well, now!' cried the driver, 'who would have thought the dog was fool enough for that! Locked in the drawing-room, were you, Sam, old chap? And how did you get him out?'

When at some length I explained how I had been caught in the storm, and sought shelter in the empty house, and slept in the kitchen, and had been frightened by the ghostly noises in the middle of the night, the driver leaned forward and laughed so uproariously that I felt afraid lest he should fall from his seat on to the horse: and as soon as his merriment permitted him to speak, he turned to me with his great red face redder than ever.

'Well,' he cried, 'you are a nice young man for a small party, you are! A nice young burglar, to be sure! Going and breaking into people's houses, cool as you please, and stealing their dogs. Howsoever,' he added, 'Mr. Westrop will be no end glad when I take Sam back to him to-night.'

I clasped Patch more closely.

'You're--you are not going to take him back?' I said.

'Why, what do you think?' he demanded. 'You wouldn't go and keep a dog that didn't belong to you!'

I am afraid I might have been tempted to keep Patch or Sam, whichever he ought to be named, on any terms, if circumstances had permitted; and useful as the lift on my way had appeared, I began to regret that I had ever seen the driver or his van. But before I had time to reply we were pulling up in front of another inn, where another box of mineral waters was carried in, and a box of empty bottles was brought out.

'Not but what,' the driver continued, 'I am sorry to take the dog from you, because he is just the sort you could soon grow fond of--aren't you, Sam? But right is right,' said the driver, looking straight in front of him, as he laid the whip on his horse.

During the next two hours we stopped at numerous inns, and I might have been able to enjoy the drive through the country lanes, and the remarks which the driver exchanged with almost every one we met, if it had not been for the necessity of restoring Patch to his rightful owner. It was impossible to pretend that the driver had not right on his side, but the fact remained that the terrier's companionship had become very valuable, and I would have borne a great deal rather than give him up. On the other hand, I began to persuade myself that it would have been perhaps difficult to keep him in London, especially if I succeeded in obtaining work as quickly as I hoped, when necessarily I should be occupied most of the day.

When we stopped at a more important inn at one o'clock, the driver took from beneath his seat two plates, one covering the other, and tied up in a clean napkin. Without a moment's hesitation, he offered to share his meal with me, and there appeared to be quite enough rabbit-pie for two. After dinner, as we drove on again, he became more talkative, and asked a good many questions about myself, with the result that he soon learned where I was going after I left Hazleton, and how much money I had in my pockets, though I did not mention the gold locket.

'Now where did you think of sleeping to-night?' he asked, and I told him that I intended to wait to see what might turn up in the way of shelter. 'You see,' he continued, 'I always like fair play. Fair play is a jewel. It was you who found the dog, though you had no business to have been on the spot, so to speak. But Mr. Westrop is pretty sure to give me a tip for bringing Sam back, and I don't see why you should not have your share.'

'Oh, that is all right,' I answered.

'Of course it is, because I am going to make it all right,' he said. 'I told you I would set you down at Watcombe, ten miles from Hazleton; but half a mile short of that my sister-in-law lets lodgings. I will speak to her, and arrange that you shall have some supper and a bed and breakfast, and then I think we can cry quits, eh--what do you say?'

I said that it was very kind of him, and he proved as good as his promise. The house was not particularly tempting-looking, but, at all events, it was far better than no place to sleep in. I climbed down from the van, followed by Patch, from whom I was so soon to part, and accompanied the driver into a kind of kitchen, where a tall, stout woman in a cotton dress was busily employed as we entered. She glanced at me once or twice while the driver carried on a whispered conversation and handed her some money. Then she went out at a back door and returned with a piece of rope.

'This is the only bit I can find,' she said.

'That's enough,' answered the driver, and, going down on his knees, he whistled to Patch, who went obediently, and stood wagging his tail while a loop was fastened round his neck. I followed when the driver led him out at the door, lifting him into the van, and tying the end of the rope to the rail behind his own seat. Standing on an empty box, Patch looked down at me and whimpered, so that I climbed on to one of the wheels to pat his coat and hold his muzzle as a last good-bye. The driver mounted to his seat and unhooked the reins.

'Down you jump!' he cried. 'So long! be good!' and, whipping up his horse, he drove away, while Patch began to run about on the top of the box, and strained at the rope as if he were as sorry to leave me behind as I was to let him go.

(Continued on page 117.)

THE REASON WHY.

Louis XIV., King of France, was very fond of playing at chess. One day he was having a game with one of his courtiers, and during the game made a false move, to which his adversary respectfully called his attention. The King, who did not easily suffer contradiction, did not wish to acknowledge that he was wrong, and appealed to the noblemen who surrounded the table, but none of them made any reply. Just then the Duke de Grammont came into the room, and immediately the King saw him he appealed to him, and wished to explain to him the subject of the dispute, but the Duke hardly allowed him to finish.

'Your Majesty is certainly wrong,' he said, with a firmness of tone which astonished the King, and caused him to frown.

'How do you know that I am wrong, Monsieur le Duc?' replied the King; 'you have not even given me time to explain to you what the question was.'

'I know undoubtedly,' replied the Duke of Grammont, 'for all these gentlemen, whom your Majesty was consulting at the moment I arrived, only replied by their silence. They would every one have hastened to take your part if your Majesty had been right.'

The King was struck with the sense of this argument, and admitted that he had made a mistake.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.--HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

(Concluded from page 78.)

When the method of feeding employed by the Snail is compared with that of the Butterfly or the common Fly, a very striking difference in the construction of the mouth-parts will be noticed. The common snail (fig. D), for example, feeds by the constant licking, or rather rasping, motion of a very wonderful tongue--a tongue which, stretched out, appears to be longer than the whole body! Yet only a small portion of this curious organ is in use at one time.

This tongue (fig. F) consists of a long flat ribbon, or 'radula,' as it is called, the surface of which is beset by a series of minute teeth, set in rows across the ribbon. The number of these teeth varies greatly in the different species of Mollusca--the group to which the snail belongs. In some there may be as few as sixteen; in others, in some relatives of our garden snail, for example, there may be as many as forty thousand! The working portion of this ribbon is fixed to a sort of tough cushion, which, by means of muscles, can be drawn forward and protruded from the mouth, where it is worked backwards and forwards with a licking or rasping action that effectually scrapes away, in a fine pulp, the edge of the cabbage leaf on which the creature is feeding. The teeth serve, in fact, the same purpose as the horny spines on the tongue of the lion, or, on a small scale, of the cat. You all must have noticed how rough a cat's tongue is when, in a burst of affection, pussy insists on licking your hand. If she went on licking long enough she would wear away the skin. As the snail's teeth wear away in front they are replaced from the reserve store which is kept in a sort of pocket, which lies behind the 'cushion' in the drawing of a section of a snail's head (fig. E). It is here that new teeth are being constantly formed, and pushed forward to supply those lost.

In this drawing, by the way, you will notice a long arrow (A-B): this marks the passage which the food takes from the mouth to the gullet, and thence to the stomach. The head of the arrow points towards the snail's interior.

In many mollusca, the teeth, instead of resembling one another throughout the series, are of different kinds, very large and very small teeth alternating one with another in endless variety.

The horny jaws, to which reference has been made, are generally not conspicuous; but in the Cuttle-fish and Octopuses they are of huge size, and have been aptly compared to the beak of a parrot. But we must return to this subject again on another occasion, for it is one of quite unusual interest.

AN OLD-FASHIONED GRACE.

This little 'grace before meat' was written two hundred and fifty years ago by Robert Herrick, a Devonshire clergyman who became a famous poet. 'Paddocks' is an old name for 'frogs,' and 'benison' means blessing; 'heaving up' means 'lifting up in prayer.'

Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on us all.--Amen.

CURIOUS NAMES IN LONDON CITY.

Time and progress have swept away many of the old streets, lanes, and alleys for which London City was remarkable. Most of them had names with a meaning, though it is sometimes difficult to find this out now. One reason is that, as the years went on, names often got altered in very odd ways. There were few of what might be called 'fancy' names, such as are now often given to new streets or roads. Frequently a name arose from the business of the people who lived in the street, or perhaps it kept in remembrance some notable person who had a house there. Occasionally it happened that a lane or alley had several names, and it is not easy to tell which is the oldest. The citizens sometimes gave two or three streets the same name.

When it could be done, old names have been kept, or not much altered, though the street is changed. Old-time Londoners would stare at Cannon Street of nowadays, so different from the Candle-wick or Candlewright Street of the past, where lived dealers in tapers and candles. It is said that Paternoster Row got its name from the fact that stationers and writers had shops there, who sold, among other things, copies of the Lord's Prayer. It had an Amen Corner, and Creed Lane is also near. Afterwards mercers and lacemen invited customers to shops in the Row, and finally it became famous for books and magazines.

Chancery Lane and Fetter Lane still keep the old names they had when their appearance was not that of streets or business thoroughfares, but quiet lanes between Holborn and Fleet Street, dotted with private houses. Fetter Lane had nothing to do with fetters or prisoners; it was so called because 'fewters,' or idle persons, were often found lurking amongst the back gardens. One of the short turnings out of this lane had the odd name of Three Leg Alley; nobody seems to know why. It is supposed that Gracechurch Street is a reminder of a church in the locality, St. Benet's, Grasschurch, thus called because near the church was a herb-market, where wild or garden plants were sold. Occasionally the name is found in books written by chance as Gracious Street. At first the Gresham Street of our day was called Cateaton Street, but an old writer about London states that this was also shortened to 'Catte.' There was a surname Catte or Katt, which might have belonged to a person who built houses along the street. Hog Lane, Spitalfields, we are told, was visited now and then by the porkers that were allowed to range in the fields and obtain what food they could. Doubtless they strolled up the lane on the chance of getting fragments from the kitchens of citizens. Was Duck Lane, Smithfield, damp enough to be attractive to ducks? It may once have been, but later it was known as Duke Street.

Many places in the city were named from eatables or other articles that were sold in them. This was the case with Pudding Lane and Pie Corner; Milk Street, too, is supposed to have been a milk market, but Honey Lane was not a depôt for honey, nor remarkable for its sweetness. The historian Stow says that it was both narrow and dark, needing much sweeping to keep it clean. The Poultry was a market for fowls, and Scalding Alley, close by, had houses in which people scalded poultry and prepared them for sale. An old name given to Grocers' Alley was Coney-slope Alley, for it had a market where coneys or rabbits could be bought. In Rood Lane formerly stood the Church of St. Margaret Pattens, beside which the women offered pattens to by-passers. These wooden elevators for the feet were much in demand at the time when London streets were often deep in mud, and the fields splashy or sticky with clay. But they did not sell bucklers in Bucklersbury; so far as we know, it was called after a citizen named Buckle, to whom the manor belonged. Grub Street did not have at all a pretty name, though some say it was first Grape Street; then it was altered to Milton Street in honour of our great poet. Little Britain or Britagne Street had a residence belonging to the Dukes of Brittany, and Barbican was notable for its Roman tower, around which were large gardens.

EARNING AN HONEST PENNY.

'I wish we could scrape enough money together to buy poor old Father a pair of slippers for his birthday,' said Jack; 'his old ones are all in holes, and I know he can't afford a new pair--he has had so many expenses since Mother's illness.'

Geoffrey looked up from his home-lessons and sighed deeply. 'My money-box is quite empty,' he remarked, 'and Nellie and Hilda have not a farthing in the world.'

'That is true enough,' laughed Nellie. 'But, oh, Jack,' turning to her eldest brother, 'if only we could do something for Father, I should be so glad! He seems so worried lately, and I am sure it's because he can't get Mother all the nice things she ought to have now that she is getting better.'

'Couldn't I take out a broom and sweep a crossing?' asked Geoffrey; 'that would bring in a little, and I would not mind what I did, if it helped.'

'You must find your crossing first,' returned Jack. 'The roads are as dry as a bone at present, so that won't work, little stupid!'

'Little stupid' sighed again. 'If only I knew how to earn an honest penny!' he murmured.

'Or twopence,' said Hilda. 'I think twopence would be a little better.'

'I would rather it was half-a-crown,' put in Nellie.

There was silence for a moment; then Jack said slowly: 'I wonder what became of Uncle Harry after he went out to Australia. Father never writes to him; he doesn't know where he is now, and we have moved so many times that I expect Uncle does not know where we are either. I dare say if he knew we were so badly off he would help us.'

'It's no good talking about Uncle Harry,' said Geoff; 'the question is, Can we help Father?'

'Look here,' cried Jack, suddenly; 'supposing, instead of saying "Can we," we say "We must." Supposing,' he added, 'we all make up our minds to earn a shilling each as best we can, so that we may have four shillings to buy Father some slippers?'

'Capital!' exclaimed Nell; 'but how are we to earn it?'

'Oh, we must each hit upon a plan for ourselves,' returned Jack; 'I vote we draw lots for the first victim to-night, and we will allow each victim two days to earn the shilling in, and then will draw for the next.'

Of course, they all began to puzzle their young brains about plans; but Jack cut some slips of paper into different lengths, and, placing them between his thumb and first finger, while he clasped his other fingers tightly over the ends inside his hand, he bade them each take one, and whoever drew the longest was to earn the first shilling.

Well, they all drew, and Jack took the slip which was left; but Nellie got the longest, and she retired to the window, and stared out for inspiration.

'I know what I shall do,' she announced, at last; 'I'll cut my twelve chrysanthemums out of my garden, take them down to town, and sell them in the street for a penny each.'

'Nellie!' cried Jack; 'you mustn't think of doing such a thing! Father would not like it, and I am sure we should not. You are not half strong enough to go out into the streets.'

But Nell was firm. 'It's the only thing I can think of, Jack,' she replied, 'and I will do it. We must earn some money somehow, and no one will recognise me if I put on my old frock, and a shawl over my head. We can't help being poor, Jack, and it is an honest way of earning a shilling.'

Jack, however, looked a little worried. He admired Nellie's pluck, but he did not like the thought of her going out into the streets alone. Nevertheless, after some discussion, it was decided that she should have her way, on condition that Jack went with her to see that she was quite safe. It was agreed that the matter should be kept dark, and that if Mother asked where Jack and Nellie had gone next evening, the others were to say it was a secret.

So, after tea the following day, the two children stole out. Mother was resting in her own room, and Geoffrey and Hilda were at their lessons, though it must be confessed they found it hard to give their whole attention to them.

It was a good mile and a half down to the town, but Nellie trudged bravely on with her treasured chrysanthemums (she alone knew what it cost her to cut them), and Jack walked a little behind, for his sister said that flower-girls never had any one to escort them, and he must not let any one see he belonged to her.

When they arrived in town, Nellie took up her station at a busy corner, and timidly offered her flowers for sale, while her brother stood in a doorway not far off, pretending to read a book by the light of a street lamp, but in reality he was watching to see that she came to no harm.

One honest penny was earned--two; then Nell grew bolder, and ran after a man whom she thought a likely customer. But he pushed her roughly on one side, and she fell upon the pavement. Jack could have kicked that man, but he was out of sight in an instant, so the boy went and helped Nellie to rise instead. Gathering up her flowers, he entreated her to return home, and not to trouble any more. But the little girl bravely held out, assured him she was not hurt, and in the end persuaded him to go back to his doorway.

Ten minutes passed away without any more flowers being sold, then Nellie held out the best of all to a kind-looking gentleman who was passing slowly by.

He stopped, looked at the child somewhat curiously, and then said, 'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers; but I wonder if you can tell me where Greenfield Road is, eh?'

Nellie started, for that was the name of the road where she lived. However, she simply directed him, and was turning away to seek for another customer when he slipped a bright half-crown into her hand. The child was so astonished that for the moment she could say nothing, and when she recollected herself the gentleman had gone, and Jack was by her side, asking what had happened.

'Well,' he said, when she had told him, 'no more selling flowers to-night, Nell, so you can just come home at once, for you have done your part and more,' and he would not hear of her staying there any longer.

Together the two started for home, feeling very happy indeed; but scarcely had they got inside the door when Geoffrey literally rushed at them.

'Oh, Jack! Nellie!' he cried, 'you can't think what a splendid thing has happened! Who do you think turned up ten minutes ago? Uncle Harry; yes, Uncle Harry! He has been hunting for us for days. Oh, it seems too good to be true! He's in the dining-room now, with Father, and----'

'Oh, is he?' said a voice from behind, and who should appear on the scene but the kind gentleman who had given Nell half-a-crown! 'Why!' he exclaimed, suddenly, 'what's this I see? Well, if it isn't----Why, what does it all mean?' he asked, turning round to Father, who had followed him out, and was looking equally puzzled.

There was an awkward silence. Nellie coloured, and in her nervousness, down went all her pretty flowers on to the floor. But Jack came to the rescue, and blurted out the whole story on the spot.

Father turned his head away as Jack explained; indeed, he was much touched by the children's thoughtfulness; but Uncle Harry patted Nell's head, and praised her for her pluck. He said that Father ought to be proud of his four children, and I am sure Father was, though he said they must never think of going into the streets to sell flowers again.

Of course, the earning an honest penny business came to an end, for Uncle Harry had come back much better off than when he went out to Australia, and he gave the children a shilling each to buy Father some slippers, and something else for themselves besides.

Later on, he and Father became partners in a business of their own, and Nellie never had to think of selling her flowers again, or Geoffrey of sweeping a crossing.

J. A. VIVIAN.

'GINGER FOR PLUCK.'

Thomas M'Calmont had blue eyes, a mop of red hair, a moderate share of brains, and a most insatiable thirst for adventure. When his school-fellows made insulting remarks about his red locks, he was wont to answer, 'Ginger for pluck;' and, indeed, on several occasions, he had acted up to this saying there and then on the persons of his unfortunate persecutors.

Tommy was only eleven years old. Mrs. M'Calmont, his mother, regarded him as the most wonderful boy in the world, and would have utterly spoilt him, after the fashion of adoring mothers, had it not been that Mr. M'Calmont, seeing nothing more wonderful in his son than a red-headed, mischievous boy, set himself most diligently to curb Tom's youthful energy, and make an honest, sensible fellow of him.

They lived in the country, and Tom had three miles to go to his school. But Mr. M'Calmont also had business in Barton, so the pair set out together each morning in a trap drawn by a steady-going horse, who never shied or ran away, or did anything at all exciting. Tom was set down at the door of his school at nine o'clock, and called for at half-past four precisely, just like a grocery parcel. Never a chance for a frolic over the fields in the clear morning air, never any scrapes to get into! No gentle dawdles through the lanes after school, with occasional excursions into hedge or spinny after wild creatures, or the chance of a nice creepy adventure in the darkness of some winter's evening. The whole business, Tom thought, was humdrum and commonplace.

But at last, one early springtime, it happened that Mr. M'Calmont had urgent business at the town of Greenhurst, twenty miles away. It was a cross-country journey, where railways did not fit, so Mr. M'Calmont departed in his trap, leaving Tom and his mother in sole possession for a whole fortnight at Red House. Mrs. M'Calmont was secretly rather glad to be able to spoil her son as she liked.

Tom made the most of his advantages, and mother and son together revelled in the glorious sense of doing everything they liked best. Tom's favourite dishes appeared at every meal, bedtime came a good hour later than usual, and Tom also managed three clear days' 'old-soldiering' on the strength of a slight cold. But the last morning of liberty came, and as Tom dressed he carefully turned over in his mind how he should celebrate it. It was a beautiful morning after a week of heavy rain, and Tom had no wish for another day of coddling indoors.

Tom's mother packed his lunch-case with many dainties, and kissed him good-bye. Tom felt rather mean, 'like a wriggle-up worm' as he afterwards put it, and he half resolved to give up his plan and go soberly to school, for, to tell the truth, he had already resolved to play truant. Unhappily, as he turned into the lane from the drive gates, a rabbit dashed across the road right in front of him, and frisked into the hedge in a most tantalising manner, as if to show his contempt for stupid human beings who plod along the beaten track. That killed all Tom's scruples, and he was soon scurrying through the fields, scrambling over hedges, leaping ditches, and getting his clothes into as pretty a pickle as could be desired.

What a splendid day he spent, following no settled route, but wandering here and there as the impulse of the moment directed, and feeling in all his boyish frame the gladness of life and of spring! He lunched in a little wood, with a fallen tree for a throne, and a rippling stream to play him music while he feasted. Then he sauntered leisurely on in the afternoon sunlight, many thoughts busy beneath his comical red thatch. The long hours in the open after his three days indoors made him sleepy at last, and he was glad to discover behind the temporary abode of a railway navvy a little rough wood hut, where, with a friendly dog for company, and some straw for a couch, he was soon fast asleep.

Tom was dreaming. He heard a babel of voices fierce and angry, and was striving very hard to hear what they were saying; but, though the voices seemed loud, he could not distinguish one word from another, and in trying to do so he awoke. The voices continued, but they were not loud at all, though rough and angry. They came from the navvy shelter, and Tom could hear plainly every word. He was about to move away when he heard his father's name mentioned, qualified with expressions of hatred. Plainly it was right that he should hear what these men had to say about his father, so Tom crouched nearer the wall of the hut and listened. His blue eyes grew big and round, and his face filled with horror.

Tom knew that the navvies at work in the district were not regular workmen, but a very rough set. A gang of them had been almost a terror to the neighbourhood, and Tom's father had been foremost in bringing the guilty ones to justice. Three of their friends were in the hut, one with a revolver. They had learned from a workman that Mr. M'Calmont was to return from Greenhurst that evening, and they were discussing the spot where they could best waylay and shoot him. 'We won't kill him, only damage him a bit,' were the last words Tom heard as he crept from his hiding-place and made his way quietly into the wood.

Tom's fear began to give way to excitement. He had an adventure at last, and all to himself. To go home for help would be no use and would only terrify his mother. The setting sun showed that the evening was advancing, and his father would soon be coming, so that the only thing was to go and hide near the spot where the men had planned to wait. This was where two roads merged into one, at the bottom of a steep hill overhung with trees. Mr. M'Calmont might come by either of the two roads--it would depend on whether he wished to go into Barton or not.

Tom made his way to his post as quickly as possible, and found himself a hiding-place in a hole beneath the hedge, where only a boy could wriggle, and where he hoped that in the dusk he would be unobserved. His post was just the point where the road forked; the men had planned to stand some yards from that point, where it was more shaded by trees, so Tom hoped that when he heard the trap approaching, and could distinguish on which road it was, he would have time to run and warn his father, who would then, he did not doubt, with the aid of his valiant son, be a match for any three men.

It was rather a lonely watch. Tom was getting hungry again and very tired and stiff. As the light faded, his excitement faded too, and it was almost a relief to hear the stealthy arrival of the conspirators. Then another long wait, until at last he heard the cart-wheels going over unrolled stones, which told that it was not on the Barton road. Out of his hiding-place he crept, and darted along the grass at the road-side. An unlucky stumble over a fallen branch betrayed him, but as he fell he shouted with all his might, 'Look out, Father, they are going to shoot you!' Then there was a rush, a crack as something came into violent contact with his head, the world went round, and then--darkness.

When Tom woke, the morning sun was shining into his own room. His mother was busy at the window, fixing the curtain to keep the light from his face, and Tom could see that she was crying. A great fear entered his mind, and, as his mother turned and looked at him, all he could say was 'Father?'

'Quite safe, my brave laddie, for you frightened the men away. My dear, brave boy.'

Then joy filled the heart of Thomas M'Calmont, and for once the fault of playing truant went unpunished.

JESSIE HARVEY.

GROWING UP.

When birthdays come, we always write Our names upon the nursery door, And carefully we mark the height, Each standing shoeless on the floor.

How strange to think birthdays will be When we shall never add one more To all those marks which gradually Are climbing up the nursery door!

SOME WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

IV.--THE GROTTOES OF HAN IN THE ARDENNES.

A narrow opening high on an oak-covered hill; a cluster of women, girls, and boys, each carrying a slight iron bar connecting two oil lamps; a crowd of tourists of many nationalities--all waiting to enter the Grottoes of Han. Presently the guide arrives, and delivers a brief speech as to the possible consequences should visitors deface or purloin the treasures of the cave, demanding silence during his explanations, and declaring that one light-bearer would accompany every four persons. He ceases, and away we go. Down, down, down, apparently into the very heart of the earth, through damp and chilly air and profound darkness, broken only by the glimmer of the friendly lamps. Then we cease descending, and emerge in a cavern where the lights are flashed upon thousands of fossilised insects, and on into the 'Hall of the Foxes,' where countless generations of their species lived, died, and were buried. After this the great caverns succeed each other rapidly, each with some special interest of its own, until we find ourselves in the 'Hall of the Trophies,' where electric light is installed to exhibit the marvels of the roof. A thick fringe of stalactites, many of immense size, descend to meet the columns of stalagmite ascending from the floor.

Right through the caverns, a distance of nearly two miles, a rough path has been made which is fairly dry and clean, but on either side are rivers and banks of mud, so that it is well to be careful and watch the way. Once as we went along we heard behind us a splashing thud, and, turning, beheld a portly Belgian floundering on his back in the mire, whence he presently emerged, coated with mud, looking rather like a hippopotamus. No rule of silence could avail to stifle the peals of laughter that rang through the grotto, and we had the less scruple in enjoying the fun because any one of us might at any moment have the happiness of similarly amusing his or her fellow-creatures.

Our merriment ended before the wonders of the 'Hall of Mystery,' where the electric light travelled round to show 'The Mosque,' standing out in glittering points of light; 'The Curtain,' a veil of gleaming lacework in stone; and 'The Alhambra,' furnished royally with every combination of diamond-like crystals. It would be easy to invent names for most of the objects, for shrines, pulpits, thrones, and such-like are everywhere carved, of dazzling whiteness and richness of design.

Next we enter the gloomy magnificence of the 'Hall of the Dome,' where the roof towers up two hundred feet into the darkness. As we ascend the steep path we turn and see below the gleam of water. This is the subterranean river Lesse, the architect of these gloomy grottoes, which until some forty years ago had heard no voice save that of the water hammering and chiselling the rocks at its own sweet will. Legend declares these stately halls to be the palaces of the little Brown Dwarfs, who, issuing from their homes at night, by counsel and more practical aid enabled the early builders to produce the wonderful edifices of Bruges, Ypres, and other Flemish cities.

Still we go on, up and down through grotto after grotto of marvellous beauty; sometimes along the banks of the shadowy river, reflecting in its depths the fairylike beauties of roof and wall, then up high, narrow ridges or down into the depths of inky blackness, until at last we find ourselves in the 'Hall of Embarkation.' Here a small wooden platform projects over the river, and near it are a number of large boats capable of carrying all our party. The boats push off, all lights are extinguished, and the sensation of total darkness in such conditions is more weird than pleasant. We are told that the water is of unknown depth, and it takes some confidence to repress thoughts of collisions and perils by water of various kinds.

The boats move on in solemn procession, and soon a tiny speck of light appears, and grows gradually larger and brighter. By degrees the light pervades dimly roof, walls, and transparent water, and then, all in a moment, a flood of glorious sunshine gleams through the lofty portal which we are approaching. Behind us fringes and bosses of stalactite are tinged with the warm glow, and stand out in bold relief from the darkness; before us the banks are green with grassy slopes and waving trees; below us the river dances along in the sunlight as if full of joy at escaping from prison, and we too share its happiness as we float back into our every-day world from the gloomy glories of the Grottoes of Han.

HELENA HEATH.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 107.)

For the next hour I felt extremely miserable, but, remembering that I should, in all probability, see Jacintha to-morrow, I began to wish it were possible to do something to improve my appearance for the occasion. For not only were my clothes in a far from satisfactory condition, but the soles of my boots were full of holes, so that one stocking touched the ground.

There was nothing to do but wander about and look at the chickens until I was summoned to supper, which consisted of bread and very strong cheese.

On being shown to the bedroom, I found that it contained two beds, in one of which a small boy was already reposing. Although he seemed to watch me with considerable curiosity, he made no attempt at conversation; but it was a very noisy house, and I found it impossible to get to sleep for some time.

When my room-fellow awoke me at about six o'clock the following morning, the sun was shining brightly into the shabby room, so that this promised excellently for the day's tramp. I said my prayers, and having washed, dressed, and partaken of a somewhat scanty breakfast, wondering, as I ate, what had by this time become of Patch, I set out, at a little after half-past seven, in the direction of Hazleton.

Presently, passing through a village, which seemed to be on the outskirts of the town of Hazleton, I bought two penny sausage rolls at a small baker's shop, and asked for a glass of water. As I walked on, eating the rolls, it soon became evident that the town was close at hand. At intervals I passed large houses, standing in their own grounds, and carefully I read the names on their gate-posts, lest one should be Colebrook Park. The path, which had been almost indistinguishable from the roadway, was now asphalted, and I stopped to read a notice board concerning vagrants, wondering whether I ought to be reckoned under that denomination. I do not know whether the sun had affected me--for it shone with brilliant force that morning--or whether I was tired after my ten miles' walk without much food, but as I drew near to Hazleton, which I had formerly felt so anxious to reach, my usual spirits seemed to forsake me, and, if it had not been for the necessity to return the locket, I think I should have passed on my way without making the least attempt to see Jacintha again.

I seemed to have lost pride in myself, so that it became difficult to keep up much hope. Perhaps it might be possible to get the locket safely into Jacintha's hands without seeing her, especially if there happened to be a lodge at the entrance to Colebrook Park, when I might leave the trinket with the lodge-keeper.

With the object of making up my mind, I lay down on the wide border of grass on one side of the road, thankful for the shelter of the hedge. It was about half-past twelve, and several carriages passed as I lay there, as well as a few bicyclists. But now the straight, wide road was clear; no one was in sight, either to the right or to the left, until, from a gate a hundred yards away, in the direction of the town, a girl on a bicycle came forth, and I knew at once that she must be Jacintha.

She wore a wide-brimmed, white straw hat, and a white cotton frock, and was sitting very upright as she turned and coasted on her free-wheel machine down the slight hill towards me. For an instant I thought of turning away my face, so that, even if she remembered it, she should not recognise me; but she looked so bright and pleasant an object in the middle of the sunny road that, on the impulse of the moment, I rose to my feet, crossed the margin of grass, and lifted the cloth cap which had been given to me before I reached Polehampton.

Jacintha was off her machine at once. 'Why,' she cried, 'you are the boy who ran away!'

'My name is Everard, you know,' I answered.

'But I thought you said you were going to London?' she suggested.

'So I am.'

'It is not the nearest way from where you were to come through Hazleton,' said Jacintha.

'You see,' I explained, thrusting my fingers into my waistcoat pocket, 'I came to bring back your locket,' and I held it out towards her in the palm of my right hand.

'My locket?' she said, gazing at it while she held the handle of her bicycle.

'Yes,' I answered. 'I found it on the path just by the hedge where you were standing.'

'But I did not bring a locket with me from London,' she exclaimed, and I felt immensely disappointed.

'Isn't it really yours, then?' I asked.

'Of course not,' she returned. 'How can it be if I didn't bring one?' and then she removed one hand from the bicycle, and took the locket from my palm, which I wished had not been so extremely grimy. 'I think it is very pretty,' she continued, 'and I believe it is gold.'

'Oh, it is gold right enough!' I said, 'because it has a hall-mark. It is eighteen carat.'

'Have you come out of your way just because you thought it was mine?' she asked, giving me back the trinket.

'It was not very far,' I persisted.

'Rather nice of you, though,' said Jacintha.

'If it comes to that,' I answered, 'you were rather nice to me that day. Some girls would have given me away, and then I should have been back at Ascot House before now.'

As I was speaking, she took a small gold watch from her pocket.

'I must not be late,' she cried, 'because both Dick and I were late for breakfast.'

'Who is Dick?' I asked, as she put away her watch.

'Dick is my brother,' Jacintha explained. 'He only came down yesterday. Dick's a year older than I am. I really ought to go,' she added. 'If my uncle were to see me talking to you he mightn't like it.'

'I suppose,' I cried a little angrily, 'he would think I was begging?'

'At all events,' said Jacintha, candidly, 'he would be rather surprised, you know. Because you do look most tremendously dirty--just as if you were a regular tramp--and yet your face would be all right if it were only washed and you had your hair properly cut.'

I felt that my cheeks were growing red, and for the moment I was tempted to make an angry retort, although, remembering what I owed to Jacintha, I simply held out my hand and muttered 'Good-bye!'

'Oh, you mustn't go on yet,' she exclaimed. 'I want to hear all you've been doing. I must go in now, but please promise to wait till I come out again. I won't be long.'

'I am not in a hurry,' I admitted.

'Only don't stay here,' she said. 'Wait till I am out of sight, and then follow me until you come to our hedge. Right in the corner you will find a place you can get through, and nobody ever comes to that field. You get through the hedge and stay till I come back.'

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Chapter XIV

I stood in the road while Jacintha mounted her bicycle and rode up the slight hill to the gate, when she looked back and waved her hand as she turned into the grounds. Having waited a few minutes, I followed her directions, found the weak spot in the hedge, scrambled through, and at once sat down on the grass.

I saw I was in a remote corner of a large field, in which a few Jersey cows were grazing. But this was not quite an ordinary field, as it contained a good many foreign trees with iron railings round them. It was more like a park. In the middle stood a small mound, looking as if it had been made artificially, with a kind of arbour on the top overgrown with some sort of creeper and shut in by trees.

The time seemed to pass very slowly, but at last I saw the flash of Jacintha's white dress in the sunshine as she walked rapidly towards my corner, the house not being visible from where I sat. To my vexation, however, she was not alone. A few yards behind came a boy of about my own age and size, with a straw hat on the back of his head, a red-and-blue blazer thrown over his white cricket shirt, and his hands thrust in the pockets of his flannel trousers.

While Jacintha tripped quickly over the grass, her companion, who, no doubt, was her brother, seemed to follow far less cheerfully. I could not help thinking there was something unwilling, almost resentful, in his manner, so that I felt prepared to pay him back in his own coin. Although I might look as dirty and as much like a tramp as Jacintha had suggested, I was not going to stand any nonsense.

When they reached the arbour they came to a standstill and seemed to be holding an argument, until, a few minutes later, Jacintha tossed back her long hair and set forth at a run in my direction, whereupon I went to meet her.

'You didn't mind my bringing Dick?' she suggested, looking doubtfully into my face.

'Have you told him, then?' I asked.

'I told him yesterday,' she said. 'I mean I told him about seeing you in the wheat-field, and your running away from school, and when I just had time to whisper that I had met you before lunch, he said I must not come; but I told him I had promised, and then he said he would come too.'

By this time we were within a few feet of Dick, who looked all right, although he seemed to think a great deal of himself. He was fair, like Jacintha, and he did not take his hands out of his pockets, so I put my hands into my pockets also, and stared at him as hard as he stared at me.

'Dick!' cried Jacintha, 'this is Everard.'

'Well, look here,' he answered, 'if you don't want to be collared, you had better come in, instead of standing out here all day.'

(Continued on page 125.)

CUBAN LIZARDS.

The Cuban anolis is one of a large family of lizards, all of which are confined to America and the West Indian islands. This family is nearly related to that of the iguanas; but whereas some of the iguanas attain a length of five or six feet, the anolis is always small. It is a remarkably active little creature, and often singularly beautiful, offering a striking contrast to the ugly and sluggish horned lizards of North America and Mexico. It is usually rather more than a foot long, and its general colour is a beautiful green. It has a white throat, and a white band passing over each shoulder and for some distance along each side. The little creature has the power of puffing out its throat, and distending it till it looks like a ball upon its neck. When it is irritated, angry, or alarmed, it invariably blows out its throat in this way, and tries to frighten its enemy by this means. Most of these lizards have also more or less power of changing their colour, like the chameleon, and, indeed, a few of them can out-rival the chameleon in this respect.

A striking peculiarity of this lizard is the structure of its toes. They are rather long, and furnished with sharp hooked claws, and the last joint is swollen out into a kind of pad. At first sight we should be inclined to think that these little swellings near the tips of the toes would be rather an inconvenience to the anolis, by impeding its movements. But a closer examination shows that these curious growths have a use. They act to some extent as suckers, and enable the anolis to climb the perpendicular faces of rocks, or even to hang from the under side of a branch.

The males of these little lizards are often very quarrelsome, especially at certain times of the year, when two of them rarely meet without having a fight. They fly at each other furiously, rolling over and over, and biting savagely. These fierce battles generally end in one of the combatants losing his tail, for in these lizards, as in many others, the tail is not very strongly attached to the body. The victor sometimes makes off with the tail of his foe in his mouth, and sometimes he even devours it. The loss of his tail is a great blow to the vanquished anolis, for he seems to have a great pride in it. When he is deprived of it, he accepts defeat at once, and though he recovers from the injury without much trouble, he is generally but a timid and crest-fallen creature afterwards. He seems to look upon the loss of his tail as a disgrace--very much, perhaps, as a regiment of soldiers regards the loss of its colours.

Another pretty little Cuban lizard is the chameleon-eyed lizard. It is of a brownish colour spotted with white, especially about the head. It has many resemblances to the anolis just described, being small, slender, and active. Both frequent trees, thickets, and rocky places, where they run and climb with such quickness as to be sometimes easily mistaken for birds hopping to and fro. The numerous tropical insects are their usual food, varied occasionally by berries and fruits.

W. A. ATKINSON.

A MOTHER RABBIT'S COURAGE.

A True Anecdote.

Not long ago a gentleman heard of a remarkable fight between a stoat and a rabbit; he gives an account of it in the Field newspaper. His gardener was walking in an orchard when he heard a scuffling and squealing on the other side of a hedge. He looked over, and to his great surprise, saw a rabbit in close pursuit of a stoat. Just as they reached the hedge the rabbit caught up with its enemy, but the stoat hid in the hedge for a few seconds, and then ran along it swiftly, escaping the rabbit's notice for a few minutes. Then it rushed out into the field again, some thirty yards from where it had entered the hedge. Its object soon became clear. 'It pulled a young rabbit out of a bunch of grass,' says the writer, 'and began to drag it to the hedge. When the old rabbit turned and saw the stoat it went for it again, and jumped on it and bit it in the most infuriated manner, driving it away from the young rabbit, and running it squealing with terror into the hedge, where they both eventually disappeared.' It is sad to learn that this brave attempt of the mother rabbit to save her young one was in vain; the little bunny was dead when the gardener picked it up a few minutes later.

Stoats will often pursue rabbits across country for very long distances, going steadily on and following the track by the power of scent alone; but it is very seldom that a rabbit will show such courage as to turn the tables and attack its foe.

MAGIC RODS.

The people of the olden time had great faith in the powers of magic rods and wands. Not only was this the fact amongst the Greeks and Romans, but the belief was found in our own country not so very long ago. Certain trees were famed for their magical virtues, because they were supposed to be the home of some spirit, and rods cut from them were said to have wonderful powers. The belief survives in the conjurer's wand, which, as we all know, does marvels when waved to the sound of 'Hey presto!'

To the pretended wonder-worker of the past, his rod was a most important thing, for by its help he accomplished marvels, or at least pretended to do so. There is a story told about a man who had seen a magician produce water by means of his rod. Getting hold of the rod one day, he thought he would supply his house with water by its aid. He said to it, 'Bring water.' Soon the wand rushed to and fro with big pails, but when the floors were getting flooded, he thought there was enough water, and told the wand to stop. He did not know the word of command, and so the wand went on just the same. In his rage, he took a chopper, and cut the wand in two, but instead of stopping it brought twice as much; a double lot of pails appeared, and at last the torrent of water washed away the house of the meddlesome man.

The magic rod or wand has had several names given to it. A common one was that of 'divining rod.' By the Germans it was called the 'wishing rod,' or 'wishing thorn,' which points to the fact that it was often cut from the blackthorn or sloe. It was supposed that the person who could use the magic rod most successfully was the seventh son of a seventh son, if such a person could be found. The wand, too, should not be cut from very old wood, but it must be more than a year old. Some folk said that the twig chosen to make this rod ought to be one upon which the sun shone both in the morning and afternoon. Again, the magic rod was not simply a straight piece of wood; it had to be of a particular shape--that of the letter Y. When using it, the hands grasped the two arms, so that the unforked part pointed outwards. In houses about the West of England, people will show visitors magic or divining rods, cut many years ago, and now carefully kept as memorials of the past.

These rods had various uses. They were not only supposed to show where metal was hidden, or springs of water might be found, but one brought to a person ill of fever might cure him, though he had to pay whatever was asked for it, and make no objection to the price. In some countries, men believed that a magic rod might be got to point the direction in which a lost person had gone.

The Chinese, ages before the Westerns knew them, had their magic rods, and generally cut them from fruit-trees, the peach being often chosen. But in Europe, the hazel or cob-nut tree stands at the head of the list of the trees favoured. German farmers formerly cut a hazel rod in spring, and when the first thunder-shower came, they waved it over the corn that was stored up, believing that this would make it keep sound till it was wanted. Next to the hazel in importance was the rowan or mountain ash, a tree always associated with the pixies and fairies; magic rods were frequently made from it, and also little crosses, which, if put over the door, were supposed to bring good fortune into a house. Another tree furnishing such rods was the willow, and another was the apple; one carefully avoided was the elder.

J. R. S. C.

OUR PUSS.

She came with the evening shades, At the close of a winter day, And her manner implied, As she trotted inside, 'I am here, and have come to stay.'

Where she came from nobody knows, And no one has claimed her yet; But she made so free, It was easy to see That she had been somebody's pet.

Now the homeless waif on our hearth Gives a homelike look to the place; With her warm grey fur, And her satisfied purr, And content in her comely face.

She has all the craft of her race, Though she does not look like a thief, For she climbed of late Up to Charlie's plate, And calmly ate some of his beef!

But we all have our little faults, And well will it be with us If, when ruin impends, We can win new friends, Like our gentle and brave stray puss.

THE CYPHER TELEGRAM.

'What a shame it is, Hugo, that when your father is giving the whole class this splendid treat in honour of your recovery, you yourself should be the only boy absent.'

Hugo laughed somewhat sadly. 'Yes, I should like to be going, but the doctor says that I must not walk much before Christmas, and no one wants to spend three days in the woods in the middle of December. I should have liked the chance of catching a swallow-tailed butterfly for my collection.'

'I will try and get one for you,' answered Franz, 'though they are scarce this year. But what is this? How did you get your medal back?' as he picked up a silver disc from the table.

Hugo had won this medal a year before for a Latin composition for boys under fifteen, and when Baron Rosenthal's beautiful collection of coins and antique silver had been stolen, the medal had gone too.

'A friend of Father's saw it in a Berlin curiosity show among a lot of coins, and he sent it back to me.'

'And the coins--were they also your father's?'

'He has gone to Berlin to look at them, and he will be back to-night. But all coins are not easy to recognise. If it had been any of the silver boxes or cups he would have known his own at once.'

'And none of these have been traced?'

'No, not one. My father thinks they have probably been sold in some foreign country--America, perhaps, or England. But see, he left this money for you, so that you can let me know what you are doing. Then you can send me a long cypher telegram every day from the station on the Observatory, and it will give me something to do to translate it,' and he handed Franz some silver.

During his illness, Hugo had occupied himself in inventing a most elaborate cypher, which was the envy of the whole school. Not even the masters could read it, and it was an endless source of amusement to himself and Franz, who alone was in the secret.

'All right!' answered Franz; 'I will send you three telegrams, and catch you three swallow-tails too if I can manage it.'

As he went out of the room, his school-fellow looked wistfully at the pair of crutches that stood beside his invalid's chair. He was the only son of a very rich German nobleman, and six months before he had been nearly killed in a railway accident. When he began to recover, the Baron had promised to give a special treat to his son's class in honour of the event, and now that the time for the annual excursion had arrived, he was paying all expenses for the boys to remain three days in the forest instead of, as was usual, only one. It is the custom in German schools for each master to take his class for a long day's expedition into the country during the summer, in which he is supposed to open their eyes to the beauties of nature and the wonders of the botanical world; and the Baron, who was a very wealthy man, had caused this privilege to be extended that year. But now his son was unable to enjoy it, and this use of telegrams was a suggestion of his father's to prevent his being too depressed by the thought of his disappointment.

* * * * *

At five o'clock on the following morning there was a very cheerful party of boys waiting at the station for the little hill-climbing train that was to take them into the heart of the Black Forest. The master, Herr Groos, was also in the best of spirits, in spite of his failure to make any of the boys listen while he explained to them how the train was enabled to climb a hill. The boys, with their yellow caps, which was the distinctive colour of their class, and their butterfly-nets, botanical presses, and green specimen-cases, were much too excited to listen to him.

At last the train arrived, and they all filed into an open third-class carriage, whose only other occupants were two strangers, a tall and a short one, also armed with butterfly-nets and enormous green cases.

'Did you see Hugo yesterday?' inquired Herr Groos of Franz, who was sitting next him.

'Yes, sir; I was there a long time. He wished he was coming with us.'

'Well, we all wish it too,' said the master heartily. 'What does he do with himself all day? Invent more cyphers?'

'No, sir, he does not mean to invent a new one,' answered Franz, laughing, 'till some one has solved the present one. I am to send him a long telegram in it every day.'

'What is that?' asked the short stranger, good-humouredly. 'I did not know there was such a thing as a cypher that could not be solved.'

'One of my pupils has invented one that no one has solved yet,' answered Herr Groos proudly.

'He should let me see it,' laughed the stranger. 'I would undertake to read it in half an hour.'

Then the master and the two strangers began to talk sociably together, and the conversation drifted to a discussion on the best place in the locality for the capture of butterflies, especially swallow-tails.

Franz listened attentively, for he was firmly resolved that he would not return without at least one specimen to adorn Hugo's collection. Herr Groos was of opinion that the Kühberg was the best place for them; but the strangers said, 'No, for every one found on the summit of the Kühberg there are at least three on the sunny slopes of the Hirsch-felsen on the opposite side of the valley.'

But at last the train journey came to an end, and the boys arrived at the little inn which was to be their head-quarters. There they were soon devouring rolls and hot coffee, almost faster than the inn-keeper and his good-tempered wife could bring them out of the kitchen. Then, with their pockets and knapsacks full of rolls and German sausage, they started on their first day's expedition to a little lake at the foot of the Kühberg. It was a lovely walk, and as they passed now under the cool green pine-trees, and now along sunny slopes where the cows, with their tinkling bells, were almost buried in sweet-scented flowers, both botanists and butterfly-hunters were busy. Finally, after two hours' walk, they reached their halting-place at the edge of the forest lake.

(Continued on page 130.)

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 119.)

Jacintha led the way up a path on the mound, and we all entered the summer-house, which was quite large, with seats round the sides and a table in the middle.

'Have you got the chocolates, Dick?' she asked, and at the same time began to unload her own pocket, which contained a bag with some preserved apricots in it, two oranges, and two pears. 'I often bring my dessert out here,' she explained, 'only to-day Auntie said she hoped I should not make myself ill.'

'Mind you don't,' said Dick.

'Have a pear, Everard,' she suggested, and accordingly I took one. 'Uncle has just started out with Auntie in the motor-car,' she continued, 'so I want you to begin at the beginning and tell us everything, you know--just everything.'

I looked at Dick, who was pinching an orange so as to make a hole in it to suck the juice, but he did not speak; so, having eaten a preserved apricot, I sat down next to Jacintha, wishing she had not so hastily drawn away her white skirt, and began.

I cannot accuse myself of speaking a word that was not true that afternoon, but it must be confessed that the chief object was to impress Dick with the conviction that I was not what he might easily take me to be. Accordingly, I glossed over the character of Aunt Marion's household, and dwelt upon the wealth and importance of Captain Knowlton. I brought tears to Jacintha's eyes when I told her of the loss of the Seagull, of his death and the difference in my treatment at the hands of Mr. Turton; but what seemed to have the greatest effect on her brother was the story of my encounter with the tramp who stole my money, and the other events of my journey.

'Still,' he said, being the first to speak when I ended the story, 'I don't see what you are going to do when you get to London.'

'Neither do I,' cried Jacintha.

'Oh, I shall do something right enough,' I answered with all the confidence I could assume.

'I tell you what I believe,' said Dick. 'I believe Captain Knowlton is not dead after all. You see if I am not right. You don't know really that he was drowned.'

'If he were not,' I answered, 'he would have sent a telegram, because he would know the Seagull had been reported lost.'

'Still, you cannot tell,' Dick insisted, 'and if I were you, as soon as I got to London, I should go to his rooms in the Albany.'

But this was a point I had already considered.

'You see,' I said, 'very likely Mr. Turton has been there and told them to keep me----'

'I did not think of that,' Dick admitted. 'Still, I don't see what you will do in London. And, of course, I live there, though I'm going to a crammer's at Richmond next term.'

'Everard was going to be sent to Sandhurst, too,' said Jacintha quietly.

'What a lark,' he exclaimed, 'if Captain Knowlton should turn up, and you should be there at the same time.'

But this was more than my imagination at the moment was capable of. I felt very, very far from going to Sandhurst, and, indeed, a kind of sense that Dick and Jacintha belonged to a different world from mine was fast growing upon me.

'I say,' said Dick, presently, for his manner had now become all that I could desire, 'how much money have you got left?'

'One and twopence,' I answered, and he looked solemn at that.

'But still,' cried Jacintha, 'you forget the locket.'

'Why, of course, there is the locket,' said her brother; 'let us have a look at it, Everard.'

I took it from my waistcoat again, and holding it close to his nose, Dick at once looked for the hall-mark.

'It is gold right enough,' he added.

'You can sell it for quite a lot of money,' urged Jacintha, 'because you picked it up, and you can never find the real owner. I should think you would get a good deal for it.'

'If you don't mind my saying so----' began Dick, and pausing, he looked into my face.

'Cut along,' I said.

'Well, if you took it to sell, the chap might--he might think you had stolen it.'

'You see,' said Jacintha hastily, 'we could take you to the bath-room, and Dick could lend you some of his clothes; but Auntie would be certain to find out, and Uncle has kept Mr. Turton's card, and he said that if he saw you he should take you back to Castlemore.'

'Can't go back,' said Dick, in a tone of authority. 'I know!' he exclaimed, after a thoughtful silence.

'What?' demanded his sister.

'Look here, Everard,' he explained, 'there is a good shop in High Street, Foster's, where my people buy things. I know old Foster--a decent sort of chap. If I were to take the locket----'

'What would you say when he asked you where you got it?' asked Jacintha.

At that we all stared into each other's faces, and I felt disappointed at the suggestion. For I had judgment enough, after my experience in selling my watch and chain, to see that in my present untidy condition I could not myself deal with the trinket to the best advantage. A respectable jeweller would probably decline to buy it at all, whereas a less honest dealer would not give me a third of its value.

'I have it!' cried Dick, after a few minutes' pause. 'You drop the locket on the floor, Everard,' and with a glimmering of his purpose, I took it again from my pocket and let it fall on to the boarded floor of the summer-house. He immediately stooped.

'Now,' he said, 'I can tell old Foster I have picked up a locket and that I don't know whose it is, and I want to sell it. I will get my bicycle and ride into the town at once; but look here, old chap,' he added, taking my arm in quite a friendly way, 'you had better not wait here. Just hang about outside in the road, and don't let them see you if they come back first in the motor-car. I say, Jacintha, it will look better if you come to Foster's too.'

'It's awfully good of you,' I answered as we all went down the slope. 'How much do you think I shall get?'

'I should think you might get twenty-five shillings,' said Dick, as if he knew all about it.

'I wish I might,' I cried.

'Well,' he insisted, 'you get into the road and keep dark a bit, and we will scorch into the town like anything.'

With that they both set off across the field while I scrambled through the gap in the hedge, and returned to my former position on the grassy side of the road, lying down and waiting expectantly to see Dick and Jacintha ride out through the gate; and with the prospect of obtaining possession of twenty-five shillings, it really began to seem as if the foundation of my fortune had been laid.

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