Chapter XV…

Chapter XV

A very few minutes later Dick rode through the gate followed by Jacintha, who raised an arm as she turned to the right, pedalled up the slight hill, and soon disappeared as she began to descend on the other side. Rising to my feet I had waved my arm in return, and I was strolling about the grass beside the road, already impatient to see Dick and Jacintha returning and to learn the full extent of my wealth, when I heard a motor-car panting along the road.

A glance showed that it was driven by the man who had accompanied Jacintha that morning she spied me in the corn-field, and a few moments later he steered the car into his gate. It seemed a long time before I saw the head of Dick and then of his sister appear above the crest of the hill. Dick, in his eagerness to reach me, pedalled all the way down.

'I say, Everard,' he exclaimed as soon as he reached me, 'how much do you think?'

'Did you get the twenty-five shillings?' I asked.

'Two pounds----' began Jacintha, dismounting from her bicycle.

'Let me tell him,' cried Dick. 'Two pounds three and sixpence,' he added with an air of triumph.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said, as he took a purse from his jacket pocket.

'Not so bad,' he continued, 'is it? You see I told old Foster he must give a tip-top price, and of course he knows me. At first, I thought he was not going to buy the thing at all; he said he didn't know whether my uncle would like it, and all that.'

'And he said we ought to have bills printed to say it was found,' added Jacintha.

'But I talked him out of that,' said Dick, 'and here is the money,' he continued, counting out the two sovereigns, a half-crown and a shilling.

'Mind you don't lose any of it,' suggested Jacintha.

'No fear,' I answered.

'I say, where are you going to sleep to-night?' asked Dick.

'Oh, well,' I replied, and I am afraid that my newly acquired wealth made me a little proud, 'I dare say I can find an hotel in Hazleton.'

'Do you think they will take you in?' said Dick.

'I wonder whether we shall see you in London,' cried Jacintha, 'because we are going home next week.'

'And I say, Everard,' said her brother, 'take my word for it, I should not be a scrap surprised if Captain Knowlton was rescued after all.'

'Dick,' suggested Jacintha, 'don't you think we ought to go in to tea?'

'Perhaps we ought,' he admitted. 'Well, good-bye,' he added, and with that he held out his hand. When I shook Jacintha's a moment afterwards, I wished once again that my own hands were cleaner.

'Good-bye,' she cried. 'I am glad the locket was not mine,' and then they both re-mounted their bicycles, rode up the hill, waved their hands once more, and disappeared from my sight.

In spite of the possession of the money for the locket, a sense of depression fell upon me. I had grown quickly friendly with the pair, and they seemed to bring me back to the life which I felt more acutely than before I had lost for ever.

(Continued on page 134.)

A LESSON IN STEERING.

It was a perfect day for the water, and the Fletcher boys, with a good supply of sandwiches, meat-patties and ginger-beer, had gone off for a day's boating. Their sister Daisy thought it was very hard lines to be left at home, but Mrs. Fletcher would not allow her to go unless a boatman were in charge.

'The boys know what they are about, and I feel fairly happy about them,' she said, 'but I cannot let my little daughter run any risks.'

This was disappointing, though the real grievance lay in the fact that the boys did not seem very anxious to have her. They were very fond of their sister, but, of course, they said there were times when a girl was 'a bit in the way.'

So Daisy wandered down to the pier, feeling rather forlorn, and longing for the time when the boys' boat would come in sight.

Old Steve Tucker was sitting on the end of the pier, smoking his pipe, when Daisy came along.

'Fine day for a sail, Missie,' he said, and indeed the dancing blue waters of the bay looked most inviting.

Then Daisy poured out her troubles, and the old man shook his head in sympathy.

'I wonder now if you would be allowed to come along with me in my little sailing-boat?' he suggested.

'Do you mean it?' Daisy cried. 'Oh, you good old Steve! I will run home and ask Mother this minute.'

'Right you are, Miss Daisy! and I will just go down and put the Mary Jane ship-shape.'

Daisy soon came flying back, having gained the desired permission.

Soon the little boat was dancing over the waves. The breeze filled the sail, and they made such speed that the houses on the shore fast dwindled behind them. Old Steve showed Daisy how to manage the sail and then gave her a lesson in steering. At first the sail slackened and the boat wobbled a little, but his pupil soon grew clever at keeping the head to the wind and steering a straight course.

'Oh, I am enjoying myself!' she cried. 'This is ever so much better than going with the boys, because they always want to manage the sail and the steering, and I never have a chance of learning anything.'

'Well, Missy, you shall come out sailing with me a few times, and I will soon teach you all there is to know about a boat.'

'And then they will not be able to refuse to take me because I am no good, will they?'

'No fear, Missy! You will soon know as much as the young gentlemen--and I do believe that is their boat just ahead.'

'So it is,' cried Daisy, in great excitement. 'Now we will race them, Steve, and give them a surprise.'

'Ship ahoy!' called Daisy as they flew past, and her brothers were indeed astonished to see their sister steering the boat like any old salt. After that they never said that a girl was 'a bit in the way.'

THE GIRL WHO DID NOT RUN AWAY.

A little French girl only seven years old, named Eudoxie, was playing with tiny Philomène in a field, when the young child made two stains on her pink pinafore.

'Mother will scold,' thought the little maid, and trotted off to the river to wash them out.

A plank stretched out from the bank to make it easy for people to draw water, and on this Philomène stepped, but she did not know how rotten it was. Before she could touch the water there was a splash, and the little girl was in the river.

Eudoxie heard her cry out, but did not run away as some children have been known to do when a companion was in danger. She ran at once to the bank, and caught her little friend by the foot, nearly losing her own balance in doing so.

Though Philomène, all wet and breathless, was a heavy weight for Eudoxie, still she managed to drag her on shore, kiss her, and try to console her.

But poor little Philomène was frightened at the idea of facing 'Maman' after her scrape; she must have been rather a scolding mother, as the little girl was afraid to go home in her wet clothes.

So Eudoxie partly undressed in the sunshine, and wrapped her in her own frock, while she ran to beg a change of clothes from the sharp-spoken Madame.

The mother asked why they were wanted.

'Promise not to scold, and I will tell you,' said the child. The promise was given, and Eudoxie told the adventure. 'It was not Philo's fault,' she said.

'Oh, then! my wicked, naughty, precious, darling Philo! take me to her,' said Madame.

Poor Philomène was sitting smiling in the sunshine when the two reached her, Eudoxie with her garments, the mother with tears and kisses all waiting to be showered on her tiny daughter.

Some one told the story in Paris, and many people were pleased with Eudoxie's presence of mind, and the French Humane Society presented the brave girl with a medal for saving the life of her friend.

THE HARDEST WORK.

A Fable.

A famous Persian king once called around him all the wisest men in his kingdom, and put the following question to them: 'What is the hardest work in the world?'

Some answered one thing and some another, but it was thought that still harder work might exist.

At last a sage came forward and said, 'I have lived many years and seen a great many things. I have come to the conclusion that the hardest work in the world is to be forced to do nothing at all; and no one can spend the whole day without doing something or other.'

The king, anxious to prove the truth of it, tried his best to find out whether this were so or not, as did also his courtiers, but they were obliged to own that what the sage had stated was the truth. Hence the proverb: 'No work, the hardest work.'

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

6.--DOUBLETS.

Changing one letter at a time, in as few steps as possible, make

1. Cat into Dog. 2. Yes " No. 3. Will " Won't. 4. Pony " Cart. 5. Dry " Wet.

7.--ARITHMOGRAPH.

A Short Proverb.

1.--9, 10, 12, 11, 8. A French city. 2.--9, 7, 10, 12. A delicious fruit. 3.--12, 10, 8, 9. A kind of file. 4.--3, 2, 4, 5. To turn in different directions. 5.--12, 11, 9. To tear, to cut asunder. 6.--1, 2, 10, 5. Close at hand. 7.--1, 2, 5, 3, 4, 8. Organs of sensation. 8.--8, 9, 10, 11, 1. A country in the south of Europe. 9.--8, 9, 10, 1. A very short space. 10.--6, 5, 11, 9. To fall in drops.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 167.]

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 98.

5.--Evangeline.

1. Nile. 2. Lean. 3. Liege. 4. Veal. 5. Vile. 6. Nail. 7. Geneva. 8. Nave. 9. Gain.

ANSWER TO PICTURE PUZZLE ON PAGE 28.

This picture contains the key to itself in the letters which are found on the walls, the corner-stone, and the gateway--I, C, U, S, X. If these letters are named in the order given, they form the sentence 'I see you, Essex,' which Queen Elizabeth is said to have written on a wall or a window of one of her palaces, as a warning, or perhaps an encouragement, to Lord Essex.

THE CYPHER TELEGRAM.

(Concluded from page 124.)

Though it was still only eleven o'clock, the boys were quite ready for dinner when they reached the lake; and when it was finished and they had hidden the rest of their provisions in some bushes, Herr Groos gave them leave to amuse themselves as best they chose till he sounded his horn to collect them for another meal at four o'clock. He himself was going to take charge of a botanising party on the Hersch-felsen, and a junior master was to superintend those who wished to fish in the lake; but Franz decided to join neither party, as his one idea was to catch a swallow-tailed butterfly for his friend. At last, finding no one with a similar ambition, he started on his quest alone.

'I will try the Kühberg first,' he said to himself. 'If we should meet the strangers again, it would be fun to prove to them that Herr Groos was right and they were wrong.'

It was very hot as Franz toiled up the mountain-side, and when at last he reached the place where his search was to begin, he lay down panting under some trees at the edge of the wood. On the opposite slope he could see the yellow caps of his comrades, and the tall figure of Herr Groos; but where he himself was all was solitude and silence. After a few minutes' rest he rose, and having filled his cap with some delicious berries, sat down, almost buried amongst the cool, green plants, to enjoy them. They were soon finished, but he was still too lazy to move, and rolling himself down till the cranberries nearly met above him, he fell fast asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of voices, and, thinking it was some of his schoolfellows, he lay still, meaning to surprise them. He was so well hidden that he knew he could not be discovered unless he moved. Then he realised that it was not his comrades, but the two strangers from the train.

'Look at all those boys over there,' said the tall man. 'It was fortunate that we put them off the scent. If they had chosen to spend the day up here it would have upset our plans nicely.'

'Are you sure, though, that they are all there?' asked the other, doubtfully. 'There were thirty-two in the train, and I can only count twenty-five yellow caps now.'

'You are right, Schmidt,' answered the tall man, after a short pause. 'And who can tell where the others may be?'

'Not I! We must put off our digging till we are sure that they have all gone away for the night.'

'We shall miss the American boat,' said his friend, angrily, 'and all because of a pack of schoolboys!'

'Not necessarily. If we return to Freistadt by the nine o'clock train instead of by the five o'clock, we ought still to catch the steamer at Hamburg. That is the worst of taking things from a well-known man like Rosenthal. He makes it unsafe to dispose of a single recognisable thing in Germany. We were lucky to get rid of the coins, even.'

'And a mere nothing we got for them,' replied the grumbler. 'Are you certain you remember where we buried the rest of the collection?'

'Under this stone here, by the big tree, and it has evidently never been moved since we left it. See, the cranberries are already beginning to grow round it.'

'Which shall we take this time? I wish we could get the stuff all sold and done with!'

'So do I! but we cannot take too much to one country. If we make a good haul in America, we will return, and try and see what we can do in England with the rest.'

'If we cannot dig now, what are we to do?' asked the tall man, disgustedly.

'We must go on to the Observatory, and pass the time there. There is nothing else to be done.'

When they had quite gone, Franz raised himself slowly. There was the great stone, just as the short man had said, and underneath it were evidently most of the treasures stolen from Baron Rosenthal. What was the best thing to do? If he dug the treasures up and hid them elsewhere, they would be safe, but then the thieves would probably escape. If he went straight back to Freistadt by train and warned the police, Herr Groos would think he was lost, and there would be such a hue and cry in the woods that the strangers would probably hear of it and have their suspicions aroused.

Then an inspiration came to him. He would telegraph to Hugo in cypher, and then, even if Baron Rosenthal himself were not there, Hugo would have the sense to arrange matters. It took him some time to concoct his telegram, and put it into cypher. It ran as follows:--

'A tall man in grey and a shorter man in brown, with butterfly nets and big specimen cases, will reach Freistadt station at ten-thirty. Have them arrested, as their cases contain some of your father's silver, and the rest is hidden in the woods.--FRANZ.'

Visitors were always allowed to use the telegraph at the Observatory on the top of the hill, and so he decided to go there at once and send off his message. Then a fresh danger occurred to him. The two strangers were going to the little inn by the Observatory. If they chanced to see his telegram, or even asked to look at it, he would arouse their suspicions if he declined to show it, and yet, if the short stranger were as clever as he professed to be, he would probably decipher it and learn everything. So he wrote a companion message, using some of the same words and figures as in the cypher one, but arranging them so that they could not possibly be translated to make sense.

When he arrived at the top of the hill, he found the two strangers, as he had expected, sitting at a little table outside the building.

'Hallo, youngster, have you caught your swallow-tail yet?' inquired the tall one.

'I have not even seen one,' replied Franz, truthfully. 'I am afraid they have all left the Hirsch-felsen since you were there. I gave it up at last and came on here to send a cypher telegram to my friend.'

'Ah! the cypher!' said the fat man. 'Show me what you are going to say, and I will warrant myself to read it.'

'Very well, but be quick, for I want to send it off,' replied Franz, seeing that this would disarm suspicion.

He gave the strangers the copy he had specially prepared for them, and, to his surprise, the stout man did manage to read it, though, naturally, he thought nothing of its contents. Then Franz took the real telegram to the clerk at the Observatory, who dispatched it carefully, though he chaffed Franz a good deal about the enormous importance of a message that required to be sent so secretly.

When he rejoined his companions by the lake, just in time for the afternoon meal, he was well teased by them because he was the only boy who had no important find to announce. Then followed a merry walk back through the woods, then supper, and then bed, and through it all Franz never had a chance of a private talk with Herr Groos.

The next morning the boys were still at breakfast when the early morning train came creaking into the station, and the first person to come towards the inn was Baron Rosenthal.

He shook Franz warmly by the hand. 'Thanks to you, my boy,' he said, 'the thieves are in prison. It only remains for you to show us where the rest of the silver is hidden.'

The other boys gazed at Franz in surprise, but he was not long in telling the whole story, and explaining how it was that he had been the only boy who had had no time to collect specimens. Half an hour later the whole party started for the Kühberg, with Franz to guide them.

Afterwards, when the winter came, and the boys of the class discussed the great summer excursion, they always agreed that the most exciting part of it had been the digging for Baron Rosenthal's treasures under the pine tree. Not a few of them also, though without success, tried to invent a cypher that should rival the famous one which had proved of such real and unexpected value.

A. KATHARINE PARKES.

THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER.

Amongst our water-loving birds there are few that can rival the great Northern Diver. He is strong of wing, with remarkable legs and feet, and a body so formed that it can take in a wonderful amount of air. He is a beautiful bird, too, and a glance at him gives you the impression that he is very knowing--as is, indeed, the fact. He has not a tuneful voice, for he does not belong to the singing birds, but he utters a plaintive and wild cry, which seems to suit the regions that are usually his home. For, though the species does not keep entirely to the cold northern regions, where summer is brief and winter is long, they are his chief resorts, and their loneliness seems to suit him. He has often been seen along British shores, in the Firth of Forth, for instance, and upon the coast of Wales and Ireland. But if you wish to see the great northern diver in abundance, you must go beyond the Hebrides, towards Labrador, Iceland, and Spitzbergen. Nature has provided the bird with the means of obtaining a great amount of animal heat, which enables him to bear comfortably the intense cold of arctic regions.

A solitary specimen often attracts the notice of those on board passing ships. They observe on a headland this tall, gaunt, white-breasted sea-bird, motionless, it may be, yet looking round sharply with his keen eyes. Is he thinking of the family cares of the last season, or considering where the next meal is to come from? Suddenly he moves and darts towards the sea, into which he plunges. Two or three minutes after, he reappears many yards away. He has probably been fishing. He seems to know before entering the water what the fish are doing, and the formation of his body and limbs makes him a capital diver. It is the habit of the Northern Diver to seek out especially the shoals of herrings and sprats, of which both young and old birds consume great quantities. There is only one brood yearly, the young birds hatching during the brief summer of the far north.

The bird's head and neck are black, the bill being strong and pointed at the tip. The breast is white, but the back, tail, and legs are black, with scattered white spots; its feet are webbed. Though his wings are short, and his body appears heavy, the Northern Diver can fly powerfully and swiftly, owing to the strength of his muscles. The body, too, is smooth and rounded, adapted either for swimming or flying. Another name for it is the Immer, or Immer Diver.

J. R. S. C.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

Be as encouraging as you can. There is no end to the good sometimes done by a few kindly words.

When Sydney Smith was a boy at school, a visitor found him one day, in the play-hour, poring over a lesson-book. 'Clever boy!' said the stranger, as he bestowed a shilling upon the young student, 'that is the way to conquer the world.'

This bit of encouragement brightened the neglected boy's life like a ray of sunshine. That kind man was not forgotten by Sydney Smith, who was never weary of praising his deed. Little dreamed the stranger, as he went his way, of the great good effected by his pleasant words. The lad whom he had encouraged rose soon afterwards to be prefect of his school, and, as we know, became in after years a very distinguished man, and possibly the first real start he had in life was this little piece of encouragement.

E. D.

TRAVELLERS' TALES.

They say there is a country where snowstorms never fall, And sliding is a game they never knew: They never saw a lake Paved with ice that wouldn't break-- I would rather stay in England, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the bright sun never sets, But still continues shining all night through; And you needn't go to bed, For there's always light o'er head-- That's a country I should like, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the people all talk French-- I can't imagine what they ever do! For who amid their chatter Could understand such patter? I should answer 'Speak in English,' wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the women cannot walk, And everything is made out of bamboo, And the people's eyes are wee, And they live on rice and tea-- I should like to go and see them, wouldn't you?

They say there is a country where the elephants are wild, And never even heard about our Zoo; And through the woods they roam Like gentlemen at home-- I should like to go and see them, wouldn't you?

F. W. H.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 127.)

After a few minutes' useless waiting, and wishing that I might have accompanied Jacintha and Dick into the house, I turned my back towards Colebrook Park and set out in the direction of the town, which I entered by a steep hill. The hill brought me into the middle of the High Street, at about half-past four in the afternoon, and my attention was soon absorbed by the fresh surroundings. In the street was a constant stream of well-dressed persons, there were good shops, many carriages, and I stood at the corner wondering which way to turn. Every now and then I put my hand into my pocket to make certain the money was safe, and at last I began to feel a certain sense of recklessness, as if I had now the power to launch out into extravagance. To tell the truth it seemed difficult to be in possession of such a sum without immediately looking out for something to buy, and indeed there were several things I could have added to my stock with advantage.

On the left I came to the railway station; the line passed over the road, and beyond it the High Street sloped steeply upwards. At the top of the hill I saw some public baths. Noticing on the opposite side of the way a large shop with cheap clothing in the window, I entered and made my first purchase, which consisted of a pair of stockings and some shoes--of brown canvas, because these were the cheapest. Carrying my parcel, I entered the baths, and came forth feeling much cleaner and more presentable.

I next treated myself to an egg for tea, with ample bread and butter and a cup of cocoa, and then I thought it high time to seek a place in which to sleep. In speaking of an hotel, I had in my mind a Temperance Hotel, although I had not entered into details before Dick; but, as I walked away from the tea-shop, exploring small streets, I passed a tailor's, where a man was seated cross-legged on a board, busily stitching. In the window was a card bearing the inscription, 'Bedroom to let to a single man,' and then a happy idea occurred to me.

My clothes were sadly in need of repair, my jacket being torn and stained, and my knickerbockers requiring a patch on the right knee. Now, I thought, if I engage a bed at the tailor's, he might consent to repair my suit while I occupy it. So I opened the door and entered the warm, moist air of the shop, with an inquiry about the bedroom, whereupon the tailor gazed at me doubtfully a moment and shouted for 'Emma!'

She was a pleasant-looking woman with a baby in her arms, and a second child clinging to her skirts, and she also seemed to regard me suspiciously.

'I want a room for one night,' I explained, and then she glanced at her husband.

'Got any money to pay for it?' he demanded.

'Rather,' I said. 'I can pay you first if you like.'

'Well, that is what I should like,' he answered. 'Show the room, Emma.'

She took me upstairs to a clean but poorly-furnished room, for which she demanded a shilling, but after some conversation she agreed to supply me with a good breakfast the next morning for one and ninepence. With this offer I closed, and then, having given her one of my sovereigns, she took me downstairs again to ask her husband for the change. When I had counted this, I broached the subject of my clothes, suggesting that I would go to bed at once if he would put them in good order by to-morrow morning. We made a bargain for two and sixpence, and this sum I paid also; then I turned into bed as soon as Emma had prepared the room. But for some time I could not feel inclined to sleep, lying there thinking of the time I had spent with Dick and Jacintha, and trying to decide about the future.

Before closing my eyes I came to one determination. The first thing to-morrow morning I would walk to the railway station and inquire the cost of a third-class ticket to London. With so much money in my pocket, it seemed folly to walk the rest of the distance, and the sooner I reached my destination the sooner I should begin my real career.

My last waking thought that night was of Captain Knowlton, but in spite of Dick's hopefulness it seemed impossible to believe that by any chance my friend could be still living. For a few moments I exercised my imagination, I built air castles, and pictured his reappearance on the scene. I saw myself again at some other school, mixing once more with the fellows on an equality: I saw myself going in due course to Sandhurst, with Dick as my companion; I saw myself a guest at his house during the holidays, discussing with Jacintha the experiences through which I was at present passing. Whether or not I was awake when I fancied these things, or my last thoughts melted into dreams, I have not the remotest notion, but I knew nothing else until Emma knocked at my door at eight the following morning, laying down my clothes outside, and then all the pictures my imagination had painted appeared unreal and extremely tantalising.

There was a small looking-glass on the bare wooden dressing-table, and by its aid I saw that the tailor had given me good value for my money. Feeling quite respectable with the new stockings and shoes and the renovated suit, I determined to improve matters further by accepting Jacintha's hint and having my hair cut.

During breakfast I realised that the day was Saturday, and that if I travelled to London, it would not be practicable to take any steps towards finding employment until Monday. As I was at present in cheap and comfortable quarters, it seemed judicious to remain over Sunday, especially as there would be a chance of seeing Dick and his sister once more before I left Hazleton.

Having made a satisfactory arrangement with Emma, I went to the nearest hairdresser's; and afterwards bought for two and fourpence a white flannel shirt with a collar attached. Then, turning my steps to the railway station, found that the price of a third-class ticket to London was five shillings and threepence, and that there were several trains during the morning.

When I had returned home to change my shirt, I wandered along the road in the direction of Colebrook Park, but passed the lodge gates several times without the satisfaction of seeing any sign of Jacintha or her brother. Later in the day rain began to fall again, and continued until bedtime, throughout the night, and through the whole of Sunday, so that I only went out to church in the morning, and spent a far from unpleasant afternoon listening to stories from Emma's husband. It appeared that he had been a soldier, and passed through an Egyptian campaign, to the success of which, according to his own account, he must to no mean extent have contributed. In the evening I went again to the church a few doors off. On Monday, seeing that the sun was shining, I determined to make one more effort to see Dick or Jacintha before setting out to London. The walk to Colebrook Park, where I hung about for an hour or more, proved again entirely unavailing, however, and turning towards the railway station, I changed another sovereign for a ticket, and reached the platform ten minutes before the half-past eleven train was due.

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Chapter XVI

While waiting for the train, I took the opportunity to count my money, and finding how rapidly it had diminished, almost regretted the determination to travel luxuriously by the railway, instead of walking the rest of the distance to London. But, on the other hand, it appeared highly desirable to present a respectable appearance when at last I began to look for work in earnest. I had learned enough since leaving Castlemore to understand that it would not do to be too particular as to the nature of such employment, but that it could be possible to search in vain scarcely seemed to me likely.

There being few passengers, I entered an empty third-class compartment, and began to eat some meat patties which I had bought on the way from Colebrook Park. At the first stoppage a middle-aged woman entered the compartment, taking a seat by the farther window, but at Midbrook, about three-quarters of the way to London, we were joined by a man, who lowered himself gently into the seat facing my own, with his face towards the engine.

He looked sixty years of age, or perhaps somewhat older, and had one of the most benevolent-looking faces I had ever seen. He was clean shaven, and he wore a tall black hat. His long frock coat was made of shiny black cloth, with a waistcoat to match, and grey trousers. He exposed a large amount of white shirt-front, and wore a neatly-tied narrow black bow; indeed, he looked noticeably neat and well-brushed from top to toe.

But, although he was so well dressed that I felt surprised at his travelling third-class, he had the appearance of a highly respectable, old-fashioned butler out for a holiday, rather than a gentleman. A pair of double eye-glasses hung from a broad black ribbon, and he sat with both hands resting on the knob of his umbrella as he gazed benevolently into my face.

'I wonder,' he suggested, soon after the train had restarted, 'whether you would object to changing sides with me?'

'I don't mind at all,' I answered.

'A great pity,' he continued, 'to put up the window on such a lovely warm day, but I am a great sufferer with a tickling in my throat, and anything of a draught--thank you, my lad, thank you,' he said, as I took the seat which he had left.

Resting his umbrella by his side, he took a small packet from his waistcoat pocket, and helped himself to a lozenge. 'May I offer you one?' he said, holding out the packet in a somewhat shaky hand. 'You won't find them at all unpleasant.'

As I noticed the smell of aniseed, I accepted the offer at once. He seemed to speak as if I were a man rather than a boy of fifteen, and no doubt I felt flattered. But his voice was scarcely in accordance with his general appearance, and it was easy to detect a note of ill-breeding.

(Continued on page 138.)

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 135.)

Before we reached the next station, the old gentleman made several remarks about the condition of the crops, the beauty of the country, and the unusual quantity of rain that had recently fallen, and when presently the train stopped again, and the woman at the farther end of the compartment rose from her seat, he put out a hand to open the door, though he nodded without raising his hat when she turned to thank him from the platform.

'Now, I wonder,' he said, when we were on the way again, 'if you are able to oblige me?'

'How?' I asked.

'I want two shillings and sixpence or sixpenny-worth of coppers for a half-crown piece.'

'I think I can do that,' I answered, thrusting a hand into my pocket.

'You may think it strange that I should ask you,' he suggested.

'Not at all.'

'But,' he continued, 'I hadn't time to get change, and I want a paper at the next station.'

Bringing out a handful of silver, I gave him two shillings and a sixpence, whereupon he handed me a half-crown in exchange.

'It looks like a new one,' I remarked.

'I trust it may bring you good fortune, my lad,' he answered. 'Though, in one respect, you certainly seem to be well provided for already.'

I suppose I smiled with satisfaction.

'But,' he continued, 'never forget one thing. Money is the root of all evil--the root of all evil.'

'Do you live in London?' I asked presently.

'Yes,' he replied, 'although it does not agree with my delicate throat. But we cannot choose where we would wish to live.'

'I wonder,' I said, a little hesitatingly, 'whether you could tell me where to find a lodging?'

'Ah,' he cried, 'you may be sure of this! If I can assist you in any way I shall be very happy--very happy indeed. Of course it is to some extent a question of what you are prepared to pay.'

'I must not pay much,' I said, 'because, you see, I may not get anything to do just at present.'

'So you have come to London to try your fortune?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I only want just a bedroom.'

He was looking up at the rack over my head.

'Your luggage is in the van?' he remarked.

'I have no luggage,' I answered, realising that this must appear a somewhat serious drawback.

'May I inquire how much money you possess?' he asked.

'A little over a pound.'

'Ah!' he cried; 'and that is to be the beginning of a fortune, we will hope. I have always taken a great interest in young men,' he continued. 'Now, let me see what we can do. I live with my son and my daughter-in-law, and it is just possible she might accommodate you, if you would like to come with me when we get out of this train.'

'I should like it very much indeed,' I answered, congratulating myself that I had not been backward in asking his advice. I felt no shadow of doubt concerning his good faith. He looked so entirely respectable that I should have gone anywhere at his bidding. So, when the train stopped at the London terminus I walked by his side through the booking-office, out of the station-yard, and took a seat on an omnibus without an instant's hesitation. I noticed that he had a way of turning his head very quickly, almost as if he were looking out for some one, and I thought it nice of him to insist on paying my fare. We took two omnibuses before we alighted at the corner of Baker Street and Marylebone Road, when, holding my arm in a most friendly manner, he led me in the direction of Lisson Grove, although at the time I had no idea whither we were going.

After passing through one or two quiet squares and dingy streets, we reached one which looked more dingy still, with its rows of narrow, high terrace houses, a number of unkempt children playing about the road, and a fish-hawker bawling by the kerb. At one of the dingy-looking houses my companion stopped, taking a latch-key from his waistcoat pocket; but as soon as he opened the door a woman came out of a room, standing with her arms akimbo in front of him, while I brought up the rear.

She was tall, like the old man, but her face was red and puffy, while a wisp of fair hair fell untidily over her forehead. She wore a dirty-looking dress, with several buttons missing, their places being supplied by pins.

'Who's the kid?' she asked, and it was impossible to imagine that she felt pleased at my presence.

'A young friend I happened to meet in the train,' he answered in a curious tone. 'This way, my lad,' he added, 'this way,' and, stepping past the woman, he opened a door of a back room. 'Just sit down for a moment till I come back,' he said, although there was nothing to sit upon but a bed.

Closing the door, he went away, and I heard him entering the front room. I suddenly became the prey of all manner of anxious feelings. The house itself was close and stuffy, with a curious odour as of some pungent acid. I did not feel favourably impressed by the appearance of the woman. But when a few minutes had passed the sound of voices reached my ears, although it was impossible to hear the words with any distinctness. Knowing that the old man was in all probability discussing me with the woman who must be his daughter, I did what I may safely say I had never attempted before in my life. Overcome with eagerness to learn what was being said concerning myself, I stole towards the door, opened it, and played the eavesdropper.

Even now I could not make out half their meaning, and what I heard only served to perplex and frighten me.

'I tell you he is just what we want,' said the man, and the only word I could catch in the woman's answer was--'Risk!'

'An open-faced, honest-looking boy,' he continued. 'You have only to look at him a second to feel you can trust him. Dress him properly, and he is as good as a fortune.'

If it had seemed possible to dart along the passage and out through the front door, I should have done so, but my knees were shaking under me; and, hearing fresh movements in the next room, I drew back and reclosed the door. A few minutes later the man returned.

'Come this way,' he said, and I followed him into the front room. 'My daughter, Mrs. Loveridge,' he continued, 'does not like strangers, but I have persuaded her to treat you as a member of the family----'

'But if you would rather not!' I cried, looking up into her face.

'We are not rich people,' he said, entirely ignoring my outburst, 'but what we have we are willing to share--now, no one can say fairer than that. You give up what money you have got in that pocket of yours, and, when you have taken it out in board and lodging, we will see whether we can't manage to find you some useful work to do. So hand out, my lad!'

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Chapter XVII

Although he had looked so benevolent in the train, I had already begun to fear this urbane old man far more than I had previously feared the tramp at Broughton. With an uncomfortable feeling that he had got me in his power, I could see no way of quickly getting out of it. To refuse to hand over my money was out of the question, although, with an appearance of kindness, he gave me back the particular half-crown which I had changed for him in the train.

The next few hours went by wretchedly enough. Mr. Parsons (for that I learned was his name) did not leave me for a moment alone, and there was nothing to divert my thoughts from the extremely disagreeable situation. I could see no sign of any kind of book; and, indeed, the only form of print in the house seemed to be half of an old newspaper. At about half-past eight, Mrs. Loveridge began to prepare for something resembling a meal by placing on the table, without a cloth, a piece of bacon, and some bread and cheese. When it was supposed to be ready I made the acquaintance of Mr. Loveridge, a small, pale-faced, dark-haired man, with one leg shorter than the other. He wore a boot with a very thick cork sole, and walked with crutches. Mr. Loveridge scarcely opened his lips, but greeted me with a long, keen stare. Although I did not feel the least appetite, I made a pretence of eating.

After supper, we all sat round the table, just as it was, while the men smoked, and talked in a jargon which it was impossible to understand.

'Better put the kid to bed,' said Loveridge, presently; and, indeed, I was beginning to feel exceedingly curious as to my sleeping quarters.

Rising from her chair, Mrs. Loveridge led the way upstairs to the top of the house, where she opened a door and said that was to be my room.

'Can I have a candle?' I asked.

'No, you can't,' she answered. 'And you needn't be afraid. We always lock the front door and take out the key, and sleep with one eye open in this house.'

With that she went downstairs and I shut the door. The window had neither blind nor curtains, and the room was almost dark. I could, however, distinguish a bed on the floor, and suddenly I remembered the last and only other time I had slept in a bedroom without a bed--at Mrs. Riddles', at Polehampton--and sincerely wished myself back in that cupboard, despite its nearness to Castlemore. I prayed earnestly to God to watch over me, for I knew instinctively that I was in some great danger. I felt that I had fallen among thieves--if these people were not thieves, what could they be?

I reproached myself for having been so easily deceived by Parsons, and determined to make my escape at the earliest opportunity. The hint in Mrs. Loveridge's parting words had not been necessary to convince me of the uselessness of trying to get away during the night, so I lay down on the mattress and the blankets (there were no sheets) and tried to make up my mind how to act. I could not believe that the object of Parsons in bringing me to his house had been merely to obtain the small sum of money I possessed. Yet he appeared eager to detain me, and he had persuaded his daughter of the need for such detention. It seemed to follow that he meant to make use of me in some way--some undesirable way, no doubt. In vain I racked my brains, before I fell asleep that miserable night, to see through his design. But I realised that my situation had become worse than ever, and it seemed difficult to imagine that only yesterday I had been the companion of Jacintha and her brother. I determined to do my utmost to disguise my suspicions, to exercise patience and--for once--judgment, and to await a favourable opportunity with all the courage I could muster.

(Continued on page 146.)

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

V.--THE ROCK TEMPLES OF INDIA.

Perhaps next to their own country, English folk know more about India than of any other part of the world. So many of us have either been there ourselves, or have relations who have spent long years there, that in a way it seems rather like a home-land than a foreign country. The great difficulty is to realise what a huge piece of the world it is, with its population of over two hundred and seventy millions of people. We have to remember that this population is made up of many different races which have from time to time conquered and settled in various parts. India is above all things an old country. Its sacred books, its temples, indeed, the way of life of the people date back to very ancient times, and it is believed that considerable intercourse took place between Hindustan and ancient Egypt, which may account for the likeness between the rock tombs and temples of the two kingdoms. New races have from time to time supplanted the former owners of the land, but except the Mohammedan invaders of the tenth century, the conquerors seem more or less to have fallen in with the faith and traditions of their new subjects.

The greater part of the natives of India are worshippers of Buddha, though many have been converted to Christianity. The teaching of Buddha depended greatly on meditation and freedom from the distractions of the world, and Buddhists at a very early date began to withdraw into communities of hermits living by themselves, and, partly from convenience, partly from a love of mysterious places, availed themselves largely of the many natural caverns with which the rocks of India and Thibet abound.

At first a small cave would be enlarged, and by the aid of masonry turned into a habitable cell for one or more of the hermits. Next a verandah would be added, where the good men might meditate, and at the same time enjoy light and fresh air. Later on a large cavern would be chosen, which, with some building, and the addition of pillars to support the roof, would be adapted to the form of a great central hall, with small surrounding cells for each of the brethren. To our ideas it sounds rather cold and gloomy, but those were not days of luxury, and in Southern India, where coolness means comfort, these old cave-dwellers might have been worse off.

Some of these Buddhist temples are marvels of genius as well as of industry, being richly decorated with carvings of men, women, and animals, and with pillars, roofs and galleries cut from the solid rock.

One of the most celebrated of these rock buildings is on a small island a few miles from Bombay, called by the natives, Garapur, though in the sixteenth century the Portuguese gave it the name of Elephanta, from a huge black stone elephant which they saw on landing. The great temple is reached by a paved causeway from a beach below, and is chiefly underground, though both centre and wings have handsome outside frontages. The chief hall is one hundred and thirty feet long (or about as large as a fair-sized English church), and formerly had many columns, though most of these have fallen. The roof of the cave in the east wing projects seven feet beyond the line of pillars, and is about fifty feet long. On square pedestals guarding the entrance sit stone animals, either leopards or tigers, and inside are statues, whilst over the head of an image of Buddha are flying cherubs.

The view from outside, over the Bay of Bombay, is very beautiful, and the temple is still held sacred by the Hindus, who celebrate there the festival of Shivaratri. An important religious fair is also held before the first new moon after the middle of February in each year.

HELENA HEATH.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

III.--THE SIMPLON ROAD.

In the year 1805 Napoleon accomplished a work which for many years had occupied his thoughts, namely, a good carriage road from Switzerland to Italy, over the Simplon Pass, thus associating his name with that of the great Carthaginian general, Hannibal, who had crossed that Pass with his troops many hundred years before.

This road of Napoleon's--still perhaps the best-graded mountain road in Europe--was a marvel of engineering, and was considered perfect in all respects. Every stone which marked the miles (or rather kilometres) along the route was stamped with the imperial eagle, and each bridge over the rushing torrents bore the words 'Napoleon fecit' ('Napoleon made this'), so that succeeding generations should honour his name.

How little could Napoleon have imagined that, just one hundred years later, human moles, boring an underground passage through the mountain, would render his grand road all but useless, and that the opening of the Simplon Tunnel would cause his road to be neglected and forsaken.

* * * * *

Some conversation on this topic was passing between the travellers on a diligence (or coach) not long ago; as the five horses gaily trotted along the Simplon road from Brigue to the Italian side, an English schoolboy, who had been attentively listening, broke in.

'This grand road to be left to decay? The road Napoleon made! Why is it to be given up? I never saw a better road in all my life!'

'There could certainly be no better road,' answered an elderly gentleman who sat next to the lad, 'but now that the Simplon Tunnel is almost an accomplished fact, this road will be no longer needed. People will not sit for eight or ten hours on a diligence when they can do the journey in less than an hour by rail.'

'I would choose the diligence all the same, tunnel or no tunnel!' said the lad heartily. 'Just see how jolly it is to be trotting up-hill, with a precipice on one side of you, a great slab of rock on the other, high snow mountains in front, and hundreds of butterflies dancing about in the sun. Isn't that better than being dragged through a dark tunnel, boxed up in a stuffy train?'

'I agree with you there, at any rate in summer,' said his neighbour, smiling; 'but for all that the tunnel is a grand thing for this country, and it will benefit English folk too, for it will considerably shorten the distance between the Straits of Dover and the Adriatic, and so our Indian mails will go through the Simplon tunnel to Brindisi. The tunnel is twelve miles long--the longest railway tunnel in the world.'

'I know the tunnel is very wonderful,' went on the lad, 'and I dare say it is necessary, but why, because there happens to be a tunnel inside the mountain, should this beautiful road be allowed to go to rack and ruin? That beats me!' and the boy looked round as if to request an explanation from some one.

A Swiss gentleman--speaking, however, most excellent English--enlightened the lad.

'You only see the road in summer, when every yard of it has been carefully inspected, and if necessary renewed. The winter storms and avalanches do great damage here every year: bridges are swept away, and the roads blocked with immense rocks brought down by the avalanches, so that the cost of keeping this road in repair comes every year to over a million of francs. When the tunnel is open, the Government will be able to save this money, as the road will be no longer needed.'

'Poor old road,' said the lad. 'Then will no one ever come up it in future?'

'Oh, yes,' answered the gentleman, 'it will always be used by the peasants--they cannot afford to pay railway fares, and I hope for their sakes the monks at the Hospice yonder will still continue their good offices, and not forsake the home and the refuges, as there is some talk of their doing, now that the number of travellers on the road will be so greatly diminished.'

'Of course,' said the boy eagerly, 'I have heard of the St. Bernard monks, and their hospital and their dogs, and how they dig travellers out of the snow, and so on; but what are refuges, please? I never heard of them.'

'They are also shelters for travellers, a sort of off-shoot from the parent-house at the top of the Pass. It is fifteen miles from the valley to the Hospice, and in winter-time the road is often blocked by snow, and if it were not for these refuge houses, where food and warmth is freely given to all comers, many a poor traveller would perish in the snow.'

* * * * *

Napoleon's fame will have to live without the help of the great road which he built to keep it alive. Though many obstacles have been met with, including a break-down caused by an underground spring, when there were only a few yards between the borings from each end, the tunnel is at last practically finished, and it is hoped that in 1905, a hundred years after Napoleon made his road, it will be open for railway traffic.

S. C.

THE BAT AND THE BALL.

'I'm quite knocked up!' exclaimed the Ball, While mounting to the skies; 'I know I shall have such a fall After this dreadful rise. I speak no ill of any one, However they provoke, But many things the Bat has done Are something past a joke.'

'Just watch that Ball, how high he goes,' The Bat exclaimed with glee, 'But yet he never says he owes His rise in life to me. No, no, that's not his way at all; And though I do my best, His graceless growls at every fall Are something past a jest.'

JOHN LEA.

WITHOUT A HEN TO BUY STAMPS.

A native from the shores of Lake Nyasa, in Central Africa, lately enlisted in the King's 2nd African Regiment, and went off to the war in Somaliland.

He had had some education in the Mission School in his own village, and by-and-by sent home a very good letter describing his work, and how he learnt signalling, and so on; and then he ended up with this pathetic little reproach to his 'brothers' in Nyasa-land for leaving him without a letter.

'And what? all the people who knew us, have they finished to die' (that is, are they all dead?), 'or are they alive and laugh? Brethren of Mbamba, how are ye without a hen to buy stamps?'

A fowl in Central Africa, it may be explained, costs about a penny, and is the usual means of barter, so that stamps are bought with hens. But let no one think an African fowl is as plump as its English sister; on the contrary, it is such a poor, skinny thing, that three of them form the usual breakfast for a European, who after all often gets up hungry.

X.

MAY DAY.

The village children were making great preparations for May Day, and none were more excited than Alice and May Risdon, for it would be little May's birthday, and she had been looking forward to it for a long time.

Early in the morning, before some people were out of their beds, the children would start maying, carrying garlands and bunches of flowers tied on poles, and calling at each house to sing the May greeting. Some would give them pennies, and others only smiles, but the fun and the frolic were what the children loved, and they would be certain to have plenty if the sun shone and the skies were blue overhead.

On the last day of April, Alice and May hurried home from school, for they meant to start off directly after tea to pick the flowers they would want.

'I do wish Mother would give me a ribbon for my garland,' little May said, as she ran along, trying to keep pace with her elder sister.

'I don't think she will,' Alice replied. 'Mother says pennies are none too plentiful, and she cannot waste them on finery for us, so I am sure she will not buy ribbon just to decorate our flowers.'

'Annie Mock had hers tied with a lovely bow of white satin last year,' May said, with a sigh. 'I don't want to go maying if I have no ribbon for my flowers.'

May was just a little bit spoilt because she was much younger than Alice, and her elder sister was so devoted to her that she always thought of her first, and gave way to her in everything.

'We will find the very prettiest flowers we can, dear, and then nobody will miss the ribbon.'

'Do coax Mother to buy me a bit,' May begged, but Alice knew that this would be quite useless.

How she wished, though, that she could satisfy her little sister! If only she tried hard enough, perhaps she would be able to think of some plan.

However, when they reached home she was afraid that May might be disappointed, not only of her ribbon, but of her flowers and garland as well, for she found Mrs. Stevens, the Squire's wife, had called and asked Mrs. Risdon to send Alice to the Lodge to help with some weeding.

'Oh, Mother, need I go? I must get the flowers for the maying,' Alice said.

'Nonsense, my dear; I cannot disoblige Mrs. Stevens when she is always so kind to us.'

So Alice had to go to the Park Lodge, leaving May in tears, because she knew she could not get nearly as many flowers without her sister to help her.

'Never mind, dear! Pick some primroses and ferns, and I will get up early to-morrow to gather may-blossom and make the garland,' Alice promised, as she kissed her good-bye.

It was growing dark when the weeding was finished, but Mrs. Stevens was very much pleased with the neat look of the borders.

'You have been a good, industrious girl,' she said to Alice. 'Now you must come in and have some cake and milk, and I have a few little scraps of finery your mother may like for her patchwork.'

She brought a bundle of pieces of bright-coloured silk, and among them Alice saw, with delight, a length of lovely green ribbon.

Her eyes shone with excitement as she thanked Mrs. Stevens.

'Do you think, ma'am, we might use that beautiful ribbon for our garland? It would still do for Mother's patchwork if we ironed it afterwards.'

Then Mrs. Stevens had to hear all the story of May's wish and her sister's fears for her disappointment. She gave Alice leave to go through their orchard on her way home, and to pick as many of the wild jonquils--'White Sundays,' the children called them--as she liked. So Alice was a happy girl, and, although she saw by the tears on little May's cheeks that the child had cried herself to sleep, she knew how glad her waking would be.

Alice was awake at daylight to weave the garland and arrange the bunch of flowers on the pole. When all her preparations were finished, she roused May and told her that it was May Day and she had a delightful surprise for her. She brushed the little girl's golden hair till it shone, and put on her best white frock, and then, looking from the window, saw some other children coming to meet them.

'Run off, dear,' she said; 'I will follow with your garland.'

She just had time to slip on a clean pinafore, and then hurried after her down the hill.

'Oh, how lovely!' cried May, when she saw the green ribbon; and she was so excited she could hardly stand still while she held the garland and Alice tied it on.

The other children were full of admiration, and May's happy little face, with the hug she gave her kind sister, quite repaid Alice for her hard work the evening before, and for getting up with the sun to prepare for a joyful maying.

M. H.

NOT THE SAME THING.

At a college in Cambridge there was once a master who was extremely fond of figs. He watched his fig-tree very closely and tenderly, for he held that in the existence of a fig there was but one fit and proper moment at which the ripe fruit should be eaten. To eat a fig either before or after that supreme moment was, said the master, a neglect of an opportunity and a sad mistake.

One year, for some reason, the tree produced only one good fig; and one day the master's examination of this solitary fruit led him to the conclusion that it would be at its best on the day following. Then he did an exceedingly foolish thing--considering that there were undergraduates about! He wrapped his precious fig in a piece of silver paper and labelled it 'The Master's Fig!'

At what he judged the exactly right moment of the next day the master went to the tree, anticipating a brief but exquisite pleasure. Alas! the fruit had vanished, and the empty branch bore a label with these words; 'A Fig for the Master!'

H. J. H.

INVITATIONS.

The daffodils are nodding; There's a swaying of the trees; The playroom window rattles To the fragrant summer breeze. There is sunshine in the garden, And the bees are all a-hum. Oh, hark, the invitation: 'You must come, come, come!'

The butterfly is glancing On his wings of golden hue; Ah! see where now he loiters O'er that bed of pansies blue; A moment since he hovered At this very window-pane, To see if we were coming To the garden and the lane.

Hats! hats! for those who want them; Boots! boots!--oh, lace them, do! Fling open doors and windows, To let the sunshine through! When birds and bees and blossoms Invite us out to play, Oh, who could well refuse them Upon so bright a day?

JOHN LEA.

JAPANESE PLUMS.

Plums, especially if pickled, are a favourite ration of the Japanese soldiers. These plums are said to be such marvellous thirst-quenchers that if you have once tasted them the mere recalling of their name is sufficient to allay the severest thirst.

There is a saying in the Japanese army that when a regiment shows signs of being overcome from want of water, the officer in command has only to say, 'Two miles from here, my men, there is a forest of plum-trees.'

At once, says a Japanese writer, the men's mouths begin to water, and the danger is past.

X.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 139.)

I fell asleep at last, and, on opening my eyes the next morning, saw the sunlight shining into the squalid room. Evidently it had been empty on my arrival at the house, and Mrs. Loveridge had flung these things on the floor, and placed a basin and what looked like a duster on a broken-backed chair, and considered the room furnished. Not aware of the time, but believing it to be quite early, I got up and said my prayers and began my toilet, with the intention of going downstairs to explore the house. Having lain down in my clothes, I now washed as well as I could without soap, opened my door, went out to the landing, and listened. All that I could hear was snoring; so, taking courage, I tried to walk downstairs without noise--a task in which I only partially succeeded.

Passing the first floor, I went on to the rooms which I had entered yesterday, and then to the front door. I saw that it was locked, and that the key, as Mrs. Loveridge had hinted, had been taken away. At the back of the passage was a flight of stairs, and, in the wild hope of finding some kind of back door, I went down.

In this basement were two rooms, that in front being an ordinary kind of kitchen--the door of the back room being locked. I was in the act of stooping to look through the keyhole, when I felt a hand on my collar.

'Now, get away from that,' cried Mrs. Loveridge, flinging me heavily against the wall. 'None of your prying down here, or it'll be the worse for you.'

I returned upstairs without speaking, and there I hung about the room, where the supper things still remained on the table, until I smelt an odour of frying bacon. Both the men came to breakfast, and nobody spoke during the meal. When it ended, Mr. Loveridge left the room, and I heard him downstairs, opening and shutting the door of the room where I had been caught trying to peep. I strained my ears for any fresh sound, fancying that some one must be blowing a pair of bellows, such as may be seen in any blacksmith's shop, until my attention was suddenly diverted.

'I never expect gratitude,' said Mr. Parsons, 'so I am not disappointed if I don't get it. There are private goings on in every house, come to that, and visitors have got to behave themselves.'

'Of course,' I answered, remembering the caution I had administered to myself last night.

'People tell me I am what you may call a good-natured man,' he continued. I noticed how thin his lips had become, and what an unpleasant expression had come into his eyes. 'But if you rouse me,' he exclaimed, 'I'm a Tartar--a Tartar I am! So you had better be careful.'

I was rapidly growing convinced that there was a mystery connected with the house, and that the clue was to be found downstairs in what ought to have been the back kitchen. But I had no time to think of this at present, because Mr. Parsons said he intended to take me out. He accompanied me into the passage, where he carefully brushed his tall hat with his sleeve, and opened the street door, whilst I determined to lose no opportunity of making my escape before we returned. The next minute we were walking away from the house, and, to my surprise, Mr. Parsons put his hand through my arm, holding it with what seemed to be a grip of iron.

'Where are we going?' I asked, as we left the street.

'I want to make a deal with a friend of mine,' was the answer. 'Appearances are very important in this world, my lad. I like to see a boy nicely dressed. I'm always very particular myself what I wear.'

'My clothes are all right,' I muttered.

'Ah, you think so, do you? Now, I'm very fond of a short black jacket and a tall hat--a tall hat is most important.'

'You mean Etons?' I suggested.

'You will see what I mean before you're much older,' he answered, still keeping his grip of my arm.

In a wider street in the neighbourhood of Edgware Road we stopped before a good-sized second-hand clothes-shop, which was kept by a man, who appeared to be a friend of Parsons. Telling me to enter first, he stood blocking the doorway while he carried on a whispered conversation with the shopkeeper.

'Take off your jacket,' he said, a few minutes later, as the shopman began to show some folded suits of clothes.

Although I did not in the least like the notion of exchanging my own clothes, shabby as they were, for a suit which had already been worn by somebody else, it was a part of my plan to offer no unnecessary objection. Besides, it must be confessed that, in his quiet way, Mr. Parsons had succeeded in filling me with something very like terror. In a manner, he seemed like a volcano, looking perfectly harmless, and even pleasant, but yet capable of a terribly dangerous eruption.

The shopman brought out an armful of clothes, and the second jacket I tried was only a trifle too small. In less than a quarter of an hour I had taken off my own suit and put on in its place an ordinary suit of Etons, such as we all wore on Sundays at Castlemore. Although obviously far from new, it was not in very bad condition; but the hat, which had a soiled lining, required to be filled in with paper to prevent it from coming down over my eyes. Mr. Parsons sold my old suit (it could scarcely have fetched a very high price), and paid the difference to the shopman, who, I observed, examined the money, coin by coin, with close attention.

'Now,' said Parsons, as we walked in the direction of Edgware Road, 'you look a little more genteel.'

We entered a cheap hosier's shop next, and there he bought me a white shirt, two wide Eton collars, and a dark tie, all of which I carried home in a brown-paper parcel.

So far the morning had been passed harmlessly, if unpleasantly, for I continued to resent the second-hand suit, and especially the hat, and now we walked direct back to the house. After a meal, of which the less said the better, Mr. Parsons took me into his own bedroom, telling me to change my shirt and look sharp about it. When I had put on the white shirt, a wide collar, and the new necktie, I returned to the front room, but was sent into the passage to fetch the tall hat.

In the front room I found Mr. and Mrs. Loveridge, as well as a rough-looking man whom I had not seen before. Mr. Parsons placed his hand on my shoulders, and turned me round and round as if he were proud to show the change he had affected in my appearance.

'Won't he do beautiful?' he cried, excitedly. 'Did ever you set eyes on a nicer, genteeler-looking lad? Don't he take the cake?'

They all began to laugh, evidently with approval, while I bit my lips and tried to look as if I also liked it, although I think it was one of the worst minutes of my life.

'Well,' said Loveridge, 'we shall see what we get for our money.'

Mrs. Loveridge muttered something which I could not understand, and Mr. Parsons shook his head with a significant frown.

'Trust me for that,' he answered. 'Come along, Jacky! Handsome is that handsome does, you know.'

A few minutes later we were again out in the street, and while any casual passer-by would have imagined that I was accompanied by an affectionate old gentleman who held my arm, I knew very well what was his real motive. It was a hot afternoon, and presently we took an omnibus to Oxford Circus, where we at once turned down a side street.

'I dare say you are thirsty, my lad,' he exclaimed, suddenly. 'Now, two or three doors from here there's a nice shop where they sell delicious ginger-beer--a penny the bottle. Go and get yourself a bottle, Jacky.'

'I--I don't want any,' I answered, as he took a coin from his pocket.

'Jacky,' he said, looking full into my face, 'you will find it always best to do as you're told. Go and get yourself a bottle of ginger-beer, my lad.'

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Chapter XVIII

Taking the two-shilling-piece, I walked on and entered the small shop, where a clean-looking woman stood behind the counter. Opening a bottle of ginger-beer, she poured the contents into a glass, counting out the change for the florin while I drank. In the meantime Mr. Parsons was waiting directly outside the door, and the moment I reached his side he again gripped my arm.

'Change!' he muttered, whereupon I put the one and elevenpence into his shaky hand.

When we had walked a little farther, he stopped at another shop--a tobacconist's this time.

'Just go in there and buy me a box of wax lights,' he said, giving me half-a-crown.

Accordingly I entered the shop, where a young man was smoking a cigarette just within the door.

'A box of wax lights,' I cried, placing the money on the counter. Having given what I asked for, the man began to examine the coin. He rang it on the counter, he tried it with his teeth, and then he looked curiously into my face.

'Haven't you got any smaller change?' he asked.

'No,' I answered, and, with another curious glance, he examined the half-crown again, and finally gave me the change.

(Continued on page 158.)

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

IV.--HOW INSECTS SEE.

Of the five senses, sight is to mankind undoubtedly the most precious. The changes of the seasons, the beauty of scenery, sunset and sunrise, the wonders of nature, and the triumphs of art are only to be appreciated through the eyes, which have aptly been described as the 'windows of the soul.' Yet there are many who pass through life without even realising what we may call the 'gilding' of the world--the delights of colour. Quite a large number of people have no colour-sense, and are unable to tell red, for instance, from green. The writer knows an eminent botanist who is unable to tell the colours of the flowers he so loves to study!

How is it with the little people of the insect world in this matter? Their eyes are constructed on an entirely different plan from ours. What sort of a world is it that they look on? Taken as a whole, it would seem that the insect inhabitants of our world see but very little of it; they perceive it rather through the sense of smell. Only a very few insects, such as dragon-flies, for example, see well, and even their length of sight probably does not exceed six feet or so. They are a near-sighted race. Moreover, they see moving objects more easily than stationary ones.

That many recognise colours there can be no doubt, and many show preferences for certain colours. Bees show a great liking for blue, and ants for violet. White butterflies appear to prefer white flowers, and yellow butterflies yellow flowers. Orange and yellow are also attractive to bees, whilst other colours seem to have no charms for them.

There is no doubt that some insects, however, see much more of the world than others, for the eyes of the insects and their near relations, the spiders and scorpions, are of two different kinds, and both kinds differ greatly from ours in structure. Let us take the simple eye found in the spider or scorpion, for an example, and look at it. If you catch a spider, and carefully examine the front of his head, you will notice a number of bead-like bodies of different sizes, arranged sometimes in the form of a circle, sometimes on a prominent swelling or 'tubercle,' or it may be in some other fashion, according to the kind of spider. These are the eyes. A section cut through one of these eyes and placed under the microscope would show that the surface of the eye was formed by a transparent body like a lens, and that behind this lay a complicated arrangement of rods passing gradually into the nerves of sight. Only ocelli, as these eyes are called, are found in the spider and his kind. But in true insects, like the dragon-fly, or the butterfly, we meet with eyes of another kind, in addition to ocelli. These are known as compound eyes. Where compound eyes are found, the ocelli never exceed three in number, and are arranged in the form of a triangle, and placed in the middle of the head (figs. 2, 3, and 4).

The compound eyes vary greatly in their size. In some insects they are placed one in each side of the head (fig. 1); in others, as in the drone bee, they meet one another at the top of the head (fig. 3, spot marked O) and extend downwards to the mouth. In others, yet again, they may attain a huge size, and occupy even the whole front of the head, crowding over the ocelli to form a little group at the top, as in the head of a species of fly known as the Bibio (fig. 4).

The compound eye is so delicate and wonderful, that great knowledge of anatomy or the science of optics is necessary before it can be really appreciated. Briefly, it is made up of a cluster of simple eyes, in each of which there are several parts. Beginning at the surface we have what is known as the facet, or cornea, which roughly corresponds to the surface of our own eyes. Next we meet with a clear, glassy rod, and this passes downwards into the nerve of sight. Around these rods is a sheath of black colouring matter, so that each eye is cut off from its neighbour. Thus the whole eye may be likened roughly to a bundle of telescopes.

Of what use, it may be asked, are the three little eyes in the middle of the head of insects which have these wonderfully complex eyes? Well, the large compound eyes are used to watch the movements of other animals; thus they are enabled to escape their enemies. Many of you doubtless have tried to catch butterflies, and if so you will know how suddenly and quickly they avoid the master-stroke that is to land them in the net. But the use of the three little eyes seems to be to enable their possessor to see in the dark. By their means the bee (figs. 2 and 3) can distinguish objects even in the darkest parts of the hive; so too the ant can find his way about the galleries of his underground home. Night-flying moths all have these little eyes, whilst in butterflies, which fly in the daytime, they are wanting.

W. P. PYCRAFT, A.L.S., F.Z.S.

TWO WAYS OF READING A SENTENCE.

People in high stations of life often receive from authors presents of their works, and are expected to say something flattering about them in return. They do not like to hurt the author's feelings if the book is worthless, and so Benjamin Disraeli, when Prime Minister, used to answer those who approached him in this way: 'I have received your book, and shall lose no time in reading it.' This sentence, as you can see, is capable of being read in two ways, but the sender of the book was, of course, intended to understand the more flattering reading. It was a kind of deception, and was not very honest, but it was done out of kindness.

A musical composer found another way of answering the many applicants for his opinion: 'I have received your music,' he would write, 'and much like it.'

S. CLARENDON.

RUDEL AND LISBETH.

By the Author of 'The Silver Flagon,' 'The Red Rose Knights,' &c.

Rudel and Lisbeth were a little girl and boy who lived many years ago in a beautiful gabled farmhouse on the edge of a forest in Germany. The forest was far from any town, and the children were dressed in the quaint and pretty costumes of German peasants at that time. Lisbeth looked like a tiny copy of her old grandmother, except that her own hair hung down in two long, tight flaxen plaits, while her grandmother's was completely hidden under a high cap.

The forest, which was many miles wide, lay on one side of the farmhouse; on the other it was open country, and from the top of a low hill in the neighbourhood you could see villages and churches for miles round. This hill was a favourite playground of the children, for it was full of caves and hiding-places; it was in fact the great 'show-place' of the neighbourhood, but the children only thought how delightful it was to play houses in.

Rudel and Lisbeth were very strictly brought up, and were punished for the slightest fault. They seldom spoke to their grandparents unless spoken to, and were never talked to about anything that was going on. Like other children, however, they had a good deal of curiosity about their elders, and it puzzled Rudel very much one day when he saw that as his grandmother went about her household work, the tears were running down her face.

About this time Rudel stopped playing at houses, and took to playing at soldiers. The new game absorbed him so much that he could think of nothing else. The neighbours also began to talk of soldiers, and at last the children came to know that there was a war going on in Germany, and that certain States speaking the same language were fighting with one another. This was very sad, but the children thought it very exciting and delightful.

One night Rudel said to Lisbeth, 'We must get up early to-morrow and go and storm the hill. I am going to play at having a siege. I heard grandfather say to-morrow is to be a holiday.'

Lisbeth joyfully agreed, and they went to bed full of plans for the siege.

In the middle of the night, as it seemed to Rudel, he woke and heard a loud noise in the living-room below. Two men were talking in loud, angry tones, and a woman was sobbing. Presently the crying ceased, and the two men seemed to leave the room. Rudel sprang up and looked out of his tiny window--yes! there were his grandfather and another man going towards the forest. But after taking a few steps they paused, spoke together for a little while, and then turned in the opposite direction.

'They are going to our hill,' thought Rudel, as he went back to bed. Hours afterward, as it seemed to him, a light flashed into his eyes, and he awoke again. His grandmother was standing over him with a candle. She was crying, and as she wept she bent down and kissed Rudel, which frightened him very much.

'Oh, Rudel,' said Grandmother, sobbing, 'will you always be a good boy? Promise me you will.'

Rudel promised, and, after kissing him again, Grandmother went away. Rudel wondered if she was going to see Lisbeth, and make her also promise to be a good girl. Rudel fully meant to keep his promise, but he was a forgetful little boy, and he broke it the very next day.

'Children,' said Grandfather, just as he and Grandmother were setting off on business, 'you are not to go to the hill to-day, nor anywhere near it--keep to the orchard and garden.'

And, without even stopping to make them promise, he went away, while Rudel stamped his foot in a rage, and Lisbeth began to cry.

'If Grandfather thinks,' said Rudel, after they had been wandering about for some time, 'that I am never to be a man, and do as I like--oh, Lisbeth, we didn't promise Grandfather--if we had promised it would be wrong to go; but we didn't! Let us go to the hill--no one will see us.'

Lisbeth stood out against her brother for a little while, but she was so accustomed to follow his lead in everything that she gave in at last, and the children went to the hill.

They played at the foot for some little time, and then mounted to the top, Rudel busy explaining the plan of his siege; but on reaching the top and looking round they uttered cries of amazement on seeing a party of soldiers--an army they thought it--riding rapidly towards the hill and surrounding it on every side. Rudel was fascinated by the horses and trappings, but Lisbeth was frightened and began to cry.

'Let's go and hide,' she said.

'You may,' said Rudel, 'but I shall go and speak to the soldiers, and ask them what they want. And mind, Lisbeth, don't come out or speak, but stay till they are gone.'

The children ran down the hill to a cave they knew of, which could hardly be found by any one who did not know where to look, and Lisbeth went in. But her terror may be imagined when she found it already occupied. A fierce-looking man rose up at her entrance, seized her, and pressed his hand over her mouth.

'Silence,' he whispered into her ear, 'or it will be the worse for you.'

Meantime, Rudel went to face the soldiers.

'Hallo!' cried a rough-looking soldier, who seemed in authority, 'is this the spy and deserter we are seeking?--truly a dangerous ruffian!'

The other men laughed loudly, and pressed round Rudel, who began to be frightened.

'Where's your father, boy?' asked the leader.

'He has gone away,' answered Rudel.

'You know where he is. I remember your face now; aren't you the grandson of old Peter Klinger, who holds yonder farm? Well, we are looking for his son, Rudolf Klinger, whose children we know live with the grandparents. We believe that he came here last night, and is hiding somewhere in the neighbourhood. Tell us where he is, and you shall have as many sugarplums as you can eat.'

'You are not looking for my father,' said Rudel boldly; 'he would not be a spy and deserter, and if he were I should not betray him.'

'We shall soon see that. If you don't tell us where he is you shall be shot as a deserter in his place. We have no time to waste.'

The soldiers laughed. They were accustomed to their leader's cruel jokes, but Rudel was not. He turned pale, and began to tremble a little.

'Now, then, tell us,' said the leader.

'You may kill me,' said Rudel, 'but I will not tell.'

Full well did Rudel guess now the cause of his grandmother's tears last night, and who the visitor had been.

'Fall in, men,' commanded the leader, winking at the next in command; 'form a shooting party.'

Soldiers were rough and cruel in those times, especially in time of war, and poor Rudel fully believed he was going to be shot. He watched the preparations with fascinated eyes, and allowed himself to be placed in position against a low stone wall. Then he burst into tears.

'Once more--will you tell?'

Rudel did not answer, but shut his eyes and began rapidly to repeat the Lord's Prayer. The leader glanced round with a grim smile, and the men clicked the locks of their muskets. Then fear overcame the poor little fellow, and he sank down in a heap on the ground.

Meanwhile, in the cave, which was quite close, Lisbeth had heard all. She began to struggle, and uttered a stifled scream. The man released her, and, to her surprise, gently touched her flaxen hair.

'Fear nothing, little one,' he said, and taking her hand, went with her out of the cave, and walked straight up to the soldiers.

'I may be a spy and a deserter,' he said loudly to the leader, 'but I am not a brute as you are.' And he struck the officer a violent blow in the face.

'Take that!' he said, 'and shoot me as soon as you like. I am worth something when I can call that brave boy my son.'

The soldiers surrounded and seized him, and when Rudel came to his senses he found them already gone, and his grandfather lifting him into his arms and preparing to carry him home.

The next morning both children were punished for disobedience. Rudel thought this very cruel, and years afterwards, when for the first time he dared to ask about his father, he asked his grandfather why he had done so.

'To make you forget all you had gone through,' answered the old man, smiling, 'and only remember the beating. Besides, you had disobeyed me!'

Rudel never saw his father again, for when the deserter had undergone a long imprisonment for his offence, and was free again, he was ordered to leave the country for ever; and Rudel and Lisbeth stayed on with their grandparents.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

IV.--THE FIRST CATASTROPHE.

The Countess of Villeroy was a very old French lady who was strongly inclined to think that people were wrong in supposing they could cruise among the clouds in balloons. But when she saw Professor Charles and his companion rise into the blue sky, she was ready to agree with any one who said that men had conquered the upper air. Alas! only a few months later an event occurred which would have made her change her opinion.

Day by day the ballooning fever grew more intense, and when the King of Sweden visited Paris of course he had to be entertained with a grand display of the new discovery. Pilâtre de Rozier, a young physician who had, like Professor Charles, devoted much attention to the subject, ascended in a balloon bearing the French arms, with the flag of Queen Marie Antoinette floating from the car. The voyage was quite successful. Scarcely had the fanfare of trumpets which greeted its start died away when the aeronauts landed on the estate of the Prince of Condé, who welcomed them with more heartiness than his ancestors were wont to bestow on visitors from the King. Mingling with the buzz of delight which accompanied these experiments, was an ever-growing rumour that certain Englishmen had made up their minds to cross the Channel in a balloon. It would never do to let them be first in performing such a feat, so Pilâtre de Rozier lost no time in asking the French Court for forty thousand francs, to build a special balloon which would take him across the English Channel. 'It is a matter of national honour,' said a writer of the time; and as most people agreed with him, De Rozier's request was granted.

The balloon was different from any other yet made, being a combination of both the systems. The lower section was a large bag to be filled with hot air, after Montgolfier's plan, and round which the platform for the travellers was arranged. The upper part was a huge gas balloon. 'My idea is,' said De Rozier, 'that by this invention much gas will be saved, for when I wish to descend I shall simply cool the hot air in the Montgolfier instead of letting out the gas. Then, to rise again it would only be necessary to rekindle the fire. This also renders ballast unnecessary.'

It was very ingenious, but most people will agree with Professor Charles that 'it was like lighting a fire under a barrel of gunpowder.'

However, the balloon was built, and measured, when complete, seventy-two feet from platform to summit. The race for the honour of crossing the narrow sea had begun, and Pilâtre took his giant to Boulogne. But here on the very shore he was doomed to stay, for the winter winds blew shrill and strong from the west. Day after day he waited for more favourable weather, and day after day he heard with still greater concern that an Englishman named Blanchard was already at Dover, waiting only for the winds to subside a little before he set out in his balloon. Pilâtre's anxiety was increased every time he thought of the forty thousand francs he had begged from the Government, and, hoping that report had been exaggerated, he took ship to Dover to see if Mr. Blanchard was really as well prepared as people said. There had been no exaggeration, and he returned to Boulogne more disturbed than ever.

With the assistance of a young doctor, named Romain, he made a number of small balloons, and sent them into the air at frequent intervals to see if they would rise into some current which would waft them to England, and show a way that he might follow. But they all fell back on the French coast, and the hopes of success grew less and less. At last the rough weather died away and a lighter wind blew from the west. Letters came from Paris urging him to ascend, and reminding him of the money paid for the experiment. Contrary winds were not considered by the officials of Paris, and poor Pilâtre could only repeat that it was impossible to sail against them. With eager eyes he watched the sea in the direction of Dover, and one day (it was the 7th of December) he saw Blanchard's balloon come sailing majestically over the grey waters, and knew that the strange race was lost. France would not have the honour of having first crossed the Channel through the air. But Pilâtre de Rozier, being a brave man, hastened to Calais, and was among the first to congratulate his successful rival. He would now have been willing to abandon his project, but such a thing was not to be permitted. He was told that it was easier to sail from England to France, since the latter had a much longer coast-line, whereas it would be a great feat for him to accomplish the reverse journey. It was vain to point out that his balloon had become weather-worn in the long waiting, and how his materials had suffered from the attacks of rats. The forty thousand francs must not be spent for nothing; so Pilâtre patched his taffeta as best he could, and with the heroic assistance of his friend, Romain, had things fairly in order by June 13th, though he was so uncertain of success that he declined to endanger the life of a gentleman who asked to be allowed to accompany him.

On the morning of June 15th, the loud report of a cannon told the inhabitants of Boulogne that he intended to start. At seven o'clock he and Romain stepped into the gallery and the balloon was released. With majestic slowness they rose into the air and sailed out over the sea; but a moment later the wind, that had so long been his enemy, drove them back. The crowd watched with great anxiety. Twenty-seven minutes after starting, the balloon, at a height of one thousand seven hundred feet, was still only a short distance away. Then, to the horror of the spectators, Pilâtre de Rozier was seen to make a gesture of alarm, and the next moment a blue flame leapt from the summit of the balloon. With terrible speed the unfortunate aeronauts were dashed to the earth. A horseman, who tells the terrible story, galloped to the spot in the hope of finding them still alive. Pilâtre de Rozier lay in the gallery quite dead, with scarcely a bone in his body unbroken, and the young Romain lived only to mutter an incoherent word or two.

In memory of the sad event an obelisk was erected on the place where they fell, and in the cemetery at Wimille, their place of burial is marked by the stone carving of a flaming balloon.

JOHN LEA.

NO HURRY.

Here is a story which a missionary lately told his congregation.

Some evil spirits were consulting together as to the best way to lead men astray.

One said, 'Let us go and tell them there is no God.'

Another said, 'Let us tell them there is no Heaven.'

But the third said, 'Let us go and tell them there is no hurry!'

'No hurry' often leads to more harm than many deliberate wrong acts.

X.

THE LITTLE BUSH-BOY.

A fine leopard had just been killed by an English hunter in South Africa. The beautiful skin was speedily stripped off its back and reserved for home use. While this operation was going on the native beaters gathered eagerly round, assuring their master that the lair of the dead leopard was well known, and that its mate was there with probably a couple of young cubs; would he not like to have them? Not a doubt about it! the master would like to secure the little ones alive; but how? One leopard had doubtless been destroyed, but the other parent was still alive and would have to be dealt with; while to rob a mother leopard of her young was an act from which even the boldest of English sportsmen might well shrink.

But the natives knew what they were about, and while they had not the least intention of exposing themselves to danger, their plans were laid so as to secure the cubs, and, perhaps, themselves to share in the profits of the work. Therefore they gladly led the way to the rocky kloof, thickly studded with clumps of brush-wood, where the leopard's den, a dark cave, was situated, the entrance to it being covered with fine white sand. Upon inspecting this sand the foot-marks showed that the female leopard had lately gone forth, perhaps to fetch food for her little ones or to look for her mate. The cubs were therefore alone; but how could they be secured, as the mother leopard might return at any moment, while the cave was a long and low one, with three different entrances, each separated from the other?

How were the little cubs to be secured? We shall presently see. The native beaters had added to their party a small bush-boy, who though twelve years of age was scarcely four feet high. He was a very ugly little fellow, but affectionate towards those who treated him kindly. Like all his race, he well knew the habits of the wild animals of the country, and he had a wonderful power of tracking their footsteps. The beaters proposed that this little fellow should crawl into the den, and bring the cubs to the outer air. But eager as the Englishman was to secure the leopards, he called a halt when he understood the frightful danger to which the boy was to be exposed. But the little bush-boy was quite undaunted; he laughed in the sportsman's face, apparently looking forward to the task with as much pleasure as an English boy would feel at the prospect of catching a couple of young rabbits. They went to work silently but quickly, as no time was to be lost. The Englishman with his rifle kept watch at the principal entrance to stop the mother leopard, if she should return, while the natives watched the other two approaches to the cavern.

All being now ready, the boy disappeared into the cave. It was an anxious moment: the sun was sinking, and the Englishman, somewhat nervous at his novel position, could not help feeling uneasy about the poor little fellow, who would certainly have to fight for his life should the female leopard by any chance contrive to reach her family. Suddenly, though he heard no noise whatever, he saw, not twenty yards away from him on the ridge of the rocky glen, the head and shoulders of the mother leopard with a kid in her mouth.

The fierce creature had paused, wondering who was the intruder who had dared to place himself at the very door of her home. This pause of the leopard gave the hunter time to recover his coolness and to take good and sure aim; her head and shoulders being just over the rocky ridge were clearly marked out upon the sky-line. Slowly raising his rifle then, he fired, the leopard leaping into the air, while with the report of the weapon came the natives who had been stationed at the other entrances of the cave, all eager to see what had happened, and quite forgetting the little bush-boy, who must have heard the report of the weapon, too, and been in some anxiety as to the result. On the ground lay the body of the dead kid, but the leopard herself, only wounded, had disappeared, having got into the thick bush that clothed the sides of the kloof.

Feeling thankful that the fierce creature had not made a dash for her den, the Englishman hastily called to the boy, desiring him to come out immediately, whether successful or not in his search. This was absolutely necessary, as in the long run the wounded animal would certainly return to the cave, though in the first moment of alarm she had escaped in another direction.

But there was no reply from the boy. 'Come along, boy; come along; never mind the cubs,' repeated the Englishman, peering into the dark mouth of the cave, and desperately anxious to have done with this unpleasant adventure.

'All right, master,' was at length heard in hollow tones, yet with a dash of triumph in them; 'all right, I have got the young ones;' and in a few minutes first one brown leg appeared, then a second, for the brave little fellow had to travel backwards, the hole being too narrow and winding to admit of turning. At length he appeared, gasping for breath, but full of delight, and carrying two little growling and spitting cubs. Hastily securing the prey and reloading his rifle, the Englishman and his attendants made for home as fast as they could. They reached the camp in safety, while the female leopard was found dead the next day some distance up the kloof.

The little bush-boy was well rewarded for his pluck, and taken into the Englishman's service; but the reward he seemed to appreciate most was a hearty meal off the dead kid, for good food did not often come in his way.

B. M.

DISCONTENT BRINGS DULNESS.

As Johnny by the window stood And watched the cloudy sky, He seemed in discontented mood And soon was heard to sigh: 'I don't know what to do to-day; There seems no fun at all; At cricket there's no chance to play, For I have lost the ball.

'And tops are seldom spun in May, And if I had a kite There's not a breath of air to-day To help it in its flight.' With peevish frown he left the room And roamed the garden through, And murmured in a tone of gloom: 'I don't know what to do.'

And thus all day he idly went From dreary place to place, The saddest gloom of discontent For ever on his face; And when the stars began to peep, And night its shadows threw, He murmured in his restless sleep: 'I don't know what to do.'

J. L.

NATURE'S NOBLEMEN.

It was said of a man who rose to a high position in the State through his conscientiousness and high principles, that he was at one time a shoeblack.

One day, meeting the son of Lord ----, he was accosted in a tone of scorn: 'I remember when you blacked my father's boots.'

His answer came without anger, and as brave as true, 'Yes, and did I not do it well?'

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 148.)

By this time Mr. Parsons' peculiar proceedings were beginning to arouse my suspicions. I could not fail to notice that he had twice told me to make trifling purchases, and that, although he had received some pennies in exchange for the first florin, he yet brought out a half-crown for the wax lights. My dawning suspicions grew stronger on the way home on a penny omnibus, when he offered the conductor another two-shilling piece.

The conductor was an amiable, talkative man, and Mr. Parsons had already begun a conversation with him.

'Haven't you got anything smaller?' he asked, 'because I have been doing nothing but giving change half the day.'

'Sorry I haven't,' said Mr. Parsons.

'Well, I shall have to give you a shilling's worth of coppers,' answered the conductor.

'All right--all right, it can't be helped,' said Mr. Parsons, and, of course, I knew that he had already several pennies in his pockets.

'There was the change out of the wax lights and the ginger-beer,' I suggested.

'So there was,' he cried, with a sharp glance over his shoulder, as if to make certain that the conductor had left the roof.

When the omnibus stopped at our turning, I rose quickly, always on the look-out for a chance to escape, but I felt a grip on my knee.

'Age before honour, Jacky,' said Mr. Parsons, who took the precaution to alight first and to help me down the last step.

'Once upon a time,' he remarked, as we walked towards the house, 'I knew a lad about your age who was just a leetle too clever, and perhaps you would like to hear what happened to him.'

'What?' I inquired with a shudder.

'That little lad, Jacky, was licked with a strap. The little lad, Jacky, was kept in one room without any food till he learnt how to behave and keep his thoughts to himself. See, Jacky?'

'Yes,' I answered, 'I see,' and I felt helpless.

We had not been in the house more than half an hour, when he went to a cupboard on one side of the front room and took out a coiled strap.

'That's what I was telling you about, my lad,' he said with a smile. 'Don't be afraid; take it in your hand and feel it. A good bit of leather--there's nothing like leather, you know. Just hold it in your right hand; now open your left. Try it, Jacky, try it,' he cried, with a strange glitter in his eyes, and I dared not think of disobedience, but raised the strap and brought it down lightly on my palm.

'Now, good obedient boys find me very kind to them,' he continued; 'very kind indeed, Jacky. And if there's anything you'd like to amuse yourself, why, you have only to say the word.'

Apart from worse evils, I found the hours drag terribly slowly, especially as I had nothing whatever to divert my thoughts. Moreover, I felt extremely anxious to fall in with his humour.

'I suppose there isn't a book I could have?' I suggested.

'Why not, my lad?' he answered. 'I didn't want particular to go out again to-day, but anything to encourage a good young chap. There is a nice shop in Edgware Road--hundreds of books for fourpence-halfpenny each. Come along, Jacky!'

I had not counted on being taken so quickly at my word, but Mr. Parsons at once put on his hat, and, giving me mine, led me out into the street, and so to the large bookshop, where I saw piles of cheap novels. Not daring to refuse to buy one even if I wished, I selected, after some hesitation, a copy of the Three Musketeers, which I paid for with another two-shilling piece. At least, it enabled me to forget some of my troubles for two hours that evening. I had never read the book before, and sitting in a corner of the ill-lighted room, I soon became lost in the exciting story.

When it was bed-time, Mr. Parsons himself accompanied me to my room, where the bed was exactly as I had left it that morning.

'Be careful of your collar, Jacky,' he said when we reached the top story. 'I set great value on a nice clean collar. Mind you don't crumple it.'

When I had entered the room I was not surprised to hear him put a key in the lock and turn it. Although it was not pleasant to feel that I was a prisoner, I had little fear of personal injury unless I openly rebelled. Perhaps this is what I ought actually to have done; if so, I can only say that I did not possess sufficient courage.

I understood now, beyond a doubt, that the people with whom I had become connected were neither more nor less than makers of false coin. While Mr. Loveridge, and the third man whom I had seen that day, conducted the manufacture in the basement, Mr. Parsons spent his time in getting rid of the result of their labours. I imagined that he had begun to meet with difficulties, and that he thought a decently dressed boy of honest appearance would prove an excellent tool for his purpose.

It was plain that having once permitted me to learn his occupation, Mr. Parsons could not, for the sake of his own safety, afford to let me go, lest I should give information to the police. At any cost he would keep me under observation, and as far as I could see I should find it extremely difficult to escape. Yet, on the other hand, I felt certain that as long as I obeyed, I should be free from actual ill-usage. That he could be cruel on occasion I had no doubt, and he had certainly managed to overawe my little stock of courage. But when I had said my prayers that night, I felt stronger and braver; before I fell asleep I determined to do my utmost to keep my spirits up; I would meet cunning with cunning, and above everything give him no cause for suspicion.

But the next day a slight difficulty arose. In the morning I lay on my bed reading the adventures of D'Artagnan and the rest, until Mr. Parsons was pleased to unlock my door and let me out of the bedroom, when I made no complaint of his conduct in turning the key. Having had breakfast, although every meal in that house was repulsive, and I felt as if the food would choke me, and almost wished it might, we set out as usual, and before we had gone far, Mr. Parsons stopped at a tobacconist's shop, and, giving me a half-crown, told me to buy a threepenny packet of cigarettes.

It was a shop of a better class than any he had sent me into before, and, placing the coin on the counter, I asked for what I had been ordered to buy. But the man behind the counter seized upon the half-crown at once.

'That looks to me like a bad one,' he cried, gazing into my face, and I suppose that my heightened colour, or some expression of guilty knowledge, told him that I knew that as well as he did. Placing the rim of the coin in a metal niche on the edge of the counter, he easily broke the false half-crown into two pieces, which he flung into my face. One of them hit my left cheek a little painfully.

'Now be off and never show your face here again,' he shouted, 'or I will have you locked up.'

Without a word, although my blood was boiling, and I had never been spoken to in this way before, I hung my head and walked out of the shop.

As soon as I reached the street, Mr. Parsons seized my arm as usual.

'Change!' he said.

'I have not got it,' I answered.

'How's that?' he sharply snapped out.

'The man said the half-crown was bad, and broke it in halves,' I exclaimed, and gripping me more tightly Mr. Parsons quickened his pace and turned aside down the first street on our right.

I felt that he was eyeing me significantly as we went, and my thoughts were busy in an attempt to determine the wisest line of action. Perhaps my circumstances were making me artful, and it is true that I felt convinced that my escape could only be accomplished by strategy.

It may appear that nothing would have been more simple than to free myself, especially as I spent some hours in the public streets every day. Now that I look back on those days from a position of safety, I even wonder whether a little more resolution, a little more courage, might have earlier put an end to my difficult position. Surely it must have been possible to have wrenched my arm from Parsons' grasp, and he would not have dared to raise the hue and cry after me, or do anything to attract attention to himself. Or I might have appealed to any policeman for protection, or to a passer-by, and so have shaken off my tormentor.

Perhaps some such attempt might have succeeded, but unfortunately a potent factor in my case was the terror with which in some way Mr. Parsons still succeeded in inspiring me. I have found myself since those days in positions of some peril, but never have I known such fear as of that old, smug-looking man. This dread had an almost paralysing effect, nor could I fail to forget the terrible penalty I should certainly have to pay if my bid for liberty were not to succeed. So that Mr. Parsons held me in a grip tighter than that of his hand on my arm; for after all I was scarcely more than fifteen years of age at the time, and it was no disgrace to be afraid.

As we hastened away from the neighbourhood of the tobacconist's shop, my fear was that Parsons might suspect that I was dissembling. He could scarcely believe I was sufficiently stupid not to have had my eyes opened by this time, and if I appeared to treat the affair as a matter of course his watchfulness might be redoubled.

His deliberate purpose was, indeed, to pollute my mind, to show me that my easiest course was to fall in with his wishes, and now as we hastened along the streets, I determined to try to lead him to believe that his efforts were already beginning to prove successful.

'I believe that other money was bad, too,' I said.

'Oh, you do, do you, Jacky?' he answered.

'Yes,' I cried, 'and you make it downstairs at your house.'

'Jacky, my lad, you haven't forgotten the story I told you about the boy who was too clever?'

'Still,' I replied, 'one needn't be a fool although one needn't be what you call too clever.'

'True for you, my lad,' said Mr. Parsons.

'Only,' I continued, playing my part with as much skill as I possessed, and more than I could have believed myself capable of a few days ago, 'I don't want to get locked up.'

'No, no,' he answered, 'I don't want you to get locked up either, Jacky. I should miss you, you know, very much. But you act sensibly, and you will be all right. What's more, I will show you how to make your fortune before we have done.'

'I should like to make a fortune,' I said, with perfect truth. But, still, as we walked home by a round-about way, without attempting any further business that morning, I could not quite make up my mind whether I had succeeded in hoodwinking my companion or not.

(Continued on page 162.)

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 159.)

At least Mr. Parsons could not fail to be aware that I now understood something of the truth about his occupation, while I had certainly done my utmost to make him believe that I regarded it without any deep dislike.

Had I succeeded or not? On the answer to that question my prospects of escape to a great degree depended. When we reached the house, his manner undergoing no change, I went to bed more hopefully than usual. During the morning we had walked round a large block of buildings forming one shop, with three doors in Oxford Street and two in another street behind. Now, if I could induce Mr. Parsons to let me enter by one of the front doors, it would be easy enough to pass through and make an escape from the rear, for he had never yet accompanied me into a shop.

During the next few days, however, we did not go near Oxford Street; the first day was wet, so that Mr. Parsons stayed at home, and when the weather changed, we took a train to Uxbridge, where I succeeded in exchanging five half-crowns--not without many self-reproaches.

The next day being Sunday, none of us left the house, and I think this was the most miserable time of all that I spent beneath Mr. Parsons' roof. I missed the Sunday service, and felt very lonely and helpless. At last, pretending to be overcome by drowsiness, I asked permission to go to bed at seven o'clock.

Whether or not it was due to the brightness of the morning, I awoke with a sense of unaccustomed exhilaration, and something seemed to assure me that I should find my longed-for opportunity to escape before night.

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Chapter XIX

As to what was to happen if I escaped, I had very little idea. Once let me get away from my present surroundings, and nothing else seemed to matter; things could not easily become worse. But, as a matter of fact, I had thought once or twice that I would run the risk of trying to discover Rogers, Captain Knowlton's servant, who had certainly not accompanied him on board the Seagull. I knew that Captain Knowlton had given up his rooms before he left England, but still I might succeed in finding some one who could tell me where Rogers lived, and I felt certain the man would help me if possible. Hitherto I had determined to avoid the Albany, thinking that Mr. Turton would take care to anticipate me, and perhaps make arrangements for my capture, for, in spite of all I had passed through, I shrank as much as ever from the idea of returning to Castlemore, and Augustus and the other fellows at Ascot House. Still, I had in my pocket only the bad half-crown which Mr. Parsons had given me in the train, and it seemed wiser to take the risk of being intercepted, and to make my way to Captain Knowlton's old quarters. But at present I stood no chance of making my way anywhere alone, and the first thing I had to do was to get clear of Mr. Parsons and the Loveridges.

'A lovely morning, Jacky,' Mr. Parsons remarked on Monday, as he took my arm and led me away from the house. 'Makes me feel quite young again.'

'Which way are we going?' I asked.

'Ah, now, which way?'

'I like Oxford Street best,' I answered.

'Do you, my lad?' he cried, amiably. 'Then suppose we try Oxford Street?'

There were a great many people in the street, and it was about eleven o'clock in the morning when I found we were drawing near the shop which I had planned to enter by one door and to leave by another.

'Couldn't we buy something there?' I asked.

'Where, my lad?'

'There,' I said, pointing to the chief entrance.

'That is too dear for the likes of us, Jacky.'

'Oh,' I cried, 'but I know what I could buy.'

'What?' he demanded, and I began to wonder whether I had betrayed too much eagerness.

'An evening necktie,' I replied. 'They only cost about fourpence.'

'Jacky,' said Mr. Parsons, and I felt his grasp on my arm tighten, 'Jacky, that is the sort of shop a lad like you might easily get lost in. He might even make a mistake in the door, Jacky. No, we won't go in there, but I will tell you where we will go.'

'Where?' I asked, quaking with fear.

'We will go home, my lad, and I will give you such a nice little lesson as you will never forget as long as you live.'

So we turned back the way we had come, walking towards the Marble Arch, and I knew that if once I entered that hateful house, I should pay a terrible penalty for the attempt which had been so easily seen through.

For the next few minutes I was utterly hopeless and helpless. But I murmured a few incoherent words of prayer, and my head grew clearer. As the danger drew nearer with every step I took, my courage began to return, and I determined to make a bid for freedom. Mr. Parsons' threat in a way defeated his own end. Hitherto the fear in which I held him had served to cow me, to make me afraid to make a dash for liberty; but this morning the very danger seemed to encourage boldness, and as we went on our way with his strong fingers gripping my arm just above the wrist, yet in such a manner that he appeared to be holding me affectionately, I cudgelled my brains to devise some method of circumventing him.

At last, as we were close to Duke Street, Oxford Street, a bold plan flashed across my mind. Whatever was done, it should be attempted while there were some people about, to whom, in the last resort, I might denounce Mr. Parsons; and yet I did not wish my actual deed to have a spectator, since any one who saw me treat such a benevolent-looking old gentleman as I fully intended to treat Mr. Parsons must think I was a young rascal.

He hesitated a moment at the corner, and then turned to his right down Duke Street, and I fancied that he looked forward with some enjoyment to the threatened 'little lesson.' A short distance ahead stood a policeman at a street corner, and, as we approached, I looked up into Mr. Parsons' face and summoned all my courage--it was certainly the courage of despair.

'If you don't let me go,' I said, 'I will tell that policeman who you are as we pass.'

In an instant he had swung me round to retrace his steps, but, doubling my free fist, I drew back my arm and hit him with all my strength just about the belt. The effect was instantaneous. Releasing me at once, he was completely doubled up, standing in the middle of the pavement outside a grocer's shop, his hands pressed against his body, gasping for breath. Fortunately no one had seen the blow struck, though Mr. Parsons was soon surrounded by a gaping, sympathetic group. I took to my heels at once, almost running against the policeman, and turned to my right, in the direction opposite to that of Mr. Parsons' dwelling-place. Soon, however, I ceased to run, feeling fairly certain that I should not see him again--that day, at least. And as I walked--still towards the City--I tried to take stock of my situation.

Besides the clothes I stood in, I possessed only a bad half-crown, and although I had, under compulsion, changed similar coins for Parsons, I had no intention of defrauding anybody on my own account. Taking the coin from my pocket, I stooped and dropped it down a grating. Now that I had nothing, I determined to risk a visit to the Albany, which I reached--always on the look-out for Mr. Parsons--at a little past two o'clock. Nothing, however, but disappointment awaited me here. I saw a man who appeared to be a kind of porter, and he told me that Captain Knowlton had given up the rooms on leaving London--a fact which I knew perfectly well already. But he had no notion where I could find Rogers, so that I walked away in a somewhat dejected mood.

Nevertheless I was able to rejoice at the successful escape from something much worse than I had yet endured, and having once triumphed over Parsons, I no longer feared him as I used to do. Even if I met him in the street, I believed I could prevent him from taking me back to his house, and the more pressing difficulty was how to obtain food and shelter, and, subsequently, work.

Becoming hungry as the afternoon wore on, I went into St. James's Park, and, taking off my jacket and waistcoat, did not put the waistcoat on again, but carried it under my arm to a small pawnbroker's shop near Victoria Station, where I obtained eightpence in exchange. For my tall hat I received a shilling, and then, passing a very cheap shop, I bought a grey cloth cap for threepence three-farthings, so that on the whole I gained about one and fourpence by the deal.

Knowing that I must husband my resources, I bought a penny saveloy and a chunk of bread at an eating-house, and then wandered about the streets until nearly nightfall, wondering where I should sleep. The first night was, however, by no means uncomfortable, for, passing a large stable-yard, I saw it contained several empty omnibuses, and, waiting until nobody was looking, I made a rush into one of these; I lay down at full length on the seat, and slept until a stable-man woke me at half-past five the next morning.

But over the next few days I intend to pass rapidly, for indeed they were too full of wretchedness to be dwelt upon. From early morning until late at night I wandered about the streets or in the parks, where also I slept. I took every care of my scanty stock of money, but at last it came to an end. Once I held a horse for twopence, once I carried a heavy portmanteau from Charing Cross to Tottenham Court Road for a penny, and once a lady took pity on my condition and gave me threepence. Then I parted with my jacket, and lived on the proceeds for three days while walking about with nothing above my shirt.

(Continued on page 173.)

GOOD-BYE TO THE LAST FIRE.

Good-bye, old fire! We won't forget Your pleasant warmth and glow, When evening shades were dark as jet, And outside lay the snow. But now, you see, we're right in May, It's spring, without a doubt, And so, good fire, I grieve to say It's time that you were out.

The little leaves are springing green, The skies above are blue; The primrose everywhere is seen, The almond's blooming too. Of course, you don't expect to stay When flowers are round about, And so, good fire, again I say It's time that you were out.

But when, once more, November chill Its cloak of mist has spread, And o'er the lonely winter hill The sun goes soon to bed, We'll call you back with joyous shout, And, as the shades descend, We'll draw the blinds to shut them out And greet you as a friend.

JOHN LEA.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

IV.--THE STORY OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

On the 2nd of April, 1805, was born, amid very humble surroundings, a little Danish boy named Hans Christian Andersen, who, in later years, became the most popular tale-writer that perhaps the world has ever known. Andersen's Fairy Tales, though written in a past century, and for another generation, are just as popular to-day as they ever were, and it seems as if all children (and grown-up people who have kept their child-like hearts) could never tire of these delightful stories. We can all read, and re-read, the 'Ugly Duckling,' or the 'Eleven Wild Swans;' we can sympathise with the love of the faithful 'Tin Soldier;' and who can resist laughing at all the outrageous performances of 'Little Claus and Big Claus?' Truly, Andersen had the key to unlock all hearts!

Now for the story of the writer's life.

The father of Hans Andersen was only a poor shoe-maker, but he loved reading and poetry, and seems to have taught his little boy a similar love. The shoe-maker amused himself by making a toy theatre for his little Hans, and showed him how to work the puppets, and make them act little plays. This was a winter amusement. In the long summer days he would often take the child to the woods--and here, in the great birch forests, the two would spend the hours, hardly saying a word to each other, but each dreaming his own dreams as they sauntered along the shady paths.

But these happy childish days soon came to an end: the kind father died, and Hans had to go to a charity school, where he learnt little beyond reading and writing.

Money was now very scarce in his home, and both Hans and his mother were often hard put to it for a meal.

One day they went out into the fields to glean corn, and were chased off the ground by a cruel bailiff, who ran after them with a heavy whip. The bailiff, with his long legs, soon overtook the little eight-year-old Hans, and was about to bring his whip down on the child's shoulders, when Hans turned round, and looking full at the angry man, exclaimed: 'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?'

The bailiff was so taken aback at this rebuke from the mouth of a child that he dropped his whip, and, fumbling in his pocket, produced some money, which he offered to Hans to make up for his unkindness.

A year or two later a widow wanted some one to read aloud to her, and Hans got the place. The widow's husband had been a poet, and, as Hans read out his poems, the boy's ambition was fired.

'I too will be a poet!' he cried, and, on returning home, he at once set to work and wrote--a tragedy!

The news of this performance spread amongst the neighbours (very likely the mother boasted of it, as mothers will), and all wished to hear it; so they came together in one of the larger cottages, and Hans read his wonderful tragedy to the company, and felt bitterly hurt when the greater part of them laughed heartily at the play.

Meanwhile the mother was growing poorer and poorer, and Hans had to leave school, and to try and earn his bread.

He went to a large factory, and here the workmen, finding Hans had a good voice and knew many ballads, would get him to sing to them, and to act scenes for their amusement from the great Danish writer, Holberg, whilst another of the boys employed in the factory was told off to do Hans' work for him.

After a time, however, the men tired of Hans and his songs, and he had to take his place amongst the other boys, who, being jealous of the notice that had been taken of Hans, led him a sorry life. At last he could bear their persecution no more, and left the factory--never to return to it.

The next few months he spent quietly at home, reading eagerly any book he could get hold of, and specially delighting in a copy of Shakespeare. The old toy theatre was had out once more, and the puppets were put through the scenes of the Merchant of Venice and King Lear.

After a short time it was decided that Hans was to be apprenticed to a tailor. Hans, however, had other ambitions than to sit cross-legged on a board; he had read much lately of famous men, and he now said to his mother, 'I want to be famous, too!'

He had his plans all made, and had, he said, plenty of money to carry them out, for he had lately earned the immense sum (as it seemed to him) of thirty shillings, by singing and reciting at the houses of rich people. With this capital he begged his mother to let him go to Copenhagen and try his fortune.

She consented unwillingly at last, and the fourteen-year-old boy set off to make his own way in the world.

He reached Copenhagen--the city which now proudly claims him for her own--late one September afternoon, and at once went to the theatre and begged for employment, telling the manager he had a good voice and loved acting.

'You are too thin for the stage,' said the manager, shortly.

'Let me have a salary of a hundred dollars, sir, and I will soon grow fat,' quickly answered the boy.

'We only take people of education here,' said the manager, and poor Hans had to go away with a heavy heart.

Could he only have foreseen that in a few years' time his own plays would be acted at that very theatre, and a throng of eager citizens would be applauding the words of the now friendless boy!

But this was all in the future. At present misery and starvation stared him in the face.

At last, after he had met with endless failures, a rich Copenhagen merchant saw there was genius in the boy, and, finding that he lacked education, sent him to school to learn Latin and mathematics.

It was, of course, very galling to Hans, now a tall lad of seventeen, to have to sit on a bench with little boys of nine and ten, and be jeered at by both master and scholars for his backwardness. But Hans persevered, and at last he passed all his examinations, and was granted a travelling scholarship.

Meanwhile he had published his first book, which was at once successful; the promise of his boyhood began to be fulfilled, for he wrote the fairy tales by which he became famous, not only in his own country, but all over Europe.

He travelled in Italy, France, Germany, and Spain, and in 1847 he came to England, where, to his great delight, he found his stories better known than even in his own country. He was a welcome guest at many of our great houses, and, on a second visit to England some few years later, he stayed with Charles Dickens at Gad's Hill.

Andersen never married; he lived in Copenhagen when not on his travels, and here he loved to gather round him children of all ages and all ranks, whom he would delight with some of his wonderful tales.

On his seventieth birthday he was fairly overwhelmed with letters and presents of kindly greetings from all parts of the globe, and these tokens of love and goodwill much pleased the old man.

The end came a few months later, and on August 4th, 1875, Hans Christian Andersen died, regretted by all who had come in contact with him, and most of all by the band of children whom he had so loved to gather round him.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

II.--THE DEERSLAYER.[2]

Hurry Harry, Deerslayer, Judith, and Hetty are the four principal characters in Cooper's famous book, which has delighted many thousands of readers.

Hurry Harry, as he was nicknamed, his real name being Harry March, had a dashing, reckless, off-hand manner, and a restlessness that kept him constantly moving about from place to place. He was six feet four in height, well proportioned, with a good-humoured, handsome face. Deerslayer was a very different man from Hurry Harry, both, in appearance and character. He, too, was tall, being six feet high, but with a comparatively light and slender frame. His face was not handsome, but his expression invited confidence, for it had a look of truth and sincerity.

Hurry was twenty-eight years of age and Deerslayer several years younger. Their dress was composed of deer-skins, and they were armed with rifles, powder-horns, and hunting-knives. The two men were guided by very different principles, those of Hurry Harry being entirely selfish, while Deerslayer sought, backwoodsman though he was, to live up to what he called 'white-man's nature.'

Judith and Hetty were supposed to be the daughters of a man known as 'Floating Tom,' otherwise Thomas Hutter, a man who had been a noted pirate in his younger days, but in his later years had settled down--as he hoped, beyond the reach of the King's cruisers--to enjoy his plunder.

At the time at which the story is laid Britain and France were at war, fighting in Canada, and it is said that neither side had refrained from offering payment for scalps. Whatever excuse there may have been for tribes of Indians taking the scalps of their enemies, there can have been none for Christian white men, and so Deerslayer held, but not so Hurry Harry and Thomas Hutter, both of whom, as we shall notice, suffered for their cruel practices.

If Hurry and Deerslayer were unlike in appearance, character, and principle, so, too, were Judith and Hetty. Judith was very handsome, quick-witted, fond of admiration and fine clothes, while Hetty was not beautiful to look at. Hetty was possessed of a weak mind, and cared little for the admiration of others, although she was of an affectionate nature. Her principles were good, and she ever sought to follow the good she knew, her constant companion being her Bible, for which she had the deepest reverence, while the good counsels of her mother, whose body rested beneath the waters of the lake beside which the family dwelt, were put in daily practice by the devoted child.

Two other characters of the story deserve more than a passing word. One was Chingachgook the hunter, the other 'Hist,' a lovable maiden, both of whom were great friends of Deerslayer; they were Delaware Indians by nationality.

(Concluded on page 171.)

FOOTNOTE:

[2] The Deerslayer, by J. Fenimore Cooper. There are several cheap editions published which can be easily obtained.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

8.--RHYMED METAGRAM.

1. Now thin and plain, now rich and sweet, But nearly always good to eat.

2. A pigment painters use when they The lovely blushing rose portray.

3. A garden tool we sometimes need When smoothing soil and sowing seed.

4. Our true regard for any friend; The purpose, final cause, or end.

5. To seize, to choose, to get, to hold, Sometimes to catch, as we catch cold.

6. Active, alive, to cease from sleep; A noisy Irish feast to keep.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 195.]

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 130.

6.--1. Cat. 2. Yes. 3. Will. 4. Pony. 5. Dry. Rat. Yet. Pill. Pond. Day. Rag. Pet. Pile. Bond. Way. Hag. Pot. Pine. Band. Pay. Hog. Not. Pint. Bard. Pat. Dog. No. Pent. Bare. Pet. Went. Care. Wet. Won't. Cart.

7.--Never despair.

1. Paris. 2. Pear. 3. Rasp. 4. Veer. 5. Rip. 6. Near. 7. Nerves. 8. Spain. 9. Span. 10. Drip.

THE TWO PUPILS.

A Hindu Fable.

An old philosopher who had two pupils one day gave each a sum of money, and told them to purchase something with it, which should fill the room where they did their studies. One pupil went out into the market and bought a large quantity of hay and straw, and the next morning he invited his master to see his room, which he had almost filled with the results of his purchase.

'Ah! very good, very good!' exclaimed the philosopher; and now turning to the other pupil, he said, 'Well, friend, and what have you bought?'

'A small lamp and some oil, which will fill the room with light in the dark evening hours. This will enable us to continue our studies by night as well as by day, if we should so wish,' replied the pupil.

'You have made the best purchase,' said the philosopher.

A wise pupil, who profits by instruction, is the delight of the master.

THE DUKE AND THE TRAVELLER.

For a quarter of an hour, during one of the greatest crises of the Battle of Waterloo, when the Duke of Wellington had sent all his aides-de-camp with orders to the different divisions of the army, he found himself alone at the very moment when he most needed help. While watching the movements of his troops through his field-glasses, he saw Kempt's brigade beginning a manoeuvre which, if not promptly countermanded, would probably lead to the loss of the battle. But there was no officer at hand to convey his orders. Just then he turned round in his saddle, and saw not far off a single horseman, rather quaintly attired, coolly watching the progress of the strife. The instant the Duke caught sight of him, he beckoned to him, and asked him who he was, why he was there, and how he had passed the lines.

He answered: 'I am a traveller for a wholesale button manufactory in Birmingham, and was showing my samples in Brussels when I heard the sound of the firing. Having had all my life a strong desire to see a battle, I at once got a horse, and set out for the scene of action; and, after some difficulty, I have reached this spot, whence I expect to have a good view.'

The Duke, pleased with his straightforward answer, determined to turn his sense and daring to good account, and addressed him as follows: 'You ought to have been a soldier. Would you like to serve your country now?'

'Yes, my lord,' said the other.

'Would you take a message of importance for me?'

Touching his hat in military fashion the traveller replied, 'Were I trusted by you, sir, I would think this the proudest day of my life.'

Putting his field-glass into the man's hands, the Duke explained to him the position of the brigade that had made the false move, and added: 'I have no writing materials by me; see, therefore, that you are very accurate in delivering my message.' He then entrusted to him a brief, emphatic order, which he made him repeat, that there might be no mistake.

The orders were barely delivered before the stranger was off at the top of his horse's speed, and soon disappeared amid the smoke of the battle. After a few minutes' interval, the Duke turned his glass in the direction of the brigade which was at fault, and exclaimed, in a joyful tone, 'It's all right, yet. Kempt has changed his tactics. He has got my message, for he is doing precisely as I directed him. Well done, Buttons!'

The Duke used to say he considered the alteration of Kempt's original movement the turning-point of the battle. Wishing to reward our hero for his intelligence and courage, he caused inquiries to be made for him in every direction, but in vain. It was not till many years afterwards that he accidentally heard of the man's whereabouts, and managed to secure for him a good appointment in the West of England, in recognition of his services.

NEVER DRAW A SWORD EXCEPT IN A CAUSE THAT IS JUST AND RIGHT.

An English sailor, when travelling through France, arrived at the town of Vernon, where he met with a great crowd of riotous men and women. The mob had laid hands on a wealthy man, though he had done no wrong, and knew the use of money much better than they did. The rich man was to be hanged. In vain did the young sailor plead with the crowd: they only laughed at him, and pushed him aside with words of scorn. As a last resource he boldly pushed his way through the crowd, and with a strong grasp clung fast to the man who was so near his death.

Above the wild yells and uproar, his voice was heard: 'This man has done no wrong. I come to save you from a great sin. If you hang him, you shall hang me too.'

The worst of hearts are often touched by a noble act of self-sacrifice, and the fearless words of truth. The Frenchmen gave a cheer for the brave sailor, and were ready to carry him off like a hero. This gave time for the captive to escape. When the incident became known in Paris, the sailor received much honour, and a sword was presented to him, for they said, 'He who had no arms, and yet could save a stranger at the risk of his own life, will never draw a sword except in a cause that is just and right.' The sailor became afterwards Admiral Nesham, who lived to serve his country for many years, and died at Exmouth in 1853.

THE PIONEERS.

A crocus peeped out from its snow-covered bed, In a wood where the red robins sing, And sighed, 'I could fancy, where brown leaves are spread I heard the first footfall of Spring.'

And e'en while it spoke, from a tree-top above There fluttered the song of the Wind: 'I come from the south, with a message of love, And the Spring follows closely behind.'

Then while the soft echo was stealing along, The snow melted gently away, And over the meadow a bee's early song Told stories of April and May.

The bluebell and primrose are blossoming fast, And see, where the snow-drifts still cling, The Sun his rich mantle has gallantly cast At the feet of her Majesty, Spring.

SMITHFIELD TOURNAMENTS.

Many Chatterbox readers have, no doubt, visited Smithfield, and others have seen pictures of it as it was in the olden time, when it was known by its executions and burnings. Upon St. Bartholomew's Eve, 1305, Sir William Wallace was put to death under the elms, a large clump of which then stood on one side of the open space. At Smithfield, too, Wat Tyler met King Richard II. on June 15th, 1381, when he received his death-blow from the Lord Mayor of London. In more recent years it was familiar to the public as a big cattle market, now fortunately removed to a better spot north of London. Evidently, too, it was for centuries a very favourite resort with the citizens, the name at first, so historians think, being 'Smoothfield.' The level open space was turfed, and made suitable for horse exercise and a variety of sports.

During the Middle Ages our kings had a palace in the city, and many of the nobles built themselves houses within the walls, or not far off. For some centuries tournaments were forbidden on account of their danger, and they were seldom held in England till after the reign of Richard I. The position of Smithfield was very convenient for holding jousts and tournaments. None but those who were esquires or knights were allowed to take part in these contests, which usually celebrated some important event, such as a royal marriage or a great victory. These tournaments gave an opportunity for a display of courtesy and chivalry. Galleries were arranged for ladies, and one in particular was chosen to preside, who was usually called the 'Queen of Beauty.' If any dispute arose, this lady settled it, and she also gave away the prizes awarded to the victors. A remarkable tournament was held in 1374 at Smithfield. A grand procession was started from the Tower; the King rode first in a triumphal chariot, followed by a number of ladies on horseback, each of whom had a knight leading her horse by the bridle. Many gallant feats of arms were performed, and the tournament lasted a week.

After the battle of Poictiers, a three-days' tournament took place in the cold weather of March, when the Lord Mayor, aldermen, and the sheriffs offered to hold the field against all comers. The chief of the heralds and minstrels had forty pounds given him for his services--a large sum in those days. Richard II. held a great tournament in 1394, when the Earl of Mar and other nobles from Scotland appeared in the field. Then, and for several years afterwards, there were several jousts and combats between Scots and Englishmen. A remarkable combat took place in 1398 on London Bridge, a wooden structure broad enough to give room for the fighters and spectators. Sir David Lindsay and Lord Wells agreed to run courses on horseback for life or death, and this was done in the presence of King and court. After a desperate struggle, Sir David Lindsay won. Again, there was a joust at Smithfield during the same reign, when the Queen gave as prizes to the most successful in tilting a gold coronet and a rich bracelet. At this tournament, too, there was a grand procession from the Tower; in front there rode an array of minstrels and heralds, while along the streets flags and banners were displayed.

The fifth Henry held several famous tournaments, and so did the fourth Edward. Edward IV. had a tournament at Smithfield in which his queen's brother, Lord Scales, engaged the young Duke of Burgundy. They fought with spears, swords, and pole-axes, until Lord Scales slightly wounded the Duke. It seems probable that tournaments at Smithfield ceased after the Wars of the Roses.

It may be as well to explain the difference between a tournament and a joust. Jousting, or tilting, was a frequent amusement; in this the knights fought with blunt lances, and each tried to break his opponent's lance or to unhorse him. But in a tournament they engaged with sharp weapons, and the combatants were often wounded, sometimes killed outright. The large open space in St. James's Park, next to the Horse Guards, was at first called the Tiltyard, because of the tilting that went on there when our kings came to reside in Westminster.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

II.--THE DEERSLAYER.

(Concluded from page 167.)

'The Deerslayer' abounds in incident. One of the most thrilling adventures is that which befell 'Floating Tom' and Hurry Harry, who had so far forgotten what was due from their white man's nature as to plan to enter the camp of the Indians at night, with the object of securing the scalps of unwary men, women, and children, and so obtaining the bounty offered by the Government for each scalp. On one of these occasions, when they had gone ashore, they were taken captives by the Indians and came very near to losing their lives. They only escaped through the brave conduct of Hetty, the well-known straightforward dealings of Deerslayer, and the fact that hidden away in an old sea-chest of Hutter's, amongst fine clothes and other relics, were some beautifully chased ivory chessmen, among them being four castles supported by elephants, an animal unknown by sight to the American Indians. When the grim old warriors who held Hutter and Hurry prisoners saw the little ivory animals, their delight knew no bounds. They were familiar with horses and oxen, and had seen towers, and found nothing surprising in creatures of burden. They supposed the carving was meant to represent that the animal they saw was strong enough to carry a fort on its back. It was fortunate for the prisoners that the old sea-chest contained such treasures; had it been otherwise, they would probably both have lost their lives.

They were not so fortunate when they fell a second time into the hands of the Hurons, who had secretly gained possession of 'Muskrat Castle,' as Hutter's house had been called. This 'castle' stood in the open lake, at a quarter of a mile from the nearest shore. There was no island, but the house stood on piles, with the water flowing beneath it. The lake in other directions was of a great depth, but just where the piles had been driven was a long narrow shoal, which extended a few hundred yards in a north and south direction, rising to within six or eight feet of the surface of the lake. Floating Tom had built his house strongly, while the position made him safe against attack unless his assailants came in a boat. One day when Hutter and his friends were absent from the 'Castle,' the Hurons took possession of it, and when Hutter and Hurry returned they knew that they had fallen into a complete trap. Only a short time previously, Hurry's reckless spirit had led him to commit an act of wanton cruelty,--that of raising his gun and firing from the canoe in which he was seated into the woods. His random shot struck down an Indian girl, and caused her death, so that the Hurons felt no goodwill towards him. The Indians knew, too, that Tom and Hutter would have been only too willing to attack any of their party should it lie within their power to do so. Hurry, whose conduct towards his foes had been ferocious, was captured by means of a rope of bark, having an eye, which was thrown so dexterously that the end threaded the eye, forming a noose and drawing his elbows together behind his back with a power that all his gigantic strength could not resist. A similar fastening secured his ankles, and his body was rolled over on to the ground, as helpless as a log of wood.

Hutter fared even worse, for he was found by his daughters wounded, and in a dying condition.

'Oh, Judith!' exclaimed poor, weak-witted Hetty, as soon as they had attended to the sufferer, 'Father went for scalps himself, and now where is his own? The Bible might have foretold this dreadful punishment.'

A different scene is that which tells what befell Deerslayer when he fell into the hands of the foe. They had let him out on furlough, well knowing that they could trust his word. It was in vain that his friends in 'Muskrat Castle' tried to persuade him that he was not obliged to keep faith with such a cruel foe. Deerslayer was firm. A promise to return had been given, and it must be kept, for God had heard it, and God would look for its fulfilment. Well he knew that the cruelties of the Indians would be practised on him, and that he would be put to the 'tortures'--the young Indians, all of whom hoped to become warriors, would not, he knew, hesitate to subject him to such woes that even to read of them makes one's heart sink. Yet this knowledge could not deter him from keeping faith with them.

Bound so tightly to a tree that he could not stir an inch, he was obliged to submit while the various young men of the Indian tribes threw their tomahawks so as to strike the tree as near the victim's head as possible without hitting him. His nerves stood the terrible test, and he neither winced nor cried out with fear. The second torture was that with the rifle, only the most experienced warriors taking part in this. Shot after shot was sent, all the bullets coming close to the Deerslayer's head without touching it. Still no one could detect even the twitching of a muscle on the part of the captive or the slightest winking of an eye.

But we will not continue to describe the tortures to which the brave Deerslayer was subjected, none of which could cause his brave spirit to quail. Hetty, whose feeble mind won for her the esteem and care of the Hurons--who believed that the feeble-minded were under the special favour of the Great Spirit--unable to endure the thought of what Deerslayer, their good friend, might be suffering, made her way to the camp of the foe, carrying her Bible with her, and there addressed the chiefs and warriors assembled at the 'sports.' They listened to her patiently and kindly for a time, but after a while bade her sit down, and proceeded with their dreadful work. In vain did Judith, dressed out in all the brocaded finery from the old sea-chest, suddenly appear on the scene, telling them that she was a great mountain-queen who had come in person to demand that Deerslayer be set free. Both the sisters' attempts failed, and death would have been the lot of the good man had not troops from the nearest garrison arrived at the very moment when they were most needed, and so saved Deerslayer.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 163.)

I descended to terrible depths during those homeless days, and, at the lowest, when half-starving, dirty, hopeless, it happened that I almost ran against Mr. Parsons. It was about a quarter to three, in Brook Street. He stopped abruptly, and stood gazing at me with an evident effort to maintain his usual expression of benevolence.

'Now,' he said, smoothly, 'you will just make up your mind to come along with me, my lad.'

'I know I won't,' I answered.

He stood with his hands on the crook of his umbrella, while his lower jaw moved as if he were trying to swallow something; but whether it was one of his favourite aniseed lozenges, or his indignation against myself, was more than I could tell. One thing, however, seemed certain: if he strove to hide his wrath, it could only be with the object of getting me once more into his power.

'Ah, Jacky, my lad,' he exclaimed, shaking his head, 'you have not done much good for yourself since you turned your back on your best friend. A great mistake, Jacky--a great mistake!'

Indeed, I must have looked very disreputable. A pair of grey trousers, supported by one brace--the other having given way some days ago--a dirty shirt, neither jacket nor waistcoat, unwashed hands and face, boots coated in mud, hair which had not lately known a comb and brush--it would have been difficult to find a grubbier street-arab within a few miles.

'Anything is better than living with you,' I cried.

He had drawn closer, but at the same time I took the precaution to edge away, determined on no account to allow him to put a hand on me again.

'Don't be afraid, my lad,' he said.

'I'm not,' I answered, though it was only half-true.

'I don't want to hurt you, Jacky,' he continued, in a wheedling voice. 'I want to be your friend. You look hungry, my lad; now come along with me--not home, but to a nice little eating-house I know. The hot joints will be just ready. Nice hot joints, Jacky--roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and apple pie to follow. It is waiting for you round the corner, Jacky, as much as you like to eat, and then we can have a nice quiet chat together.'

It appeared inconsistent, but the naming of these luxuries caused a feeling of something like temptation for the moment, which only those who have been in need of food can understand. While I knew that nothing in the world could induce me to accompany Mr. Parsons, still the mention of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding tickled my palate, and a great longing for something to eat came over me. I had tasted no food that day, and yesterday only a few scraps.

Instead of answering, I turned my back, whereupon Mr. Parsons thrust out his umbrella, catching my right arm with its crook, while at the same time he grasped my left wrist with his disengaged hand. Now I had been conscious of a strange giddiness and weakness, with a tendency to let my thoughts wander, during the whole of yesterday and to-day, and at this moment the fear suddenly seized upon me that I might be unable to resist the man and consequently fall into his hands again. So raising my voice I shouted with all my might, 'Police! police!' and although no policeman appeared, two or three passers-by soon collected around us, while Mr. Parsons still gripped my wrist.

'Would some gentleman kindly call me a cab?' said Parsons, in a voice which might have deceived anybody. 'You will break your father's heart, Jacky,' he continued. 'Now come home to your mother without making any more trouble.'

'You are not my father,' I answered, still speaking as loudly as I could. 'You are a thief, you make false coin, and you live at----'

'Ah!' cried an old lady, who formed one of the small crowd which by this time had collected, 'here is a policeman at last,' and at the same moment I felt Mr. Parsons' grasp relax. Pushing his way through the throng, he stepped into the middle of the road, stopped a passing hansom, entered it and was driven off. While the old lady intercepted the policeman, I seized the opportunity to get away, turning my steps towards Hyde Park, where I sat down on a seat.

Now I began to find a difficulty in keeping my eyes open; my chin constantly dropped on to my chest, and then I would wake again with a start.

I seemed to be living again through all that had occurred since I left Castlemore: again I was selling the silver watch and chain at Broughton, while the tramp gazed at me through the window; again I was being pursued along the main road, sleeping under the tree in the wood, robbed of all I was possessed in the chestnut plantation. Once more I was awakened after a short sleep by Mr. Baker's dog, Tiger, and taken to the cosy farmhouse with the red blinds, where Eliza gave me food and a comfortable bed, in which I dared not lie down to rest, because I knew that Mr. Baker would be certain to carry me back to Ascot House the following morning. Then again I was racing across fields, floundering into damp ditches in the darkness, sleeping in the shed, and afterwards helping a bicyclist to blow up his tyre in the country lane. Once more I seemed to be lying prone in the cornfield, while Mr. Turton inquired whether Mr. Westlake had seen me, and Jacintha was looking down from the other side of the hedge at the same moment. I was sleeping in the empty house on the forest, and shivering at the weird, ghostly sounds in the night; I was again delighted to make friends with Patch, and regretful to have him taken away from me by the fat ginger-beer man.

I could almost taste the pear and the preserved apricot which I had eaten in the arbour at Colebrooke Park with Jacintha and Dick; once more I made the acquaintance of Mr. Parsons in the train.

Which, if any, of these were waking memories, which were feverish dreams, it is quite impossible to tell, but every day's experience seemed to be lived through again, and, at all events, at last I must have fallen pretty soundly asleep; and after I actually woke again, reality appeared like a dream. It seemed perfectly natural, after my recent adventure with Parsons, to meet Jacintha and a lady, who, from the likeness, in a confused kind of way I imagined must be her mother.

I fancy that I must have opened my eyes for an instant, and then, unwillingly, have closed them again. At any rate, as I sat on the seat, there stood Jacintha, much more gaily dressed than I had seen her before, with gloves and a sunshade, and high buttoned boots, but apparently taking no notice of me as she continued to talk very quickly and excitedly to her companion. They were still in the same position, Mrs. Westlake listening with a kindly, grave face, Jacintha looking almost as if she had been crying, when I once more opened my eyes.

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Chapter XX

'Jacintha!' I murmured, and still she seemed to be almost a part of my dream.

'Mother, he is awake!' cried Jacintha, and Mrs. Westlake leaned forward towards me.

'I want you to come home with me,' she said, but when I tried to stand, it seemed as if I should have fallen if she had not put a hand beneath my arm. With Mrs. Westlake supporting me on one side and Jacintha on the other, I managed to cross the road to the nearest gate, where a hansom was hailed, and I found myself seated by Mrs. Westlake's side, while Jacintha was perched on her knees. Probably I dozed off again the next minute, for the next thing I knew was that the hansom had stopped before the door of a large house, where a middle-aged butler carried me through the hall and laid me down on the dining-room sofa.

Mrs. Westlake seemed to be holding a whispered conversation with a short, stout, rather elderly nurse, whose name was Harper, and presently she left the room, to return a few minutes later with a breakfast cup full of beef-tea, after drinking which I felt very much better. A little later, the butler half-led, half-carried me upstairs, and I seemed to be getting into a deliciously comfortable bed, where I quickly fell asleep in earnest. I have an idea that Harper came to look at me once or twice during that night, and the next morning she took my temperature with a thermometer, but although she declared there was not anything the matter with me, I felt very tired, and not in the least sorry when she brought me my breakfast in bed.

It was about twelve o'clock when Mrs. Westlake herself came to tell me to get up, and then Harper brought a dressing-gown, which together with everything else in the room must have belonged to Dick, who was away from home on a week's visit.

'First of all, you are to have a nice warm bath,' she said, and she led the way to a bath-room, where she had already made everything ready. The water was quite a foot deep and delightfully hot.

When I had had a bath, and put on a summer vest, a white shirt, a suit (almost new) of drab tweed with knickerbockers, a collar and a decent blue and white spotted tie, I confess that I regarded my figure in the glass with considerable approval.

'If you're quite ready,' said Harper, outside the door, 'you're to come to lunch,' but first she led the way to what was evidently Mr. Westlake's smoking-room. I fancied from his manner that he only half-approved of all that Mrs Westlake had done for me. He reminded me of Captain Knowlton, not because the faces were alike so much as because they both seemed to dress and speak in the same way. Captain Knowlton had been dark-haired, and wore a moustache, while Mr. Westlake was fair, and his upper lip was shaven, but he also wore an eyeglass, and stood nearly six feet in height, appearing a little stiff before I knew him properly. As Mrs. Westlake led me towards him, she said a few words in French, and I knew that they referred to her own boy, and the possibility that he might want friends some day, but still Mr. Westlake did not offer his hand, but only nodded and said, 'How d'ye do?'

'Let us go to luncheon,' he exclaimed the next moment, and I stepped forward to open the door for Mrs. Westlake. In the dining-room I saw Jacintha, who at once met me with her hand outstretched.

'You gave me quite a shock in Dick's clothes,' she cried.

'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said, turning to Mrs. Westlake. 'I--I don't know what to say.'

The butler stood with his back slightly bowed, ready to remove a dish-cover; Jacintha shook back her hair, and looked tearful; Mrs. Westlake stared at the plates at her end of the table, and her husband put a pair of hands on my shoulders and pushed me towards my chair, facing Jacintha.

'That's all right,' he cried. 'Sit down and have a good luncheon. We will talk by-and-by.'

(Continued on page 181.)

THE FEAST OF CHERRIES.

Readers of Chatterbox will remember a story which told how a child saved a German town; here is another tale of a siege in which children played an important part.

One morning, during the siege of Hamburg, a weary merchant was slowly returning to his house. With other business men, he had been aiding in the defence of the walls. So severe had been the fighting that he had not taken off his clothes for a week.

He reflected bitterly that all his labour was in vain, for by the following day famine would have compelled a surrender. Passing through his garden, he found himself admiring his cherry-trees, which were loaded with fruit. The mere sight was refreshing, and a thought occurred to the merchant. He was aware that the enemy were suffering from thirst. How glad they would be of that juicy fruit! Could he not by its means purchase safety for his city?

There was no time to lose, and he speedily made up his mind. He collected three hundred small children belonging to the city, had them all dressed in white, and loaded them with cherry-branches from his orchard. Then the gates were opened, and they were sent forth in the direction of the enemy.

When the commander of the besieging force saw the white-robed procession passing through the gates he suspected some trick, and prepared for battle; but when the children came nearer, and he saw how pale and thin they were from want of food, tears filled his eyes, for he thought of his own little ones at home.

As the thirsty--and, in some cases, wounded--soldiers received the juicy fruit from the children's hands, a cheer arose from the camp. Love and pity had conquered. The little ones returned accompanied by waggons of food for the famished citizens, and an honourable treaty of peace was signed the next day.

For many years, the anniversary of the day on which this deed was done was kept as a holiday, its name being 'The Feast of Cherries.' The streets were thronged with children, each one carrying a cherry-branch. Then they ate the cherries themselves, in honour of their brave little forerunners, the saviours of their city of Hamburg.

TOO CLEVER.

Jim Brown stood at the farmer's door-- 'I want a job,' he said. 'Well, lad, have you done aught before?' But Jim just shook his head; An idler boy he'd always been Than any in the village seen.

'Well, tell me now, what can you do?' 'Oh, anything,' said Jim. 'Oh, anything!' said Farmer Grey; Then looking hard at him-- 'Well, drive these pigs to neighbour Pratt-- 'Tis time they went, they're prime and fat.'

Jim drove the pigs from out the yard, But, ere they'd gone a mile, One pig went squealing down the road, And one towards a stile; And while Jim pondered what to do, The naughty pig just wriggled through.

Just then the farmer chanced to pass; 'Hullo!' said he, 'what's wrong?' And when he saw Jim's downcast face, He laughed both loud and long. 'My lad,' said he, with knowing wink, 'You're not as clever as you think.'

C. D. BOGLE.

TORN TO RAGS.

The curious and interesting 'little ways' of Ferdinand de Lesseps, the designer of the Suez Canal, gained for him the favour of many prominent Egyptian officials, when he was in Egypt, and he was often able to get over a difficulty and do a kind act by unusual means. Among his duties was the inspection of a large number of convicts in the Egyptian galleys. Some of these were political prisoners--rather more than four hundred unfortunate Syrians, who had been brought from Syria by Ibrahim Pasha, son of Mehemet Ali, the famous Viceroy.

The Syrian prisoners begged the French count to help them to freedom. De Lesseps had no real power to do this, but he had a kind heart, and did his best to procure the release of the prisoners.

When, however, he mentioned the subject to Mehemet Ali, the Viceroy shook his head.

'These men,' said he, 'are my son's captives, and in such a matter I could no more handle him than I could handle the lightning.'

De Lesseps would not be put off. Mehemet, impressed by his persistence, and wishing to stand well with the French, at last told De Lesseps that he would manage to get five prisoners released quietly every week, until all were free.

He kept his word, and this piecemeal business of freeing the prisoners began. But very soon De Lesseps' house was besieged by the relatives and friends of the Syrians still imprisoned, all begging him to use his influence to get their own special friends included in the next batch to be set free.

The anxious folk thronged round the Frenchman, and in their eagerness plucked at his sleeve and tore it. He resolved to turn this fact to account with the Viceroy. He had an old suit of clothes torn into actual tatters, and wore it upon his next occasion of seeing Mehemet.

Mehemet was naturally greatly astonished at his friend's strange appearance.

'What on earth has happened to you?' said the Viceroy.

'In arranging that five of those prisoners should be freed each week,' replied De Lesseps, 'you have made me the prey of the relatives of those who yet remain in the galleys. The number of the Syrians was four hundred and twelve; therefore your Highness can easily reckon up and tell how long I must go in rags.'

The Viceroy was highly amused with the serious and pitiful look which De Lesseps put on as he said these words. After indulging in a hearty laugh, he gave orders for the immediate release of the remaining prisoners. Thus, by his ready wit, De Lesseps persuaded the Viceroy into an action which he would never have done if asked plainly at first.

E. D.

WHITE NEGROES.

Have you ever heard of a white negro? Perhaps you will laugh at me for asking the question, but there really are such people in the world, and travellers and missionaries have met with them. I do not mean to say that there are whole tribes of white negroes in some far-off countries, which are not often visited by travellers, but that, scattered among all or nearly all the black races, there are individuals who are white. These persons are like the rest of the tribe in size and shape; they have the same features, and the same kind of hair; but their complexion is white, their hair is either quite white or straw-coloured, and their eyes are lighter in shade than those of their companions.

Dr. Livingstone met with several of these white natives in some parts of Africa, while in other parts he never saw any. One of these strange people was a young boy, a very fine, intelligent fellow, of whom his mother was very fond. His features were exactly like those of his parents, who were both black. His woolly hair was yellow, and the pupils of his eyes were pink. His father looked upon him with horror, very much as an English father might be expected to look upon a black child, and he treated him always as an outcast. The great traveller knew others, both men and women, who were quite white. Their skins were always very sensitive, and the heat of the sun blistered them very much. One of the white women, perhaps through a sort of shame for her colour, was most anxious for Dr. Livingstone to make her black, which was more than he could do.

A missionary who had spent many years in Fiji had met with five Fijians who were white. Three of these were grown-up persons, and one was quite a little baby, being only two or three weeks old. This baby's skin was much whiter than that of an English baby, although both its parents were young and healthy, and as black as any Fijian could be. The grown-up persons were as white as, if not whiter than, a weather-beaten Englishman, and their hair was flaxen. Their skin was very smooth, and looked like a kind of horn, and it was cracked and blistered with the heat of the sun, like the skin of the white negroes whom Livingstone saw. The white Fijians had pale blue or sandy-coloured eyes, which could not bear the heat of the sun, and the poor men went about with their eyes half closed. Similar men with white skins and white hair are found among the other black races which inhabit the islands of the South Sea.

Among the red men of North America there are a few who have no colour in their skins, and there are a great many who have light-coloured hair. In one tribe a traveller found a great many men and women who had had grey or white hair all their lives. He thought this was a very strange thing, but had he known as much about other countries, he would have been aware that this peculiarity is found among the dark races in nearly every part of the world. White men are found not only in the countries already named, but also in India, where they are looked upon with some amount of dislike by their fellow-countrymen. In some parts of Africa, on the other hand, these white men are regarded as magicians, and held in honour by the rest of the tribe.

Strange to say, not only are there negroes who are white, but there are some who are patched or spotted black and white all over. I have a picture of such a negro before me as I write. He is a native of Loango, on the west coast of Africa. From head to foot he is spotted in black and white patches like a piebald horse, though in all other respects he seems a large, well-made, healthy man. I have also before me the picture of a spotted negro boy; who was exhibited as a curiosity in one of the London fairs nearly a hundred years ago.

When a negro is white or piebald, it is because he has been born without the black colouring matter which other negroes have in their skin. He suffers from a defect, and deserves to be pitied. The black colour of a negro's skin enables him to bear the heat of a fierce sun, and, as we have seen, the negro whose skin is white suffers much pain and inconvenience. A similar colouring matter in the eyes helps to shield them from the bright glare of the sunlight, and the poor man whose eyes are without this protection is compelled to go about with half-closed eyes.

A BOY'S HEROISM.

A True Anecdote.

A couple of boys were once climbing about some disused scaffolding in a lonely place, when a beam on which they were standing gave way under their feet. Both fell, the elder a little before the younger. But just in time the elder managed to clutch another beam and hold fast to it. By a providential coincidence, his brother, catching wildly at anything within his reach, seized his legs, and the two hung suspended thus, with all the weight on the elder boy's arms. Before long, the strain became too great, and he called out to the other that they were lost, for he could hold on no longer. No one was near, and there was little hope that their cries would attract attention.

'Could you save yourself if I let go?' asked the younger.

'I think so.'

'Then good-bye, and Heaven bless you,' said the little boy.

With these words he let go, and was dashed to pieces upon the ground beneath. His brother, thus released from the additional weight, was able to pull himself up to a place of safety.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

V.--HOW INSECTS FLY.

The wings of insects are like those of bats and birds only in the work they do. In another respect they are quite different organs. The wings of the bird and the bat, for instance, are formed from the front pair of limbs, but the wings of insects are formed on a very different plan from the walking limbs, of which there are never less than three pairs. The bat and the bird have only one pair of wings, the insects have two, though in many cases the hinder or second pair have been reduced to the merest stumps, or vestiges, as they are called. In other words, they are all that is left of a once useful pair.

The butterfly has two pairs of wings; the fly is a good example of an insect which has but one pair. The stumps or vestiges of the second pair can only be found after careful search. But these vestiges--which are known as the 'balancers'--have a new use, and probably act as organs of hearing as well as to guide the flight. The butterfly uses both pairs of wings in flight, the beetle only the hinder pair, the pair that in the fly are only 'vestiges.' The front pair of wings in the beetle form hard horny cases or shields for the protection of the hinder wings, which lie beneath them when not in use.

The wings of insects are often brilliantly coloured, and this colour may be caused in two very different ways. Generally the colours of the wings are due to the way the surface of the wing is made, for this surface reflects light. But the colour of the wing of the butterfly is to be traced to a quite different cause. If the fingers be rubbed over the surface of a butterfly's wing, they will be found to be covered with a fine coloured dust, whilst the wing itself will become quite transparent (as in fig. 1). If this dust be looked at under the microscope, it will be seen that it is made up of a number of tiny scales, most beautifully shaped (as in fig. 2). Each scale is fixed to the surface of the wing by a tiny stalk and in a regular order.

From the shape of the wings in the butterfly or moth we can tell more or less how the insect flies. Long and narrow wings give a swift and rapid flight, broad round wings a slow and leisured flight.

The wings of insects are moved by only a few muscles, but with wonderful rapidity. It has been calculated that the common fly makes with its wings three hundred strokes per second, the bee one hundred and ninety. The dragon-fly and the common cabbage-white butterfly of our gardens, however, have a much slower beat of their wings, the former twenty-eight strokes per second, the latter only nine. The machinery by which they move is like that of an oar.

Insects' wings are folded in various ways. Those of the butterfly, when at rest, are raised up over the back, so that the upper surfaces of the right and left wings come together. In the moth the hinder wings pass under the fore-wings, which are held flat over the back. But the beetle and the earwig hide their hind-wings beneath a hard case not used in flight. The size of the hind-wings, however, is so great that before they can be covered by the horny case, they have to be folded up, and this is done in a really wonderful manner, especially by the common earwig.

Most people probably think of the earwig as flightless; but, nevertheless, beneath a tiny pair of horny wing-cases, a very wonderful pair of transparent wings is cunningly tucked away. The marvellous way in which they are folded up after use we cannot describe in detail here. In each wing there is a hinge shaped somewhat like a half-moon, in the middle of the stiff front edge (fig. 3, in the wing extended on the left). When the hinge is bent, the outer half of the wing folds over towards the tail, and the tip points forward. The further inward folding of the hinge of this rod next appears to divide the wing into two, the second portion passing under the first, and thus bringing the wing down to half its original size. By this time the mechanical or automatic folding process stops, and the rest of the folding up has to be done by the aid of the pincers at the end of the body. Finally the packing up is complete, and the two hard outer cases, like a couple of tarpaulins, are drawn over the delicate wings to protect them.

On the right side of the body, in fig. 3, the wing has been folded up, and is covered by the wing-case.

The folding of the beetle's wing is also done by means of a hinge, but the packing up is less close, as the outer covering cases are larger.

* * * * *

Most insects walk as well as fly, and their walking is not less wonderful than their flight. Fig. 4 represents the foot of a fly. It will be seen, under a strong microscope, to have a pair of large claws and a pair of leaf-like plates, one on each side. The claws and the plates have different uses. The plates are used when the fly is walking, say, up a window-pane or along a ceiling. They are moved so as to lie flat on the surface which the fly is crossing, and when they are laid flat a number of tiny hairs are pushed out from them, from the tips of which a sticky liquid oozes, so that the fly is practically glued to the surface on which it is crawling. The claws are used to cling on to uneven surfaces, on which they can get a good grip. In the next article we shall say more about the way in which insects walk.

W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 175.)

During the meal Mr. Westlake talked about cricket, asking whether I played, and I explained that there had not been enough of us at Castlemore to make a proper eleven. He inquired further about Mr. Turton and Mr. Windlesham, and gradually led the conversation round to the days when I used to live in Acacia Road with Aunt Marion. I told him that she had married Major Ruston, and gone to India, but that I did not know her address nor Major Ruston's regiment.

'We can soon find that out,' he said, and sent the butler for the Army List. When he had looked in this, he raised his eyes to my face again, mentioning the number of the regiment, and explaining that it was at present at Madras.

Then he turned to the book again. 'I don't find Captain Knowlton--didn't you say that was the name?' he asked.

'Yes,' I answered, 'but he left the service when he came home from India, four or five years ago. He came into a lot of money, you see.'

'And Captain Knowlton was your guardian?' he asked, fixing his eyeglass.

'Not exactly an ordinary guardian,' I explained. 'My father was a soldier too, and Captain Knowlton said he saved his life, and that was why he looked after me.'

After I had told him all about Mr. Parsons, he rose and went to the room where I had first seen him, calling me to follow. I shut the door when Mrs. Westlake had entered, and Mr. Westlake stood lighting a cigar.

'Upon my word,' he said, in his slightly drawling voice, 'there seems to be only one thing that is possible to be done with you for the present, Everard.'

'What is that?' I asked, with considerable misgiving.

'Naturally,' he continued, 'I shall write to Major Ruston and explain the exact circumstances in which Mrs. Westlake found you, and I have no doubt that when he hears what I shall tell him, he will make some sort of arrangement for your future.'

'But it will take a long time to get an answer.'

'No doubt, but you seem to be placed in a very awkward position. As far as I can understand, Captain Knowlton had every intention of looking after you if he had lived----'

'Oh, yes!' I cried, 'because he told me I was to go to Sandhurst.'

'But, you see,' he said, 'he did not make a will. Is that right?'

'Yes,' I answered. 'Mr. Turton found out the address of his solicitor, and told me there was no will.'

'So that, except your aunt in India,' he continued, 'there appears to be no one upon whom you have the least claim. Yet, Mr. Turton----'

'I don't want to go back to Mr. Turton,' I cried, taking a step towards him.

He took his cigar from his lips, and stood gazing for a few seconds at the ash, which he then knocked off into the fender.

'That is all very well,' he said. 'I suppose no boy who ran away from school ever felt any strong desire to return. But I understand that you admit that Mr. Turton tried to find you--that, in fact, he would have found you if Jacintha had acted as she ought to have done.'

'I don't want to get Jacintha into a row,' I exclaimed, and the slightest of smiles lighted his face.

'I am certain you don't,' he answered, 'and you need not trouble yourself on that score. But as Mr. Turton tried to find you, it is pretty clear that he wished to take you back with him. Now, if he wished to take you back, he could not have had any strong objection to keeping you. You don't complain that he treated you brutally?'

'No,' I said, 'I never saw him give any fellow a licking; but, still----'

'Anyhow,' Mr. Westlake continued, 'I have decided to write to Major Ruston, and tell him all the circumstances, offering to do anything on your behalf which he wishes; then I shall take a train to Castlemore the first thing to-morrow morning and have a chat with Mr. Turton.'

'I wish you wouldn't,' I exclaimed.

'That is what I feel compelled to do,' he said, 'and what I hope will happen is this. I hope that Mr. Turton will take you back and promise me to treat you well until there's time to get an answer from Madras. If that answer is unfavourable, though it is not in the least likely to be, I shall see Mr. Turton again. In any case, we must have no more wanderings. There has been enough of that. Supposing that Major Ruston cannot do anything, and Mr. Turton declines to keep you, we must make the best of a bad job. No doubt I can find you employment in a firm with which I am connected, and you ought to have sense enough to see that this is the very best thing to be done in the circumstances.'

'Couldn't you find me work at once, and not tell Mr. Turton?' I suggested eagerly, while Mrs. Westlake fixed her eyes on his face. But he slowly shook his head.

'Understand,' he said, 'I don't intend to lose sight of you again. At the worst, you will have to work for your living; but, in the meantime,' he added, 'I am going to put you on your honour. You must give me your word not to attempt to leave the house alone until my return.'

Of course I gave my word, but I felt that my last hope had gone. All that I had done, all that I had passed through, had been to no purpose. I might as well--far better--have stayed at Castlemore, since there seemed little doubt that I should be taken back to Ascot House to-morrow. I could imagine Augustus's triumphant snigger, and all the humiliation of the return.

'I should not be surprised,' said Jacintha, later in the afternoon, 'if Mr. Turton refused to take you back, and if he does,' she exclaimed, 'Father is going to see whether Mr. Windlesham will have you until he hears from Major Ruston.'

'I should not mind that,' I answered. 'I shall not mind anything if I don't go back to Mr. Turton's.'

I went to bed early that night, and slept perfectly until one of the maids knocked at my door the next morning. But when--as soon as we had finished breakfast--Mr. Westlake was driven away from the door in a hansom, I felt that my own departure might be only a matter of a few hours. During the morning Mrs. Westlake took me out for a drive with Jacintha, but try as I might it was impossible to show them a cheerful face, and while I understood that Mr. Westlake was doing what he considered the best for me, it seemed difficult not to regard him as an enemy. That afternoon I sat in the dining-room, unable to attempt to make my escape because of the promise which I had given Mr. Westlake, yet feeling that there were few things I would not endure rather than eat humble pie and go back to Mr. Turton.

Four o'clock had struck, and Mr. Westlake might arrive at almost any moment with the news of my fate.

'Do you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'that Father will bring Mr. Turton with him?'

'I should not be a scrap surprised,' I answered, dismally. 'Then I shall sleep at Ascot House to-night.'

'Mind you write,' she exclaimed, 'and tell me everything that horrid Augustus says, and all about things.'

A little later, as the clock struck half-past four, Mrs. Westlake entered the room.

'I think Mr. Westlake must have missed the train which he expected to catch,' she said. 'The next will not bring him home until about half-past six.'

'We were wondering whether Father would bring Mr. Turton with him!' cried Jacintha.

Mrs. Westlake came to my side, resting a hand on my shoulder. 'You know,' she said, gently, 'that at the very worst you will only stay at Castlemore until we hear from Mrs. Ruston.'

But, for some reason, I placed very little confidence in Aunt Marion, who, I felt certain, had entirely washed her hands of me before her marriage. Presently Jacintha suggested that we should go to another room where there was a chess-table, but it was impossible to fix my thoughts on the game, and she checkmated me twice in ten minutes.

'It's no good,' I exclaimed. 'I can't think of anything but Mr. Turton.'

When the clock on the mantelpiece struck six, I rose from my chair and began to fidget about the room, looking every few minutes to see how the time was passing.

'I think I heard a cab or something stop at the door!' cried Jacintha presently.

'So did I!' I muttered.

'I wish I knew whether Mr. Turton had come,' she said.

'Can't you find out?' I suggested.

'Perhaps I can see from the hall,' she answered, and as the front door bell rang again she left me alone in the room.

A few seconds later she hastily re-entered.

'There are two!' she cried, excitedly.

'Is one of them Mr. Turton?' I demanded.

'I could not see distinctly through the glass door,' she said. 'Only I am quite positive there are two.'

As she spoke, and I gave myself up for lost, the butler hastened past the open door of the room in the act of thrusting his left arm into his sleeve. The bell was rung a second time.

'Do have another look!' I urged, and once more Jacintha darted out of the room, while I felt, for my own part, as if my feet were riveted to one particular part of the carpet.

'It isn't Mr. Turton,' she exclaimed, returning the next instant, and this was at least a reprieve.

'Perhaps he wouldn't have me back after all,' I answered, and then I felt suddenly cold from head to foot, for the voice of Mr. Westlake's companion sounded remarkably like one which I had never hoped to hear again. Unable to restrain myself, I ran out to the hall, and there stood Captain Knowlton giving his hat and stick to the butler.

'Ah, Jack!' he said, with one of his casual nods; and he took my hand as if he had parted with me yesterday, and had been expected back as a matter of course to-day. But I began to laugh and cry by turns, clinging to his hand as if I were fully determined never to let him go again.

(Continued on page 187.)

A SPARROW'S COOLNESS.

Our commonest bird is the sparrow, that plucky, impudent, little creature which hops about in our gardens and yards, and twitters upon our roofs all day long. It seems rather difficult at first to understand why it should be so much more common than other birds. It is not large or strong, or swift on the wing, and it seems to have none of those advantages which would help it to defend itself against enemies. It is not handsome, and it is not a sweet songster, so that man is not disposed to give it much protection. He is often prompted to destroy it, because of the injury which it does to his gardens and his crops.

But in spite of all its difficulties, the sparrow thrives, and brings up a numerous family, because it has less fear of man than other birds have. It frequents the haunts of men, while other birds are scared away from them. It requires some courage to brave the noise and tumult of a town, but the sparrow possesses this courage, and is rewarded accordingly. As other birds are too timid to trust themselves to a life among houses and streets, the sparrow needs no protection from them.

Ordinary as the sparrow is in almost every respect, we cannot but admire its courage and its wariness. It is surrounded by many dangers, and it is not only surprising how it braves them, but also how watchfully it looks out for them, and how cleverly it learns to avoid them. We all know how it watches the cats and the dogs, and even a man with a gun, and seeks a place of safety at the first sign of danger.

One of the newspapers recently gave a very striking instance of a sparrow's confidence and coolness. A passenger who was waiting for a train in one of the Underground Railway stations observed a sparrow hopping upon the rails in search of crumbs. A train came into the station from the direction in which the passenger wished to travel, and he had leisure to watch the sparrow. It allowed the engine to come within a few feet of it, and then, instead of flying away, it quickly hopped off the rail upon which it stood, and hopped into the space between the rails. There it lay until the train puffed out of the station, when it jumped upon the rails again, and resumed its search for crumbs. Presently another train entered the station, and the sparrow was seen to repeat its previous action, and to take refuge once more between the wheels of the train.

W. A. ATKINSON.

THE INTRUDING SQUIRREL.

The squirrel in the woods is as full of frolic and play as a kitten. One would think that it had not a care or anxiety of any kind to break in upon its play. And yet it has food to find, a family to bring up, a winter nest to make, and several stores of food to lay up ready for those occasional days when it wakes up from its long winter's sleep.

This winter sleep of the squirrel, and some other animals, is something very strange, which we do not thoroughly understand. With the first touch of winter's cold, they curl themselves up, and fall into a sleep which lasts until the return of spring. This sleep, or hibernation as it is properly called, is a very useful habit for the animals which are subject to it, because it enables them to live on at a time when their food is very often scarce. During this sleep their bodies scarcely waste away at all, and a few good meals, when they wake, soon put them right; whereas, if they were always running about, they would be almost incessantly hungry, and would probably die of starvation during the winter.

Some animals remain torpid throughout the winter, while others wake up occasionally, and enjoy a day's life every now and then in the midst of their long sleep. The common squirrel is one of the latter. Whenever there is a warm, mild day in winter, it wakes up, feeling very hungry, and turns out of its nest for a run. If it trusted to chance for a meal, it would have to return to its nest hungry. But during the autumn it has gathered large quantities of hazel-nuts, acorns, beech-nuts, and fir-cones, and has stored them away in various holes near its nest. When, therefore, it has enjoyed one of its winter runs, it visits one of these store-houses, makes a hearty meal, and then returns to its nest to sleep for a few more days, or a few more weeks, until another warm day comes round.

The squirrel selects for his storehouses various holes in the trunk of the tree near his nest, which are often the deserted nests of some wood-pecker. Indeed, he is not always content to wait until the wood-pecker deserts her nest, especially as he relishes the taste of an egg. A writer in the Standard describes how he saw a wood-pecker turned out of her house to make room for an impudent squirrel. The squirrel, descending backwards down a tree-trunk, suddenly found his hind legs in a hole. Probably he felt something sharp pecking at them, for he drew them out quickly, and rapidly climbed to a branch immediately above. A moment later a wood-pecker flew out of the hole. The squirrel watched her out of sight, and then returned to the nest, and helped himself to an egg or two, which he carried up to his perch, and ate.

When these were disposed of, he descended once more to the wood-pecker's nest and waited for the return of the bird. The moment she appeared at the entrance to her nest, the squirrel flew at her like an angry cat. The startled wood-pecker fled in fear, and the squirrel came forth triumphantly and went away for a short time. Whilst he was away the wood-pecker came again and looked into her nest. Something, however, probably a broken egg, displeased her, and she flew away again. Shortly afterwards her mate looked into the nest, but he, too, was dissatisfied, and flew away. Many times they returned to the nest, but always with the same result. At length they seemed to make up their minds that they could never make their home in that nest again, and they flew away to another part of the wood. The squirrel promptly took possession of the deserted nest, and when autumn came he turned it into a store-house for nuts.

W. A. ATKINSON.

THE GREAT PICTURE BOOK.

The world's a pleasant picture-book, Wherein my eyes may daily look, And see the things set there to please: Mountains and valleys, rocks and trees.

Soft rivers where the sunbeams play; The blue sky spread far, far away; Bright flowers that blossom at my feet, The tender grass, the ripened wheat.

Though I am young, I may grow wise When on this book I turn my eyes, And, as I look, with reverence see The pictures painted there for me.

'Tis God Who made this book so fair, Who gave the colours that are there; Who paints the daisies red and white, And in the sky sets stars at night.

FRANK ELLIS.

THE STORY OF SLATE.

Slates are not so much used in our schools as they were years ago, exercise-books being cheaper now. Still, there are some schools where the children have slates, and pocket-books are to be bought, containing a slate tablet, on which you can write notes, and rub them out afterwards to make fresh ones. Slates upon the roofs of houses are objects familiar to us all. Probably few, young or old, who have to do with slates, ever think what this substance is, and where it has come from. Yet slate is one of the most wonderful things in this world of ours.

Supposing the first question put to us was, 'What is slate?' our answer would be, 'It is simply a sort of dried mud.' If the second was, 'What is its place amongst the rocks of our earth?' we should say, 'Slate belongs to the Cambrian formation.' This is a big series of rocks, sometimes eighteen thousand feet thick. It contains in the middle what geologists call flags and grits, but the larger part of it is slates. There is but one series of rocks more ancient than the Cambrian, and that is the one called the Laurentian, which is said not to be found in Britain.

'Cambrian,' some might say: there is a reason for that name, which of course is only another word for Welsh. Though, in their first order, these slaty rocks lie deep down, they have been lifted high up, and they show us some of the grandest scenery we have in this island. The hills and precipices of Wales, and the hollows where the mountain streams flow, tell of the shakings and twistings that the Cambrian rocks have gone through. Amongst them grow ferns and rare flowers, while many a tourist draws in new strength as he mounts them. Sometimes, high up, the rains and winds have made the rocks so bare that even mosses cannot live upon them, and in the clear sunlight the slates appear of various shades, from pink to deep blue.

One curious thing about slate is that the layers are often twisted or wrinkled. This has been caused, partly at least, by their being thrust up when half hardened, so as to cause a sort of fold or crease. This was chiefly done by the still harder granite.

It is wonderful to think of the succession of plants and animals that slate has had to do with; it was in existence when the coal forests were forming, and it must have been trodden by the strange creatures of other strata, which are now extinct, but of which relics are dug up. Another remarkable fact is that the slate-beds have had wonderful ups and downs over and over again during the earth's changes--being at one time under a deep sea, at another lifted to form hills, as we frequently see them now.

FROST-BITTEN IN THE RED SEA.

A strange accident happened a few years ago on board a large steamer in the Red Sea.

One of the assistant-stewards had occasion to go to the ship's ice-room to fetch something which had been forgotten when the day's provisions were given out in the morning.

The man was not missed for some time, and, when search was made, the poor fellow was found nearly frozen to death. Some one had thoughtlessly slammed the door of the refrigerator, which could only be opened from the outside.

The prisoner had a terrible experience, and after doing what he could to attract attention, had sunk exhausted on the floor.

Fortunately, the head steward noticed that the key of the ice-room was missing, and this led to the man's discovery. If he had not been found till the following day, he would probably have been the first man to be frozen to death in one of the hottest parts of the world.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Continued from page 183.)

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Chapter XXI

With the return of Captain Knowlton the story seems to come to its natural end; but, although he had heard from Mr. Westlake all about my own adventures, there still remained, of course, a great deal to discuss.

When he was presented to Mrs. Westlake, she insisted that we should both dine in Grosvenor Gardens, and as it was difficult to refuse anything to one who had shown me such kindness, Captain Knowlton apologised for his travelling clothes and consented. Presently, when we were all sitting down together, Mrs. Westlake begged for Captain Knowlton's story. He leaned back in his arm-chair, beginning in an easy, conversational tone, as if he were telling us about a walk from one part of London to another.

'It was April when I left the Solent in the Seagull,' he said, 'making for Gibraltar, where I picked up two or three men of my old regiment, and cruised for a week or two in the Mediterranean. Early in May I sailed for Madeira, touched at the Canaries, then steamed south, crossed the line, and in due course reached Capetown. There the man who was to have accompanied me for the whole trip found a telegram to the effect that his father lay seriously ill in Vienna, so that I had to continue the voyage without him. A few days out from Capetown we got into very bad weather, which grew worse and worse until, in the middle of the roughest night I ever experienced, we were run down by a huge liner, which brutally went on her way, leaving us to our fate. The skipper wanted to be the last to leave the Seagull, but I sent him off with seven or eight of the crew, and, before the rest could get away, the ship went down under us. I found myself in the water, one moment lifted high on the crest of an enormous wave, the next sunk in the trough. I gave myself up for lost, when something was washed against my arm, and seizing it, to my great good fortune, I found that it was one of our life-rafts, which had served as a seat on the Seagull's deck.

'The night was the blackest you can imagine; from the moment the ship foundered I saw nothing either of the boat's crew or of the men who had been left with me. For what seemed an endless time I clung to my raft, and I imagine that the tide must have carried me some distance from the scene of the wreck. As the night wore on--it seemed as if it would never pass--I grew weaker and weaker, but presently the sky became lighter, and just as I was telling myself that I might as well let go of the raft and bring things to an end, I saw a small schooner close by. After half an hour of terrible suspense, I began to think she was bearing down upon me, and, with such strength as I had left, I shouted. At last, thank Heaven, I succeeded in attracting attention; a line was thrown, and after some little trouble, more dead than alive, I was hauled on board.

'The schooner was a Spaniard bound for Valparaiso, but she had lost two men--washed overboard in the storm--and been a good deal knocked about. In fact, I began to think that my end had only been postponed for a few hours. She had sprung a leak, the water seemed to be gaining, and after a short rest I took my turn at the pumps with the crew. However, we rode out the storm, and then, two or three days later, we lay becalmed for three weeks. She was, at the best, the slowest craft I have ever seen, and everything seemed to be dead against her. We were many miles out of our course, the stock of provisions--such as it was--and of water ran short, and although the captain seemed very little dissatisfied, I grew more and more hopeless.

'Naturally,' said Captain Knowlton, with a glance in my direction, 'I thought a good deal of Everard. I knew that there was no one but myself to provide for him, and that in any case I should be given up for lost. Even if (as happily proved to be the case) our skipper succeeded in getting to land, he would be certain to report all the crew that were not in his boat as drowned--as, in fact, they all were except myself. I fumed and fretted to reach land, but that was all I could do, and when at last we got to Valparaiso, I lost no time in sending Mr. Windlesham a telegram.'

(Concluded on page 194.)

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

A Story of Adventure in the North Sea and in China.

By H. C. MOORE, Author of 'Britons at Bay,' &c.

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