Chapter I…

Chapter I

'I want a North Sea fisherman's outfit.'

'Yes, sir,' the Grimsby shopkeeper answered cheerfully, suspecting that his young, gentlemanly-looking customer required the things for a fancy-dress entertainment or theatricals. In two or three minutes he had produced for inspection a jersey, thick trousers--commonly called 'fear-noughts'--heavy top-boots, and a set of oilskins.

'I will try them on,' the lad said, and, retiring behind a screen, changed his clothes. Then he looked round for a glass, anxious to satisfy himself that he had the appearance of a North Sea fisherman. The shopkeeper, unasked, assured him that he had, and, as there was no one else there who could be consulted, the youth purchased the outfit.

'Do my other things up in a parcel,' he said to the shopkeeper. 'I will keep these on.'

'But it's raining hard, sir,' the man exclaimed, not believing that his customer wanted the clothes for real use.

'I don't mind that at all. I want a little of the newness rubbed off. Now I come to think of it, I might just as well have had a second-hand outfit.'

The shopkeeper rustled the brown paper, and pretended that he had not heard what was said.

'May I send it home?' he asked when he had made a neat parcel of the suit, cap, and boots which the boy had taken off.

'Yes. I will write the address.'

When the bill had been paid, the lad stepped out into the dirty Grimsby street, and strode off in the direction of the docks.

The clothes were meant for use after all. Charlie Page--for that was the lad's name--was not going to a fancy-dress ball, but had purchased his fisherman's outfit because, on the following morning, he was to begin work as a deck hand on board the steam trawler, Sparrow-hawk.

How it came about that he was bound for the Dogger Bank needs explanation. His father was a prosperous Lincolnshire man who had built up a large export business, which was now about to be converted into a limited liability company. Mr. Page was to become managing director of the new company, but, unfortunately, he could find no suitable position in the concern for his son Charlie. He determined, therefore, to purchase, with a portion of the money which he would receive from the company, a new business for his son.

He had heard that there were three Grimsby steam trawlers for sale, and entered into correspondence with the respective owners. The price which they asked for the trawlers was not high if they really earned what it was asserted they did, but Mr. Page had a strong suspicion that the amount of their profits was exaggerated.

'Shall I go to Grimsby and discover the truth?' Charlie said to his father one evening rather suddenly. 'I might get a job on one of those three trawlers and keep a sharp look-out all the while I was aboard her. I could count the boxes of fish, and get all the information that I could from the crew.'

'A good idea, my boy, but do you think that you could carry it out? A North Sea fisherman's life is a terribly rough one. It would not be a pleasure trip for you.'

There was a great deal of discussion before Charlie's daring plan was finally adopted. Mr. Page was struck by his son's grit and keenness, and knew, moreover, that the experience would do him good. In his own young days, before he returned to Lincolnshire and settled down to business, Mr. Page had spent three eventful years in South America, and although he had had many decidedly unpleasant adventures, he by no means regretted them. He was glad, too, to find that his son inherited some of his love of adventure, especially as it was to be used, in this case, for a good, sensible purpose. Charlie was only sixteen, but he was big and strong for his age, and the sea air and hard life would probably do him good physically as well as morally.

'I will give you ten pounds,' he said to Charlie on the following morning, 'and as you are not likely to be away much more than a week, it will, I think, be ample for your wants.'

Charlie thanked him heartily, and an hour or two later started for Grimsby. He knew the town well, and making his way to the docks, had little difficulty in finding where the Sparrow-hawk lay. She was coaling when he discovered her, and knowing that all hands would be busy, he sat down on the black scaffold-like dock and watched from a distance as truck after truck was tilted over, sending its load of coal into the shoot, down which it ran with a rattle on to the ship's deck. The trawler's men, black as niggers, shovelled the coal quickly into the hold. Fortunately the greater portion of the load had been taken aboard before Charlie arrived, and after waiting for about half an hour, he saw the last truck-load shot down. He knew then that in about an hour's time some of the Sparrow-hawk's men would be coming ashore. He watched them with interest as, having shovelled all the coal into the hold, they turned the hose on the deck, and with brooms and swabs worked hard to remove the coal-dust which coated everything. When this task was finished, the men gathered around two buckets and washed themselves. They needed washing badly.

The first two men who came ashore had friends waiting for them, so that Charlie had no opportunity of speaking to them. The third man to come ashore had no one waiting for him. He was a short, bow-legged little man, with a goatee beard and a small brass ring in the lobe of each ear. Charlie spoke to him.

'Thank you, sir,' the man answered, as he took the tobacco which Charlie offered. 'Smoking is not allowed here, so I will save it till I get outside the gates.'

'Are you a Grimsby man?' Charlie asked.

'No fear. I come from Gorleston. If this was Yarmouth I should be able to enjoy myself at home, but as it's Grimsby I don't expect to have much of an evening.'

Charlie felt that he had come across the very man he wanted.

'Come to my hotel and have a chat,' he suggested. 'I want some information about North Sea fishermen.'

'Certainly, sir. Are you a journalist?'

The bow-legged fisherman had a great respect for journalists, having on one occasion received from a newspaper representative a good big 'tip' for describing how a trawler worked.

Charlie could not, however, by the greatest stretch of imagination, call himself a journalist, and so he ignored the question put to him. The fisherman put his silence down to modesty.

The hotel at which Charlie had taken a room was close to the docks, and, therefore, the manager and waiters were not horrified, as they would have been at a London hotel, at seeing a rough fisherman brought into the building.

After Charlie had seen that the man had some food, they went to his sitting-room.

'I'm happy now, sir,' the fisherman declared, having lighted a pipe and thrown himself back into a roomy chair.

For a few minutes there was silence. Then Charlie said, 'I should very much like to make a trip to the North Sea on a steam trawler.'

'I should not advise you to do so, sir. A trawler is no place for a gentleman.'

'Nevertheless, I mean to go out in one.'

'Ah! I see your game, sir. You have heard what a rough time we fellows have in the North Sea, and you have come down here to get information, and then put it in a London newspaper. But it's no good, sir. There's no skipper in the North Sea who wouldn't guess what you were up to, and make some excuse for not taking you aboard his ship. You must give up the idea, sir.'

'I mean to get a job on a trawler, and go to sea as an ordinary fisherman. Then I shall be able to obtain, from personal observation, all the information I want.'

The bow-legged fisherman sat up in his chair deeply interested.

'That's a splendid idea, sir,' he declared, 'and I only wish you could get a job on the Sparrow-hawk, for you would see enough on that trawler to make you write till you wore out your pen. The skipper is an old villain, and that crafty too----'

The bow-legged fisherman did not finish his speech, but nodded his head, and raised his hands in horror, as if words were too weak to express the real character of the skipper. Naturally, Charlie became more anxious than ever to make a trip on the Sparrow-hawk.

'Can't I get a job on her?' he asked.

'No, sir. All the same hands are taken on for the next trip.'

'Couldn't I bribe one of them to stay away, and let me go aboard in his place?'

'Pretending that you are he?'

'Yes.'

''Course you could. Take my place, sir.'

'I am afraid that is not possible,' Charlie remarked, thinking of the fisherman's bow legs and goatee beard.

'Why not? It isn't hard to pretend you are bandy-legged. Lots of boys pretend they are bandy-legged when they see me coming.'

'It would be rather tiring to have to continue the pretence for two or three weeks. Moreover, I haven't a beard.'

'You could say you had shaved it off.'

'That would mean that I should have to shave nothing every morning, just to keep up the deception. If I didn't, the crew would wonder why my beard didn't grow. But, joking apart, I am very anxious to make a trip in the Sparrow-hawk, and if you, at the last moment, will pretend that you are too ill to go aboard, and will send me as a substitute, I will pay you your wages, and give you a present as well.'

'I agree, sir,' the fisherman declared, promptly.

'When does the Sparrow-hawk sail?' Charlie asked.

'In two days' time.'

'Then I must buy my outfit to-morrow. Where shall I meet you to-morrow afternoon?'

'At the Fishermen's Home, sir.'

'Very well. I will be there at four o'clock, and here is half-a-sovereign for you, to show that I am in earnest.'

'Thank you, sir,' the fisherman exclaimed, and departed, more than ever convinced that journalists were the most generous fellows in the world.

(Continued on page 198.)

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

V.--THE FIRST ASCENT IN ENGLAND.

Though the English people, on the whole, disbelieved the tales they heard of the French balloonists, they became very interested when a certain young Italian, named Vincent Lunardi (Secretary to the Naples Ambassador), gave out that he was willing to build a balloon and make a voyage in it. Those devoted to science contributed willingly to the expenses, and large crowds paid to be allowed to see the balloon while it was being made. When nearly complete, it was exhibited in the Lyceum, and the arrangements made with the proprietor of that building very nearly led to disaster. He proved to be a greedy, dishonest man, and when Lunardi wished to move the balloon to where the ascent was to be made, he refused to let it go unless he was paid half of all Lunardi secured by the venture, and a large share in any profits that might be made on future occasions. Here was a difficulty Lunardi had not expected, and it came with many others equally unlooked for. When Lunardi first made the proposal, he had got leave from the Governors of Chelsea Hospital to ascend from their spacious grounds; but, while the balloon was being made, a certain Frenchman had set up in opposition, and announced that he would give a display immediately. This promise he failed to keep, and the disappointed sightseers paid him back by breaking up his machinery. The idea of such a thing being repeated terrified the Governors of Chelsea Hospital, and they requested Lunardi to go elsewhere. He had just got over this trouble by being promised the ground of the Honourable Artillery Company, when the proprietor of the Lyceum refused to release the balloon. The Artillery Company, thinking themselves the victims of a fraud, ordered the apparatus, which had been sent to them, to to be thrown off the ground unless Lunardi found securities in five hundred pounds to cover any injuries their premises might suffer at the hands of the mob. But the proprietor of the Lyceum had overreached himself, and when the matter was explained he was compelled to give up the balloon, which was forthwith taken to the artillery grounds under a special guard.

Two days later the scene of action was thronged by a noisy crowd, and Lunardi has spoken of the dread he felt lest anything should happen to delay the ascent. While the balloon was being filled, he viewed the assembly from the upper storey of the Artillery House. Windows, roofs, and scaffoldings were crammed, while in the large square below, the people were so closely packed that it 'looked like a pavement of human heads.' And they were by no means orderly, for most had come with the idea that they were to be deceived. The arrival of the Prince of Wales, however, put them in a better humour, and in less than two hours after the appointed time, Vincent Lunardi carried out his promise. He would not risk a longer delay. Though the balloon was only two-thirds full of gas, and he had to disappoint a friend who had arranged to sail with him, he gave the signal and weighed anchor.

The grumblings of the fickle crowd turned to roars of applause, as the balloon rose slowly over the house-tops. The noisiest and the roughest there forgot the jests they had made at Lunardi's expense. And Vincent Lunardi forgot them, too, for his worry was over, and his long labour rewarded.

He had made his balloon without any valve at the top, and in order to descend, had fitted it with long oars, shaped like lacrosse sticks. These he now began to work in order that the vast crowds, who had not been near enough to see him embark, might know that he was in the car. But scarcely had he placed his hands upon them, when one of the oars snapped off, and returned to the earth. It was instantly broken into fragments by the crowd, the pieces being kept as relics by those who were fortunate enough to secure them.

Lunardi then gave himself up to the enjoyment of his voyage, and watched the great city spread beneath him till it became no more than a doll's town.

Over the common of North Mimms Lunardi again plied his oars, and landed, with the assistance of some country folk, in a field called Etna. Here he released a cat which he had brought from London. It had felt the coldness of the upper air considerably. A dog and some pigeons had also accompanied him, and with these he continued his journey, finally landing at Ware. A stone erected on the spot tells, to this day, the story of his adventure.

As regards his mention of the oars, it has been pointed out that, since Lunardi had to throw out ballast when rising the second time from Etna field, it is hardly likely that his descent was due alone to the working of the oars. It must have been through loss of gas, and he deceived himself in thinking otherwise.

London was delighted at the news of his voyage. George III., who had broken off an important state conference to peep through his telescope at the wonderful balloon, afterwards allowed the young Italian to kiss his hand at a brilliant levée. Military honours were bestowed upon him, and with fewer obstacles in his way he now made fresh flights.

But perhaps his greatest triumphs were in Spain, the king of which country gave him a residence in the royal palace at Madrid. Here, on January 8th, 1793, he made a grand ascent, taking with him a number of carrier pigeons. In the car of his balloon he wrote particulars of all he saw, with as much ease as he would have done in his study. Carefully folding the manuscript, he sent it on by one of the pigeons to the governor of Madrid. It was the first time that the world had ever known of a post-office in the sky, but, for all that, the letter was delivered as promptly as any one could wish.

Lunardi's cruises in the clouds were sometimes attended by great danger, particularly one he made in Portugal, on August 24th, 1794. It was a windy day, and when, on nearing the earth, he threw out the anchor, the rope snapped as it caught against a tree. The balloon rose to a height of three miles, and fearing that he would be blown out to sea, Lunardi pulled the valve-rope. Unfortunately this broke too, but enough gas escaped to cause the balloon to descend rapidly. A quarter of an hour later the car struck the ground with great violence, and a sack, weighing twenty pounds, was jolted out. Relieved of this weight it rose again, but less powerfully, and Lunardi found himself, a little later, being dragged and bumped along the ground at a great pace. Some ignorant peasants, terrified by the balloon, ran for their guns, and the poor aeronaut was treated to a shower of bullets. Fortunately, the speed soon carried him out of range; then, seizing an opportunity, he leapt from the car, among a tumbling mass of ballast and scientific instruments. When he found his feet, it was to see the balloon sailing at a great height towards the sea, and a few minutes later it disappeared from his sight for ever.

JOHN LEA.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(Concluded from page 188.)

'There was nothing more to be done,' continued Captain Knowlton, 'till I reached England. Of course I had no idea that Mr. Turton had taken Mr. Windlesham's place at Ascot House. I reached Southampton yesterday, travelled direct from there to Castlemore without touching London, and saw Mr. Turton. It appears that he opened my telegram the day after you ran away, Everard. By-the-bye,' demanded Captain Knowlton, 'I should like to hear just why you did run away?'

'When they thought you were dead,' I answered, 'and that my school bill would not be paid, and I should be left on their hands, they began to treat me as if I were a servant. I did not believe I should ever see you again; I knew I wasn't wanted there; I--I couldn't stand it, and I ran away.'

'Well,' continued Captain Knowlton, 'Mr. Turton didn't seem to know exactly what to say for himself. He explained, however, that he had paid Mr. Windlesham a long price for the goodwill of the school, and that he reckoned you as one of the most profitable pupils. He could ill afford the loss of your account, to say nothing of your being left on his hands to lodge and feed. Yet he assured me he had no intention to turn you out, although he saw no harm, in all the circumstances, in making you useful.'

'Still,' I exclaimed, 'he need not have made me black Augustus's boots.'

'That,' said Mr. Westlake, 'was evidently the last straw.'

I noticed that Jacintha watched Captain Knowlton's face with some anxiety, thinking, perhaps, that he would show signs of displeasure at my flight.

'Mr. Turton admits,' he continued, 'that since you had taken the law into your own hands, he made no effort to overtake you until the arrival of my telegram. Then, imagining you had turned towards London, he took the train to various towns on the way, and no doubt did his utmost to find you.'

'Oh!' cried Jacintha, abruptly.

'Well,' asked Mr. Westlake, 'what is it?'

'If I had told Mr. Turton where Everard was hiding,' she said, 'he would have explained that Captain Knowlton was alive, and everything would have been all right!'

'All's well that ends well!' remarked Captain Knowlton.

'Everard did not think it would end well the day before yesterday,' cried Jacintha.

'The night is often the darkest just before dawn,' said her mother; but for my own part I kept silent, for, looking back only a few days, and recollecting what had been the outlook, I felt afraid of making an idiot of myself if I ventured to open my lips.

'I gave Mr. Turton a cheque,' said Captain Knowlton, 'and I am afraid I lost my temper. I saw the real state of affairs, and reckoned him up so candidly that we did not part very good friends.'

'You certainly made an impression on him,' cried Mr. Westlake. 'He began a long rigmarole when I explained my business this morning, but the main point of it was that you had turned up and addressed him in language which he really could not describe as polite.'

'No,' admitted Captain Knowlton, gazing at the tip of his cigar, 'I am afraid he really couldn't.'

'He gave me the name of your hotel,' Mr. Westlake continued, 'and, taking the next train to London, I was driven at once to Northumberland Avenue, where luckily I found you at home.'

'I had just come back from an interview with my lawyer,' said Captain Knowlton. 'Of course, I was very anxious to discover what had become of this youngster, and, in fact,' he added, 'a private detective is already looking for him, and to-morrow morning he will see himself advertised for in every London newspaper.'

'A day after the fair!' cried Mrs. Westlake.

'And that,' said her husband, 'is about the end of the tale.'

'Not quite,' answered Captain Knowlton, rising from his arm-chair. 'The most important thing remains to be done, and the most difficult.'

'That is all right, Knowlton,' said Mr. Westlake.

But Captain Knowlton paid no attention. 'I should very much like to know,' he said, 'how to thank you kind people for all you have done.'

'Remember,' suggested Mrs. Westlake, 'that if Jacintha had acted properly, the worst troubles would have been avoided.'

'In my opinion,' said Captain Knowlton, 'Jacintha is a brick. I understand,' he continued, 'that you would rather not be thanked. All the same I shall never forget your kindness, and I hope Everard will not either.'

'No--no fear,' I muttered as I rose, trying to smile, and failing in the most lamentable manner. But there seemed to be a general desire to treat the affair lightly; we shook hands all round, the butler whistled for a hansom, and appeared pleased with the tip which Captain Knowlton pressed into his hand. So we were driven away from that truly hospitable house, and that night I slept in a comfortable room at a great hotel in Northumberland Avenue; the next morning being given up to various visits to the tailor's, the hatter's, the hosier's, and so forth. After luncheon, Captain Knowlton took me to his room and insisted that I should once more relate my adventures from beginning to end; and, when this was reached, we set out for New Scotland Yard, where in a private room I was called upon to tell all I knew about Mr. Parsons and his companions in the presence of an officer in plain clothes.

When I had finished, Captain Knowlton begged the police officer, if possible, to dispense with my appearance as a witness. A few days later we heard that Parsons, Loveridge, and another man had been arrested, although I believe not at the house where I had passed so many miserable hours. On investigation, it proved that there was evidence to convict them without my aid, and although the trial did not take place for some time, the three men were eventually sentenced to terms of imprisonment which would prevent them from preying upon the public for many years to come.

Captain Knowlton consulted Mr. Westlake about the choice of my next school, with the result that a few weeks later found me settled at Richmond with the 'crammer' who was expected to do great things for Dick. Dick and I soon became the best of chums, and, later on, it happened that we entered Sandhurst together, and were in due course gazetted to our respective regiments the same month.

Shortly afterwards, we sailed for South Africa within a few days of each other, and there, at Paardeberg, I received an unwelcome Mauser bullet in my left thigh. While on sick leave at Capetown, waiting until it is possible to rejoin my regiment at the front, I have passed the time by writing this account of my adventures; and, now it is finished, it will shortly be on its way to England, whither, if all go well, I hope, before very many months have passed, to follow it.

THE END.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

9.--TRANSPOSITIONS.

These are the names of two famous soldiers, sailors, poets, novelists, and two queens.

1. EGLLINNOTW. 2. ABGHMLOORRU. 3. ELNNOS. 4. ABEKL. 5. AAEEEHKPRSS. 6. ENNNOSTY. 7. COSTT. 8. CDEIKNS. 9. ABEEHILTZ. 10. ACIIORTV.

[Answers on page 230.]

* * * * *

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 167.

8.--1. Cake. 2. Lake. 3. Rake. 4. Sake. 5. Take. 6. Wake.

A CENTRAL AFRICAN CAKE.

'Hiplay! lu--lu--lu--lu!'[3] some coal-black natives shouted joyously as they stood by the shore of Lake Nyasa, and saw across the blue waters what a European would have taken for water-spouts, or pillars of smoke.

But the natives knew better! Those great pillars darkening the air were dense masses of that African delicacy, the Nkungu fly.

The men hurriedly seized the saucer-shaped baskets which they had with them, and waved them round their heads till they were full of flies.

The next thing to do was to crush the flies in their hands, roll them in leaves, and lay them to roast in the ashes of a wood fire.

When finished the mass looked rather like coffee-grounds, and tasted like liquorice.

This is the only cake a Central African ever makes for himself. English people would hardly want to rob him of it, but to him it is delicious.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] This is the Central African way of shouting 'Hurrah!'

THE WEATHER SPRITES.

LAST NIGHT.

The Weather Sprites in slumber lie, 'Tis plain as plain can be, For clouds have hidden all the sky-- A mist is on the sea, They laid the brooms of wind away Before the day was done, And left a curtain, dull and grey, To hide the setting sun.

'Wake, Weather Sprites! oh, wake again! You slumber all too soon, And, look you, drawn by imps of rain A ring is round the moon. With all your might rub out the ring, Mop all this rain away, For such a night can only bring An even duller day.'

THIS MORNING.

Then through the darkness, ere I slept, I heard them passing by; Across the roof their brushes swept, Then cleared the misty sky. They mopped away with all their might, And dried the garden soon; While busy dusters rubbed from sight The ring around the moon.

And as I throw the shutter wide, And look out at the dawn, The garden paths are neatly dried, And all the clouds are gone. But hark, where in the morning light Yon chestnut lifts its dome, I hear the last, last Weather Sprite Dragging her broomstick home.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

VI.--THE ROCK TEMPLES OF AJUNTA AND ELLORA.

On one of India's loneliest glens, called Ajunta, travellers come upon a perfect settlement of buildings and temples, cut in the face of a semicircle of cliffs about two hundred and fifty feet high. Over the cliff leaps a brawling river, making seven distinct falls before reaching the valley below.

From a distance only pillared fronts appear, but on a closer view the real grandeur and beauty of the temples come to light. The inside walls are covered with paintings, well drawn, and fairly well preserved. The pictures chiefly illustrate the life of Buddha, and the sacred tree beneath which he used to sit often appears in them, hung with rich gifts from his followers. The good works which he did for the poor and suffering are constantly painted. Other paintings show hunting scenes and battles, drawn with great vigour and of huge size; others have pictures of peacocks, elephants, apes, and other animals.

The architecture of these caves is very fine. We can hardly imagine the enormous labour of cutting out the deep ribs of the roof, the light twisted pillars, and elaborate framework for pictures which adorn the galleries. The marvel is how human hands could have done such work, especially when we remember that the natives of India, like those of Egypt, who did great feats in rock architecture, had the smallest and most delicately-shaped hands of all human races.

There are thirty-four distinct rock-temples at Ellora, near Aurangabad, in India. Most of them are of the usual pattern of cave-temples, some the work of Buddhists, others of a sect called Jains, who are famous for kindness to animals. The more modern ones are built by Brahmins, and these are the true marvels of Ellora, though they can hardly be accounted as cave-temples, being cut bodily out of the rock outside as well as inside. The way in which these monuments of industry were probably built was as follows:--The builders first marked off a large square of the cliff, and outside this square dug a wide deep trench, leaving an immense mass of stone standing in the centre. Out of this mass, which may or may not have contained natural caverns, they cut a magnificent temple, standing on a raised platform, and adorned with domes, galleries, colossal statues of animals and the richest forms of ornament. Fancy the patient toil, lasting year after year, even when the outside was finished, of scooping out the interior, with its great halls and passages!

The most wonderful of these temples is called 'Kailus,' and is dedicated to Siva the Destroyer. It has a great court, in which are ponds, obelisks, figures of the Sphinx, and other ornaments, whilst in the middle stands an immense group of elephants. Above these huge creatures, rows of stately columns, in four tiers, one above the other, support the actual temple, and the effect is so light that the building seems to be hung in the air.

Kailus is the sacred mountain in Thibet, from which flow the four great rivers of India, and every year thousands of pilgrims toil in solemn procession round its ice-covered rocks, to bathe in the waters of the sacred Lake Manseroeur, which lies below.

HELENA HEATH.

EASTERN JUGGLERS.

Some True Anecdotes of Wonderful Feats.

Eastern kings and princes are careful, like those of Western countries, that those visitors who come to them should have amusements. There is no difficulty, at any time, in obtaining performers with snakes, for serpent charmers and trainers are well-known and popular. The fearlessness these men show is amazing; it has been said, indeed, that they operate only with harmless snakes, or those deprived of their fangs, but there seems to be evidence they can manage poisonous reptiles in good condition for stinging. The charmers probably influence the snakes in three ways--by music, by fumes arising from substances they burn in a dish, and also by certain movements of their own bodies. Sometimes they practise a sort of fortune-telling by snakes, the motion of the reptile's head towards some object being supposed to give an answer to a question.

A show of wild animals, too, often furnishes an entertainment, and sometimes, after the animals have performed various tricks, or have had mock fights, there is a second part consisting of conjuring and feats of agility. A traveller in the East, describing one of these entertainments, tells us of one Hindoo whom he saw, with very stout arms but rather thin legs. He was bare to the waist, wearing white trousers and a smart skull-cap of blue and yellow silk. A slight yet firm ladder was placed upright; across the top was a strong pole, and at each end of the pole a stout cord hung down. The ends of the cords were staked to the ground, so that the apparatus could not give way. Having made a salaam to the spectators, the Hindoo began his operations.

Rubbing his hands together, the juggler went to the ladder, and grasping the first bar above his head, mounted with surprising activity, keeping his feet motionless about six inches from the frame. Having reached the top by the help of his hands only, he threw his feet upward, and was seen resting upon his head with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs closed. Thus he remained motionless for over a minute. Next, a cord being flung to him from below, he caught it and drew up an iron ball about six pounds in weight, enclosed in a netting of twine. Still remaining upon his head, the Hindoo raised the ball to about three yards from his hand, and then swung it circularly; after a few whirls he launched it through the air, sending it a long distance over the heads of the spectators. His next performance was even more startling. First, he dexterously laid himself upon his back along the pole on top of the ladder. Thus balanced, he had six native daggers, with broad, double-edged blades, thrown to him, and caught each one in turn. Having got them all, he threw them one by one several yards above his head, catching them as they fell, and having always four in the air at the same moment. After a few minutes he let all the daggers drop upon his body, with the blades uppermost.

His next feat was, if possible, still more remarkable. An iron rod about three feet long was stood upright on the pole; upon the top of it he rested a large, shallow, wooden bowl, holding the rod balanced so exactly that it kept quite perpendicular. With a sudden jump, the performer seated himself in this bowl and caught twelve brass balls thrown up to him. Projecting the whole lot into the air, he kept them constantly in motion for several minutes, then sprang to his feet and stood in the bowl with the balls spinning round him. After a few minutes he jumped upon the pole, letting the balls, the rod, and the bowl drop to the ground. As a finish, the little man descended the ladder upon his hands, going head first, and amid shouts of applause bowed and retired.

J. R. S. C.

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 190.)

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Chapter II

From the clothes shop Charlie went to the Fishermen's Home, where he found his bow-legged friend.

'Well,' Charlie said, when they were alone, 'what do you think of my rig-out?'

'No good at all, sir,' the fisherman declared.

'Why not?' Charlie asked, somewhat astonished.

'Because, when you are cooking, the fewer things you have on the better you work. When you have a oven each side of you----'

'Are you a cook, then?' Charlie interrupted.

'Yes, sir.'

'Then why did you not tell me so? I can't go aboard the Sparrow-hawk as a cook, for I have never cooked anything but chestnuts in my life.'

'That doesn't matter, sir. North Sea fishermen are not very particular. The great thing to remember is always to serve up a meal at the proper time. If it isn't done, don't keep them waiting, but let them have it underdone. Never let your fire go out day or night, and always keep your kettle boiling.'

'Do the fellows ever want pudding?'

'Plum duff three times a week.'

'I shall have to give up the job, then, for I couldn't make plum duff to save my life.'

'That's just what I used to say when I first went as cook aboard ship, but I had a shot at it, and a nice mess I made of it. But when I came home from that trip I gave another cook a shilling to teach me how to make a few fancy things, and now I'm thought as good a cook as any in the North Sea.'

'But you know how to make plum duff. I don't.'

'I will tell you. When I discovered how to make anything, I put the particulars down in writing in a little book. I will lend you the book.'

The bow-legged cook put his hand in his pocket and drew out a grimy, paper-covered note-book.

'Plum duff comes first,' he said, as he handed the book to Charlie. 'Can you read it?'

'There are a few words which I can't quite understand,' Charlie replied, for the cookery-book was an extraordinary work. The writing was bad, the spelling was worse, and the abbreviations were confusing. But the cook went right through the book with him then and there.

'Now you'll be able to cook anything,' he declared, when they had got to the end.

'I'm not so sure of that,' Charlie answered; 'but anyhow, I shall have some idea of how to set to work. What time to-morrow shall I have to be aboard?'

'At six in the morning.'

'Won't the skipper discover me before we get out of the river?'

'No. He doesn't often pop his head into the galley. Anyhow, he cannot do without a cook, and if he does see you, he won't turn you off when he finds that I am not aboard. I will write a letter to the mate for you to give him, and perhaps he won't say a word to the skipper about you. Don't you worry yourself, you will be all right.'

Charlie slept that night at the Fishermen's Home. He had a clean and comfortable bed for ninepence, and a good breakfast for a few coppers. The bow-legged cook met him in the morning outside the Home, and gave him a letter to the mate.

'It took me two hours to write,' he declared, 'and when I finished it I didn't think it was worth while going to sleep. But that doesn't matter; I shall get plenty of sleep during the next few weeks. I'm going to live like a gentleman for a time.'

Charlie smiled, and drew his purse out of his pocket. 'Here is three pounds,' he said. 'The other three I will give you when I return.'

'Suppose you don't return, sir? Accidents happen at sea as well as on land. If you got washed overboard, should I lose my three pounds?'

'Oh, no. I have written to my father, telling him the agreement I have made with you, and if I should not return he will pay you the money. Here is his address.'

'Thank you, sir, very much,' the cook answered. 'And now, as it's a quarter to six, you had better hurry off to the Sparrow-hawk. Light the fire and put the kettle on it directly you get aboard. The chaps will want some tea long before they have their breakfast.'

'I'll remember,' Charlie promised; 'good-bye.' And with his bundle of belongings on his shoulder, he hurried off to where the Sparrow-hawk lay.

'Where is the mate?' Charlie inquired of a boy who looked at him sharply as he went aboard the Sparrow-hawk.

'For'ard,' the boy answered.

Charlie went for'ard, and seeing a man standing with his arms folded, watching three men who were working hard, concluded rightly that he was the mate, and handed him the cook's letter.

'Who is it from?' the mate asked.

'The cook, sir,' Charlie answered.

The mate tore open the envelope and glanced at the letter. 'He wrote it with a toasting-fork, I should think,' the mate declared, after looking at it for a few moments. 'He says he is ill. At any rate, he has not turned up. So you're his substitute? Well, take your things below and get into the galley sharp. I want a mug of tea as soon as possible.'

Charlie went down into the foc's'le--a small, dark, stifling place where eight men slept. The thought of having to spend his nights in that dirty, close den made him half-inclined to jump ashore before the boat started. Quickly overcoming the thought, he set to work to discover which was his bunk, and while he was searching for some sign that would help him to settle the matter, a Chinaman came below. He was dressed in ordinary North Sea fishermen's clothes, and his pigtail was wound tightly round the top of his head. Charlie mistook his natural expression for a friendly smile, and therefore smiled in return.

'Which is the cook's bunk?' he asked immediately, and the Chinaman pointed it out to him.

The Chinaman watched Charlie as he stowed his things away and donned his cook's apron. Then he exclaimed suddenly, 'You no sailor-man!'

Charlie looked at the Chinaman in surprise. 'How can you tell?' he asked.

'Never mind,' the Chinaman answered, now smiling in reality; 'me no tellee any one. Me likee you first chop.'

Charlie's knowledge of 'pidgin' English was slight, but he concluded that 'first chop' meant 'very much,' and was pleased to find that he had made one friend so quickly.

'My name Ping Wang,' the Chinaman continued, 'but sailor men callee me Chinee. Skipper Dlummond welly bad man. Callee me tellible bad names. Good morning; no can stop.'

Ping Wang went on deck, and a few moments later Charlie followed and hurried to the galley, where his difficulties commenced. In spite of all his efforts he could not light the fire, and, remembering the bow-leg cook's injunction to keep the kettle always boiling, he began to think that he was making a very bad start. He left the galley in order to ask one of the men to show him how to make the fire burn, and met Ping Wang.

'Can tellee me how lightee fire?' Charlie asked.

Ping Wang nodded his head, popped into the galley, and pointed out to Charlie that he had omitted to pull out the damper. Then he relaid the fire, and, when he lighted it, it burned up quickly.

'You no sailor-man; you no cook!' Ping Wang whispered merrily, and then hurried away.

'Ping Wang and I will get on very well together,' Charlie said to himself as he filled the huge kettle with water. The kettle boiled quickly, and almost immediately after the ship had left the dock the mate's mug of tea was ready.

'Have you given the skipper any?' the mate asked; and when Charlie replied 'No,' he exclaimed, 'You had better be quick and take him some, then.'

Charlie filled another mug with tea and took it up on the bridge, but, just as he reached the top step of the ladder, he stumbled, and, to prevent himself from falling, dropped the mug. It fell with a crash on the bridge, and the tea splashed the skipper's shore trousers, which he had not yet changed.

Skipper Drummond, a short, stout, ill-tempered fellow, was thoroughly disliked by every one who knew him. He glared at Charlie for a moment as if he had committed some terrible offence, and then shouted fiercely 'What did you do that for, you idiot?'

'It was an accident,' Charlie answered bluntly, indignant at being abused.

'Saying it was an accident won't mend the mug.'

'I will pay for a new one,' Charlie rather unwisely replied.

'Pay for it, will you? So we have got a millionaire aboard, I suppose. I wonder you ever came to sea. Why did you? Do the police want you?'

Feeling that if he remained on the bridge he might speak his mind too freely, Charlie turned to go, but the skipper called him back.

'Come here, you ape!' he shouted. 'Do you think I am going to pick up these pieces? Gather them up and throw them overboard.'

(Continued on page 202.)

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 199.)

As soon as Charlie had filled another mug with tea, he hurried back to the bridge.

'You have been a fine long time getting this,' the skipper declared, anxious to resume bullying. But Charlie was determined not to give him an occasion for fault-finding, and therefore he made no reply; but, as he walked back to his galley, he vowed to himself that, do what he might, the skipper should not have the satisfaction of making him miserable. Already he had come to the conclusion that the man was dishonourable, and was more than ever determined to find out to what extent he hoped to defraud his father. He found that the galley contained very few cooking utensils, but the need of them was not likely to be felt that voyage, as the provisions consisted almost entirely of tinned meats. There was not even one joint of fresh or salted meat aboard. Charlie, therefore, did not have much difficulty in preparing the dinner, as each tin of provisions bore instructions for the cooking of its contents. Punctually at one o'clock he took a plate of mock-turtle soup to the skipper, who was then in his cabin under the bridge.

As Charlie entered, the skipper glanced at his watch hanging on a nail at the side of his bunk; but, finding that he could not abuse him on the ground of being late, he contented himself with scowling. But, a few moments later, he pretended that he had a real cause for complaint.

When Charlie returned with the next course the skipper said, sharply: 'Look here, young fellow, don't you be so generous with other people's things. There is enough meat for two men here. I'll eat it this time, but remember I won't have any waste on this trawler. I know exactly what provisions you have, and if they go too quickly, I shall give you in charge for robbery. So just you be careful.'

Charlie had not given the skipper a very big allowance of food, and was naturally surprised at the reprimand which he had received. Had he known that the skipper had a private stock of provisions, kept under lock and key in his cabin, he would not have been surprised at his small appetite.

'Can I bring you anything more, Sir?' Charlie asked.

'No,' the skipper replied, 'and don't you come bothering for these things until after two o'clock.'

That order was given so that Charlie should not return until he had removed all traces of his private provisions.

Glad to have finished for a time with the skipper, Charlie, with the aid of the ship's boy, carried the men's food to the foc's'le. There was no mock-turtle soup for them, but simply tinned meat, boiled and floating in brown liquid.

The crew of the Sparrow-hawk were a brutal, low-minded set of men, and their conversation sickened Charlie even more than the discomfort of his life; so, after swallowing a few mouthfuls of the food, he went on deck, and, going aft, sat down on a coil of rope to think.

When he had been there about ten minutes Ping Wang joined him.

'This is the first time you have been to sea on a trawler,' the Chinaman declared as he sat down beside him.

'How do you know?' Charlie asked, astounded to find that Ping Wang could speak excellent English.

'I could see that you were surprised at the way in which the men eat and talked. If you had known that they behaved in that manner, you would not have come to sea.'

'That is very likely,' Charlie admitted.

'Why have you come?' Ping Wang inquired.

'One must do something for a living.'

'You could have got a better job ashore. I am certain of that. You have come to sea for fun.'

'If I had, I fancy that I should be disappointed.'

'The skipper has been bullying you, I suppose. He bullies every one.'

'Yes, he has been bullying me, but I will let him know very soon that I won't stand much of it.'

'I advise you not to quarrel with him. I should not have come aboard this trip had I known that he was coming. He told us last voyage that that was his last trip.'

'Where did he expect to be? In jail?'

'No,' the Chinaman answered, smiling; 'he said that he was going to retire. He was going to sell the trawler to some rich old fellow who knows nothing about such things. The mate told me that the skipper hopes to get half as much again as the trawler was worth. Last trip he cut down expenses, and he is doing the same again now, so that the gentleman who is buying her will think the cost of running a trawler is less than it is. We are a hand short this trip.'

'Is the trawler a sound boat?'

'This is the only one I have ever been on, but the fellows on the foc's'le say that she is the rottenest trawler on the North Sea. The engines are patched up, and they have to be very careful of them.'

'Then the skipper intends to swindle the man over the sale of her?'

'Of course he does.'

'I hope that the man won't buy her.'

'So do I, but the skipper is confident that he will. If he doesn't, the skipper's temper will be worse than ever next voyage. I shall take very good care not to make another trip with him.'

'Do you like a fisherman's life?'

'No. I dislike it very much indeed.'

'Then why are you aboard this ship?'

'Did you not tell me that one must do something for a living?'

'That is true; but, at the same time, I cannot understand why an educated Chinaman should travel so many thousands of miles to become a fisherman.'

'I came to England to make my fortune,' Ping Wang declared. 'I thought that when I got to London, I should be able, having an English education, to get employment in the office of some merchant doing business with China. But I soon found that nobody wanted me. The only offers I received were not to my liking. One was a place in a laundry, and the other was to stand outside a tea merchant's and distribute bills. No one seemed to think that it was possible for a Chinaman to be a gentleman, or to have any self-respect. At last, when all my money was gone, I got a job as steward on board a pleasure boat. The owner became bankrupt, and I was paid off at Yarmouth. I walked from Yarmouth to Grimsby, and, after I had been hanging about the docks for a few days, the skipper of this boat took me on.'

'Then he is not such a heartless brute as I imagined,' Charlie remarked.

'It was not out of compassion that he took me,' Ping Wang answered. 'He said that as I had never been on a trawler, he would have to give me small wages. After I had been at sea three days I could do my work as well as any of the other men, but I only received half the wages that they did. He knew very well that I should be able to do my work after a few days' practice, and by taking me on he made a saving in his wages bill. This trip he is giving me three-quarters of what he pays the other men. We were only in dock for two or three days, and I had no time to find another job, but I have made up my mind never to go to sea again on a trawler, even if I have to starve. When we get back to Grimsby I shall go to London, and see if the Chinese Embassy or the Home for Asiatics will pay my passage home. I am afraid, however, that they will not believe my story of being able to repay them, and I do not desire charity. In fact, now I come to think of it, it would be very foolish of me to tell my story to the people at the Embassy.'

'Is it, then, such a wonderful story?'

'An Englishman would think so, but a Chinaman would not.'

For a few minutes Ping Wang was deep in thought, and Charlie got up to look at a passing Norwegian ship. When he returned to his seat on the coil of rope, Ping Wang said to him suddenly, 'Have you any Chinese friends?'

'No.'

'Have you any English friends living in China?'

'No.'

Ping Wang gave a slight sigh of relief.

'Then, if you will promise not to repeat what I tell you,' he said, 'you shall hear my story.'

'I promise,' Charlie answered. 'But I hope that you are not going to tell me any anti-European plots.'

(Continued on page 214.)

RICE-PAPER.

Chinese rice-paper is a thing which we frequently hear of, but do not often see. It is very curious and pretty, but far too frail for most of the uses to which we put our English paper; and, for this reason, it has no commercial value in European countries, and is only brought away by travellers and traders as a curiosity.

The rice-paper which I have seen was cut into small squares about three by two inches, each of which had a beautiful coloured picture of a Chinese man or woman. The paper was very white and thin, slightly rough, like blotting-paper, stiff and brittle. It was impossible to fold it, as the least effort to bend the sheet broke it in two. The pictures upon these little sheets had evidently been painted by hand, and were very beautiful and interesting. The surface of the paint was bright and clear, and the paper was transparent enough to permit the picture to be seen from the back, with all its colours and details only a little dimmed, as if seen through a thin sheet of ground glass.

Notwithstanding its name, rice-paper has really nothing to do with rice. It is not made from rice, nor even from the rice plant, but from the pith of a kind of ivy, the Aralia papyrifera, which grows abundantly in the island of Formosa. This Aralia is not much like our English ivy. It is, in fact, a small tree, which may attain a height of twenty or thirty feet, and is crowned with a number of large leaves, shaped like those of the sycamore. It bears clusters of small, pale yellow flowers, which contrast beautifully with the dark green foliage. The stem is ringed with the marks of the fallen leaves, very like the stems of the castor-oil plants which are often seen in pots in England.

The stem of the rice-paper plant is hollow, and filled with a pith which, though it is rather broken in the centre, is firm and compact outside. After the tree has reached a certain age, the pith becomes less serviceable, and so the tree is usually cut down when it is about twelve feet high, before it has attained its full growth. The stem is cut into lengths of nine or twelve inches each, and the pith is pushed out by inserting a stick at one end, and hammering it through the core of the tree. The little rolls of pith obtained in this way are placed in hollow bamboos, which permit them to swell a little, but prevent them from curling up as they dry. When properly dried, they are ready for the cutting, which is the really skilful part of the making of rice-paper. The man who cuts up the pith has a long, sharp knife, which he places against the side of the roll of pith in such a way that it will take off a thin paring as he turns the roll round and round. It is like paring off the bark of a log by rolling it round against a sharp knife, with these differences, however, that the paring is as thin as paper, and that it is part of the log itself, and goes on until the broken centre is reached. The parings, or sheets, when stripped off, are about four feet long, and they are placed one upon the other and pressed, after which they are cut into squares like those described above. The squares are made up into packets of one hundred each, which the Chinese sell for five or six farthings a packet. Many of these little squares are dyed or stained different colours, and are used for making little artificial flowers; others, as we have already seen, are covered with little pictures, representing sometimes the people and the costumes of China, and sometimes the birds, butterflies, and animals of that country.

There are a few other trees or plants which yield a pith from which rice-paper can be made; but the Aralia is the most important. Though the tree grows best in the northern part of Formosa, the paper is made less by the Formosans than by the Chinese, who barter their goods for the rice-paper trees or logs.

TOO TEMPTING TO BE LOST.

A fox one day had left his cosy den, And wandered forth amid the haunts of men. What did he want? Of course he wanted food-- A tender duck, or something quite as good; But though he wandered far and wandered near, No duckling could he see his heart to cheer.

Through fields and copses did the poor fox go, With hungry longings and a heart of woe. Thought he, 'It's very plain that dainty food I cannot find to-day; still, something good May yet turn up. But stay! what's that I see Hanging asleep upon the old ash-tree?

'I do declare the creature is a crow-- Not very tempting to the taste, I know; But still, if nothing better can be had, Perhaps it may not taste so very bad. So up at once he jumped, and seized the bird, But how it tasted--well, I've never heard!

M. K.

THE PARKS OF LONDON.

I.

I wonder if you who read this are a Londoner, and, if so, whether you have ever sailed paper boats on the Serpentine? Can you remember watching your fleet of snowy paper spreading their white wings and sailing away into the far distance, after the manner of Christopher Columbus or Vasco di Gama? Or have you seen your toy ships driven by fierce winds on to a lee shore bristling with cruel crags and yawning clefts?

A very ocean it is, no doubt, to the feathered creatures that float upon its waters, shelter beneath its rush-lined banks, and spend their whole family life within its borders. Here the babies are born, and here the tiny birds take their first airings--some perched on their mother's back, some swimming beside her without a thought of danger. Nothing is more delightful to the children of all classes who daily throng the park than a family of ducklings having their first lesson in the way to take care of themselves. One way or another, the duck tribe come in for more practical attention than all the other birds put together; for most people like to have their kindness warmly met, and no duck ever says 'No' to an offer of food.

Once in a way a stately swan may condescend to pick up a bit of bun or biscuit, but it is done with such a proud air, that the duck's ready gratitude and eagerness is more attractive. Here and there, in very quiet nooks overlooking the water, may be seen a group of bunnies, nibbling some dainty weed, and far too much at home to pay attention to the warlike looks and noisy cries of Father Duck, who clearly thinks his family is in danger.

On the right of the Serpentine towards the north, a wide slope of grass and trees above the water has been fenced off for the benefit of the Peacock family, and these are objects of great interest to admirers of all ages. The males come in for most attention, owing to their beauty. It is a very droll sight to see Mr. Peacock, with gorgeous tail and crest fully outspread, his richly coloured breast and neck gleaming in the sunlight, bowing, strutting, and scraping before the peahen whom he admires. On this same ground moorhens and other shy aquatic birds make their home in bush and sedge, from time to time crossing the open grass, evidently aware of their safety, but taking little interest in the lookers-on.

Memories of the past have very much to do with this oldest of the national parks. The Serpentine recalls to us one of London's lost rivers, the Westbourne, the current of which still helps to swell its volume of water. Rising in the Hampstead heights, and passing the villages of Paddington and Kensington, this stream flowed through and often overflowed the pleasant Manor of Hyde, which then belonged to the rich Abbey of Westminster, and from which the present park takes its name.

Good Queen Bess thought her own amusement and that of her courtiers of more importance than the enjoyment of the common folk, and filled the park with antlered stag and timid deer, while for many a long day the merry 'toot, toot' of the hunter's horn echoed amongst its glades, until merriment vanished before the grim tragedy of King Charles's execution in 1649. Then for twenty years and more the stately avenues were quiet and peaceful, and little children played beside the river until Cromwell died and Charles II. 'came to his own again.' Nothing less than turning the park into a race-course would content the new king, and the enclosure echoed with the sound of galloping horses, whilst an army of men with pick and shovel cleared and cut out the circular drive now known as Rotten Row, a name which is supposed by some to be a corruption of the French 'Route du Roi' (King's Way).

North-east of the park, close to where the Marble Arch now stands, was a plot of ground connected with more horrors than could be found elsewhere in England. This was the site of the famous Tyburn Tree--London's hanging-place in the days of old, when even a child might be hanged for stealing a few pence. Many a procession of carts came from Newgate in the City, laden with men, women, boys, and girls, followed by an excited crowd eager to watch the execution. Round the gallows galleries were erected and let out at high cost to fashionable folk--fine ladies and gay gallants all ready for the show. Happily humanity has made progress in the last century, and such dreadful sights have long been done away with.

William III., like most of his Dutch relations, was a great gardener, and cut quite a large slice out of Hyde Park to improve the gardens of Kensington Palace, where he and Queen Mary made their home. At the same time he made a great many improvements in the actual park, although for the Serpentine we have to thank Queen Caroline, wife of George II.

Since then Hyde Park has always been the playground of the rank and fashion of the United Kingdom, and nowhere else in England can such numbers of magnificent carriages and horses be seen as here in the season. The alleys bordering the drives are filled on summer afternoons with thousands of well-dressed people--many perhaps admiring the splendid clumps of rhododendrons, which form one of the sights of the park in early summer. The rich, too, are not the only people who appreciate this national playing-place. Thousands of poorly-clad women bring their white-faced children from crowded courts and alleys to enjoy the fresh air, and unlimited room in which to play.

Turn where we will, Hyde Park is, in our times, a scene of peaceful rest both of body and mind for weary citizens. Yet matters far less suitable to its beautiful surroundings have often disturbed its peace. In the days of duelling, the north side beneath the trees was a favourite place of meeting. Here on a Sunday in 1712, the first Duke of Hamilton, a statesman who could ill be spared by his country, engaged Lord Mohun, and both adversaries were carried dead from the field.

As we stand on the bridge, looking down and watching the quiet water, with all its living things, and the rabbits in their corner, it seems hard to believe that we are in the midst of a maze of human dwellings, and that miles and miles of busy streets surround us. But pause and listen awhile, and you will hear, above the music of the birds, the ring of voices and echoes of children's laughter, above the dull hum of well-hung carriages and pattering of horses' feet, a never-ending roar--the sound of the greatest city the world has ever seen. All round us, shut off only by a little space of grass and trees, lie its pleasures and its miseries.

SERVED HER RIGHT.

Founded on Fact.

Not long ago there was a story told of a young girl whose kindness to an old man brought her a great reward. She was in the crowd upon the occasion of Queen Victoria's first Jubilee, and observed a rather shabbily dressed old gentleman who appeared to be ill. Taking him by the arm, she made a way for him through the dense throng of people, and got him safely into a quiet street. There he explained to her that he had a weak heart, and that he had foolishly ventured out sight-seeing, but the excitement and the closeness had made him faint. He thanked the girl warmly for her help, and asked for her name and address, which she gave him.

A few years after this little adventure, the girl received a letter in a big blue envelope. It was a communication from a lawyer, who informed her that the gentleman whom she had so kindly helped on Jubilee Day had died, and had left her by his will the greater part of his large fortune.

There is another story rather like this, but about a different sort of girl. A gentleman happened to read the above tale out of a newspaper as he sat with his family at breakfast. His little daughter, as she listened to her father, thought how nice it would be if she could win a fortune thus easily. So the next time she saw an old man shivering on the brink of a crossing, she went up to him, and, with a sweet smile, said in her politest tones: 'May I have the pleasure of assisting you?'

But the man chanced to be a cross-grained old fellow, and, thinking that the girl was making fun of him, he brandished his stick at her, whereupon, in a great fright, she ran away as fast as she could.

I think you will agree with me that the little girl quite deserved this rebuff, because of the unworthiness of her motive.

E. DYKE.

THE FLOWER-GIRL.

'Fine window-plants! Who'll buy?' shouted the man with the flower-laden donkey-cart; but it was Mary, his daughter, who did most of the selling. She stood on the edge of the pavement, a plant in each hand, and smiled at the passers-by, and few could resist the pretty picture she made. They would stop and admire the flowers even if they could not afford to buy, and Mary had smiles for all, though perhaps the brightest were kept for those who made a purchase.

And yet the girl's heart was heavy, and tears lay very close behind the smiles. Trade had not been very brisk of late, while illness in the home had made the expenses heavy. Her favourite little brother was still ailing, and seemed to make no progress. The doctor had said he needed change of air and nourishing food; but how could the doctor's orders be obeyed when money was so scarce?

The morning was getting on, and still the cart had not lost much of its load. Smiles were more difficult to manage as the hope of being able to take home something dainty for Dicky's supper grew less.

A lady with her little boy had just passed, but looks of admiration were all they gave. In the distance an old gentleman appeared, and he was even a more unlikely customer. He peered through his spectacles, and seemed too much wrapped up in his own thoughts to spare attention for anything else.

As he was passing the cart he slipped, and would have fallen had not Mary put out her arm quickly to steady him. But, alas! in doing so the flower-pot she was holding fell, and lay in fragments on the pavement, with the delicate blooms of the azalea quite ruined.

'Thank you, my dear,' the gentleman said. 'It was kind of you to come to an old man's help.' But he did not notice the broken flower-pot, and passed on, while Mary gazed in dismay at what meant a loss they could so ill afford.

'Run after him, my girl,' her father said. 'Tell him he must pay for that flower. A fine thing to come damaging other folk's property, and to slip off without a word!'

But at that moment a girl came hurrying along the pavement. 'Oh,' she cried, 'I saw what happened. That is my grandfather, and he is nearly blind. I must overtake him, and I am sure he will come back and repay you.'

Mary watched anxiously, and when they arrived, the old man leaning on the girl's arm, her spirits rose again.

'My grand-daughter says I always get into mischief when she leaves me for a minute,' he said, smiling. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a few coins. 'Will this make good the mischief I have done?' he asked.

'Oh, sir, it is too much,' Mary said. 'The price of the flower was only eighteen-pence.'

'But I must pay for my rudeness in running away without apologising, and you can buy a ribbon for yourself with the extra money.'

'I shall get something a great deal more useful than that,' she said.

'You seem to be a sensible young woman for your age. I wonder what this useful purchase will be?'

'Something to make my little Dicky strong,' Mary said softly.

'And who is Dicky?' asked the pretty grand-daughter; and she looked so sympathetic that somehow the whole story came out, for Mary's heart was full, and words came readily in response to this touch of kindness.

'I shall call and see him,' the girl promised, when she had inquired where Mary lived. And so the misfortune of the broken flower-pot turned out to be the best bit of good fortune Mary had ever enjoyed. Not only did her new friend come laden with delicacies for the invalid, but she interested herself in having him sent with some other children for a month to the sea-side. And when Dicky returned, brown and rosy, and full of life and spirits, Mary felt she could sell her flowers with a smiling face again, and look forward to the future with a light heart.

M. H.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

V.--LORD MASSEREENE'S IMPRISONMENT.

'Truth is stranger than fiction,' says a very old proverb, which is certainly illustrated by the following tale of an eccentric nobleman's life.

Lord Massereene was born in 1742, and in due course sent to Cambridge University, where, however, he learnt next to nothing except how to row on the river, and this he did to perfection.

On coming of age, he started off to do the 'Grand Tour,' as it was called--a leisurely visit to the various capital cities of European countries. This was a custom much in vogue amongst the young men of the wealthier classes a hundred years ago. Our young friend, however, went no further than Paris, for that fascinating city was too much for the foolish fellow, and he spent his money right and left, till he was almost penniless. He then fell into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer, a native of Syria, who put before him a plausible tale of how easy it would be to make a fortune by importing salt from Syria to France. Lord Massereene, in the hope of regaining the money he had wasted, invested all he could lay his hands on in this wild scheme, and of course, as it was a fraud, lost every penny.

The next misfortune that happened to him was an arrest for debt, and he made acquaintance with the inside of 'La Châtelet,' one of the largest prisons in Paris. He could, however, have satisfied his creditors, and been released from prison, had he been willing to allow his estates to be charged with his debts; but this he persistently refused to do.

There was at that time a law in France permitting debtors who had suffered twenty-five years' imprisonment to be allowed to go free, with all their liabilities discharged, and this extraordinary young man actually decided to do this, and to settle his debts by undergoing a quarter of a century of prison life!

Beyond the inability to leave the prison, Lord Massereene seems to have suffered at first but few privations, for cheerful society was not denied him, and he managed to woo and wed the daughter of one of the principal officials of the place.

A plan of escape was at length made, and as the young lady's father was able and willing to help in the matter, it was very nearly successful. But not quite! For, just as Lord Massereene was leaving the door of the prison to enter the carriage which was in waiting for him, he was arrested, and taken back to the prison. It appears that the Governor's suspicions had been aroused by seeing a carriage and pair loitering about the gate. As soon as he had caught the escaping prisoner, he ordered him to be lodged in the dungeon, a gloomy cell, below the Seine, on which Le Châtelet was built.

Lord Massereene now knew all the rigours of a French prison. He was left to languish in damp and darkness, with no companions but the rats, and only the coarsest food.

When at last the twenty-five years were ended, and his release came, he was indeed a pitiful object: gaunt, yellow, with a long unkempt beard reaching below his knees.

But his wife had remained constant to him, and together they set out for England. On landing at Dover, Lord Massereene was the first to step on shore, and falling on his knees, he exclaimed fervently,--

'God bless this land of freedom!'

* * * * *

He lived nearly twenty years in the enjoyment of the estate for which he had suffered imprisonment for so long, and died in 1805.

THE SAGO-TREE.

Sago is made from the pith of a tree-trunk. This tree--the sago-tree--is a kind of palm, like the date-tree and the cocoanut-tree. It is found in the East Indian Islands, where it gives food to many thousands of people, particularly in the large island of New Guinea, where a great part of the population is almost entirely dependent upon it.

The sago-tree grows in swampy places, either by the sea or in little hollows by the hill-sides. It is thicker than the cocoanut palm, but it does not grow quite so tall, being about thirty feet high when full grown, and perhaps twenty inches in diameter. What looks like the root of the sago-tree is really a creeping underground stem, from which a spike of flowers grows up when the tree is about ten or fifteen years old. For some years, while the plant is young, the upright growing stem is covered and completely hidden by very large spiny leaves. These are rather like enormous feathers, of which the centre stems, or midribs, corresponding to the quill of the feather, are from twelve to fifteen feet long, and, in their widest part, as thick as a man's leg. They are used like bamboo by the natives, for building houses, and also for making the roofs and floors of houses that are built of other kinds of wood.

The bases of the midribs widen out and wrap round the stem like a kind of sheath, as almost all leaf-stalks do to some extent. But the sheaths of the sago-tree are so large that, when they are broken off and trimmed, they are like large baskets or troughs--wide in the middle, where they have grasped the stem, and narrow at the ends, where they have joined the tree or are rolled up to form the midrib of the leaf. It is interesting to remember this, because the natives actually use the sheaths as baskets and troughs.

The hollow stem of the growing sago-tree is not more than half an inch in thickness, and it is filled with a light, pithy matter, from which 'sago' is made. This pithy matter varies in colour from a rusty tinge to white, and is rather like the eatable part of a dry apple. Strings of harder, woody fibre run through it like straight veins, and these are of no use for making sago. The pith is best for use when the tree is full grown and just about to flower, and it is then that the natives cut it down.

The tree is cut close to the ground, and, as it lies on the soil, its leaves are cut off, and a portion of the bark is shaved away from the upper side of the trunk so as to lay the pith bare. A native takes a club with a sharp stone in the end of it and beats the sago-pith with it. By this means he breaks up the fibres and the pith into little chips, taking care that they are kept within the trunk. From time to time these chips are loaded into one of the sheaths of the midribs, and carried away to be cleaned. The beater continues to break up the pith until there is nothing left but the hollow tree-trunk.

The sago is separated from the fibres in the pith by the aid of water. The natives take two sheaths of the sago-plant and make them into water-troughs. They set them up upon little frames, one sheath a little higher than the other, with one of its narrow ends projecting like a spout over the lower sheath. A kind of net-like bark or skin, obtained from the cocoanut tree, serves as a strainer or sieve, and is stretched across the upper sheath or trough. They empty the broken pith into the trough above the strainer, and pour water upon it. The soft part of the pith is a kind of starch, which dissolves in the water, and so flows through the sieve and down the spout into the lower trough, but the fibres are held back by the sieve. In order to get all the sago-starch out of the pith, the sago-maker kneads and squeezes the pith until nothing but fibre remains. This is waste, and is thrown away. When the sago-laden water falls into the lower trough it rests awhile, and the sago sinks into the bottom of the sheath as a soft reddish sediment, while the clear water rises to the top, and by and by trickles over the end of the sheath. When this trough is nearly full the sago-starch is taken out, made into rolls, and wrapped in the leaves of the tree.

The sago thus prepared is known as raw sago, and is used by the islanders without being further refined. They boil it in water, and eat it with fruits and salt, or they bake it into cakes in a little clay oven. When these cakes have been well dried they will keep for years; a man can make in a few days sufficient sago-cakes to last him a whole year. It has been calculated that a single tree will produce about eighteen hundred of these cakes.

The sago which we use for our puddings is made by refining the raw sago. When our grandfathers and grandmothers were young, the best raw sago used to be mixed with water and rubbed into small grains before it was sent to Europe. At the present time the sago, after being moistened, is passed through a sieve into a shallow iron pot, placed over a fire, and in this way the round pearly sago which we use is produced. As this sago is half-baked in this operation, it will keep for a very long time.

The Malays call the sago-tree the rumbiya and its pith sagu from which word we get our name sago. We have here an instance of a Malay word which is in daily use in the English language.

FAITH AND SIGHT.

A little story is told which helps to show the difference between faith and sight.

The master of an infant school told a boy to move a stool in such a way that he was not seen by the little ones himself. Then he taught them this lesson.

'You cannot see any one moving the stool; is it not alive?'

'Oh, no, sir! it never was alive. Some one must be moving it.'

'But you cannot see anybody; perhaps it moves itself.'

'No, sir; though we don't see anybody, that makes no difference. It cannot move itself.'

Then he told them of the moon and stars, which, though we see no one move them, certainly do move, and no one could do it but God, whom we do not see.

'Yes!' they said; 'it must be God.'

'But then we cannot see Him.'

'Please, we must believe that it is He.'

'You do believe it, then?'

'Yes sir.'

'Then this is Faith.' He added: 'If you have little faith, what will you do then?'

'I will shut myself up in a corner,' said one little mite, 'and pray for more.'

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

VI.--HOW INSECTS WALK.

Grown-up insects seem to be very short of legs compared with many of their distant relatives. Thus, while no member of the insect tribe--when grown up--has more than six legs, the Centipede or the Millipede may, as their names imply, possess a far greater number--as many, indeed, as two hundred and forty-two! But there is one curious likeness between the legs of the insects and those of their relatives--the number of pairs of legs is always odd. The insect has three pairs; the centipede and millipede have a very variable number, ranging from fifteen to one hundred and twenty-one pairs!

We have seen how wonderful the foot of the fly is, with its two sticky plates for smooth surfaces, and its two claws for rough ones. The Honey-bee has very similar feet, but the two plates are joined to form one! As in the fly, when climbing rough surfaces the flat plates are raised up, and the claws used instead; but when a smooth or slippery place has to be crossed, the claws are pulled backwards and the plates are brought down.

The legs of insects vary much, according to the purpose for which they are used. Thus, the Gnats, which spend the greater part of their time on the wing, have long slender legs, suitable for breaking the shock of alighting. Whilst in other insects the legs are used for all kinds of work, such as seizing prey, carrying it, climbing, digging, and so on. When this is the case the legs are provided with spines, or bristles.

In the Mole Cricket (fig. 1) the fore-legs are very strong, being short and broad, and ending in a broad comb-like plate, which is used for digging. They are very like the great digging paws of the mole.

The exact way in which insects walk is not easy to describe, and much study has been given to this most puzzling subject. Many devices have been adopted to make the insect draw a map of its course. In one instance the legs of a slow-walking beetle were painted, and the insect was then made to walk upon a clean sheet of paper; the track made by each leg being distinguished by the use of a different colour.

From this and other experiments it appears that there are always three legs in motion at the same time, or nearly so; meanwhile the remaining three legs support the body. First (as in fig. 2) the left fore-leg steps out, then the right middle-leg and the left hind-leg. Then the movement is taken up by the legs of the opposite side of the body, and so on.

If the movement of the legs in the six-legged insects is difficult to find out, what shall we say when the centipede (fig. 3) and millipede come to be examined? These, though not insects, are nearly related to the insects, and since they are common in our gardens, must be referred to here.

According to the lines of a humorous poem, the centipede was said to have been--

'Happy till One day a toad, in fun, Said, "Pray which leg moves after which?" This raised her doubts to such a pitch She fell exhausted in the ditch, Not knowing how to run.'

The last pair of legs in the centipede and millipede are never used for walking, and are generally much longer than the rest. In a South American species they are provided with delicate nerves, and are used as antennæ or 'feelers,' so that the animal is armed with organs of touch at each end of the body! In one kind of millipede, in the male the last pair of legs has a sound-producing apparatus, consisting of a ridged plate, which, by being rubbed against a set of tiny, bead-like bodies set in the surface of the last shield covering the body, produces a peculiar noise.

Centipedes and millipedes generally shun the light, and hide under stones and in crevices during the day. But there are some which love the sunlight. These kinds are remarkable for the great length and slenderness of the legs, which they part with readily when handled! Most of these long-legged species are brightly coloured with black and yellow stripes or spots. In their native haunts these creatures may be seen darting about after their prey in the sun, heedless of the notice they attract by reason of their pretty colours. Few birds or beasts would think of eating them, for these creatures have a providential instinct which tells them that the gaudily-coloured animals are generally very nasty to the taste!

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

THE MAN WITH THE GLASSES.

So common is short-sightedness nowadays that military officers, and sometimes private soldiers, are allowed to wear spectacles. Formerly this was not the case. Where, by special permission of the authorities, exceptions had been made, the unfortunate wearers of glasses in the army came in for the ridicule of their comrades.

At the time when the French were fighting the Algerian chief, Abd-el-Kader, there was in a battalion of foot-chasseurs a spectacled adjutant named Duterbre. His companions made great fun of him. A man who wore glasses could not, in their opinion, be much of a hero. One day Duterbre, engaged in a reconnoitring expedition, was slightly wounded, and taken prisoner by the enemy. He was brought before the Arab chief. The remainder of the French force had, in the meantime, taken refuge in a walled enclosure close by.

'Go to your companions,' said Abd-el-Kader to Duterbre, 'and tell them that their lives shall be spared if they will surrender. Yours, in that case, shall be spared also. But if they refuse to surrender, I will utterly exterminate them, and I will have you beheaded. And understand this clearly: I send you to your people on one condition--that whether or not they accept my terms, you are in any case to return to me. Do you accept my conditions?'

'I do,' replied Duterbre.

Duterbre left the Arab camp, well aware that his only chance of life lay in the surrender of his battalion. If the French soldiers resolved to fight on, he was bound in honour to go back to death.

Duterbre returned to his companions. He had always been a man of few words, and he said very little on this occasion. But what he said was to the point. It was this: 'Chasseurs! If you do not surrender, the Arabs are going to cut off my head. Now die rather than yield, every one of you!'

Then the brave fellow turned his back, and went straight to the Arab camp, with the message that the French refused to surrender.

The chief carried out his threat. The adjutant was beheaded, and his head--spectacles and all--was carried round the camp upon a pole for public exhibition. None could say that it was not the head of a brave man.

E. D.

WHAT AM I?

No one can be pleased with me, I am dark and dull to see; Those whom money troubles tease Hate me, for I spoil their ease.

Welsh am I, and English too, Scottish, in another view; Wide and narrow, small and great, Dreary, too, and desolate.

Let him think of me, who eats Marmalade, and other sweets; Full of work am I, and wealth, Though too closely packed for health.

[Answer on page 230.]

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 203.)

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Chapter III

'What I am going to tell you,' Ping Wang began, 'is purely a family matter. It is the reason why I left China. My father was the mandarin of Kwang-ngan, and although he did not become a Christian, he was very friendly with the English missionaries, and when I was quite a little boy he asked them to teach me all the things which English boys were taught. When I was ten years old I was sent to a school at Hongkong, kept by an Englishman, and I remained there until I was eighteen. That, of course, accounts for my speaking English fairly well. When I was eighteen my father sent for me. But I found Chinese manners and customs were not pleasing to me after so many years among English people. Therefore I asked my father to permit me to return to Hongkong and become a merchant. He was considering the matter, and I believe that he would have given his consent, when he was seized by Chin Choo's orders and executed. He was unpopular with the authorities at Peking. The mandarin of every town has to squeeze as much money as he possibly can out of his people and send it to the authorities. My father was a kind-hearted man, and as he did not squeeze his people so much as most mandarins, he did not send so much money to the Imperial coffers as the authorities wished. Twice they reprimanded him, and Chin Choo, who lived at Kwang-ngan, hearing of this, went to Peking and asserted that my father retained for his own use the greater part of the money which he had squeezed out of the people. The high officials believed this false tale, and, having received bribes from Chin Choo, empowered him to have my father executed and succeed him as mandarin. My mother and brother were also killed, and our house burnt to the ground. Fortunately for me I was not in the town at the time, and hearing what had taken place I started off at once for Hongkong. Of course, it was useless for me to attempt to get Chin Choo punished, for such events are of frequent occurrence in parts of my poor country. So, having a little money, which I obtained by selling some jewellery which I possessed, I took a passage to England. What has happened to me since I have already told you.'

'It is a very sad story,' Charlie declared, feelingly; 'and I am exceedingly sorry for you. But what surprises me is, that after having suffered so much in your native land you should think of returning to it.'

'I will tell you my reason. Chin Choo confiscated all our property, but I hope to be able to recover a very valuable portion of it. Before our house was burnt to the ground, everything that it contained was removed to Chin Choo's residence. Among those things was a large brass image of Buddha. If I can recover that I shall be a rich man!'

'But brass images of Buddha are not very valuable.'

'That one is, because it was my father's safe--a receptacle for his very precious rubies. He made the idol himself, and no one but he and I knew how to open it. Chin Choo will never discover the secret, or guess that the idol contains anything. Therefore I wish to return to my native place in disguise, and obtain that idol by some means or other. If I succeed in obtaining it, I shall be a rich man.'

'I should like to go with you,' Charlie exclaimed.

'I wish you could,' Ping Wang answered, eagerly. 'I can read character well enough to know that you are not what you pretend to be. You have come to sea for novelty or curiosity, but not for necessity. If you accompany me to my native place, I promise you that if I recover my father's idol I will repay you all the expense to which you have been put, and give you some of the precious stones.'

'I wasn't thinking of the stones, but of the adventure and experience. If my father raises no objection, and will supply me with the necessary money, I will go with you gladly.'

Ping Wang was delighted, and Charlie added to his high spirits by confiding to him the reason of his being aboard the Sparrow-hawk.

'So your father is the man whom the skipper hopes to swindle!' Ping Wang exclaimed, and went off into a fit of laughter.

'Stop that row!' the skipper shouted, coming aft. 'Can't you find any work to do? I'll have no loafers aboard my boat. Here, you Chinee, you get for'ard, and trim the lamps.'

Ping Wang rose to obey.

'Hurry up!' the skipper growled, and kicked him.

In a moment Charlie was on his feet. 'You wretched little bully!' he said to the skipper. 'If you ill-treat that man again, I will knock you down.'

'You dare to threaten me on my own ship!' the skipper shouted, white with rage. 'I'm the skipper, and I'll let you know it. I'll clap you in irons if you give me any of your back answers.'

'Why not try kicking me instead?'

'I'll give you in charge for mutiny when we get back to Grimsby.'

'I shouldn't be in a hurry to enter a police-court, if I were you. Prosecutors are sometimes asked unpleasant questions.'

The chief engineer at that moment came up from the engine-room.

'Skipper, I want a word with you,' he said.

'Right you are,' the skipper replied, and walked over to him, well pleased to bring his argument with Charlie to an end. Charlie was not really a very formidable opponent for a grown man, but Skipper Drummond, like many bullies, was a great coward.

Charles, left alone, resumed his seat on the ropes and, forgetting for a time the skipper's existence, spent a pleasant half-hour in thinking over the story which Ping Wang had related to him.

About three hours after the quarrel, the Sparrow-hawk arrived at the 'Dogger,' a submarine bank, the nearest point of which is about sixty miles from England. It is one hundred and seventy miles long and seventy miles broad.

'We shall shoot in an hour's time,' the mate said to Charlie, 'and you must give us a hand.'

'Whom are you going to shoot?' Charlie inquired, jokingly.

'I know whom you would like to shoot--the skipper. He has taken a dislike to you, and tells me that you are the biggest scoundrel he ever had aboard.'

The mate smiled as he spoke, and added, after a few moments' interval: 'The skipper is a queer customer, and, if you take my advice, you will do all you can to please him. Anyhow, he says that you are to give a hand when we shoot and when we haul the trawl.'

'I am to be fisherman as well as cook. Is he going to pay me double wages?'

'You had better ask him. Got a mug of tea handy?'

Charlie had, and he gave it to him.

'We shall want tea again after shooting,' the mate said to Charlie as he replaced the mug on the hook.

Leaving the big kettle on the stove, Charlie went out to witness the preparations for beginning fishing, and was just in time to see the men anchor a small buoy, fitted with a light and a flag. This was anchored so that the Sparrow-hawk, by keeping it in sight, should not wander away from the fishing-ground. They were in about twenty-six fathoms of water, and, if they lost sight of the buoy, they would probably steam into deeper water, and the net would then be unable to reach the bottom. By day the fishermen keep within sight of the buoy-flag; by night they watch the buoy-light. In fishing fleets, when some twenty or thirty steam trawlers belong to one firm, an old smack called a 'mark-ship' is anchored on the fishing-ground. It can be seen for many miles in daylight, and by night its whereabouts is made known by rockets fired from it. But 'single boaters,' such as the Sparrow-hawk, have to rely upon their own little flag and light-buoys.

When the Sparrow-hawk had anchored her buoy she steamed off, and, punctually at five o'clock, 'shot her gear,' or, in plainer language, lowered her big triangular fishing-net. This having been done without a hitch, the men had their tea. Charlie took his in the galley, having determined to spend as little time as possible in the foc's'le. He had discovered that the crew of the Sparrow-hawk was composed of the black sheep of Grimsby and Hull. They were men whom no decent North Sea skipper would have had on his boat. On nearly all the trawlers working out of Yarmouth, Grimsby, and Hull, the men are fine, manly, thoroughbred Englishmen, facing danger fearlessly and uncomplainingly year in and year out. Drunkenness is almost unknown among them, and bad language is rarely heard. If Charlie had been on almost any other boat than the Sparrow-hawk he would have thoroughly enjoyed sitting at the foc's'le table, having a chat with the men. But to save a few pounds the skipper had engaged, at low wages, men who were known to be bad characters, and who could not, therefore, get a job on any other trawler. Skipper Drummond had himself been discharged for drunkenness by the owners of a fleet in whose employ he had been for some years. Where he got the money from to purchase a trawler was a mystery to most people, although it was discovered later that a betting-man was in partnership with him.

Charlie, being satisfied that the skipper intended to make an attempt to swindle his father, was anxious to get back to Lincoln as speedily as possible to make known what he had discovered. He had forgotten to ask the bow-legged cook how long the Sparrow-hawk would remain at sea, and could, therefore, form no idea of when he would get home.

(Continued on page 218.)

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 215.)

While Charlie was regretting his ignorance of trawlers' movements, Ping Wang appeared at the galley-door.

'Well,' Charlie said, 'has the skipper said anything more to you?'

'No,' Ping Wang answered, smilingly; 'I believe you have frightened him. But he will pay you out somehow or other.'

'I hope, for his own sake, that he won't attempt to, for I hate the little fellow already, and if he interferes with me unnecessarily I will give him a sound thrashing.'

'He is very strong,' Ping Wang remarked, warningly.

'Can he do this?' Charlie asked, catching hold of a bucket full of water and holding it easily at arm's-length straight from the shoulder.

Ping Wang made no reply but gazed at Charlie in astonishment. Charlie was slightly built, and Ping Wang had no idea that he was so strong. But he had gone in for a course of physical development exercises before coming to Grimsby, and was in fine condition.

'If the skipper thinks, as I did, that you are not very strong,' he said at last, 'he will be very surprised.'

'Well,' Charlie said, rather pleased at the astonishment he had caused, 'let us forget him for a time. When do we return to Grimsby?'

'In three or four days.'

'So soon? I thought we were out for three weeks, at the least. I had an idea that steam trawlers always remained out for three weeks.'

'Boats belonging to the fleets do. A steam carrier collects the boxes of fish from them every morning, and carries them off to London. But single boaters have to take in their own fish to Grimsby, and therefore they have to run in every few days, or else the fish wouldn't be fresh.'

'Then I shan't have to endure the skipper for as long as I expected.'

'You'll have to endure him for seven or eight weeks, I'm afraid. When we run in just to land fish we are not allowed to quit the ship. After unloading we sail as soon as possible.'

'But do you mean to say that he can prevent my leaving the ship at Grimsby?'

'I believe he can. You see, if men were allowed to leave whenever they liked, the fishing industry would soon be upset.'

'I didn't think of that. However, I will get a substitute if possible. There will be no objection to that, I suppose?'

'I don't know. The skipper is a curious kind of fellow, and he may refuse to let you go, so that he may have the pleasure of bullying you. Why don't you pretend that you are ill? He would put you ashore very soon then.'

'I don't like the idea of getting out of an unpleasant position in that way. By-the-bye, how do you pass the time away before hauling the trawl?'

'Some of the men turn in, and others play cards or draughts. Do you care about draughts?'

'Oh, yes, but I won't go down in the foc's'le to play.'

'I will bring the board up here if it is not being used.'

Ping Wang hurried away, and returned in a minute or two with the draughts.

'They are having a sing-song in the foc's'le,' he said. 'The skipper is there, and is a little bit the worse for drink.'

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Chapter IV

Charlie won the first game at draughts, and they had just begun a second when the skipper suddenly appeared at the galley door. His face was flushed, and there was a wild look in his eyes.

'The galley is not the place for playing draughts,' he said, and with his hand swept the pieces off the board.

Charlie and Ping Wang made no remark. It was plain to them that he had paid that visit for the sole purpose of bullying them, and they were wondering what his next complaint would be.

'I want a mug of tea,' he said, seeing that the kettle was not boiling.

Charlie put the kettle on the fire at once.

'That's the result of playing draughts when you ought to be at work,' the skipper growled. 'I always want some tea at this time.'

'In future it shall be ready, sir,' Charles replied, calmly.

'Future--eh?--I want it now. What's that Chinee doing here?'

'I thought you noticed that Ping Wang was playing draughts with me.'

'You're not paid to think. I do that for all the crew.'

Then the skipper turned his attention to prying into the pots and pans, to see if he could discover anything which would give him an opportunity to find fault. To his evident annoyance he did not succeed in discovering anything, for Charlie had done his work thoroughly, and the cooking utensils looked much cleaner than when he entered on his duties.

In a few minutes the tea was ready, and as soon as the skipper tasted it he made a grimace, and exclaimed, 'Beastly wash!--Do you hear?' he exclaimed, finding that Charlie did not speak. 'It's wash!'

'It is made in exactly the same way as the other tea you have had during the day,' Charlie declared.

'Then I must have drunk wash before. But I won't drink this. Here, Chinee, you drink it.'

'Me no want any, skipper,' Ping Wang answered.

'Don't want it, eh? What does that matter? Drink it at once.'

Ping Wang shook his head, and the skipper immediately flung the contents of his mug full in the Chinaman's face. The tea was very hot, and with a cry of pain Ping Wang ran at his tormentor. Stepping backwards quickly, to avoid him, the skipper stumbled over the weather-board at the entrance to the galley, and fell heavily on to the deck.

The mate, who had been pacing the deck, ran to pick him up. 'What's the matter, skipper?' he asked.

'That Chinee has knocked me down,' the skipper declared.

'He did nothing of the kind,' Charlie declared, and related to the mate exactly what happened.

'You'd better get an hour or two's sleep before we haul,' the mate said to the skipper, and, taking his arm, led him away.

'I think we had better turn in also,' Ping Wang said, and Charlie at once went forward with him.

The other men were already asleep. The ventilators were all closed, and the foc's'le was so close and stuffy that Charlie thought, at first, that he would have to go on deck again. But, being very tired, he determined to stay where he was, and clambered into his bunk. He slept soundly, in spite of the bad air, until Ping Wang aroused him. It was a quarter to eleven, and the men were donning their oilskins, with a view to hauling.

'You had better put the kettle on,' Ping Wang said to Charlie; 'all hands will want tea before they turn in again.'

Charlie, wearing his oilskins, went to the galley at once. As he passed along the deck he shivered, for a breeze had sprung up, and the air struck cold, after the stuffiness of the foc's'le.

(Continued on page 226.)

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S HEAD GARDENER.

'We must not forget the gardener,' says a visitor, describing Walmer Castle at the time when Wellington was Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports. This gardener, a fine-looking, elderly man, was at the battle of Waterloo, and when his regiment was disbanded, the Duke offered him the post of head gardener at Walmer Castle.

The good fellow objected, for, to use his own words, he 'did not then know a moss rose from a cabbage,' but the Duke was determined, and, as a soldier, the man could but obey orders. 'But now,' he said to the visitor, 'I get on pretty well.'

'And like it?' he was next asked.

'Oh, yes.'

'But suppose war were to break out--would you be a soldier again?'

'Why, that must depend on the Duke: if he said I must go, of course I must.'

'How did you manage when you first came here?'

'Why, as well as I could. It was rather awkward.'

'Perhaps you studied hard--read a good deal?'

'No, I didn't read at all.'

'You looked about you, then?'

'Yes, I did that.'

'And now you get on very well?'

'Why, yes; but I am plagued sometimes: the names of the flowers puzzle me sadly.'

'And what does the Duke say to that?'

'Oh, I have him there,' said the soldier gardener, 'for he doesn't know them himself!'

The visitor also stated that the garden abounded in flowers--not rare ones, but rich and luxuriant, with a well-kept lawn, in the midst of which was a lime-tree, which the Duke always declared to be the finest he had ever seen.

The experiment of turning a soldier into a head gardener seems to have been quite successful.

TWO MEDALS.

A little English schoolboy was sauntering along the quay, looking rather bored. It was a picturesque scene--this port of the Black Sea--with the varied craft in the harbour, and the varied nationalities represented by the groups of men who chattered and gesticulated, or lounged and slept in the sunshine.

But what, he thought, were the summer holidays without cricket? Of course, it was jolly to be with his people again, but Dick did wish they lived in England. The boys at school had envied him because his journey home would take him through the unrestful Balkan territory, and he might have all manner of adventures. It was very hard that there had been none, though the train after his had been held up, and had not got through without some fighting.

He reached the end of the stone pier, where half-a-dozen men were leaning over a low parapet.

'What is your pleasure, little Milord?' one asked him. This was their nickname for the boy, who had been a favourite with them since he had learnt to order them about in their own tongue when not much more than a baby.

'My pleasure is a cricket match,' he answered, 'and as far as I can see it is a pleasure I shall have to do without.'

'Would not little Milord like to fish?' asked another. 'See, one already is trying his luck,' and he pointed to a boy about Dick's age sitting on the parapet with his line in the water below.

'A foolish place to try, with the current running as strong as it does round the end of the pier,' Dick said. 'He is not likely to get a bite there.'

Even as he spoke the boy jumped up suddenly and turned round. No one saw exactly how it happened, but he missed his balance, and with a scream fell into the water.

For a minute Dick waited. He was such a little chap, and of course one of those big men would jump in after the boy. But no! they stood staring at each other with terrified faces, and never moved.

Then over the wall went Dick into the water beneath. The boy had risen, and he struck out for him, reaching him easily enough, for the current carried him. It was getting back which was difficult.

The men at the pier-head ran about and shouted in a frantic way. 'A boat!' shouted one. 'A rope!' called another; while a third wrung his hands and moaned, 'They are lost! they are lost!'

And Dick battled and battled against the current with the dead weight of the boy hindering him from making any perceptible way. It never even occurred to him that by letting his burden go he might at any rate save himself. And his English pluck came to his help. He wouldn't be beaten. He just had to get to land somehow, and he must not let himself think of anything else. The men, too, had at last found a rope and were flinging it to him. If only he could get near it! Once it was just within his grasp, but he was beaten back again. Then, with a final tremendous effort, he struck out again and reached it, and held on like grim death, though the singing in his ears and his struggling, panting breath warned him his strength was nearly exhausted. By this time, however, a boat was nearing them, and soon the boys were on land, though the lad Dick had saved was with difficulty brought back to consciousness.

Dick himself was rather white and limp, but otherwise not much the worse for his adventure.

'Why didn't one of you go in after him? I gave you a chance,' he said to the men.

'The water was too cold,' muttered one.

'Too deep!' said another.

'Too dangerous!' growled a third.

And the small schoolboy shrugged his shoulders and went home, to be made a great fuss over by his mother and sisters, which he thought absurd; but he liked the quiet look of pleasure his father gave him when he came in after hearing the news in the town, though he only said, 'Good business, my son!'

And although he is very shy of showing them, I think Dick is rather proud of his two medals: one of the country where the courageous act was performed, and that other of dull bronze which the Royal Humane Society presents to England's brave sons and daughters.

Dick thought it took far more courage to walk up and receive this medal amidst the cheers of the boys and their gay company on Prize-day, than it did to jump in to the rescue of the boy in the Black Sea.

ANIMAL MAKESHIFTS.

True Anecdotes.

I.--INSTEAD OF A HAND.

The wonderful contrivances by which animals manage to do beautiful work without tools, to walk without feet, to fly without wings, to talk without a voice, and to make their wants known not only to each other but to their human friends, without understanding or speaking human words, would fill a large book. No creature boasts of a hand like our own; even that of the monkey, though his fingers resemble man's, has a thumb which is nearly useless. The American spider-monkeys prefer to use their long tails as hands, plucking fruits with the tips and carrying them to their mouths. The elephant uses his nose as a hand (for his trunk is nothing else but a long nose), and with this makeshift hand he can pick up either a heavy cannon or a sixpence from the ground. The horse uses his tail as a hand to drive off flies which he cannot otherwise reach. On board ship a hen was once seen to use her neck as a hand. She and the other fowls used to quarrel over the laying-boxes, and though the nests looked all alike to a human eye, this hen coveted one special box, and would lay nowhere else. One day her master took the china nest-egg out of the box and put it into another one, to see what she would do. He watched her through the chink of a door, and saw her hunt till she found the egg, curl her neck round it like a big finger, lift it thus, and carry it back to the old box, where she sat on it in triumph.

Stories of rats who have been seen to carry off eggs, embracing them by their tails, are common enough, and everybody has watched animals of different kinds using their mouths to carry things from place to place. Not only lions, tigers, wolves, and bears carry their young in this way, but rabbits, squirrels, mice, and many other creatures. The mother-whale tucks her little one under her huge fin, using it as a hand and arm in one; in time of danger she carries him off thus at the risk of her own life from under the very harpoons of the whalers.

All young animals have an instinct which prompts them to run to their parents for protection when frightened, trusting not only in the older and wiser heads, but in the faithful hearts which have never failed them. Though sheep, cattle, deer, and such-like, have no notion of using their jaws as hands, or of lifting their little ones, many of the young will use their limbs to cling to those who are stronger and swifter than themselves. The four-footed elders will perish rather than desert the youngsters, and will, if possible, contrive to beat a retreat, helping along the weaker ones as best they can.

A very touching story of the devotion of deer to their fawns comes from America. While two men were riding along a creek in California, they saw, some distance ahead, a doe and her fawn drinking from the river. The bank was very steep, and the river deep at that point. When the deer saw the hunters they were startled, and in trying to turn, the little one lost its balance and fell into the creek. The water was running very swiftly, and of course the fawn was carried down-stream. At this the poor mother seemed to lose all fear of the men, and ran wildly along the bank, trying to reach her little one with her head, but in vain. She next ran forward for a short distance, plunged in, steadied herself by planting her feet firmly among some rocks, and waited. Presently the fawn was washed against her, and, as it was being swept by, caught hold of its mother, stretching out its forelegs and clasping her neck, much as a little child uses his arms in clinging to his nurse. The doe then carefully stepped ashore with her precious burden. She lay down beside the baby deer, and, although the hunters were not thirty yards away, she licked and fondled the little thing till it rose to run, when she too sprang up, and the pair trotted off unharmed to the woods.

Many birds use their wings as arms and hands when flight will not serve their turn. A partridge was seen to hustle and drive her little troop of chicks into the shelter of a rabbit-hole with her wings, out of the way of a hawk whose shadow had fallen on the grass at their side. Here she kept them prisoners till all was safe.

The lesson to be drawn from such stories is that even wild, untaught creatures do not use their limbs in a senseless way as parts of a machine, without thinking, but are able to turn them to a variety of uses in times of difficulty. We shall, of course, find that tame animals such as the horse, dog, and cat act more wisely in such ways than their wild relations. The dog, for instance, turns his rough idea of using his mouth for carrying food or young ones, to fetching and carrying for his own benefit or his master's. A handsome brown spaniel lately noticed that his mistress, in carrying a bowl of water, upset some of the contents on the floor. Off dashed Master Jack, intent on 'making himself generally useful,' and quickly returned with the house flannel from the kitchen. This he laid beside the pool, with an intelligent, uplifted look which said, 'There! wipe it up.' Did not this sensible fellow's mouth become a splendid makeshift hand, and his glance an excellent speech?

EDITH CARRINGTON.

THE PITCHER-PLANT.

The leaves and flowers of plants often grow into very strange shapes. The flowers of various kinds of orchids are very remarkable for the peculiar forms which they take. Some of them have a great resemblance to bees, flies, or butterflies, and this resemblance is at times so great that we wonder whether it is only an accidental likeness, or whether it serves some useful purpose. One of the oddest shapes which any plant takes, however, is that of the leaves of the pitcher-plant; and in this case naturalists, who have studied the plant carefully, are able to show us that the strange shape of the leaf really serves a purpose.

The pitcher-plants are most abundant in the islands of Borneo, Java, and Sumatra, and in the Malay Peninsula. Though not so plentiful elsewhere, they are also found in Ceylon, Madagascar, the Moluccas, and one or two other places. The plant is a kind of creeping or climbing shrub which runs along the ground, or climbs up other shrubs and short trees. It seems to thrive best upon the mountaintops, and the summits of the mountains of Borneo are often gaily decked with it.

There are thirty or forty different kinds of pitcher-plants, varying in size a great deal. But the strange thing about all of them is that the ends of their leaves are shaped like pitchers, or perhaps it would describe them better if we said they were like jugs with lids. It is from this peculiarity that the plant takes its name. The leaf is the shape of any ordinary leaf until it reaches its point, where it is drawn out into a long stalk or tendril, at the end of which is the jug or pitcher, which, you must remember, is formed out of the leaf itself. Each plant has its own shape of jug, and the jugs vary in size a good deal. Some are long and slender; others are broad and shallow. Some are tiny jugs only an inch deep, while others are perhaps twenty inches deep. Their colour is green, but the mouth of the jug and the under side of the lid, which is always open, are spotted with red or purple, somewhat like a flower.

Not only do these strange leaves look like jugs, but they are also used as jugs. Each of them contains a little supply of water, varying with the size of the jug from a few drops in the smallest, to as much as two quarts in the largest of them. Thirsty travellers have sometimes quenched their thirst from these natural jugs, when no other water was to be found. Though the water itself is palatable, it is a little warm, and it is always full of insects.

If any one were to watch one of these jugs of the pitcher-plant for some time attentively, he would soon find that it served as a trap for flies and insects. One by one the little creatures alight upon the outside of the jug, and creep into the open mouth, and few or none of them ever return. They slip into the water at the bottom of the jug and are drowned.

If we examine a jug carefully, in order to learn why the insects enter it, and how it is that they cannot get out again, we shall be surprised at the clever way in which the trap is made. The mouth of the jug has a thick ring round it, which makes it firm, and keeps it always open. The lid stands over this mouth, and seems to be always raised a good deal, so that insects and flies may enter freely; but it covers the mouth in such a way as to prevent anything from falling accidentally into the jug from above. The underside of the lid and the mouth of the jug are often gaily coloured, so as to attract insects, as brightly-coloured flowers do. Some of the jugs even make a little honey, which, forming just inside the mouth, attracts insects by its scent. Within the jug, just below the mouth, there is a row of stiff hooks, which have their points turned inwards towards the bottom of the jug. Below the spikes the sides of the jug are so smooth and slippery that few insects could stand on them.

It is easy to see how the trap works. Insects are attracted to the pitcher by the bright colours of the lid or the scent of the honey. They creep into the mouth, and crawl between the hooks, whose sharp points are set the other way, and they step upon the smooth and slippery inside of the jug. In another instant they have slipped into the water at the bottom of the jug. Do what they will, they cannot climb up the slippery sides of the pitcher, or pass the row of sharp hooks, whose points are turned against them. They are caught.

Now all this is very strange and wonderful, and it makes us wish to know why Providence has given the plant this clever machinery. We cannot help asking ourselves why the pitcher-plant entraps these insects. I am afraid that you would hardly be able to answer this question for yourself, however carefully you might watch a pitcher-plant. Indeed, it is only a few years since clever men, making careful experiments, were able to find out the real truth. The fluid at the bottom of the pitcher digests those insects, and the pitcher-plant feeds upon them. Just as the juices of our stomach dissolve meat, so that it may pass into the blood and nourish us, so the fluid in the jug of the pitcher-plant dissolves the flesh of the insects which fall into it, and makes that flesh fit to nourish the plant. This strange plant lives, in part at least, upon flesh; and all the clever mechanism of its jug is used simply to get a meal.

ONE AND ONE MAKE TWO.

As through the busy world you go, Remember this is true, That though one seems a little thing, Yet one and one make two.

The task one could not do alone, Is done with help from you, For though you are a little one, Yet one and one make two.

The thread that's rolled the reel around, That baby's hands can break, When with it other threads are bound, The strongest rope doth make.

The rope thrown by some helping hand, And drawn the waters through, May bring a drowning man to land:-- So one and one make two.

The minutes grow into the hours, The hours into the day, The days to weeks, to months, to years, And thus time flies away.

And deeds of good by children done, Though small they seem to you, May grow into a mighty sum, For one and one make two.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

VI.--THE GIANT AND ITS ADVENTURES.

Two hundred needlewomen were busy for a month making the 'Giant's' coat. It contained twenty thousand yards of white silk, of double thickness, at six shillings a yard, and when finished measured ninety yards round and sixty yards in height. When it was filled it held 6098 cubic yards of gas. M. Nadar, its master, introduced it to the people of Paris in the hope that the money they would pay to see it would enable him to carry out his experiments with flying machines. On October 4th, 1863, the Giant was ready to make its first voyage in the clouds, and nearly five hundred thousand people assembled to see it start.

It was like a cottage made of wicker-work, and mounted on small wheels. In two of the four walls there was a door with two small windows each side of it, and inside there was a little world of wonders. The 'cottage' was only fifteen feet long, twelve wide, and eight high; but it was divided up so carefully by thin partitions that there was room for a small printing-office, a photographic department, a refreshment-room, a compartment for the captain's bed and passengers' luggage, and another at the opposite end, with three beds in it. Outside all this, but inside the walls of wicker-work, was an inflated rubber lining, so as to prevent it from sinking if, by any mischance, the 'Giant' should fall into the sea. Thus, according to circumstances, the building could be either the car of a balloon, a ship at sea, or a caravan being drawn by horses upon the wheels already mentioned along a country road. From the inside a narrow stairway led on to the roof, or deck.

When all was ready, M. Nadar, leaning from the deck, gave the word. The ropes were let go, and the Giant rose solemnly towards the sky. Fifteen voyagers waved their hats and handkerchiefs over the bulwarks, returning the greetings of the crowd till carried beyond sight and hearing.

Though the launch was a success, the poor Giant had been served very badly by some careless persons, all unknown to those on board. The pilot, a clever aeronaut, named Godard, was a little surprised that very soon after leaving the ground he had to begin throwing out ballast, to stop them from sinking. This went on for some hours, and when darkness had fallen, and all the world had disappeared, it became clear that the balloon must descend. They had attained a height of many thousand feet. It was nearly nine o'clock, and supper on deck was over, when Godard, finding that the descent was becoming too rapid, called out, 'Hold to the ropes!'

Every passenger seized some portion of the ropes, so that the shock of contact with the earth might be somewhat lessened. Down came the Giant, a great deal more swiftly than it had risen; and the last bags of ballast were emptied over the side with little effect. The blow was tremendous, and the wonder is that the passengers escaped with their lives. An inquiry was held, and the Giant itself was proved blameless. The valves for allowing the escape of gas had never been properly closed! Thus, from the very moment when they left Paris, the gas was pouring out at the top; and it was only through the enormous quantity used that they succeeded in rising at all.

A fortnight later M. Nadar was ready to sail again. This time the Giant had nine passengers, who were destined to make an eventful voyage. Anchor was weighed in the evening, and very soon, at a great height, all eyes were turned to watch the beautiful sunset. As the shadows of night gathered round them, however, more than one traveller looked anxiously at the gigantic ball above. Supposing anything should go wrong with it! It looked such a tremendous distance down to the earth.

When day dawned again at last, after a night during which no one had closed his eyes, they found themselves hanging over the fens of Holland, many miles from Paris. Fearing that the wind might carry them out to sea, they agreed to descend. But, on reaching the lower air, the huge balloon was caught in what proved to be almost a hurricane. It drove them towards the ground at a long angle, until, like a falling kite, the Giant struck the earth head foremost, dragging the car behind it at a terrible speed. The travellers hung on for dear life. Again and again the car struck, and rebounded thirty or forty feet into the air. With the first blow the valve-rope was jerked beyond reach, so that it became impossible to let the gas escape.

Mile after mile they tore through the country, crashing into trees, and scattering herds of cattle right and left. All the anchor-ropes, dropped one after the other, had been snapped like thread, the last catching in the roof of a cottage, and tearing it open before giving way. Then, to the horror of the passengers, a railway-train appeared a short distance ahead, spinning along at great speed. A collision seemed inevitable; but with one united effort they shouted to the driver. He heard them, and reversed his engine, and the next moment they whirled by, dragging telegraph wires and poles after them. And now a hero came to their rescue. Jules Godard, the pilot's brother, after many fruitless attempts, climbed into the network and secured the valve-rope. The gas was now slowly discharged, and before the bag was empty the passengers had either jumped or been jolted from the car, bruised and shaken, but happily without loss of life.

After making such a wonderful name for itself, the Giant took a short sea voyage on board a real ship, and crossed the Channel to England, and, blown out with harmless air, hung under the great glass dome of the Crystal Palace for visitors to admire. After this it made only one or two more journeys to the clouds, and ended its career as a poor captive balloon in the gardens of Cremorne.

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 219.)

Much to his relief, Charlie found that the galley fire had not gone out.

'I kept it going, cook,' a grimy young trimmer declared. 'It would have gone out long ago if I hadn't looked after it. And I've filled the kettle for you. Got a bit of grub to give me?'

Charlie took out a chunk of bread, dabbed a spoonful of marmalade on top of it, and gave it to the lad.

'Any time you want anything done, I'll do it,' the trimmer declared, and departed.

As there was nothing to detain Charlie in the galley he went forward to assist in hauling. The skipper was on the bridge; the mate was working the donkey-engine, which was fast drawing in the long wire ropes attached to the net, and the deck hands stood at the starboard-side gunwale, watching for the net to appear. An electric light was hung up at the bridge, so that the men could see to do the work they had in hand. For a moment or two Charlie stood at the foot of the bridge, waiting for the skipper or the mate to tell him what to do.

'Stand here,' Ping Wang said, quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.

Charlie nodded his head and took up his position about three feet away from the Chinaman. Soon the net appeared above water, and the men, bending over the gunwale, grasped it with their hands, and, tugging all together, pulled it slowly but surely upwards.

'Where are the fish?' Charlie asked, surprised at seeing none in the part of the net at which they had been tugging.

'For'ard,' Ping Wang answered, and as he spoke the donkey-engine started panting and puffing, and the part of the net to which the Chinaman had pointed was now raised high above the gunwale. It resembled a huge cooking-net which had been lifted out of a gigantic pan. It was crowded with fish, and as it was pulled in and suspended over the pound made on the deck, the very small fish, mostly dead, fell through. Others, with wide-opened mouths, were caught in the meshes. A fisherman now stepped under the dripping net, untied it at the bottom, and sprang quickly aside as the catch of fish fell with a thud into the pound.

'What a mixture!' Charlie exclaimed as he gazed at the fish jumping, wriggling, and sliding about in the pound. 'What are they?'

'Cod, plaice, haddock, and turbot,' Ping Wang replied, but he only named a few of them. The catch included also ling, sole, whiting, dab, gurnet, oysters, crabs, whelks, cat-fish, star-fish, and a large amount of ocean scrapings.

Charlie stood watching the struggling mass, deeply interested, but Ping Wang whispered to him, 'Come away, or you'll have the skipper at you. We are going to shoot now.'

Charlie bestirred himself at once, and assisted in shooting the gear. When that had been done without a hitch, the work of sorting, cleaning, and packing the fish was begun. Three men stepped into the pound, trampling on the fish until they had made a clear space for their feet.

'Give a hand there, cook!' the skipper shouted, and Charlie stepped into the pound. He had not the heart to tread on the still living fish as the others were doing, and in his anxiety to avoid hurting them, he slipped and fell against the gunwale, his sou'-wester falling overboard. The other men stopped work at once, and looked at him in a by no means friendly way. The skipper abused him loudly and fiercely.

'It was my own sou'-wester,' Charlie declared, unable to understand why the skipper should be so excited over the loss.

'Then why don't you jump overboard and save it? We will fish you up next time we haul.'

The men laughed heartily at this grim joke.

'Take the skipper's advice, mate,' one of them said. 'I want some new boots badly.'

'It is thought a bad omen if a fisherman's sou'-wester is blown overboard,' Ping Wang explained in a whisper, whereupon Charlie laughed loudly at the superstitious idea.

'Stop that row,' the skipper shouted, 'and start cleaning the fish.'

Charlie took out his clasp-knife, and seized a plaice.

'Don't cut that,' Ping Wang warned him. 'Put the plaice in the box just as they are.'

Charlie hesitated, for the fish was not yet dead, and he did not like the idea of packing it away while it was alive.

'Here, stow it away,' a fisherman growled, and snatching it out of his hand flopped it in the box and smacked a dead fish on top of it.

The plaice were the only ones which had not to be cut open. As each fish was cleaned it was tossed into another pound, and when the whole of the catch, with the exception of the plaice, oysters, whelks, and the useless fish, were in this, the hose was turned on to the silvery mass.

When the fish had been thoroughly cleansed with water, they were packed away in boxes, which were at once stowed away in the hold between layers of ice.

Charlie was not required to assist in the work in the hold, and therefore he hurried to the bucket, on which was painted 'All hands,' and indulged in a wash. He was fortunate in being first, for fresh water is not plentiful on a trawler, and one bucketful has to suffice for the whole crew.

From the bucket, Charlie went to the galley and made the tea. Every one, from the skipper to the ship's boy, had a mugful; some had two. The North Sea fishermen are inveterate tea-drinkers.

Having drunk their tea, the men threw off their oilies and turned in again with all their clothes on.

'It isn't worth while undressing,' Ping Wang said to Charlie. 'In about three hours' time we shall have to turn out again. If you don't undress you will have a little longer time to sleep.'

Charlie did not undress, and consequently he was ready to start work at once when the time came. He put on a peaked cap in place of his lost sou'-wester.

'Don't forget the tea, cook,' one of them said to Charlie as he climbed up on deck. 'Let's have it before we start hauling.'

Thanks to the trimmer the kettle was boiling, and Charlie was therefore able to bring the men mugs of hot tea in less than five minutes from turning out.

'Cook is one of the right sort, after all,' one of the fishermen declared as he returned his empty mug to Charlie, and the others assented by nods and grunts. But before long Charlie was again in hot water. As he was assisting to haul in the net he sneezed loudly. In a moment one of the fishermen placed his big, dirty hand over his mouth and effectually prevented him from sneezing on the net again.

The skipper, looking down from the bridge, broke into loud abuse.

'What harm is there in sneezing?' Charlie answered, angrily.

'None of your back answers, or I'll clap you in irons.'

'If you do, you'll have to pay for it dearly when we get back to Grimsby. I insist upon knowing what harm I have done.'

'It is thought very unlucky to sneeze on a trawl,' the mate explained quietly, anxious to save Charlie from any further bullying. 'It is supposed to bring bad luck to the trawler. Now, grab hold of the net.'

Charlie again tugged at the net, and, when the catch was emptied into the pound, it was found that it was an exceedingly small one.

'That comes of having you aboard!' the skipper declared, pointing at Charlie.

'I don't see how my sneezing could have affected this catch,' Charlie answered, 'considering that it was almost on board when I sneezed.'

'But how about your sou'-wester last night? That was what ruined this catch, and your sneezing will spoil the next one.'

Charlie laughed openly at this prediction, but it was rather unfortunate for him that, when the next haul was made, it was found that the catch was still smaller than the previous one.

'I told you so!' the skipper declared, white with rage.

'It is a coincidence,' Charlie replied, calmly. 'If I sneeze on the net now you will probably have a fine catch next time.'

'No back answers. Don't you try to teach me anything. Get away to the galley at once, and be careful what you do.'

Charlie returned to the galley, hardly knowing whether to be angry or amused. It was very galling to have to submit to the abuse of an ignorant, blustering fellow like the skipper, but, at the same time, he could not take the man's superstition seriously.

'I would not have believed, unless I had seen the skipper, that it was possible for there to be such a superstitious Briton living at the end of the nineteenth century,' Charlie said to the mate, about half an hour later.

'Oh, there are many like him in the North Sea,' the mate answered, 'and all the arguing in the world won't convince them of their foolishness. After a time you will not find his ignorance and superstition amusing. However, what I want to say to you is this: the men in the foc's'le declare that the grub isn't well cooked, and that you haven't given them plum duff yet. You must let them have it to-morrow.'

'I will,' Charlie declared, as if plum duff were the easiest thing in the world to make.

When the mate left him, Charlie took out the bow-legged cook's written instructions to see what ingredients were necessary. His idea was to make and boil the pudding that evening, so that, if it turned out a failure, he would have time to make another one. If it proved to be a success, he would be able to warm it up on the following morning. But, just as he began to read the recipe, he noticed that the fire had burnt low and needed instant attention. In his anxiety to prevent it from going out, he put down the flimsy little book and began shovelling coals on the fire. While he was doing that a gust of wind swept through the galley, and carried the recipe-book out through the porthole and into the sea.

Charlie, gazing out at it, saw it float for a moment or two, and then lost sight of it.

'Well,' he muttered, ruefully, 'I don't know how I am going to make plum duff now!'

(Continued on page 238.)

THE TRUMPET AND THE DRUM.

Said the Trumpet to the Drum: 'Less noise, good fellow! come! For nobody can hear My voice, when you are near.'

'Boom! boom!' the Drum replied, 'The fault is on your side; You blow with such a sound That my poor voice is drowned.'

And after that, all day They blew and boomed away, In contest so absurd That neither could be heard.

Now, when you want to speak, O children, never seek To drown in noisy tone All voices but your own; But learn to shun in life The Drum and Trumpet's strife.

JIM'S SHOWER-BATH.

The kitchen was very hot, and Aunt Christy, the old black cook, was very busy. With her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, and her cap all awry, she bustled about, hurrying the slow movements of the girls who were her helpers, and scolding the four little dusky children whenever they got in her way. She declared that they were all as full of mischief as they could be, and that there was not a pin to choose between them. But if one of the four did happen to be worse than the others, that one was certainly Jim.

Jim was nearly seven; his young mind was full of eager questions; he wanted to know the reason of everything, and it was really because he was so curious and prying that Aunt Christy thought him worse than the rest.

On that morning he poked about the kitchen, opening baskets and peering into dishes, until his eyes fell upon a large bright pail, which was set upon a stand too high for him to reach.

'That's a new pail. Why's Aunt Christy got a new pail? Wonder what's in it? I will see.'

So said Jim to himself; and when he found that, even by standing on tiptoe, he could not reach, the little rascal trotted off for his three-legged stool, mounted on that, put his chubby arms as far as they would stretch round the pail. A three-legged stool, however, is but a treacherous support, and this Jim found to his cost. As he stood there, it slipped from under his bare feet, and the pail, which was full of warm water and vegetables, suddenly overturned.

Poor Jim got a terrible drenching; it was lucky for him that the water was not very hot, or he would have been sadly scalded. As it was, a big turnip hit him on the head, and the handle of the pail hurt him. Wet and bruised he crept away, a sadder and a wiser boy, inwardly resolved to have nothing more to do with things which did not concern him.

C. J. BLAKE.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

VII.--THE CLIFF-DWELLERS OF NORTH AMERICA.

If you take a map of North America, and trace the line of the Rocky Mountains downwards, you come to the State of Colorado, with New Mexico and Arizona lying below; and if you tried to explore this country you would find yourself in a perfect network of mountains. In Colorado there are magnificent snow-peaks, with richly wooded valleys lying between them, whilst in New Mexico and Arizona the land is much more bare, mountain ridges, often covered with stones and pebbles, dividing flat table-lands of great extent.

Common to all three States are wonderful gorges, or splits in the cliffs, of immense depth. Sometimes from below one can hardly see the sky between the precipices; at other times the gorge may open out into quite a broad valley; but, whether narrow or wide, we may be quite sure that wherever there is a canyon (as these rock-splits are called in Western America) there will be a river running down it.

One of these rivers, named the Colorado, travels for more than three hundred miles along a channel of its own cutting, never less than a mile below the level of the surrounding country. If we remember that we take from fifteen to twenty minutes to walk a mile, and then fancy that mile standing on end like a pole, we may get some idea of what the cliffs are like in these canyons.

The currents of the mountain rivers, like those of all waters flowing from high lands, are very strong and swift; and when the snows are melting, or after heavy rainfalls, the force of the stream is enormous. The result is that the channel is worn deeper and deeper, whilst the cliffs at the side are eaten away in places. The hardest rocks remain in jagged points and ledges, and the softer parts are in time washed away, leaving caverns of all shapes and sizes.

The kind of people who lived in this country of highlands and canyons were tribes of American Indians, whose food was chiefly found in hunting, and whose main interests lay in making war upon their neighbours. Some tribes were strong, and others weak, so that by degrees the powerful folk drove away the less warlike people from the rich hunting-grounds and wooded country into the barren rocks. Now, if these hunted tribes were to exist at all, it was clear they must find some means of protecting themselves; thus it may have happened that scrambling up the cliffs one day to avoid their foes, some fugitive Indian came into one of the dwelling-places hollowed out in bygone ages by the river which roared below. What joyful news he would carry home to his friends when he ventured to go back to them! Shelter from rain, and snow, and wind! Homes easily defended from marauding foes! What a new life of ease for the persecuted people! One by one families would climb the cliffs, until at last a great population looked down from their eyries in certain gorges of Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, where only eagles or mountain-goats might be supposed to dwell.

The table-lands above the ravines were, as a rule, fairly fertile, and the Indians were able to grow maize, or Indian corn. When they were obliged to give up the roving life of hunters, animal food must have become a scarce luxury.

Being an industrious race, they were not long content to live in the rugged caverns as nature made them, but with wonderful labour built walls, floors, and roofs, to make their homes more comfortable, and to keep out the icy winds which howled up the canyons. The marvel is how they reached their homes, which are often at great heights; and one shudders to think of how many stray babies, clambering children, and nervous folk of all ages, must have stumbled and fallen over the rocky platforms to certain death. Every drop of water, every bit of fuel, and all food of every kind, must have been carried up those awful precipices, usually on ladders placed from ledge to ledge, and drawn up after the climber. That any people should choose such dwelling-places shows how unsafe life down in the plains must have been, and later on we will try to see how far the Cave Indians contrived to secure peace and comfort in their cliff houses.

HELENA HEATH.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

10.--OBLIQUE PUZZLE.

Each word is one letter shorter than the one before. The initials, read downwards, give the name of a South American city.

1. The highest degree of respect. 2. Bitter hatred. 3. A common and useful covering for the floor. 4. A model of excellence. 5. A woman's name. 6. A sharp instrument. 7. A curved structure. 8. Congealed water. 9. An adverb. 10. A vowel.

C. J. B.

11.--CHARADE.

My first is thick and dark; my second is connected with the sea; my whole is an acid concrete salt, or some one keen and irritable.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 263.]

ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 195.

9.--1. Wellington. 2. Marlborough. 3. Nelson. 4. Blake. 5. Shakespeare. 6. Tennyson. 7. Scott. 8. Dickens. 9. Elizabeth. 10. Victoria.

ANSWER TO 'WHAT AM I?' ON PAGE 214.

Dun-dee.

DECEIVING THE HORSE.

An omnibus, in the course of its journey, had to be taken up a long and toilsome hill. Frequently passengers, out of pity for the poor horse, would get out at the bottom and walk up a part of the way, so as to lighten its load. In time, the sagacious beast got to expect this, and would sometimes stop of its own accord, as if to let them descend from the vehicle.

One day, a gentleman, travelling up the hill for the first time in this conveyance, was much annoyed by the conductor frequently opening the door, even when no one wanted to get out, and banging it close again.

He inquired of the man what he meant by such conduct, when it was explained that it was done to deceive the horse, which, each time the door was banged, thought another passenger had alighted, and pulled away with more will in consequence.

H. B. S.

THE TEETH OF HYENAS.

Hyenas have stronger jaws than any other animals in the world. They have a large tooth at each side of the upper jaw, which bites against the keen edge of a tooth like it on the lower jaw, thus forming a pair of shears sharp enough to cut paper and strong enough to crack the thigh-bone of an ox.

Hyenas live entirely on meat. A lion, on the contrary, eats a large quantity of fresh grass when it can get it, and in captivity will lap milk from a pan with as much greediness as an ordinary pussy.

THE GATE-KEEPER OF RAMBOUILLET.

It is difficult for Englishmen to realise the intense devotion which Napoleon the First inspired in the hearts of his French soldiers. Ambitious and utterly careless of human life as he undoubtedly was, these men overlooked all this in their admiration for the victorious General.

As a rule, Napoleon certainly behaved as the Father of his soldiers, and seemed to feel both with them and for them. Here is an account of the way he cheered an old 'Sapeur' whom he find lying in the ward of a military hospital.

'How now, my friend?' said the Emperor, halting at the soldier's bedside. 'You are one of my Sapeurs, I see! I thought that regiment prided itself on never being ill?'

'I am not ill, your Majesty!' said the soldier, proudly, as he saluted his chief; 'but the doctor wants me to have my leg cut off, and I do not wish it.'

'Why not?' asked Napoleon. 'Are you, who have faced death so often, afraid of an operation of a few minutes?'

'Afraid, Sire!' said the man, with a quiet smile. 'Fear is not a disease that attacks Sapeurs, as your Majesty knows; but if I change my leg of flesh for a wooden stump, I shall never be able to return to the regiment, and I would rather be buried entire than bit by bit.'

'Where were you wounded?' asked the Emperor.

'At Wagram, Sire.'

'Have you received your medal?'

'No, Sire,' said the soldier, eagerly. 'I was in the ambulance when you distributed the medals.'

'Suppose I were to give you the medal now?' said Napoleon, looking fixedly at the soldier.

'Oh, Sire!' said the man, almost leaping up in his delight. 'I should be quite well then, I know.'

'Well, then, I give it you,' said the Emperor: 'but on one condition: you must let the surgeon cut off that leg.'

'Just as you order me, Sire; if you wish my head cut off I am ready! Only I can never serve you again, if I have a leg off.'

'How do you know that, you foolish fellow?' replied the Emperor, smiling. 'Make haste and get well, and I appoint you gate-keeper of my castle of Rambouillet.'

The soldier said no more. His heart was too full of joy and gratitude, for that was indeed a post of honour.

Some months later the Castle of Rambouillet had a new gate-keeper, an old wooden-legged sergeant of Sapeurs, wearing the coveted medal on his well-brushed uniform!

X.

THE CASHMERE STAG.

India is rich in animals of the deer kind. To name only a few, there are the Sambur, the beautiful Axis Deer, the small, but fierce, Hog Deer, the Rusa Deer, the Bahrainga Deer, and the noble Cashmere Deer. The habits of these animals are exceedingly varied. Some live upon the hills, while others frequent the low lands and the jungles, and are never seen upon the higher ground. Several of the species are nocturnal, and are so rarely seen in the daytime that any one might think they were scarce animals, although they are really very common.

The Cashmere Stag or Deer is one of those which live on the high lands, upon the slopes of the mountains of Cashmere, Nepal, and the countries to the north-west of India. It prefers forests and well-wooded country, in which it finds shelter and seclusion. It rarely descends to the lower and more open country, and it is in fact so retiring and alert that it is seldom met with. By day it hides itself in the woods, but in the early morning it is tempted forth to drink at the lakes and pools which lie upon the skirts of the forest. It changes its pasture-grounds with the seasons, climbing the mountains in summer, probably to enjoy the cool, fresh air of the upper regions, and returning to lower ground in winter in search of food.

The male is a fine animal, with large branching horns, somewhat like those of our own stag or red deer, but not quite so large. In a fine and well-developed specimen the horns will often display sixteen branching points. The general colour of the stag is a rather dark grey or brown, with patches of yellowish white upon the haunches, and for some little distance along the back. The neck of the male is covered with longer hair somewhat resembling a mane. The female is very similar in colour to the male, but she is smaller, and has neither horns nor mane.

The Cashmere stag is sometimes called the Nepal stag, and it has also other names, mostly derived from the localities where it is found. Many of these are native names conferred upon it by the inhabitants of various parts of the north of India, and when they are taken up and repeated by sportsmen and travellers they prove very confusing to naturalists, who cannot always be sure that they all refer to one animal.

All stags are very attentive to their mates, and the least cry of the female will draw her companion to her side. A hunter once saw a fine male come running up at the cry of his mate, which had just been shot. The poor thing was dead, but the stag stayed by her body, and would not be frightened away until he was quite sure there was no life left in it.

THE BLACK LEOPARD.

There are few animals more beautiful than the leopard, which inhabits India and Africa. Looking at its handsome fur, we cannot fail to be struck with the regular way in which the black spots or rings are arranged upon the reddish-yellow ground, and how regularly they vary in shape and size in different parts of the body.

Besides the ordinary spotted leopard there is, however, a black leopard. It is found in India and some other countries of southern Asia where the ordinary leopard lives, and seems most common upon the high lands. It is very much scarcer than the ordinary leopard, and is, indeed, very rare. The natives of India have a great dread of it, for they think it is more cunning, more ferocious and stronger than the spotted leopard, which is one of the fiercest and most active of the flesh-eating animals. It climbs trees and sports among the branches with all the agility of a cat. It is as ferocious as the tiger, and though not so large, its activity and strength make it a very dangerous foe.

Though the black leopard is different in colour from the ordinary leopard, it is in other respects very similar, and naturalists now regard it as only a variety of the spotted leopard. After getting together all the information which they can about the colours of the leopard and similar animals, they have come to the conclusion that the leopard family has a tendency to turn to black. This does not mean that full-grown spotted leopards sometimes turn black quickly, but that the cubs are occasionally born black, or grow dark soon after they are born.

The leopard is also known to show other variations of colour, but examples of these are very much rarer than black ones. All animals are liable to occasional variations of colour, which cannot be satisfactorily explained. In the leopard these variations occur more frequently than in most other animals, and the colour is nearly always black.

THE POET CRABBE'S FIRST SCHOOL.

Crabbe, the poet, whose Village Tales were the delight of a past generation, was sent to a boarding school whilst still so young that he had not even learnt to dress himself.

When he awoke in the morning after his first night away from home, he saw the other boys dressing, and was much disturbed. He whispered to his bedfellow (for all schoolboys slept at least two in a bed in those days), 'Master George, can you put on your shirt? for--for I'm afraid I cannot!'

This school, though only for small boys, seems to have been a very severe one, for Crabbe and his friends were punished for simply 'playing at soldiers.' He was condemned, with his friends, to be shut in a large dog-kennel, known by the terrible name of 'the Black Hole.' Little Crabbe was the first to be pushed in, and the rest were crowded in on top of him, till at last the kennel was so full of boys that they were all but suffocated. Crabbe in vain cried out that he could not breathe, but no notice was taken of him until, in despair, he bit the lad next to him violently in the hand.

'Crabbe is dying! Crabbe is dying!' roared the sufferer, and the sentinel outside at length opened the door, and allowed the boys to rush into the air.

Crabbe, when telling this story to his children in after years, always added, 'A minute more and I must have died!'

X.

MY PICTURE-BOOK.

Oh, what a pretty scene is this, Of meadow, hill, and brook, I wish that I was small enough To get inside the book. Upon this stream I'd launch my boat; I'd pluck this willow wand; Then round that reedy curve I'd float, And past the mill beyond-- If I were only small enough.

Then where the meadows are so green I'd moor my boat again, And overtake that little boy Who's trotting down the lane. I'd ask him to be friends with me, I'd take him by the hand, And through my pretty picture we Would go to fairy-land-- If I were only small enough.

ULRICH'S OPPORTUNITY.

The Thirty Years' War was raging, and Europe was torn by bitter party strife. All over the country men ranged themselves under their respective leaders and fought grimly to the death.

At the time of this story, the little German town of Bamburg had remained loyal to the Emperor Ferdinand, and had in consequence been closely besieged for many weeks by the troops of the Elector of Saxony. The flag still floated from the tower of the Town Hall, and a bold front was shown to the enemy; but in reality the inhabitants were in sore straits, when news reached them that if they could hold out one week longer help would come.

A council was summoned, and all who could bear arms were called to hear the glad news and to form fresh plans for the further defence of the town. Shrewd and cautious advice was sorely needed, and none was fitter to give it than stout old Karl Sneider, the keeper of the water-gate. So to-night he was not in his place in the little watch-tower that looked out over the broad river that flowed by the wall of the little town.

His watch was taken by Oscar Halbau, the clock-maker, who, although he was not a Bamburg man by birth, had lived there so long that the good people had come to regard him as one of themselves. Upstairs, in a quaint little room with sloping roofs and curious corners, lay Karl Sneider's crippled son Ulrich.

Usually bright and cheerful, to-night Ulrich was sadly depressed. To-day was his fifteenth birthday, and were not boys of fifteen allowed to take their places in the council? Caspar Shenk and Peter and Johann Hofman had run up to see him on their way to the Rathhaus, and had joined with him in begging his father to allow him to go, too, for with the help of his crutch and a friendly arm he could make his way to the Cathedral, and the Town Hall was not much further away.

'Nay, my son,' said his father firmly, 'a council is not like a service at church. Stay quietly here, and when I return I will tell thee all.'

He spoke cheerfully, but his heart ached to see the boy's disappointment, and when the other lads had gone he bent tenderly over him, saying, 'Only wait patiently, my son; thy turn will come, bringing the bit of work Providence means thee to do. There is work for every one if only we wait quietly for it.'

Long after he had gone, Ulrich thought over these words. They might be true, but it seemed as if there could never be work for him to do. His life seemed bounded by his couch and his chair by the window. Sometimes he went out, it was true, but at best it was a slow and painful business, and lately he had fancied the children laughed to themselves when he passed.

He was roused from these sad thoughts by something coming sharply against the window. He listened, and the sound was repeated again. Someone was throwing stones at the glass. Who could it be? and what could they want at that hour?

Stretching out his hand for his crutch, he moved softly across the room and peered out. There was just enough light to enable him to see a boat moored to the steps which ran up to the gate. He opened the window gently, and was about to speak when he heard the clockmaker's voice saying cautiously, 'Is that you, Captain?'

Ulrich knew then that the stranger had struck his window by mistake; clearly it was the guard-room window he had aimed at, and if that were so, why had the stranger chosen the very night that his father was away, and how did Oscar know him? As quickly as he could he put out his lamp and listened breathlessly. Oscar was speaking again.

'All is going well--better than I dared to hope. The fools think I am as loyal as themselves, and they have left me to guard the gate. The council will not be over till near midnight, and in half an hour the moon will be gone. I will open the gate when it is quite dark and admit your men, and the game will then be in our own hands.'

'You are a good fellow, Oscar, and shall be remembered,' replied the stranger. 'To-morrow, when the town is ours, your name shall be on every one's lips, and your pockets shall be filled with gold.'

He then turned back to his boat, and Ulrich leant back in his chair sick with horror. To think that here, in his father's house, sat a traitor, and that unless help came soon the town would be lost!

What could he do? It was useless for him to crawl downstairs and confront Oscar. He had only to carry him back to his room and lock the door to ensure safety. It was no less useless to cry for help, for a long row of warehouses separated the guard-room from any other dwelling. Oh! if he had only been like other boys, how easily he could have stolen downstairs, and rushed to the Town Hall and given the alarm! It seemed absolutely impossible for him to do it as he was. He had never gone downstairs alone in his life; his father had always been there to help him; even if he managed to crawl down he could not take his crutch with him, and he could not walk without it. No, clearly it was impossible.

And yet, as the slow minutes dragged away, and as he thought of the shame it would be if the town were lost, he decided to make the attempt. Slowly he crawled across the room and down the narrow, twisted staircase. He was trembling from head to foot, and his breath seemed to come in great gasps. What if Oscar heard him? His door was ajar, and the lamp threw a ray of light on the landing outside; but Oscar was deep in his plans, and did not notice the black shadow that moved slowly across the lamp-lit space.

At last Ulrich was outside, and he breathed more freely in the open air. If he had only had his crutch now, things might all have gone well, but how was he to crawl along the long Breite Strasse, and round the corner and up the still longer Gast Strasse to the Town Hall? His heart failed. Still, he could only try his best. Perhaps he might meet some one....

Alas! all who were not at the council were safely in their houses, and there was no one to notice the bent figure slowly dragging itself along, or to hear the feeble knocks as he tried to reach the great brass knockers, which were just too high for him to reach.

At last he came to the Cathedral, where he sometimes attended service, but he had his father's strong arm to lean on then, while now he was alone and quite exhausted. He could never reach the Town Hall in time; but the church door was open, perhaps some one was inside who could take the message. But the church was closed; it was only the porch which was open.

With a sob of despair the boy entered and sank down on a low bench by the door. After all it was no use; he could go no further, and even now the traitor might be opening the gates.

As Ulrich raised his hand to wipe away the big tears that would fall, he struck something soft hanging above his head; in the darkness he felt it. It was a rope.

Instantly his strength came back with a rush. There was hope yet! Was not the bell of the Cathedral the loudest in the town, and was it not used as an alarm in cases of fire? He grasped the rope and pulled with all his might. It was hard work, but soon the sound came--crash! crash! crash!

That would surely rouse the town. And so it did. Soon hasty footsteps were heard, and a watchman ran in, frantically waving his lantern.

'Where is it? What is it?--a fire? Speak, boy!' but Ulrich seemed to have lost his tongue. It was not until several others had gathered round him that he managed to gasp out, 'The water-gate--quick! Oscar is letting in the soldiers!'

The words flew like wild-fire, and off the crowd rushed--men, boys, burgomaster, and watchmen, just in time to capture the traitor and to drive back the enemy.

So his father had been right after all, and Ulrich's bit of work had been ready for him, and nearer than he thought. And he did his best, and doing his best saved the town. For help did come, and Ulrich was thanked by the Emperor himself, who put him under the care of his own doctor. The doctor, although he was not able quite to cure him, did him so much good that he was able in the course of time to walk without a crutch.

E. W. GRIERSON.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

VII.--HOW INSECTS BREATHE

Animal life cannot be sustained without breathing, though, strange as it may seem, many of the lower animals have no special breathing organs. By breathing, we mean supplying the body with the life-giving oxygen contained in the air. Animals which live in the water breathe by taking in the oxygen held in solution in the water.

In the simplest animals which live in water, the body is only a small 'blob' of jelly, so small that the oxygen passes directly into the body. The bodies of some worms are so delicate that the oxygen easily passes through the outer layers and mixes with the blood within.

In more complicated animals this life-giving gas is conveyed all over the body by means of the blood, which is brought into contact with the water, or the air, by structures known as gills. In the crayfish, for example, the gills are placed above and rise from the bases of the legs, being saved from injury by a broad shield lying behind the head. (In fig. 4 this shield has been cut away so as to show the gills, marked G, which it really covers.) By means of the circulation of the blood, the crayfish breathes. This blood is carried to the gills and bathed by a constant stream of fresh water, which enters behind the covering and shield, and passes forwards till it comes out on each side of the mouth. The blood, thus refreshed by the oxygen in the water, is carried again all over the body, and in its course loses more and more oxygen, and becomes more and more charged with poisonous gases, which are got rid of on the return of the blood to the gills. The letter S in this figure marks the stump of the leg, which, for the sake of clearness, has been cut off.

In ourselves, the work of breathing, or of purifying the blood, is done by means of the lungs. The lungs are large, spongy organs in the chest, and are continually supplied with fresh air, which passes in through the nose and mouth and down the wind-pipe, by what we call the act of breathing.

Insects take in oxygen in a way quite different from that of the crayfish or mankind. In some larval insects, which live in water, as in some worms, the body is so thin that no special breathing organs are necessary; others breathe by means of gills like those of the crayfish, but arranged differently--sometimes along each side, and sometimes at the tail end of the body. But in the ordinary adult insect the work of breathing is carried on by means of a system of tubes, known as 'tracheæ,' which run all over the body. Into these tubes the air is drawn through a number of holes on the surface of the body, called 'spiracles,' or breathing pores. The tracheæ or tubes are everywhere bathed by the blood, which is thus constantly 'aerated,' or kept fresh.

One very remarkable thing about these tubes is the way they are kept open. A horny, spirally-twisted thread runs through them, and thus they are prevented from closing up by pressure, or by the bending of the body or limbs. In fig. 2, this thread is marked C. This plan of keeping open the passage in a tube likely to be blocked by sudden bending, has been imitated by mankind, in making rubber gas tubing, for example. As a plain rubber tube is easily bent, the gas would be in constant danger of being cut off. To prevent this, Nature's patent is usually imitated, and a coil of wire is placed along the inside of the tube. Thus, a sharp bend, such as would instantly obstruct the passage of the gas, is prevented.

The openings at the end of the breathing tubes, on the surface of the insect's body, are known, as we have said, as 'spiracles,' or 'stigmata.' They can be closed at will by special muscles, and, to prevent dust from getting into the tube, the rim of each spiracle has a more or less complicated fringe or strainer. In fig. 3 the spiracle is shown open, the opening being marked by the letter O. When closed the fringes interlock like clasped fingers.

Fig. 1 shows the position of the breathing tubes in the aphis or green fly. The spiracles or pores are marked O, the breathing tubes T.

Some insects which live in water, such as the water-beetle, breathe air in the same way as their relatives who live on land. To do this they have to come frequently to the surface of the water to take in fresh supplies of air. In the great Dyticus water-beetle this is done in a curious way. The creature, rising to the surface, first thrusts its tail up into the air, and then bending it downwards, lets the air rush in to fill the space between the body and the upper wing-cases. This done, the tail is pressed back again, and the beetle returns to the depths, where the imprisoned air is taken in through the pores into the tubes.

Besides the system of tubes just described, many insects possess a wonderful system of air-cells, which give extra help in breathing during flight. These air-cells are largest in insects which fly most. It is a curious fact that birds have an exactly similar system; in many cases, even the bones of birds are filled with air. It is generally stated, indeed, that birds with the strongest flight have the most 'pneumatic' bones. This not quite true, for the swallow, for example, has the long bones of its wing filled with marrow, and not with air. Other birds, however, like the storks, which fly much, and the owls and nightjars, have all the bones in the body thus filled with air which they obtain from the air-cells.

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

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 227.)

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter V

'I shall not be able to make plum duff,' said Charlie to Ping Wang, about half an hour after his loss of the cook's recipe-book.

'There will be a row if the men discover that you don't know how to make it,' Ping Wang declared, looking serious. 'But never mind that, I have something more important to tell you. Come aft; the skipper may be listening to what we are saying.'

They went right to the stem of the trawler and stood against the gunwale.

'No one can come near us without our seeing him,' Ping Wang said, and continued at once: 'Could you swim a mile in a sea like this?'

'I think so.'

'Then let us desert the Sparrow-hawk when darkness comes on.'

'But where are we to swim to? I don't see any boats within five miles of us.'

Ping Wang pointed to the horizon, where the smoke of about half-a-dozen trawlers was plainly visible.

'That's a fleet of steam trawlers,' he declared, 'and before midnight we shall be among them. When one comes within a mile or so of us, we will jump overboard and swim to her. The skippers and men on the steam trawlers belonging to the large fleets are splendid fellows, and when they hear what a beast Skipper Drummond is, they won't send us back. We must start as soon as possible after the midnight shoot, if there is any trawler near us then.'

'Suppose the skipper thinks we have fallen overboard and sends a boat to rescue us?'

'I don't think that he would take the trouble. But listen! I can hear him on the bridge. Don't let him see us talking, in case he suspects that we are up to something.'

Ping Wang made his way for'ard, while Charlie returned to the galley and busied himself in making buns. He had made some on the previous evening, and although he did not enjoy the one that he tasted, the crew found no fault with them.

As he worked, he could see through the porthole that the fishing fleet was drawing nearer. Some of the trawlers were miles away on the starboard bow, and others on the port.

Three hours later, when it was dark, Charlie counted twenty-five trawlers, and every now and again he could see the mark-ship's rockets piercing the night gloom. At ten o'clock he calculated that the nearest trawler was quite three miles away, and judging from the course the steamers were taking, he began to fear that it would come no nearer. But shortly before the men turned out to haul, Ping Wang popped his head into the galley and beckoned Charlie to come outside.

'As soon as we have hauled and shot,' he said in a whisper, 'we must slip off aft and dive overboard.'

'We shall have to swim nearly two miles.'

'Oh, no; nothing like that distance,' Ping Wang declared, and pointed to a smack on the starboard side which Charlie had not noticed.

'It's a mission ship,' Ping Wang explained, 'and she will lay to until daybreak. By the time that we have hauled and shot we shall be abreast of her, and won't have more than half a mile to swim. The skipper is fast asleep, and, as the mate is not going to disturb him, we shall have a quiet haul.'

A few minutes later, Charlie and Ping Wang were tugging at the cold, dripping net, delighted at the thought that it was the last time they would have to perform such work.

'It's a splendid haul,' the bo's'un called out to the mate, as the net of fish was swung over the pound.

As he spoke, the fish fell with a splash in the pound, and, the catch being extra large, many of the bigger fish jumped out of the enclosure and wriggled and slid about the deck. Charlie and another man picked them up and tossed them back into the pound.

As soon as the net had been let right out again, Charlie walked aft and found that Ping Wang was already there. The other men had gone for'ard to clean and pack the fish.

'Are you ready?' Charlie asked.

'Quite,' Ping Wang answered, and at once they began to undress.

'I shall not take off my under-clothes,' Charlie said, 'in case the water is very cold.'

'Nor will I,' Ping Wang said.

In a few moments both were ready.

'Chinee!' the mate shouted from the bridge. 'Chinee!' the men in the fish-pound repeated.

'They have missed us,' Charlie said. 'I'm off.' He climbed on the starboard gunwale, balanced himself for a moment and then dived into the sea. Ping Wang was after him in an instant.

Charlie saw the sailing-boat and made towards it.

'Let us keep close together,' he said to Ping Wang, 'in case anything should happen to either of us.'

Ping Wang did not wish to waste his breath in talking, but showed that he agreed with Charlie's suggestion by drawing closer to him. For a time--they did not know for how long--they swam silently onwards, but there was a big ocean swell, and often the ship for which they were bound was completely hidden from their sight for some minutes. When they did catch sight of her, they found that they were not making rapid progress. They were still a long way from the ship, and when they had been swimming for a good time, Ping Wang's courage began to fail him.

'I shall never reach her,' he declared, 'I'm getting tired. It is all up with me.'

'Nonsense, man,' Charlie answered, swimming a little closer to him. 'Have a rest; float.'

Ping Wang acted on Charlie's advice.

'She was much farther from the Sparrow-hawk than we thought,' Ping Wang declared, when he had rested for a few moments.

'You're right,' Charlie answered; 'but we shall reach her in ten minutes at the latest.'

Ping Wang, encouraged by what Charlie had said, turned over and resumed swimming.

For more than ten minutes they swam steadily onward without saying a word, but still the sailing-boat was a long way from them, and Charlie vowed to himself that never again would he attempt to judge distances at sea.

A few minutes later Ping Wang again turned on to his back. He did not utter a word, but Charlie knew by his heavy breathing that he was nearly exhausted. When he had lain there for some minutes he said, with a gasp, 'I will have one more try,' and started off again. But when he had swum a few yards he said, feebly, 'I can't reach her. Don't you bother about me. Look after yourself.'

'I won't go aboard her without you,' Charlie declared, and kept a closer watch on his companion. Soon he saw that Ping Wang, if left to himself, would be drowned.

'Turn on your back and lie still,' he said, 'and I'll tow you.'

Very fortunately Charlie had often practised the art of saving life from drowning, and therefore had no difficulty in supporting Ping Wang, who had the presence of mind to lie still. In a few minutes the Chinaman recovered somewhat, and Charlie, seeing the improvement, said, 'If you can support yourself for a few moments I'll hail the ship.'

'All right,' Ping Wang replied, and Charlie, letting him go, turned over and shouted towards the sailing ship, 'What ho, there!'

For two or three minutes he waited for an answering shout, but none came.

'What ho! what ho!' he sang out, and almost immediately he saw some lights moving about on the deck of the ship.

'Help, help!' he shouted with all his strength.

'Coming,' was the faint reply that reached him, and almost at the same moment he noticed that a boat was being lowered.

'We shall be picked up in a few minutes,' he said to Ping Wang, and the good news had such a reviving effect upon the Chinaman that he turned over and began to swim again.

'Lie still,' Charlie shouted, knowing that his companion's strength would otherwise soon expire.

Ping Wang obeyed instantly.

'Where are you?' the men in the boat called out.

'Here,' Charlie answered, and so that the boat might not have much difficulty in finding them, he hailed her every few moments.

Sometimes he caught sight of her on the top of a wave, and then he would see nothing more of her for quite a minute. But at last she reached them.

'Take my friend first,' Charlie sang out to the man who was holding aloft a big lantern to get a look at them.

In a moment the boat was brought alongside Ping Wang, who was fished out in a state of collapse. Charlie, almost unaided, scrambled in, and at once busied himself in striving to revive his companion. Fortunately he was successful, and by the time the boat reached the ship, Ping Wang was not much the worse for his long and unpleasant swim.

(Continued on page 242.)

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 239.)

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter VI

The three men who had rescued Charlie and Ping Wang were not talkative, and beyond saying, 'That's all right,' when they were thanked for their assistance, scarcely said a word. The skipper of the sailing ship was, however, very different.

'Get down below, boys, and put on some dry togs,' he exclaimed genially, as Charlie and Ping Wang scrambled over the gunwale. 'There are chests full of them.'

The fugitives obeyed him willingly, but as Charlie put on the dry things provided for him, he took stock of the saloon, and was astonished at what he saw. Pictures of prize-fighters and race-horses hung on the walls, and at the far end of the saloon there was a sort of bar, behind which he noted some black bottles.

'Surely this can't be a mission ship,' Charlie said, in an undertone, to Ping Wang.

'It isn't what I expected to find on one,' Ping Wang answered. 'However, we shall soon know, for here comes the skipper.'

'Well, how are you feeling now?' the skipper inquired boisterously.

'Better,' Charlie answered, wondering what his nationality was, for although he spoke English fluently, he was evidently a foreigner.

'That's good,' the skipper replied, 'but why didn't you tip me the wink that you were coming over to us? I would have had the boat hanging around for you. Do any of the other fellows want to come aboard?'

'No, they have all turned in by now.'

'What a crew they must be. Who is your skipper?'

'Drummond, of the Sparrow-hawk.'

'I know him. He passed a bad five-shilling piece on me the last time he was aboard this craft.'

'Will he come aboard to-morrow do you think?' Ping Wang asked, with difficulty concealing his anxiety.

'Not likely. I told him that if ever he set foot on the Lily, I would go for him. However, we don't want to talk about him. What are you going to drink?'

'Tea or coffee, I don't mind which.'

The skipper threw back his head and laughed heartily, as if Charlie had said something that was witty. 'Do you really mean it?' he asked at length.

'I do.'

'Well!' the skipper gasped, and was evidently overcome with surprise.

After a few minutes' silence his spirits revived.

'I'll send you some tea down before long,' he said, and then went on deck without another word.

'Do you know what this ship is?' Charlie asked as soon as he was gone.

'If this is not a pleasure-boat, I do not know what it is,' Ping Wang answered.

'It's a coper.'

'A coper! What is that?'

'I thought every one in the North Sea knew.'

'This is only my second voyage, and your countrymen do not talk to me as freely as if I were an Englishman. What is a coper?'

'It is a boat that sails about the North Sea to sell drink and tobacco to our fishermen. She flies a flag to show that she has tobacco for sale, and when the men come aboard her, they are tempted to drink, just as we were a few minutes ago. As a rule the poor fellows do drink, and if their money is not all spent by the time that they are intoxicated, they are cheated at cards or robbed. I am very much afraid that we have not bettered ourselves by leaving the Sparrow-hawk, for if the skipper of the coper finds that we have money, even though we neither drink nor gamble, he will be anxious to get rid of us.'

A few minutes later a boy brought down to them two mugs of what was supposed to be tea.

'What awful stuff,' Charlie exclaimed after tasting it. 'One sip is quite enough for me.'

'There must be something besides sugar and milk in it,' Ping Wang declared.

'That is very likely. The skipper hopes that it will get in our heads without our knowing that we have been drinking intoxicants. We will upset the rascal's plans by not drinking any more of the tea.'

In about a quarter of an hour the skipper returned.

'Well, boys, how are you getting on?' he exclaimed. 'Have some more tea?'

'No, thank you,' Charlie replied. 'We haven't drunk this. There's something about the taste that we don't like.'

'It's first-class tea. I've never had any complaints about it until now. I'm very sorry that you don't like it, for you need something warming after your long swim. But look here, if you are tee-totalers, what did you come aboard the Lily for?'

'We made a mistake. We mistook her for another boat.'

The skipper looked at Charlie searchingly. 'Did you think she was a revenue cutter?' he asked.

'Oh, no; we mistook her for a mission ship.'

Now, coper skippers have the same hatred for mission ships that they have for revenue cutters, for the former, by selling tobacco at low prices, keep the North Sea fishermen away from the copers, and so have spoiled their traffic in intoxicant drinks.

'You thought she was a mission ship, did you?' the skipper growled. 'Well, you made a fine mistake.'

'We know that now,' Charlie replied.

'Then why are you sticking here? Jump overboard, and swim back to the Sparrow-hawk.'

'I should be drowned,' Ping Wang declared.

'Well, that wouldn't be much of a loss. There are too many Chinamen already.'

'Look here, skipper,' Charlie interrupted, anxious to prevent a quarrel, 'I have a proposal to make. My friend and I left the Sparrow-hawk because the skipper was a wretched little bully. I suggest that we stay here, as passengers, until we meet a boat for Grimsby that will take us aboard.'

'You will have to pay me before you leave the Lily.'

'I'll do so, willingly, unless your charges are unreasonable.'

'Will you pay in advance?'

'Certainly not; but I'll settle up with you every evening.'

'Then hand over sixpence for those two cups of tea.'

'Sixpence!' Charlie answered, 'Why, you are charging as if you had put brandy in them. I'll give you threepence.'

Charlie took his belt from his pocket, and, as he undid the pouch attached to it, in which he kept his money, the skipper caught sight of three or four sovereigns.

'Well,' he said, as he pocketed the three pennies which Charlie gave him, 'I ought to let Skipper Drummond know that you are aboard; but, as I owe him a grudge, I won't. I haven't any spare bunks for you, so you must sleep on the cushions here.'

Charlie and Ping Wang were far from considering that a hardship, for the coper's saloon was a little palace compared with the Sparrow-hawk's foc's'le.

'Well,' the skipper continued, 'I'm going to shut up for the night.'

He drew a sliding-door down over the bottles, and locked it, and left them. As soon as he had gone they lay down and, finding the saloon cushions fairly comfortable, were soon asleep. They awoke about seven o'clock and, going on deck immediately, found that during the night the Sparrow-hawk had steamed away. The coper was, however, in the midst of a busy scene; for the stream-trawlers belonging to the fleet which Charlie and Ping Wang had seen on the previous day had closed in, and were busy sending their boxes of fish aboard the steam-carrier that was waiting to hurry off with them to Grimsby. The fish was conveyed from the trawlers to the carriers in small, but strongly built, rowing-boats, and some of these, after getting rid of their load, came to the Lily. As the men sprang over the gunwale on to the deck, the skipper greeted each with a hearty 'What cheer, sonny?'

Many of the fishermen were easily prevailed upon to go below and drink. Some indulged in one glass, and then hurried off to their ships; but two men remained in the saloon long after the others had departed. When they had been there for half an hour their skipper blew his siren loudly, as a command for them to return at once. Each came on deck quickly; but they were intoxicated to an extent that surprised Charlie, considering the short time they had been on the Lily.

'They will never get back to their ship,' Charlie declared to the skipper of the coper.

'That is their look-out, not mine,' the skipper answered, and turned away, evidently not caring what happened to them.

The Lily, in common with all the North Sea trawlers, had no ladder by which men quitting the ship could descend into the small boat. The departing man has to hang from the gunwale until the small boat is lifted high on a wave, and then he drops quickly into it. A moment's hesitation may result in his falling into the sea, sometimes with the risk of being crushed between the ship and the small boat. Charlie had good reason, therefore, for thinking that the two poor fellows might meet with an accident, but the men themselves did not consider that there was any danger.

'We shall be all right,' one of them answered noisily, when Charlie advised them to be careful, and the man who spoke certainly dropped into the small boat as easily as if he were sober. The other man, however, hung to the gunwale longer than he should have done, and, consequently, when he did release his hold he had a long way to drop. He landed with both feet on one of the seats, and after struggling for a moment to balance himself, fell backwards into the sea, but, fortunately, not between the boat and the ship. His mate broke into a laugh, but made no attempt to rescue him. Possibly he thought that the man could swim, but it was clear to Charlie that he could not, and that unless he went to his assistance he would be drowned. So he pulled off his coat and dived into the sea. He came to the surface just beside the man, and, seizing him, pushed him along until they reached the boat, into which the now sober fisherman quickly scrambled. In the meanwhile the other man, seeing Charlie dive to the assistance of his shipmate, had come to the conclusion that he also ought to do something. He dived in, but in consequence of the muddled state of his head, swam in the wrong direction, and by the time that it dawned on him that he had made a mistake his mate had been rescued by Charlie.

Being a good swimmer, the man regained the boat easily, and Charlie was glad to see that the water had sobered him as effectually as it had his mate.

'You've had a very narrow escape,' Charlie said to the man whom he had rescued. 'Now take my advice, both of you, and don't you ever again set foot on a coper. If you want tobacco, go to a mission ship.'

Charlie got on the seat as he finished speaking, and as the little boat was lifted on a big wave he sprang upwards, grasped the Lily's gunwale and climbed aboard, leaving the men to whom he had denounced copers to wonder why he was on one. Loud blasts from their trawler's siren instantly drove all thoughts of Charlie's action from their minds, and rowing hard they worked their way back to their ship, where they received a lecture from the skipper which they did not forget that voyage.

(Continued on page 253.)

ALL PRIME MINISTERS.

Many years ago there was a clever and kind doctor at a Paris hospital where the patients were of the poorest class. The skill of this doctor somehow reached the ears of the then Premier of France, who, being about to undergo a very serious operation, sent for this doctor to perform it.

'You must not expect, doctor,' said the Prime Minister to the surgeon as he entered the room to arrange for the operation, 'to treat me in the same rough manner as if I were one of your poor wretches at the hospital.'

'Sir,' answered the doctor with dignity, 'every one of those poor wretches, as you are pleased to call them, is a Prime Minister in my eyes.'

X.

DON'T BEGIN.

Two little dogs, one summer's day, Who tired of play had grown, Discovered lying in their way A most attractive bone.

'I saw it first--'tis mine--let go!' The one in anger cried; 'I shan't, how dare you say 'tis so,' The other one replied.

And so no doubt they wrangled on, Although I cannot tell Where those two little dogs have gone, Or how the fight befell.

But quarrels, as we know, take two, And some one must give in, So far the wisest thing to do Is simply--don't begin.

C. D. B.

THE PARKS OF LONDON.--II.

In the days of Queen Bess the pretty village of Stoke Newington was a pleasant object for a country walk of about three miles from the City boundary of London. The village lay amid dense woods whence came its name--Stoe being the Saxon word for wood, and Stoke Newington meaning the new town in the wood. Its derivation shows what an old place it is, and we may picture to ourselves how, ages ago, the dwellers within the City walls would joyfully leave London, on holidays, by the Moor Gate, and wend their way northward to the shady trees and grassy banks of the roadway known as the 'Green Lanes'--names which, like Stoke Newington, still survive. Along that road the royal chariot of Queen Elizabeth might occasionally be met coming from the Tower; for at Stoke Newington, in a mansion beside the church, dwelt some of the Dudley family, whom she delighted to honour.

A story is told how, when her Majesty was the persecuted Princess Elizabeth, living under the stern rule of her sister, Queen Mary, she paid a stolen visit to London to see how Court matters were progressing. The Dudleys befriended her, and went so far as to hide her in a brick tower in the Park, communicating with their home by a secret passage. To judge by what history tells of Queen Mary, these devoted friends ran no slight risk, and Queen Elizabeth, in later years, did her best to repay their kindness. We read that, on one visit after her accession, she took a jewel of great value from her dress and presented it to the daughter of the house, Lady Anne Dudley. One avenue off the Park is still known as Queen Elizabeth's Walk, and tradition says she was fond of pacing up and down there with the master of the house.

The next time we hear much of Stoke Newington Park, it was in the hands of Mr. Jonathan Hoare, one of the founders of the great banking house of that name; and, later still, it was rented from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners by one of the Crawshay family, then known as 'the iron princes' of Wales. His lease set forth that he was to pay the sum of one hundred and nine pounds a year rent, with one good, fat turkey, the latter probably appearing at the annual dinner of his landlords. For this consideration he was allowed to call house and land after his own name, but was forbidden to cut down timber. Mr. Crawshay's tenancy closed romantically with the incident which won the place its present title.

He had two fair daughters, whom no doubt he wished to see married to rich and noble husbands. Great, therefore, was his anger when he found that one of them had given her affections to the curate of the parish, Mr. Clissold by name. Mr. Clissold was forthwith forbidden to set foot within Crawshay Farm again. To ensure this, the walls of the place were made higher, and the hard-hearted parent expressed his firm resolve of shooting any messenger who tried to carry letters secretly. How long this state of affairs lasted does not appear, but it was ended by the death of Mr. Crawshay. Then the curate and his hardly-won bride became tenants of the mansion, and changed its name to Clissold Park or Place.

As Clissold Park it was bought from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners for ninety-six thousand pounds, and formally opened by Lord Rosebery in 1889.

Perhaps the greatest charm of this particular park lies in its evident old age--trees, turf, and the disused mansion all bear witness that it is no newly planted recreation ground, but a noble relic of the days of old, with a stately dignity all its own.

A number of deer enclosed in the middle of the park prove that these pretty creatures are not always shy. A family of kittens could not be less afraid of the admiring crowd which watches them. At the same time the deer were presented to the park, a number of guinea-pigs were also introduced, and they still flourish in their cosy enclosure, giving endless delight to the children of the neighbourhood.

The beauty of the park is greatly increased by the waters of the New River, which wind in and out of the grounds as well as round them, although the charm of the stream is somewhat spoilt by a close iron fencing, walling in the water on both sides. This, however, appears to be a necessity, to protect the numerous fish from the keenness of would-be fishermen.

Bridges cross the river in many places, and two lakes of some size, studded with wooded islets, afford homes for swans, ducks, and other water-fowl. Near the mansion there is a bandstand, and all about the grounds there are seats and rustic shelters for the elders, whilst the young folk and children are making merry with games.

In the spring and autumn a very favourite place for basking in the sun is the terrace before the old house, in part of which refreshments are provided. Some of the views in the park are exceedingly pretty, especially in the direction of the deer park, looking towards the mansion, where the old parish church stands out against the trees, whilst the fine open tower of a new church, with a graceful spire, rises above the green foliage.

Stoke Newington has been the home of various celebrated men: John Howard, the philanthropist, who did so much to alleviate the horrors of prison-life; Defoe, whom we all love for the sake of Robinson Crusoe; Dr. Watts, author of many of our best-known hymns, among the number.

It is pleasant to know that the leafy walk of the Green Lanes is still an attractive one for Londoners, although the mossy banks of former days have long been lined with handsome houses, and though a wide expanse of densely populated town lies between Clissold Park and the street still known as London Wall, whence the Moor Gate, with all its companion portals, have long vanished.

HE SET THE EXAMPLE.

A gentleman was once entertaining his friends at a grand dinner. He was a sad boaster, and was often guilty of describing deeds that he had done when an officer in the army, which those who knew him well felt sure were greatly exaggerated. He was in the midst of some such anecdote when the butler brought him word that a man wished to see him.

'Tell him I am engaged with my friends, and can see no one,' said the gentleman, pompously.

The butler retired, but soon came back to say the man was most urgent in wishing to speak to the gentleman, and said he had been in his regiment at a famous battle, where he owed his life to the officer.

'Show him in! show him in!' said the host, much gratified. 'This good fellow says I saved his life at X----,' he added, turning to his guests as the old soldier came in. 'How was it?' he went on, 'for I am sure I forget; in the heat of battle one does brave things almost unconsciously.'

'It was like this, your Honour,' said the soldier: 'I owed my life to you, for I certainly should never have thought of running away if you had not set me the example!'

A PEEP AT NORTHERN ITALY.

It is comparatively easy now to run over to Switzerland, and through the lovely scenery of the St. Gothard Pass, to the plains of sunny Italy; but this land of light and song is very little known to English boys and girls.

Of all the lovely lakes that reflect the deep blue of the summer skies, none is more beautiful than Lake Lugano, although Como is larger and Maggiore has a charm of its own. The town of Lugano stands at one end of the lake. It is pretty and bright, with many things to interest and amuse; but it is in the villages dotted along the south side of the lake that the real life of the people is to be seen.

These villages are surrounded by vineyards. The grapes are gathered in October, when the whole scene is very animated and gay. Every one--men, women, children, even the ox-waggons of the country--is pressed into the service, and the vineyards resound with songs and laughter. From these grapes a red wine is made. It is the ambition of every peasant to own a small vineyard and a boat.

On the other side of the lake rises a range of hills covered almost to the water's edge with deep green woods. In some places cliffs rise between wood and water, and in these cliffs are many small natural caves. These have been enlarged and enclosed with doors, so as to form wine vaults, and in them is stored much of the wine made in the district.

On Sunday afternoons in summer the lake is alive with boats, each holding a happy family party of father, mother, and children, and laden with cakes made from polenta, and other dainties. They are all bound for the caves, where a series of merry picnic parties is soon in progress.

The provisions are taken from the boats, the wine vault is opened with a key, for all are kept carefully locked, and then the feast begins. Soon the air is filled with song and laughter. The whole afternoon is spent in this way, and only in the cool of the evening do the merry revellers return to their simple homes across the lake.

The boats look very pretty. They are rather wide and shallow, and in the middle a white canvas covering is stretched from side to side, supported on bent canes, to make a shelter from the heat of the sun. The boatman in the dress of the country stands at the end, and drives the boat through the water with rapid strokes from his single oar.

The streets are narrow and crooked, and the houses are built very irregularly. There is no pavement, and the dust is amazing. The brown-faced, bare-legged children, with large solemn-looking brown eyes, tumble about in it, munching ripe red tomatoes with their hunches of brown bread. In the grass by the road-side funny little green lizards run in and out, hurrying away at your approach as fast as their legs will carry them.

It is very strange to see even the smallest cottages fitted with electric light, but this is the case in one village, Marroggia. A clever German has set up some works close by, and drives the machinery by power derived from a beautiful waterfall near the village.

From Marroggia a young Italian went to London some years ago to seek his fortune. He succeeded so well that he soon became rich. Returning to his native village, he built there a beautiful villa, with gardens and lawns sloping down to the lake. When it was finished he gave a feast to all the villagers. Thousands of fairy lamps and Chinese lanterns were sent for from London to illuminate the gardens, and turn them for the occasion into fairyland. The peasants had never before seen anything like it. They danced, they sang, and ate the good things provided for them. They would willingly have lingered there all night, and it was only when the last lamp flickered and went out that they returned home to dream of what they had enjoyed.

At one end of the lake stands Monte Generoso. The top is reached by a mountain railway, which zig-zags its way up through the woods. It feels very strange as the engine goes up panting and puffing, turning a sharp corner at every few yards; but the view from the summit is very fine, and the journey down still more exciting than the ascent.

At the other end of the lake is a famous china and earthenware manufactory. You can reach it by steamboat, but it is much better fun to go in a small boat, where you can lie under the awning and watch the boatman, in his white shirt-sleeves and coloured velvet waistcoat, steering his boat like the gondoliers of Venice.

The china manufactory is old-fashioned, but very interesting. The potter's wheel is still used there, and it is wonderful to see the ease and quickness with which a lump of clay is made into a cup, a saucer, a vase, or any other article you may ask for. After it is taken off the wheel, it is dipped into liquid glaze, then ornamented with some design transferred from coloured paper, and finally fired in the furnace.

Most people who visit the Italian lakes go on to Milan, a very important, busy town. On the way you pass through large tracts of country covered with maize and rice fields. The maize grows to an enormous height, and the rice is watered artificially by tiny streams, which may be seen trickling through the fields in all directions.

ELAINE CARRUTHERS.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

VII.--BALLOONS AT THE SIEGE OF PARIS IN 1870.

Towards the close of the war between France and Germany, in 1870, the German troops lay so closely round the walls and fortifications of Paris that all communication with the outside world was cut off. No letters could be sent to friends, and no letters from friends could be received, for, once outside the walls of the town, they would surely fall into the hands of the enemy. But the post office was anxious to continue doing its duty, and the Government felt bound to find some means for sending out and receiving official dispatches. The only way to accomplish this was by the use of balloons. Paris had always been very busy with balloons, but, when inquiries were made, it was found that there were not more than six in all the city, and these were far too old and worn out to use. Balloons must, therefore, be made, said the authorities, and two gentlemen, named Godard and Yon, were requested to begin the work at once. As railway stations were not wanted for trains in Paris at that particular time, the two largest were chosen in which to build balloons. Henceforth their 'trains' would journey silently through the sky instead of noisily over the iron roads.

Needles and cotton and calico were all carried in large quantities to the Gare du Nord and the Gare d'Orléans (as the two stations are called), and in less than four months sixty balloons were built and dispatched.

Some people in Paris, however, were so anxious to try the experiment that they could not wait for the new balloons, but used an old one, called the 'Neptune,' and M. Durnof, a daring aeronaut, made a flying dash in it out of Paris. Those who witnessed his adventure say that the old Neptune bounded almost straight up into the air, and fell beyond the enemy's camp in much the same manner. It was as though a large cannon ball had been fired (only very slowly) from the streets of Paris.

The successful path of the Neptune was soon followed. M. Gambetta, the great statesman, stepped into the car of the 'Armand Barbès' on the morning of October 7th, and, after many narrow escapes from the enemy's guns, landed safely among friends. Three days later a pretty grey-feathered pigeon settled in Paris, bringing in one of its quills the story of his journey.

But among the many wonderful ascents made in that terrible time, none is more interesting than that of M. Janssen, a great astronomer, who went to Algeria to see an eclipse of the sun. Certain learned societies in France, very anxious that the progress of science should not be delayed by this unhappy war, were delighted to find him willing to undertake the dangerous journey. England offered to obtain a safe-conduct for him through the Prussian camp, but the astronomer said: 'No, thank you. I do not wish to be under any obligation to the enemy.'

So, packing his telescope and other instruments with very great care, he carried them to the Gare d'Orléans on the morning of the 2nd December (three weeks before the eclipse would take place), and, settling himself in the car of his white balloon, the 'Volta,' gave orders for the anchor to be weighed. At that time in the morning it was quite dark, and, ere daylight was an hour old, he and his companion (a young sailor) had come to earth again by the mouth of the Loire. They had travelled nearly three hundred miles in a little more than three hours. A swifter journey has hardly ever been made. It is disappointing to learn that, after such a daring exploit, M. Janssen reached his destination only to find dense clouds covering the Algerian sky at the moment the eclipse took place.

The frequency with which balloons left Paris soon made it necessary to increase the number of aeronauts, for those who departed were, of course, unable to return. As the professional men became fewer, it was found that the best to take their places were sailors. But, that they might first have lessons in the art, a car was suspended from the roof of the factory, and into this the sailor-pupil climbed. He soon learned how to cry out, 'Let go all!' Then, after throwing out the ballast, pulling the valve-rope, and dropping the anchor, he was ready, with more courage than discretion, to call himself an aeronaut. And into the air he went, with bags of letters and cages of pigeons, and, on the whole, succeeded very well as a postman in the clouds.

The mention of pigeons leads us to another story of ingenuity, though it has not much to do with balloons.

After the question of how to dispatch letters had been solved, the next that arose was, how to receive replies. The balloons that left the city had got nearly all Europe to settle in, but it was hopeless to try to steer them back to so small a spot as the city itself. But a carrier pigeon would have no such difficulty in returning. Means must be found, however, to make it possible for each bird to carry many letters. M. Dagron, a clever photographer, discovered this means. He showed how he could photograph a letter and reduce it in size till the writing became unreadable, even under an ordinary magnifying glass. This could be done on films so thin that a roll of twenty of them could be inserted in one quill, each film representing a large number of letters. Having proved to the authorities the success of his invention, M. Dagron departed in a balloon, to explain to the various towns in France how letters must be sent to Paris.

Every day after that the welcome sounds of flapping wings was heard in the beleaguered city. The letters that they brought were placed between two sheets of glass and enlarged. Then, by means of a magic lantern, they were reflected on to a large screen, while post-office clerks, sitting at a table opposite, copied them down on to separate sheets, and dispatched them to their different addresses in the city. Nearly one hundred thousand letters were sent to Paris in this way during the four months of the siege, and the hostile army outside its walls was powerless to intercept them.

JOHN LEA.

WILLIE'S SUM.

Willie laid his pencil down, And put his books away, And with a sad and peevish frown He hurried out to play. But as he ran, the blackbird's song From poplars in the lane, Rang out: 'You know that sum was wrong, And should be done again.'

Yet Willie heeded not the sound; Pretended not to hear, Till trees, and hills and all around Kept singing in his ear: 'It's no use, Willie! Trust us, do! You can't enjoy the fun Until the task that's set for you Is well and justly done.'

Then in a sad and sorry state He homeward turned amain: Took up his pencil and his slate And worked the sum again. This time the answer wasn't wrong, And as to play he went, His conscience sang an altered song Which made his heart content.

GENEROSITY.

A father of a family wished to settle his property between his three sons. He therefore made three equal parts of his chief possessions and gave one part to each son. There remained over a diamond ring of great value, which he reserved for the son who should perform the noblest and most generous action within the space of three months. The sons separated, and at the appointed time presented themselves before him.

The eldest son said, 'Father, during my absence I had in my power all the riches and fortune of a person who entrusted them to me without any security of any kind; he asked me for them, and I returned them to him with the greatest honesty.'

'You have done, my son,' replied the father, 'only what was your duty, and I should die of shame if you were capable of doing otherwise, for honesty is a duty; what you did was just, but not generous.'

It was now the second son's turn, and he spoke thus: 'I was on the banks of a lake, when, seeing a child fall in, I threw myself in, and with great danger to myself drew him out. I did it in the presence of some countrymen, who will testify to the truth of it.'

'Well and good,' replied the father, 'but there is only humanity in that action.'

At last came the turn of the third son, who spoke thus: 'I found my mortal enemy, who had strayed during the night, and was sleeping on the edge of a precipice in such a manner that the least false movement on waking would have thrown him over. His life was in my hands; I was careful to wake him with precaution, and drew him out of danger.'

'Ah, my son!' exclaimed the father, overjoyed, embracing him, 'without doubt you deserve the ring.'

ANIMAL MAKESHIFTS.

True Anecdotes.

II.--TIME WITHOUT A CLOCK.

'The stork in the heavens knoweth her appointed times,' says the Bible, and the turtle-dove, the crane, and the swallow to this day 'observe the time of their coming.' What a wonderful law is theirs! They need not learn it, for it is born in them. Migratory birds know not only the need for their journeys, but the fixed times for them. It has been thought that the rules of their airy road have been handed down from generation to generation, but this is not always true. Nothing is positively known, except that the travellers are in search of food or quiet nesting-places, when they move from land to land.

As the time draws near for birds of passage to travel, they seem to know it by an inward restlessness; they long to be away--they know that delay is dangerous, and, so strong is the longing to be gone, that migratory birds kept back by accident or wilful cruelty, often die of the desire to go. The young cuckoo never survives an attempt to detain him. A poor, wild goose, with a lame wing, was seen bravely setting out on foot to do his journey of hundreds of miles over sea and land, when he saw his brethren depart for another clime.

One of nature's grandest sights is the yearly flight southwards of wild swans from Norway to the great lakes in Turkey. The birds fly at the rate of about one hundred miles an hour, in vast flocks, shaped like the letter V, the sharp end foremost, as an arrow passes through the air. At the point flies the leader or captain, the strongest and wisest of the band, and ahead of the main army he sends a skirmishing swan to keep a sharp look-out. This swan's business it is to see if the coast is clear. From time to time he comes rushing back with some warning note. Then there is a great cackling, a pause, and a council. After holding this noisy parliament, the army resumes its course, or changes it, according to the news brought. When the swans reach the lake, they do not swoop down till the captain has made a careful search around, poking among the reeds, flapping over the surface, and even taking a sip of the water, to make sure that nothing has happened to make the lake dangerous for swans since the last time he was there. All being well, he signals to the band, who descend with a rush, and soon cover the water with their graceful forms.

Do pigeons carry watches? How do London pigeons, for instance, tell the hour, and turn up punctually at the feeding-places? At Guildhall Yard the birds come early in the morning to eat the breakfast provided for them, but they do not stay all day. At Finsbury Circus, Draper's Hall Gardens, and other places in London, there are flocks which are carefully fed at regular hours, and those who have the care of them agree that at feeding-time the flocks are always joined by large numbers of guests from without. Perhaps the pigeons ask each other out to dine, mentioning the hours for the meals!

The rough idea of time which all living things possess is keenest in domestic animals. The dogs, cats, horses, donkeys, and others, who know certain days in the week and hours in the day without clock or almanac, may be guided by noticing little events which we do not, but which show them the time; or they may even feel the position of the sun, though it cannot be seen. However this may be, they show a sense which we must admire and may envy. Horses are great observers of time, as many anecdotes show, perhaps none better than this one: A horse belonging to a news-man knew the houses at which his master's journals were delivered, and, when he took them round in the trap, always stopped at the right doors. But this was not all. There were two people--living one at Thorpe, the other at Chertsey--who paid for a weekly paper between them, taking it in turns to read it first. The horse found this out, and would stop one week at Thorpe and the next at Chertsey, alternately.

The mule is not behindhand. A Spanish milk-seller was taken ill, and, being unable to go the rounds or to spare his wife, they agreed to send the mule, who always carried it, alone. A paper was written, asking the customers to measure their own milk, and place the money in a little can for the purpose; this was fastened to the animal's neck, and off he went. At every house where his master was in the habit of selling milk he stopped and waited; but he did not wait an unreasonable time. If nobody came, he tried to push the door open, or pulled the string of the bell, which, in Madrid, is usually rung by a cord hanging down. The simple peasants laughed, and fell into the joke; they scorned to cheat the dumb milkman, and the clever mule took his money home in triumph.

It is not the higher animals alone who are time-keepers. Menault tells of a friendly toad, living in a garden, who would appear at the family dinner-time, and sit upon the stone ledge outside the window to get a share. The hour was changed, for some reason, from noon to three in the afternoon, and, for the first time, the uninvited guest was absent--once, but once only. On the second day after the change he was squatting at the new hour ready for his saucer of milk.

EDITH CARRINGTON.

AFLOAT ON THE DOGGER BANK.

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

(Continued from page 243.)

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