Chapter III
The weather suddenly changed. It had continued fine and hot for several weeks, and there was no sign of any break in the succession of cloudless days. The great heat was bound, however, to end in a thunderstorm. The air became very sultry, and yet there was a sighing among the leaves of the trees.
'There is plenty of rain coming,' said Colonel De Bohun, as he stood by Lady Coke's side, and watched the children going in rather languidly to their tea. 'We want it badly.'
He was right. That night the greatest storm the children had ever heard startled them out of their beds. Georgie took refuge with Marjorie, and even Alan came and sat on her bed, a blanket wrapped round the three of them, because it 'was more comfortable to be all together,' while the thunder crashed overhead, and the vivid lightning lit up the room, in spite of the candles which burnt upon the dressing-table.
All the next day the children had to amuse themselves in the house, and, truth to tell, they were not sorry for one whole day to settle various little matters which had been neglected during the fine weather. One of these was the aquarium. This kept them well employed; but when on the following morning they found the rain still falling, and the heavy, ragged clouds gave no promise of the sky clearing, Georgie's patience gave way.
'What can we do to-day?' he asked, dismally, as he traced the course of the drops on the window-panes with a damp finger. 'I'm tired of this rain. Why can't it stop now?'
'It won't stop just to please you,' said Alan, who was examining the quality of the water in his aquarium.
Georgie turned round angrily, but Marjorie came to the rescue hastily.
'The rain is nothing. We can amuse ourselves just as well in the house. Can't we go over to Aunt Betty's, and play with Estelle, Miss Leigh?'
Georgie gave a bound of delight towards the door, and even Miss Leigh smiled, and got up quickly.
'A capital idea!' she said, rolling up her work. 'Go and put on your macintoshes, and we will run over as quickly as we can. We shall not get wet enough to hurt us.'
Alan, however, was not pleased. He wanted to change the water of his aquarium, and required Marjorie to help him. They had already put fresh water into two compartments, but the third was to have some of the rain, which they were collecting especially for the purpose. The small frogs, sticklebacks, and mud-lampreys were already enjoying themselves, and Alan was determined that the tadpoles and newts should be as happy. The newts were specially disliked by Georgie, and now, to make matters worse, Alan placed two of them on the floor. He intended to make them run races, regardless of the effect of their wet bodies on the carpet.
'They don't do any harm,' he asserted, when Miss Leigh objected; 'not a bit of it. Water never hurts anything.'
'It is very unpleasant to have them on the floor, to say the least,' returned the governess. 'And you know Georgie does not like them.'
'Then he needn't, the baby,' retorted Alan, with a withering glance at his brother.
'I don't mind frogs half so much,' explained Georgie, with a look of disgust at the newts struggling in Alan's grasp.
'What a little silly you are,' said Alan, placing the creatures on the ground, and a tiny red worm in front of them. 'What's the matter with you? Are you afraid they will bite?'
'It's those dreadful legs! And the nasty way they eat.'
'Come, we must go,' said Miss Leigh, with some irritation. 'Come along, Georgie. Marjorie, just see that you and he are well wrapped up, and have goloshes on. The paths will be like rivers.'
But Alan, who had moved to allow the governess to leave the room, objected strongly to Marjorie going with her.
'She's got to stay and help me change the water,' he declared.
Miss Leigh had grown impatient, however; and she insisted on Marjorie accompanying her and Georgie, and swept her out of the schoolroom with them, leaving Alan to overcome his wrath as best he could.
(Continued on page 63.)
KINDNESS CURED HIM.
Some time ago a soldier at Winchester Barracks went before his colonel for punishment. He was the worst man in the regiment, in spite of his continual imprisonment in the guard-room.
The colonel, who was tired of sentencing the man, said to the sergeant: 'Here he is again. Guard-room, disgrace, solitary confinement--in fact, everything has been tried; but all to no purpose.'
'There is one thing you have not tried,' said the sergeant, 'and that is "forgiveness."'
The colonel had never thought of that, and when the soldier was brought in he asked him what he had to say to the charge.
'Nothing, sir,' was the reply, 'only I am sorry for what I have done!'
Turning a kind and pitiful look on the man, who expected nothing else than that his punishment would be increased with the repetition of his offence, the colonel addressed him, saying: 'Well, we have tried everything with you, and now we are resolved to--forgive you!'
The soldier was struck dumb with amazement, and left the room without a word. The new plan, however, was too much for him; it broke his hardened heart, and he became one of the best soldiers in her Majesty's service.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
2.--LIBRARY PUZZLE.
British authors may be classed in various ways: some are philosophers, like (a secure fastening, and a vowel) and (a breakfast eatable). Some, again, are poets, like (painful results of a devouring element) and (expressive sounds, and true value). There are essayists like (hardened metal, and a vowel) and (young and tender meat); and others, like (a kind of swallow), who are of less amiable character. These stand side by side with writers of novels, like (some one north of the Tweed, and an upright and crosspiece); or of stories, plays, and verses, like (a precious metal, and a hard worker).
C. J. B.
3.--BURIED CITIES--ENGLISH AND FOREIGN.
1. Go to the King's Court and plead there for deliverance.
2. The verdict was 'Not proven.' I ceased to hope for a conviction.
3. The house is good, and the garden very large.
4. Did the voyage tire you? Not an atom; I landed as fresh as when I embarked.
5. Hangings of a rich amber lined the apartment.
6. I acknowledge no superior, be he pope, king, or emperor.
7. Remember, gentlemen of the jury, the advanced age of the prisoner.
C. J. B.
[Answers on page 75.]
* * * * *
ANSWER TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 15.
1.--Matriculation.
I raised the curtain and looked out. The mail-train was about to start. 'Alicia,' I cried, trial and toil lie before me. Rail not, lady, at my shabby coat; a nation's eyes follow me. In this curt Latin letter my instructions are written; armed with it I am a happy man.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
II.--CURIOUS MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF INDIA.
Most Anglo-Indians, after living many years in India, return to their native country with the idea that the music of Hindostan consists of the noisy twanging of stringed instruments, jangling of ankle bells, and banging of drums. Very few have troubled themselves to consider the important part played by music in the lives of the various nations occupying the vast territories between the Himalayas and Cape Comorin.
Foreigners are treated by the natives to noisy performances because they are thought to be lovers of harsh sounds, possibly owing to the prominence of brass instruments in our military bands, the only European music with which they are familiar. Moreover, we must take into account that the scales and chords, which make the harmonies so pleasant to Western ears, sound just as discordant to Eastern nations as their musical combinations do to ourselves.
The Vedas, or sacred books of the Brahmins, give very strict directions about the music of the various religious festivals. It is ordered to consist almost always of soft, mild melodies, dying dreamily away, accompanied by the gentle tinkling of cymbals. The Vedic chant, sung by the priests, was written some three thousand years ago, and has still a wonderful effect on the minds of educated Hindus.
In very early times the art of music was reduced to an elaborate system, and the study of it seems to have been general until the first Mohammedan invasion in the eleventh century. From this time the whole country was a scene of war between rival princes, and amid fighting and bloodshed for many centuries the peaceful arts had little chance of flourishing.
Aurungzebe, the last great Mogul emperor, put an end to the Court music, which had probably reached a very low level in his day. It was his custom to assure his people of his safety by showing himself daily to them at a certain window, and some musicians, thinking to arouse his sympathy, brought beneath this window a funeral bier, and set up a doleful wailing. Distracted by the noise, the emperor appeared and demanded what it all meant? 'Melody is dead,' was the dejected reply, 'and we are taking it to the graveyard.' 'Very good,' answered the annoyed ruler; 'make the grave so deep that neither voice nor echo may ever again be heard.' And so Court ceremonials were deprived of music for the future.
The 'bin,' or 'vina,' may be regarded as the national instrument of India. Legend says that it was invented by Nareda, the son of Brahma. In painting and sculpture Nareda is usually represented as playing on this instrument. One of the old Pâli books, written about the time of our Lord's birth, gives a description of the 'vina,' and the carving of the most ancient instruments differs little from that of those made at the present time.
The 'bin' is made of wood, and has seven strings, two of steel, the rest of silver, and these are plucked by the two first fingers of the performer, who wears little metal shields made for the purpose. It is tuned by pegs, and has two gourds suspended below, each usually measuring about fourteen inches across. These, being of irregular shape and gaily coloured, give a very picturesque look to the instrument.
Another favourite instrument is the 'kimmori.' This also derives its sounding powers from gourds, of which three are usually slung from the tube forming the body. It is said by the natives to have been invented by one of the singers of the 'Brahma Loka,' or heaven of the Brahmins. The 'kimmori' is made of a pipe of bamboo or blackwood, with frets or screws, which should be fashioned of the scales of the pangolin, or scaly ant-eater, though more often they are made of bone or metal. It has only two strings, one touching the frets, the other carried above them. The tail-piece is always carved like the breast of a kite, and the instrument is frequently found sculptured on ancient temples and shrines, especially in Mysore, in the south of Hindustan.
In the Old Testament, mention is made of a musical instrument called kimor, which was probably the same as the kimmori, both being of great antiquity, and most likely of Aryan construction.
HELENA HEATH.
FEATHERED FRIENDSHIP.
A True Story.
Mag was seldom at rest: from morning till night she hopped about, in her smart black-and-white coat--her bright eyes shining, her head a little on one side, and her chatter constantly to be heard.
Those bright, bead-like eyes of hers saw everything that was to be seen; but, of all the creatures that met her view, Mag admired the pheasants most. She thought there never were such fine and noble birds, and she could not tire of looking at them, and noticing how the rich greens and blues and browns of their soft plumage shone in the autumn sunshine.
She proved her interest once in a remarkable way. The pheasants--several of them--were pecking amongst the bracken, and Mag, perched on an oak bough overhead, was looking round, as was her custom, when her glance fell upon a fox, lurking treacherously amongst the long grass, evidently making ready to spring upon the stately birds.
What was to be done? To cry out would be to draw Master Reynard's attention away from the pheasants to herself; but Mag did not hesitate for a moment. At the risk of her own life she raised her shrill note of warning, and the pheasants, roused to the danger, scuttled away, just in time.
The disappointed fox tried hard to get at the magpie, but her strong wings stood her in good stead, and she, too, managed to reach a place of safety.
THE MOLES AND THE MOUNTAIN.
Two moles once dwelt together in a hole at the foot of an enormous mountain. They had long lived a quiet life, and now wished to make a noise in the world, so they caused a report to be spread about among the animals that they intended moving the mountain on a certain day. The beasts thought it a wonderful thing that two little moles should move a great mountain, and they never stopped to ask if it was possible or not.
On the day appointed, they came together with one accord to see this extraordinary feat of strength. Not only animals came, but men too, who had provided themselves with sacks, bags, and wheelbarrows to carry away the gold and silver and other precious metals which they fancied were inside the mountain. After waiting some time, the moles came out, and said: 'Dear sirs, the sight of so many of you here to-day does our hearts good. We have lived a very quiet life hitherto, and now desire to make a name in the world. We will, therefore, perform the wonderful task of moving the mountain as we promised; but before it can be accomplished, we shall require you all to bring a large waggon and place the mountain on the top of it ready for starting. Until you have done this, we shall not be able to move the mountain.'
Then the moles retired to their hole to watch the effects of their speech. The animals saw at once that they had been deceived, and they tried to tear down the place, but could not, for the wily moles lived too far under the ground to meet with any hurt.
MORAL: Do not be taken in by the vain promises of those who only wish to make a name for themselves. (From H. BERKELEY SCORE'S Original Fables.)
TOO MUCH FOR THE WHISTLE.
When I was a child about seven years of age, my friends one holiday filled my pockets with half-pence. I went directly to a shop where toys were sold for children, and being charmed with the sound of a whistle that I saw on my way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for it. I then came home, and went whistling over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain which I had made, told me that I had given four times as much for it as it was worth. This put me in mind of what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money, and they laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation. My reflections on the subject gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This little event, however, was afterwards of great use to me, the impression continuing on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, 'Do not give too much for the whistle,' and so I saved my money.
From 'Benjamin Franklin's Life.'
THE BEE.
A little Bee, one sunny day, Through garden beds sped on its way; It went from flower to flower. As on its busy way it flew, It entered blossoms white and blue, And lingered by the bower.
Each lovely blossom with its cup, Something of sweetness yielded up, Something of what was good. There was no flower that I could see But gave up something to the bee-- Each one did what it could.
As on through life I go each day, And here and there pursue my way, Like to that busy bee. Oh, may I gather what is good, And find for heart and mind sweet food, Enriched by all I see!
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
II.--THE OLD ROSEWOOD ARMCHAIR.
On a cold winter's afternoon, in the year 1806, the little crowd that had been attending a sale of furniture at the chief auctioneer's in Wolverhampton was slowly melting away, for the few lots still left to be sold mostly consisted of worn-out saucepans, broken towel-rails, and some shabby chairs, and such-like worthless articles.
Very poor people, however, cannot be too fastidious, and a few buyers still remained who were glad to bid for such things, and amongst these people was a respectable-looking widow, in threadbare mourning, with a boy of about thirteen years old by her side.
'Lot 213!' said the auctioneer, with a yawn; for the excitement of the sale was over, and he did not waste professional jokes except on well-to-do hearers. 'Rosewood armchair, upholstered in best wool damask! Now, then, what offers?'
His assistant meanwhile had hoisted on to the table the very shabbiest chair that had ever occupied so prominent a position! No doubt it might once have been a good piece of furniture, but now the rosewood was so encrusted with dirt that it required much scrutiny to say what the wood really was; and, as for the 'best wool damask,' that must have existed only in the auctioneer's imagination, for the chair looked as if it were upholstered in a ragged, colourless canvas, with the stuffing sticking through in numberless places.
Some of the little audience laughed and jeered as the chair was placed before them, and one man said, derisively, that 'it wasn't worth breaking up for firewood.'
The little widow's eyes, however, brightened, and she whispered to the boy, 'That's the chair I told you of. I saw it yesterday. I could clean it up, and make it comfortable for your grandfather. I can't bear to see him sitting on that hard chair of his, with his rheumatism and all. But I'm afraid it will go for more than I have.' And she clutched the leather bag, with its solitary half-crown, more firmly in her hand.
'It's a big chair,' said the boy; 'but it's all to pieces, mother.'
'I could settle it, if only I get it,' said the widow, anxiously, still looking at the chair.
'Now! What offers?' repeated the auctioneer, looking impatiently round. 'Come, make a bid! A good rosewood chair, upholstered in damask.'
There was silence. No one seemed to want such a wretched piece of furniture, except the widow, who longed for it so earnestly that the power of speech seemed to go from her.
'George,' she gasped, as she pulled her boy's sleeve, 'say you'll give a shilling. I can't make him hear me.'
'A shilling!' shouted out the boy, and the auctioneer turned in his direction at once.
'A shilling for a rosewood chair, upholstered in best damask!' he said, in a voice of scorn. 'And this in the respectable city of Wolverhampton!'
The spectators laughed, but no one bid any further sum, so the auctioneer, who wanted to get home to his supper, banged his hammer on the table, and to her surprise and delight the widow found that the chair was hers.
With her boy's help she got the chair home, and cheered her invalid father by telling him 'his old bones should ache no longer. She would have him in an easy-chair by the following day.'
She was up at daybreak, and immediately after their frugal breakfast she dragged the chair into the yard, and began ripping up the fusty old lining.
'Let me do that, mother. I can rip finely,' said George, taking the knife out of her hand, for there is a certain joy in tearing and cutting that appeals to a boy.
'Very well,' said his mother, 'then I will get a pail of warm water, and we will scrub the rosewood, and get all this black dirt off it; and when that's done I'll begin the upholstering. I'm going to cover it with my old red cloak. It will be fine and soft for your grandfather, and I don't wear colours now, so that I can spare the cloak. But, first of all, I will put Grandfather in the window-seat, so that he can see all we are doing. It will amuse him; his life is dull enough, poor dear old man.'
She went indoors, and George continued the ripping, enjoying the clouds of dust he raised in the process.
The little woman had just settled her father comfortably on the wooden settle, where he could look out of the window and see all that went on in the yard, when they were startled by a cry from George.
'Mother! Mother! Oh, come!'
'He has cut himself!' said the poor woman, turning deadly pale, as she flew out into the yard.
But George was unhurt, though he looked dazed and half stupefied.
'Look here, Mother,' he said, pointing down to the ground, 'this chair was full of gold pieces. No wonder it was so heavy to drag home!'
'Gold pieces! Oh, no!' she said, shaking her head. 'You must have made a mistake, my boy.'
'Look at them!' said George, stooping down and picking up a handful of guineas from the mass of dust and dirt and horsehair that was strewn on the floor of the yard. 'They're guineas right enough; they came pouring out like water when I got to the middle of the chair.'
'They look like guineas,' said the poor woman, trembling with anxiety. 'Oh, George, if they should be, and if they are rightfully ours, then Father could get to Bath and be cured, and you could be apprenticed to a cabinet-maker, like your poor father before you.'
'They are guineas,' said George, stoutly. 'Let's show them to Grandfather--he will know; and if they are--and I know they are'--he repeated, 'some of the money must be spent on you, Mother; I won't have it all go to apprentice me. If that ever comes off, you must have a new gown and cloak to sign my articles in,' and George got up from the dirty ground and gave his mother a hearty hug.
Grandfather gave his verdict: the guineas were real, and had the effigy of George I. stamped on them, and there were just a hundred of them, all told.
Of course, the news of the widow's lucky find was soon known, and the auctioneer claimed the money, but the clergyman of the parish supported the widow's claim, and though the auctioneer went to law about it, he lost his case and had to pay the costs.
Later on in the year a happy family party went to a solicitor's office to sign George's indentures.
Grandfather was there, erect and well, for the Bath waters had done wonders for him. His widowed daughter hung on his arm in a fine new dress and cloak, and George, looking very important at the thought of being apprenticed to the first cabinet-maker in Wolverhampton, had everything on new from top to toe, and all this was the outcome of the purchase (for a shilling) of 'the old rosewood armchair.'
S. C.
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
II.--The Constant Prince.
One summer's day, nearly five hundred years ago, a queen lay dying in the royal city of Lisbon. She was an English princess, daughter of our own John of Gaunt, bearing the loved name of her grandmother, good Queen Philippa, and she had been a helpful wife to her husband, King Joao of Portugal, and a wise and tender mother to the five lads who stood in bitter sorrow round her death-bed. Even now, as her life ebbed away, she roused herself to speak to them brave words of cheer and counsel, and, calling them close to her, gave to each a sword, bidding them, with her failing breath, to draw the blades only in the cause of truth and right, and in defence of the widow and the orphan.
A good cause it was in which the young princes went forth but a few weeks later. They had one and all refused to receive knighthood for some bloodless achievement at a tournament, and had begged to be allowed to win their spurs by an expedition against the Moorish pirates, who, from their strongholds on the African coast, swept the Mediterranean Sea, and carried off numberless prisoners into cruel bondage. It was in the cause of many a widow and orphan, whose bread-winner toiled in some Moorish seaport, or below the decks of a pirate galley, that the Portuguese princes drew their mother's last gifts on African soil.
So well did they acquit themselves that, after one day of desperate fighting, the city of Ceuta, one of the most valuable of the pirate strongholds, fell into the hands of the three elder lads. Enrique, the third brother, who was not only a gallant fighter, but so skilful a general that our own Henry V. offered him a command in his army, so distinguished himself that his father would have knighted him first, had he not refused to be preferred before his elders.
But, of all the five, there was no more eager Crusader than the youngest, Fernando, who, though a mere child, had been the first to suggest the expedition, and who longed beyond everything to follow in his brothers' footsteps. Eighteen years, however, passed away before another such expedition could be undertaken, and by that time the eldest of the five brothers, Duarte (or Edward), the namesake of his great-uncle, our gallant Black Prince, had succeeded his father as King of Portugal. From him Enrique and Fernando won permission for another attack upon the Moors, and set forth, full of the hope of taking Tangier as they had taken Ceuta. But Fernando's honours were not to be won with the sword. The Portuguese forces found themselves so far outnumbered that the brothers, bitterly disappointed, felt it necessary to retreat. But worse was to come. There was a traitor in the Portuguese camp, who let the enemy know of the princes' movements, and when the starving, weary troops reached the coast at daybreak, they found themselves cut off from their ships.
The Moorish leader, Lyala ben Lyala, agreed to release the army in exchange for the city of Ceuta, Prince Fernando and some of the noblest of his followers remaining as hostages, while news of the disaster and of the terms offered was carried to Lisbon. The royal prisoner and his companions were treated with all honour and courtesy, and assured that their captivity could only be a short one, for the Portuguese King would lose no time in redeeming his gallant brother.
But the Christian prince knew better. The city which had been so gallantly won from the infidel might not be lightly given back. Some say that Fernando himself sent a message to the King at Lisbon, forbidding him to weigh his brother's freedom against the fair prize of their first deed of arms. At any rate, he showed neither surprise nor dismay when the answer was returned that the King of Portugal would pay any sum the Moors could ask for his brother's ransom, but would not part with Ceuta. It must have been heart-breaking work for the King and his brothers to agree with the decision of the Council, that the city must be held at the cost of the freedom of the youngest and best-beloved of their gallant band, even though they knew that Fernando himself would be the first to applaud them. Grief and anxiety must have added to the sickness of which King Duarte died a year later, leaving a child heir and much trouble and confusion behind him. Enrique left camp and court to live in seclusion at Algarve, and there gave himself up to the study of naval science and astronomy. His name is famous yet as 'Prince Henry the Navigator,' and his renown spread over Europe in his lifetime. But, as he planned and sent forth exploring expeditions or studied the stars in his long night watches, the wise prince's heart must have ached many a time at the thought of the younger brother, paying the penalty of their failure among the dark-skinned foe.
For the Moors, who had hoped to hoist the crescent once more over their ancient stronghold, wreaked a bitter vengeance on the man who would not plead for his own freedom.
Fernando and his companions, sons of the noblest families in Portugal, were set to the hardest and most menial work, loaded with chains, and driven to their tasks with blows and threats. But no ill-usage could break the spirit of the prince, or induce him to send home entreaties for the only ransom his captors would accept. The lad who had promised at his dying mother's bedside to fight as become a Christian knight, was to show a higher courage than he had ever needed on the battle-field. He, the noblest born and the least robust of the captives, did his hard tasks with a diligence and patience which won the admiration even of his tormentors.
When the captives were shut at night into the dark and noisome dungeon where they slept, he would gather his companions about him and hearten them with his brave words, calling them brothers and comrades, and only grieving that he had led them to share his own ill-fortune. Complaints and murmurs were shamed into silence by his brave patience, and if ever the self-control of the weary, half-starved captives broke down and they quarrelled among themselves, the angry words were checked by the remembrance that nothing would so grieve the prince. And since
'The courage that bears, and the courage that dares, Are really one and the same,'
not one of Queen Philippa's sons proved more worthy of his knighthood than the youngest of the five.
The bitterest trial came when Fernando's health, always delicate, gave way altogether under his privations, and he could no longer do the tasks required of him. Even the comfort of his companions' presence was now denied him, and in his wretched cell he lay patiently through the stifling days, counting the hours until the tramp of feet and clank of chains told of the return of his friends from their long day's toil.
Then, if their warder was lenient, there would be a pause by the cell-door, and a moment's breathless waiting lest there should be no answer to their anxious question of how he did, lest the voice, that would still speak words of comfort and cheer through the darkness, should be silent for ever.
But, as the prince grew weaker, his courage and patience moved even his captors to mercy, and his friends were about him when, after seven years of slavery, the brave spirit passed at length into the true freedom.
Thirty years later the body of Fernando was ransomed, in exchange for a Moorish prisoner, and laid in his native land; but his true monument is the city which his long captivity saved for Christendom. The days of such slavery as his are gone by. The galleys of the Moorish pirates no longer sweep the inland sea, and we shall have stories to tell by-and-by of the men who chased them from their strongholds. But Ceuta was won four hundred years earlier, by the swords which our English princess bequeathed to her sons, and was held by the seven years' brave patience of him who so worthily earned the name of 'El Principe Constante,' the Constant Prince.
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
II.--THE LIFE-HISTORY OF THE SOLE.
We can never fully understand an animal until we know its life-history, but we can give some sort of an account, at least, of its development from birth to death. With some creatures, as with butterflies, moths, or birds, for example, this is easy enough, but with others this is by no means true. The life-history of the Sole is a case in point; only by the slow accumulation of facts has this been put together. But the result is most interesting, and without more ado we now proceed to relate it.
The cradle of the young sole, like that of its relatives, the plaice, turbot, and flounder, takes the form of a crystal globe of a jelly-like material, in the centre of which lies a smaller globe containing the germ which will grow into the young fish, a little store of food material, and a small quantity of oil, which seems to keep the whole afloat at the surface of the sea. This is the egg. It differs from the eggs of its relatives, in that the oil which it contains is distributed in the form of tiny drops, instead of being collected in one big drop, as in the turbot's eggs, for instance. The careful mother lays these eggs far out at sea and leaves them; if they were deposited near the land they would drift ashore and be destroyed. And in the illustration (fig. 1, egg) you will see what this water-baby looks like just before he quits his cradle.
In less that a month the little sole has grown enough to enter the world, but he is strangely helpless; a tiny little creature, perfectly transparent, mouthless and finless, so that he must drift helplessly, whithersoever the currents carry him. Though mouthless, he is not hungry, for there remains within him a certain amount of the nourishing yolk, which was stored up for this purpose, in his crystal cradle. This little food reserve is the cause of the rounded swelling on the under surface of the young sole in the illustration (fig. 1, A and B). In this picture you should note, first of all, the curious shape of the head, which is, as yet, only roughly modelled. There is no mouth, and the eye, as yet, is colourless. Along the middle of the back there runs a high fin, transparent as glass, and this is continued round the tail and forwards to the swelling caused by the yolk-bag. Over the whole are scattered a few patches of colour, in the shape of spidery lines and blotches, as yet only just dense enough to attract attention.
At six days old, as you will see (fig, 1, C), he has grown darker, and has developed a mouth and a tiny pair of breast-fins; but beautiful he certainly is not, judged by human standards of beauty. It often happens, however, that the outward mark of ugliness is but the sign of hidden peculiarities of unusual interest. Up to this point this baby sole is very like any other fish-baby; but from now onwards it enters on a most remarkable career. At six days old he shows all the promise of a well-grown fish; that is to say, his body is round and tapering, he has an eye in each side of his head, and both sides of the body are alike in colour--in other words, he is symmetrical.
The beginning of the change (fig. 1, D) is indicated by a disposition of the growing fish to lie on one side--the left--and at the same time the left eye begins to change its position, moving from the side of the head towards the crown of it! In a short time this point is reached, and passed, and not until the left eye has approached its fellow of the right side fairly closely does its progress stop! By this time the habit of lying on one side has become fixed, and the body has taken the characteristic shape of the sole. Thus, then, what appear to be the upper and under surfaces of the sole, are really the right and left sides, and this can easily be proved by a careful examination of the body, which, if it be placed on edge will be found to have a back or dorsal fin, and a pair of breast fins--one on either side, as in ordinary 'round' fishes.
The difference in the colouration of these two sides is a matter to which we must now refer. As everybody knows, the upper side is dark-coloured, while the under side is white. Why is this? Why are not the colours reversed, or why are not both sides coloured? These questions open up a most fascinating study--the use and meaning of the colours of animals. And you will find, when you come to look into the matter, that there is a very close relation between the colour of an animal and the nature of its surroundings. In the case of the sole, the brown upper surface, from its resemblance to the mud and sand at the bottom of the sea, serves to conceal it from the sharp eyes of prowling fishes on the look-out for a meal. A broad expanse of white would at once betray it to the enemy. No colour is developed on the under surface, for it would be a waste of energy to produce colour for a surface that was kept constantly concealed from view.
Although, in our picture, all these fish can be seen quite plainly, in real life they are quite hard to find. The young, being well-nigh transparent as glass, are almost invisible as they float in the water; while later, when these wanderings cease, and they settle down to a quiet life, the dark colour forms an equally invisible covering.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
THE PRAIRIE DOG.
The little animal which is commonly called the prairie dog is not a dog at all, but one of the Marmot family, which is to be found in Europe and Asia, as well as in America. The only reason for calling it a dog is that, when excited, it utters a cry which is very like the barking of a puppy.
This little marmot is rather larger than a good-sized rat, and rather like that animal in general appearance. Its colour is a red-brown, speckled with grey and black hairs above, but whitish-grey below. The tip of its tail is tufted with black hair, which is rather long and bushy.
The prairie dog lives out on the vast, treeless prairies of North America, where immense numbers of them congregate together, and make what are called dog-villages, or towns. The marmots burrow in the ground like rabbits, and sometimes the country is undermined with their burrows for a space of several miles. Each marmot, as it builds its burrow, throws out the loosened earth into a little hillock by the mouth of its burrow, and when it has nothing better to do it sits upon the top of its mound, and watches what is going on. At the sight of a stranger, or an enemy, the marmots, sitting on their mounds, begin to bark and chatter, jerking up their little tails with every effort until they feel that they are hardly safe any longer; then they drop into their holes, and, turning round, pop out their heads to watch a little longer. If the intruder comes too near, however, they withdraw altogether, and seek safety in the depths of the burrows. But they are very inquisitive, and if they are not harmed they soon put out their heads again to see what is taking place. Hunters who have walked through a dog-village, hoping to get a shot at one of the little householders, have been amused to see them scamper indoors as they approached, and come out again as soon as they had passed. All around, within the range of a gun, there was not a marmot to be seen, but at a safe distance there were hundreds, or even thousands, on the watch.
The opening of a marmot's burrow is four or five inches in width, and the passage runs downwards in a sloping direction for several feet. It then makes a sharp turn, and continues horizontally for some distance further, till it turns slightly upwards. The marmot's nest is made at the extreme end of the burrow, and there can be little doubt that the last upward turn of the burrow is meant to keep the nest dry, when, after a heavy storm, rain-water flows into the mouth of the passage. The burrows are generally within a few feet of each other, and as the ground above them gives way under pressure, they are often a source of great danger to travellers upon horseback. The horses' feet slip, and there is great risk of their spraining or breaking a limb. For this reason parties of travellers often have to go several miles out of their way, in order to get round a prairie dogs' village.
Prairie dogs live upon grass, and near their burrows the grass is cropped quite short by their flat, chisel-shaped teeth. In one respect they are very strong, for it takes a very serious injury to kill them, and they quickly recover from small ones. They have one or two enemies, the worst of which is probably the rattlesnake, which often takes up its residence in their holes. But, notwithstanding their enemies, the marmots increase in numbers very quickly, and soon over-run a favourable district. In winter they hibernate like our squirrels, passing several months underground in a kind of slow and nearly motionless existence. The sleep enables the animal to live on, after its grass-food is exhausted in autumn, until the crop grows again in spring.
THE WAY TO COMMAND.
In the year 1852, Gordon got his commission in the Royal Engineers. Two years later, he volunteered to go out to the Crimea, and came in for his full share of the terrible sufferings and privations of the ensuing winter.
One day, it is said, he came upon a corporal and a sapper, engaged in a hot dispute. The corporal wanted the sapper to stand up exposed on the ramparts, while he handed him up some baskets from below. Gordon at once sprang up to the parapet, told the corporal to follow, and planted the baskets, under the fire of the Russian gunners. Then, turning to the corporal, he said, 'Never order a man to do anything that you are afraid to do yourself.'
H. B. S.
LITTLE THINGS.
The seed set in the garden Becomes a lovely flower, It opens in the sunlight Or twines about the bower; It beareth tender blossoms, In beauty it is drest, And though at last its grace is past, How many it hath blest!
The tiny little acorn Becomes an oak at last, And children swing upon its boughs When many years are past. Though now it looks so mighty, And branches hath so tall, Ah, yet we know, ere it did grow, It was an acorn small.
As flowers grow up from tiny seeds, As oaks from acorns spring, E'en so from kindly words and deeds Grows many a lovely thing. They still the angry passions, They break the stubborn will, And earth so sweet, where these do meet, Becomes yet sweeter still.
FRED'S NEW WORLD.
Fred Miller was feeling very dull and rather sorry for himself. He stood by the garden gate and wished he had a brother or sister to play with, as other boys and girls had. He even wished that the holidays would come to an end and that he might go to school again: for in the holidays the children from school went away into the country or to stay with friends--all, except Fred; somehow there was never a chance for him to go.
He was an only child, but his father and mother had many cares, and could not spare time to amuse their boy, or spend money in pleasing him. 'You must play in the garden and not run about the streets,' Mr. Miller would say when he went off to his day's work: perhaps he did not quite know how tired a boy might grow of being in the same little plot of ground all day and every day.
Fred was thankful when there were errands to be done; it was better to fetch flour or potatoes from the shop than to play by himself. But the errands were soon over, leaving him face to face with the old question, 'What shall I do?'
'Fred,' called Mrs. Marshall, one day--she lived in the next house to Mr. Miller's--'can your mother spare you to go to the library for me?'
Now it happened that Fred had never been to the library, for his own people did not care for reading, so he was eager to take Mrs. Marshall's book, and he listened carefully to the instructions that were given him, and repeated to himself all the way the title of the book he was to try to get in exchange.
Books had hitherto meant nothing but lessons to Fred, and he was not more keen upon those than most other boys; but when he saw the rows of volumes on the library shelves, and was told by the clerk in charge to go and find the one he wanted, he woke up to the knowledge that they might mean something more.
He opened one, at random; it was full of pictures. He began to read; it was about strange places and people: about the dense forests and great rivers of some far-off land, and the wonderful creatures--birds, beasts and fishes--to be found there.
The clock struck twelve--it was a good thing for Fred that the sound was loud enough to startle him--he put back the volume of travels with a sigh of regret, found, with some trouble, the book Mrs. Marshall wanted, and ran all the way home to make up for lost time.
Though he would have been too shy to talk about them, his mind was full of the wonders of which he had been reading. 'I never knew there were such things; it's like--it's like having a new world to look at! I wish I could read some more; but perhaps Mrs. Marshall won't ever ask me to go again,' he thought.
Mrs. Marshall, however, did more than that. 'Why don't you get your mother to let you have a library ticket, Fred?' she asked, when Fred, flushed and breathless after his run, presented himself before her.
'Me! Why, I couldn't, Mrs. Marshall; I'm not grown up,' said the little boy, wistfully.
'Oh, that doesn't matter in the least,' Mrs. Marshall assured him. 'Come now, Fred,' she added, 'I owe you a good turn; I'll do my best to get you a ticket.'
Mrs. Marshall was as good as her word, and Fred, the proud possessor of a ticket of his own, was soon a regular visitor to the library. He had come to the end of his dull days, for, as the poet truly says:
'Books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good,'
and Fred had found it out.
C. J. B.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page 51.)
The close bond which united the families of the Moat House and Begbie Hall, and the daily intercourse, had thrown the two governesses much together. Happily for both, their acquaintance had grown into friendship and affection. Not only did they meet during the walks taken with their pupils, but Estelle shared with her cousins in Miss Leigh's lessons in arithmetic and English subjects, while Marjorie and Georgie, and Miss Leigh herself, received instruction in French, Italian, music and drawing from Mademoiselle Vadevant.
When, therefore, Marjorie had proposed to spend the remainder of the rainy day with Estelle, Miss Leigh hailed the suggestion with pleasure. She would have Mademoiselle's companionship, while the children amused themselves in their own way. She splashed through the mud and wet, laughing and happy, with Georgie dancing along by her side, and hardly noticed that Marjorie did not join in her mirth. Marjorie was uneasy; she thought Miss Leigh was unkind not to allow her to wait for Alan. What was the sense of hurrying her off when Alan wanted her?
It was some time before Alan overcame his pride enough to follow, and then he plodded rather sulkily through the slush. Passing by the ruined summer-house he paused to look at it, the vague mystery making it always an object of interest. He wished Peet had been a more genial man: it might then have been possible to get him to show the inside of that gloomy place. But he was very surly, and the secret must be found out in some other way.
As he stood gazing, a slight stir among the bushes attracted his attention. Slipping behind a corner of the buttress, he waited, somewhat sheltered from the dripping rain by the overhanging ivy. He had not long to stand shivering there. A hurried whisper caught his ear.
'What's that? Did you hear a sound?'
'I thought I did, but it seems quiet now. Come along this way. It's more---- '
The voices died away, and after some slight rustling all grew still again. Alan, now beginning to feel that the mystery, whatever it was, appeared to be deepening, and that he must decide what he meant to do quickly, was on the point of quitting his shelter, when another sound arrested his movement. A rough grating, the swing of the heavy door of the summer-house, and Peet stepped into sight. He stopped to close the door carefully, and lock it before he walked away.
'Wonders will never cease,' thought Alan, amazed. 'Is that old curmudgeon in the business, too? He's the last man I should have imagined would mix himself up with a man like Thomas.'
Having no reason to expect further developments Alan set off at a run, so as to get out of the rain as speedily as possible. He was pretty wet, and what he had just seen and heard had made him forget the annoyances of the morning. His good temper was quite restored, though his thoughts were busy and perplexed. He almost made up his mind to consult somebody, and if he did, why not Aunt Betty, who never let out secrets? It was worth thinking about, even if he did not make up his mind to do it at once. At the same time he must not let things go too far.
Running down the path, vaulting the little gate leading into the shrubberies, and dashing down a back way almost dark with the thick laurel-bushes overhead, he soon reached what was known as the postern door. Entering a low passage, narrow and dimly lighted from some invisible opening, he pursued his way along various twists and turns of the old house, with now and again a few stairs up, till he finally came upon a crimson-baize door, opening on a long panelled corridor. The first two or three rooms were unoccupied, the remainder were devoted to the use of Estelle and her governess. In the schoolroom the whole party were assembled, the children waiting with more or less impatience for his arrival.
'You have been a long time!' cried Marjorie, while his cousin jumped up from the table, to clear away the round game they had been playing.
The governesses having retired to Mademoiselle's study, the children started off on their usual rainy-day amusement, hide-and-seek. They never tired of rushing about through the old passages and rooms, and often came upon strange discoveries. Things hidden away for years and forgotten, doors which had remained unopened, or perhaps even had been mistaken for a part of the wainscot for generations. These discoveries were somewhat awe-inspiring, and the game not unfrequently became what the children called 'Treasure-hunting.' They generally managed to keep together on such occasions; it was too uncanny to be alone in those ghostly apartments.
As a rule Georgie was not allowed to join in these weird expeditions. He was too young, and his conduct could not be depended upon. He might choose to be frightened and scream just at the wrong moment, or he would obstinately refuse to go into dark, shuttered rooms, where the smell of rats and dust seemed to strike them in the face, so stifling was it. Hide-and-seek could not be comfortably played with him, either. He could not run fast enough, nor did he like being left behind, and any sudden clutch from behind a door nearly terrified him out of his life. So, much to his disgust, he was forced to remain with the governesses, or go down to Aunt Betty, if she would let him sit with her. He liked that best, as she never minded what mess he made, or how untidily his toys were scattered about. (Continued on page 70.)
THE PTARMIGAN AND PINE MARTEN.
Every one must have observed how many animals escape notice by the similarity of their colours to those of the ground upon which they lie, or of the foliage in which they hide. It is not easy to see rabbits, at dusk, as they sit quietly nibbling the grass upon their sandy warrens. It is difficult, at times, to distinguish a toad from a piece of broken bark or a dead leaf. Moths and butterflies frequently escape pursuit by hiding among twigs and flowers which resemble them in colour. And it is almost impossible to see a shrimp upon the sand of the sea-shore, or a little sandy-coloured fish at the bottom of a sea-side pool. We can hardly doubt that the colours of these animals serve them as a very useful protection. They are all naturally helpless creatures, and their safety depends almost entirely upon their escaping the notice of their enemies.
The examples just given are familiar to us all. But there are few better illustrations of this curious fact than that afforded by the Ptarmigan, a bird which is found in the northern parts of Europe and America, including the north of Scotland. It is a game bird, nearly related to the grouse, the partridge, and even to our domestic fowls, and it is protected, like the other game birds, by Acts of Parliament, which render those who shoot it, during certain months of the year, liable to a fine. The ptarmigan frequents wild, mountainous districts, and builds its nest upon the open hillsides, among the coarse grass and mossy rocks. The nest is a little cluster of twigs and grass, and in it the ptarmigan lays ten or a dozen reddish eggs spotted with brown, which are not easily distinguishable from the twigs and grass among which they lie. The summer plumage of the bird itself is a brown tortoiseshell, so similar in colour to the ground upon which it makes its nest that it is very difficult to see.
In winter-time, however, when the hillsides are covered with snow, the ptarmigan would be easily discovered, if it retained its summer dress. But, upon the approach of colder weather, the bird changes its plumage, and takes on a winter robe of pure white, which makes it just as difficult to detect amidst the snow, as it was in summer when it nested among the grass and stones. With the return of warmer weather it resumes its darker colour. The bird moults, in fact, twice and sometimes thrice in the year. It is impossible to tell the exact cause of these changes, but it is quite certain that they help to protect the bird from its enemies. The change from its winter plumage to its summer one is sometimes delayed for some little time after the winter snows have disappeared, and it has been noticed, in Norway and Sweden, that large numbers of ptarmigan are killed at this time, when their white feathers make them so conspicuous.
The enemies of the ptarmigan are the larger birds of prey, and animals of the weasel kind. One of the largest of the latter is the pine marten, which is still found in remote and uninhabited parts of our country. It is a fierce and active animal, ever on the look-out for game and eggs. It is, in fact, a great poacher, and for this reason it has been practically exterminated by gamekeepers, in all the districts where game is carefully preserved. In other countries the marten is hunted for its skin, the fur of which is scarcely less valuable than that of the sable. It is found in all the northern countries, especially in North America.
ANSON'S COOLNESS.
Commodore Anson, while his ship, the Centurion, was engaged in close combat with a Spanish man-of-war, was told by a sailor that the Centurion was on fire near the powder magazine.
'Well,' said the Commodore quietly, 'go and help to put it out.'
H. S. B.
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
II.--DENISON'S HALL-MARK.
(Concluded from page 37.)
My brain recovered its power after a moment or two, and I began to reflect, though, I own, my reflections were somewhat interfered with by the rough treatment to which I was being subjected; for the great brute in whose jaws I lay dragged me without ceremony over stones, roots, scrub, hard knife-like grass, and other obstacles. I felt my clothes tear here, there, and everywhere; I was being gradually torn and bumped into a jelly--still, I reflected, where was I being taken to, and why? Why not eaten at once?
The latter question was easily answered. The lion had had his dinner already, or her dinner--it might, of course, be a lioness--I had as yet had no opportunity of seeing the beast; if so, she might be the mother of a family of cubs, and if so again, I might be destined for their dinner, mamma having already dined.
This was a pleasant reflection! I might have to deal with half-a-dozen lions of various sizes, instead of only one large one. There was very little doubt that I was doomed, in any case; yet my brain had never worked more clearly than at this moment, and I employed it as I went bumping along, in trying to devise some means of escape, poor though the prospect might be. My gun was still in my hand, and determined that no amount of rough travelling should cause me to let it go. A moment might come when I should find an opportunity to turn it somehow in the direction of the lion, and I should keep my wits about me mainly to that end.
We had travelled, I suppose, about a quarter of a mile, and I wish I could convey to you fellows the extreme discomfort of it. Can you imagine it? One's head flopping and wobbling and knocking up against whatever happened to be in the way; one's legs following suit; one's body strained, twisted, scratched, bruised, pounded--really, though I see you fellows laughing at this very moment, and should like to kick you for it if I were not too comfortable to move, I would not wish even such ruffians as you two to suffer such torture.
Suddenly the beast laid me down--tired, perhaps, with dragging eleven stone over rough country. She stood over me for a minute as though listening, one paw on my right shoulder, which prevented me from using my arm, which might otherwise have been employed to advantage during this interval.
Then suddenly she lifted up her voice--it was a lioness, I now saw, not a male lion--and set the air vibrating with a series of roars so loud that they might surely, I thought, be heard at Buluwayo, if not at Capetown. Never in my life had the drums of my ears been so ill-treated. For half a minute without a pause she thundered thus.
Well, she ended. The roars became less loud--less frequent--they thinned down into half-moaning noises something like the end of a donkey's bray, and lastly they stopped altogether, or rather faded into growling or purring sounds. Then she released my shoulder and stood a yard or two from me, gazing into the distance--you know how lions at the Zoo look when the whisper has gone round that it is feeding-time, and every lion and tiger begins to stare into the far-away, over the heads of the spectators.
A few moments passed during which I slowly drew my rifle towards me until I had it close to my side; and now--following one another--came two terrible shocks.
The first was the discovery that my rifle was bent at the grip and that the barrel was damaged in places. It was out of the question to dream of attempting to fire a bullet through it: there was no clear passage for the missile: the rifle would burst in my hands if I attempted it.
The second shock was of a different nature. Hearing a scuffle and the sound of snarlings and whinings, I glanced upwards, and beheld a pretty, though a very alarming spectacle. Four lion cubs, about the size of dogs, came frisking and bounding out of the long grass, evidently in obedience to their mother's summons. At the same moment I became aware of a more awful presence. A full-grown male lion, a magnificent beast, was standing watching me, his tail twitching, his nostrils moving, his legs setting themselves as though for a spring. I had not heard him arrive, I did not know from what direction he had appeared; I simply knew that he was there, and I may tell you that the sight of him gave me a shock, though I had had my fill of terrors already.
I could think of no way out of the horrible position; I was in despair. In my agony I reverted to instinct, I did what a child would have done--I yelled for all I was worth. I called upon Thomson, who was a couple of miles away, at least, and who could not, of course, hear me in any case; I called upon Thomson for the love of all he held precious to come and help me.
Instantly the four cubs disappeared in the long grass, The lioness also bounded away; only the mighty lion remained. He gazed at me and roared, but did not venture to approach. 'I don't quite like the look of you,' he seemed to say; 'I believe that's a fire-stick in your hand; I'll see if I can't frighten you into fits by roaring.'
Then he had his innings at roaring, and I give you my word that if his wife's lungs were pretty good, his own absolutely left them far behind. So terrific was the noise that my whole being seemed paralysed, and I believe I eventually fainted, for, remembering nothing of the events which led up to it, I awoke to find myself the plaything of four lion-cubs.
The little rascals were positively--I wish you fellows wouldn't grin, for I assure you this is a true story!--they were positively playing with me as though I were a big mouse. If only one had been in the mood to be amused, their antics would have seemed really funny. The little beggars would stalk me, crouching and approaching for all the world like a kitten about to make a pounce upon a cork, or some other plaything; then they would make a sudden rush, stand on their hind legs for an instant, touching me hurriedly with their paws, and scamper home to their mother, or behind some rock or tuft of grass, from which they would presently emerge to creep towards me once more; and so the whole play would begin again.
They never once hurt me or scratched me, or did me the slightest injury. I concluded that the father had already fed the little brutes, and that I was to be respited for an hour or two, perhaps half a day. This was satisfactory in a fashion, but just imagine the suspense!
Her majesty the lioness, however, was not pleased, it appears, with the behaviour of her children. She roared once or twice.
'You are meant to eat it,' she seemed to say, 'you foolish little things, not play with it. Here, come along and taste, it's good food. Stick your little teeth into it--look here.'
She approached me and rolled me over once or twice as a cat might play with a mouse. 'Look for a soft place and then bite,' she continued. 'I'll show you the way.'
'No you don't!' thought I, desperate now and careless of consequences. I fumbled for my skinning-knife, and made a dig at her majesty, but only succeeded in scratching her about the shoulder. She gave a roar of alarm, however, and bounded away into cover. The four cubs disappeared instantly.
From somewhere in the long grass, where she hid unseen with her cubs, the lioness now began to growl or moan, complaining, I had no doubt, that I had bitten her and that it was obviously the duty of her lord and master to see that such a venomous creature as myself was rendered harmless before her precious darlings came near it again.
'Go in and finish him off,' she said. 'He might hurt one of them. He has bitten me.'
Apparently her complaint told. His majesty began to grow restless. He stood up. He had lain down at full length to watch the children play, but now he rose up and began to work himself into a rage. His tail lashed his sides, and his jaws moved incessantly; he showed his teeth and growled savagely and roared. I knew enough about lions to be aware that as long as his tail worked from side to side I was safe; once it began to move vertically up and down, the moment had arrived when he would charge. I rose to my knees, then to my feet, and watched him. He gathered his feet as though to spring; he roared; his eyes flashed green fire; his tail ceased to work laterally; it rose straight up over his back and fell again. He was moving; he would charge. I screamed, turned to fly--and fainted.
When I recovered, Thomson was kneeling at my side, explaining that he had heard a lion roaring, and wondered whether I was in trouble. He had started out in search of me, and presently, uncertain where to look for me, providentially heard my first scream. He had hastened in the direction of my call for help, and, as it seemed, arrived just in time.
'Have they gone?' I gasped. 'Where are the lions?'
'How many were there?' he laughed. 'There's one, anyway!'
It was his majesty, dead as a stone. What became of his royal consort and her cubs I know not; we may meet them one of these days.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
III.--MORE CURIOUS MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF INDIA.
The Taus, or Peacock, also called Esrar or Mohur, according to the language of the tribe which uses it, is met with chiefly in Upper India, and is a favourite instrument of the Nautch musicians.
It is always made in the form of a peacock, supporting on its back a long, narrow stringed instrument. The body and neck of the bird is usually carved and coloured, and is further adorned with natural plumage, sometimes neck feathers being used, sometimes those of the tail, and often both. There is a very fine specimen of the Taus in the British Museum, in the gallery where boats, weapons, and curious articles of native arts and crafts are exhibited.
The Nautch people are found all over India, and are a striking instance of the survival of native customs in the East, and although Europeans see little more of them than an occasional party of singers and dancers, great numbers of the profession exist.
In native national life the Nautch play a large part, and legend has a great deal to say about them. In their way these performers have a strong religious element, and dancers, whether Hindoo or Mohommedan, never begin their performances without touching forehead and eyes with the strings of bells hung round their ankles, and saying a short prayer.
Tying on the bells for the first time is quite a solemn function, as it implies adopting for ever the career of a Nautch dancer, from which no withdrawal is possible.
A popular Hindoo story called 'Chandra's Vengeance,' tells of a youth who, hearing from a long distance the music of the Nautch, is irresistibly drawn towards it. After twelve days' journey he approaches the camp of the mysterious people, and there a beautiful girl dances up to him and throws a garland of flowers around him. At once a spell is woven, which is completed by a charmed drink, with the result that he forgets friends, family and country, and enters for ever into the Nautch community. Another legend tells of a Rajah, who was so enchanted with the weird music of the wandering people, that he followed it from country to country, forgetful of wife, child, and kingdom, his whole interest being taken up in beating the drum at performances. In time his baby boy grew into manhood, and set himself to seek his father, and restore him to his throne. After endless journeyings and adventures he at last found his royal parent, ragged but picturesque, taking part in a Nautch festival, and after much difficulty persuaded him to return home. There the wisest physicians exerted their skill to restore his memory of his former position, and their efforts being successful, he re-ascended the throne of his ancestors, and reigned many years, his wanderings with the Nautch people fading from his mind entirely.
The same kind of little bells which are hung round the ankles of the Nautch dancers are used for more practical purposes by Indian post-runners, who tie them in strings to the end of poles; thus the bells, being kept in constant motion, announce the coming of the news carrier. At the same time they serve to scare away wild beasts when the runner is passing through lonely forests or jungles where danger lurks in the quivering grasses.
In ancient days the Aztecs and Teztucans of Central America were wont to hang clusters of similar tiny bells outside temples and towers, which, as they were swayed by the wind, kept up a musical sound. One of these, found in Mexico, may be seen in the British Museum; it bears the name of Yotl. The actual bells, which are nearly round, are very similar to the Schellen, or horsebells, used in Northern Europe when driving sledges over the silent snow.
The Pungi or Jinagooi is used by jugglers and snake-charmers all over India. A bottle-shaped gourd is the chief feature in its construction and forms the centre and mouthpiece. Two pipes of cane are cut to form reeds and inserted into the large end of the gourd; one, pierced with finger-holes, takes the melody; it is accompanied by the other, which always sounds the key-note, and produces a curious droning sound not unlike that of the bagpipes.
HELENA HEATH.
A HUMOROUS PUNISHMENT.
In Stow's History of London, the following singular extract is given:--
'Nicholas Wilford, an alderman, having neglected to have his cloak, which he ought to use in the procession, lined with fur, it is adjudged by the Court of Aldermen that the Lord Mayor and Aldermen shall all breakfast with him. This penalty is awarded as a punishment for his meanness.'
THE MOON-SHIP.
O ship of the moon, good-bye, good-bye! Where, where do you sail away, Through miles and miles of stormy sky, By cloudland cape and bay? O ship of the moon, beware, beware, Of many and many a danger there!
See! white foam breaks along the reef! The angry tempests blow; The cloud-waves beat the cloudland cliff Like gusts of drifting snow. O ship of the moon, beware, beware, There's many a danger lurking there!
She's near the rocks! She's sinking now! The light is growing dim. Wild billows leap her silver prow On the horizon's rim. And louder still the tempest blows; The shadows darker fall; Into the cloud-world depths she goes-- Mast, rudder, sails and all, Wrecked in the ocean of the sky: Ship of the moon, good-bye! good-bye!
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page 63.)
As soon as Georgie was disposed of, the other children set off racing each other about, up and down the old disused part of the house, the empty passages echoing to the sound of their fun and laughter.
'Alan,' said Marjorie, when, breathless and somewhat tired, the three explorers had reached a small turret room into which was shining a ray of sunshine from a rift in the clouds--'I wonder if you would laugh if I told you something.'
Estelle had climbed on a chair and was leaning out of the narrow window, with a longing for the fresh, sweet air outside; Alan was tapping all the panelling to see if any discoveries were lying in wait for him.
'Why should I laugh?' he returned, in a preoccupied voice.
'Please don't, then. I really and truly saw some men creeping round the tower!'
'No!' cried Alan, startled into interest at once.
'Yes, I did. You know there is no reason for anybody to go there. It's never used, and the shrubs are only trimmed once a year, because Auntie doesn't like people about there often.'
'You didn't see who it was?'
'No; I only saw their backs. They were stooping, as if to hide themselves.'
'Did they wear dark, long cloaks?' asked Estelle, suddenly, turning round from the window.
'Yes, with dark caps.'
'Then I have just seen them go under the tower, with a bag and a basket.'
Alan looked from one to the other in silence. Should he speak? Did he dare to trust them? It seemed time to act, but what was he to do without more knowledge than he possessed at present? Was it not possible to gain it--now, even? The men were below somewhere, doing something. They had probably taken advantage of the rain, and the consequent absence of the family and gardeners from the grounds. No one would dream of being out on such a day, and the prospect from the windows was too uninviting to fear many watchers. Alan felt sure this was the way the men had reasoned; and it was clearly his policy to keep them in ignorance of their nearness to the party of children, and yet to manage somehow to watch their movements. If only the girls could help him! He thought he could depend on Marjorie. But Estelle was quite different--nervous and imaginative. Alan knew this, but he could not ask her to leave him and Marjorie to track these men; nor could he propose to her to come with them--the danger of betrayal was too great. Of course, she might keep quiet; but then, again, she might not.
'I tell you what,' he said at length, looking at the two girls, who were watching him anxiously, 'you two had better stay here, and I will go down and have a look round. If I don't come back soon--say in five or ten minutes--don't wait for me, but go down and amuse yourselves. I will be back as soon as I can.'
'Let me go with you,' said Marjorie, earnestly. 'Two are better than one, and you know you can trust me.'
He had expected this, but before he could reply, Estelle broke in with, 'And can't you trust me, too, Alan?'
'The fact is,' he answered, somewhat in doubt how to act, 'I don't know what we shall see; or what will happen if we are seen. It is most important we should not betray ourselves; and in order to manage this, we must keep very, very quiet. Whatever happens, there must be no noise, not even a whisper. Suppose you were frightened, what would you do, Estelle? Don't you think you had better go to the schoolroom, and wait for us? Marjorie can go with you if you like, but, as she says, two are better than one.'
Tears came into Estelle's eyes, but she said, with a good deal of resolution in her gentle voice, 'If you wish, I will go to Aunt Betty. Georgie is with her. I don't want to be in your way. But though I'm not as brave as Marjorie, I can keep quiet, and I--I think you could trust me not to scream or make a noise. If I feel inclined to, I will creep away.'
'All right,' replied Alan. He was fond of his little cousin, and could not bear to see her distressed. 'Come along, then; only remember this, there must be no talking, no moving about, and you must do what I tell you directly without any questions. Will you both promise?'
This little matter settled, the three children set off on their way clown the narrow spiral staircase, at the bottom of which Alan, who led the way, stopped in order to assist the girls over some rotten boards. The whole passage required careful walking, to avoid dangerous holes, and thin, dry-rotting boards.
The lower they went the darker it grew, and the more cautiously they had to tread, till at last they came to such a gloomy region that seeing their footsteps became impossible. Yet they dared not light a match. They must almost have reached the cellars when Alan felt he had come against a door, and whispered to the others to stop. Feeling about with his fingers he encountered a latch, and in another moment the light was shining in on them through a slit-like groove in the thick walls. The stairs still went down, down, much to their disappointment, but no thought of giving up occurred to any of them. They followed each other noiselessly, Estelle the last of the three, when suddenly, just as they had reached a sort of circular stone hall, they heard the grating sound of a door being forced open on rusty hinges. In an instant Alan had drawn the girls back into the shadow of the winding stairs, where they could all remain without betraying their presence. Estelle, being the farthest back, could see nothing, for which she was duly thankful; but Marjorie and Alan sat as still as mice, their eyes on the opening door.
Two men were seen to enter, and, after closing the door, they proceeded to light a lantern. They evidently felt quite safe here, for they did not even lower their voices. A bag of tools was laid on the floor, and now came the moment of danger. Uncertain which of the doors round the stone hall was the one they wanted, they began a tour of inspection, turning the brilliant light of the lantern on each as they came to it. Alan saw that they must pass the foot of the staircase, and that they would certainly bring the lantern to bear on it. This would reveal Marjorie and himself sitting there. With a touch, he drew Marjorie's attention to the danger, and, in an instant, Estelle was made aware of the necessity of going higher up in order that the others might slip out of sight. It was an anxious moment, however, for what if the men took it into their heads to mount the stairs?
Alan listened with strained ears, but, as far as he could make out, they were intent on finding some mark which indicated the door they were in search of. He was comforting himself with this when he saw, by the sudden light on the wall, that the lantern was turned on the stairs.
'Sure it is down here?' said a gruff voice in a surly tone, 'It's no use our going on a wild-goose chase. We are below ground here, and it's not unlikely the door is above-stairs, more on a level with the house.'
'We have not been round them all down here yet,' came the reply in the voice of Thomas. 'I don't know the door any better than you, but we can look till we find it.'
'And if it isn't down here, why we will just go up. I suppose there's no danger of folks coming down the stairs and spying on us?'
'Bless you, it isn't every one has the courage to come here at all. It is haunted, they say; but I don't believe in that sort of ghosts. Come along, and let's finish the hall first.'
With that they moved away, and the stairs were again in deep shadow. Alan indicated to Marjorie that she was to stay where she was. He himself resumed his old seat lower down, whence he could view all that took place.
Slowly and cautiously the men continued their investigations, but apparently with no success. The doors were all precisely alike, all of solid oak, and heavily studded with great nails. The locks looked as if they would take hours--perhaps days--to pick, and to attempt to open them in any other way appeared to be hopeless. After some angry discussion, it was at length determined to mount the stairs and try to find the door they wanted. Alan was on his feet at once, ready to dart out of sight as soon as needful, when suddenly there was a hideous baying and barking at the door by which the men had entered, and almost before the children were aware of what had happened, the two men were flying up the stairs in the hope of avoiding pursuit. The dogs had been let loose, and were on the track of the invaders.
In a panic Alan fled up the stairs, the two girls before him, only just so far ahead as to keep out of sight, aided happily by the darkness, for the lantern had been put out.
How long they could keep ahead had yet to be seen.
(Continued on page 74.)
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page 71.)
Chapter IV
The three children fled upstairs. The terror which lent wings to their feet grew into a panic as they flew. Perhaps the one who felt it most was Estelle. Her imagination pictured all sorts of terrible things. She was sure that the dogs, in their fury, would not recognise them, and that they would be torn to pieces. Marjorie, though her heart beat quickly, kept her senses under control, and even showed coolness enough to whisper back: 'Give them some place to escape to, Alan; they will follow us if you don't.'
The wisdom of this advice was soon shown. Acting upon it, Alan flung open the door of a room he knew to be unfurnished and empty. It did not delay him a second of time, but it gave him a courage which surprised himself. Slackening his pace so as just to keep out of sight, he stopped now and again to take a glance behind him: he was determined to see what the two men intended to do. Meantime, the door into the cellars had been forced, men and dogs tumbling over each other as the lock gave way to the united strength of the party outside. The children could hear the bay of the hounds as they bounded towards the stairs. The two girls fled on in breathless haste, but Alan had no fears that the dogs would not recognise him. Besides, he was intent on the actions of Thomas and his friend.
The howls of the dogs acted like magic on the two men. They rushed up the stairs, without a single glance behind. The danger was too pressing to allow any delay for making plans of escape. The door Alan had thrown open seemed to them the way to safety; the cheerful light of day, which shone through the begrimed windows, gave a friendly look to the empty room. Alan saw them rush in, close the door softly, and the sound of the faint creak of a rusty bolt assured him the men were safe for a time at least. He had not much leisure to think what he meant to do next, however. The hounds were up the staircase in full cry. Barely had he time to reach a door into a passage, which the girls had left open for him, when one of the dogs flung himself against it with a howl of rage; then stopping a moment to sniff about, and probably discovering that it had missed the scent of the enemy to follow that of a friend, it turned with a fierce bark, and Alan could hear it rushing down the stairs again.
Not till then did Alan perceive, as he turned in his excitement to call to his sister, that she was bending over the figure of Estelle. The little girl had fallen in a heap half-way down the long passage.
'Hullo!' he cried, startled. 'What's the matter?'
'I can't think,' returned Marjorie, looking round with a white face of alarm. 'She is so dreadfully still, and she doesn't seem to hear what I say.'
'Perhaps she's fainted,' said Alan, doubtfully. 'I told you it was rubbish her coming with us; she can't stand anything.'
'But what are we to do? She may be dead.' Tears were in Marjorie's eyes, and she trembled like a leaf.
'I'll go and call somebody,' said Alan, surprised at her terror.
Feeling it would be foolish to detain him, Marjorie said no more, but continued her efforts to wake Estelle. She rubbed her hands, stroked the hair off her face, and raised her in her arms in order to make her more comfortable. But, alas! nothing had the least effect on the unconscious child.
'She ought not to have come with us,' said Marjorie, half aloud, as she kissed her cousin's forehead tenderly. 'She isn't as tough as we are, and, oh! I do hope the fright hasn't killed her! Estelle! Estelle dear! Do wake up. There is no danger now. We are quite safe here; we are indeed, if only you would believe it.'
But there was no sign of consciousness; not a word she said was heard.
'I wish I had some water,' sighed Marjorie. 'I am sure a little cold water would make her wake, and refresh her. I know it always woke me when Alan put the cold sponge on my face, on those horrid winter mornings when he would go out early into the snow.'
Her cousin's fainting-fit, and the dread of what it might mean, had driven all recollection of the men and dogs, and their own escape, clean out of her head. Her only fear was that little, delicate, nervous Estelle might have been killed by all that had happened. Could she be dead? She was so terribly limp and still. Oh, if there were only something she could do! Anything would be better than sitting waiting for somebody to come. Yet the thought of leaving her cousin never so much as occurred to her. She bent over her again, and began rubbing the soft little hands with greater energy, till the sound of hastening footsteps gladdened her heart.
'A whole lot of them are coming,' Alan called out as he ran up the passage. 'Father, and Aunt Betty, and Mademoiselle, and the whole lot of them. Is she any better? I say, is she insensible still?' His face became alarmed and grave. 'What a fool I was to let her come with us!'
There was no time for lamentations, however. Colonel De Bohun and Mademoiselle were running towards them, followed by Aunt Betty herself, looking pale and anxious. There was no lack of helping, loving hands now to carry the unconscious little girl to where she could receive every attention. Colonel De Bohun lifted her in his arms, and Aunt Betty, finding that cold water and strong smelling salts had no effect, desired that she should be taken to her own room and the doctor sent for.
'Come with me,' said Alan, when he and Marjorie were left alone. 'It's no use crying. I'm awfully cut up too, but I do believe it isn't anything more than a faint. Estelle will be all right, you see. It is hard luck her fainting like that, for we had got out of the scrape jolly well. Don't you think so?'
'Oh, yes!' returned Marjorie, still feeling rather shaky with the fright she had had about her cousin. 'If only Estelle had not fainted, it would have been very exciting and jolly fun.'
'So it was! You come along to the turret, and let's talk this over. I've a heap to tell you, but'--and he gazed earnestly into her face--'you will promise you won't say a word till I give you leave?'
Marjorie promised, and the brother and sister betook themselves to the little turret chamber. There was an ancient oak settle at one end of the dingy little room, which had a horsehair cushion, rather worn and threadbare, but still comfortable.
(Continued on page 87.)
THE DAISY.
'I am only a poor little Daisy,' it said, 'Not tall like the Lily, nor like the Rose red; 'Mid the flowers of the wealthy I never am seen, I have only to blossom each day on the green.
'The Violet has fragrance, the Rose and the Pink; The Primrose is sweet by the river's green brink; The gold of the Cowslip is bright on the sea-- All these have a sweetness not granted to me.'
But into the meadows a child strayed one day, She passed by the Lily and Rose on the way; Nor gathered the Primrose, the Violet blue, But went to the field where the small Daisy grew.
And all through the hours of that bright sunny day, Where the sweet Daisy blossomed she lingered to play; And the Daisy was glad when, at even's soft fall, She said that its blossom was sweetest of all.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
4.--CHARADE.
My first is very rapid; my second is a beautiful tree; and my whole is used for cement.
C. J. B.
[Answer on page 115.]
* * * * *
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 51.
2.--Locke. Wordsworth. Swift. Bacon. Steele. Scott. Burns. Lamb. Goldsmith.
3.--1. Hereford. 3. Denver. 6. Pekin. 2. Venice. 4. Milan. 7. Bergen. 5. Berlin.
CROCODILES IN CENTRAL AFRICA.
Crocodiles are very plentiful on the shores of the vast lakes of Central Africa, and the English people living in those parts do not seem to mind them much. One lady wrote home a few weeks ago: 'We went for a swim in Lake Nyasa yesterday. The water was beautifully blue and warm. We took three of our native school-girls to drive away the crocodiles.'
One of the crew of the mission steamer, Chauncy Maples, lately found eighty-seven crocodile eggs in a hole on the beach near Likoma; the mother, after laying them, had covered them all over with sand, and then had gone away and left the eggs to be hatched by the hot sun. The man took some of the eggs and soon was able to announce, proudly, that he had 'sixteen little crocodiles on board, all healthy and snappy!'
On landing at a mission station some days later, five of these little crocodiles were sent up in a paraffin tin to be inspected by the mission ladies, who pronounced them to be 'charming little beasts.'
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
III.--THE LIFE-HISTORY OF THE COMMON EEL.
We meet people now and then who tell us that, in these scientific days, all the poetry and mystery of Nature is being destroyed. This is not only untrue, but stupid. All that science has done is to substitute truth for legend, and truth is generally more beautiful and wonderful than fiction. Those who will turn to the great Book of Nature humbly, and with an open mind, will learn nothing but what is helpful and good to know.
The story which I am now about to relate is full of strangeness, far more so than our forebears ever suspected. Thus, in many parts of rural England even to-day, if you ask old grey-beards where eels come from, they will tell you that they grow out of the hair dropped from the tails of horses which come to drink at the horse-pond. After long soaking these hairs, they say, become endowed with life, and turn to worms known as 'hair-eels,' because they are so thin. In course of time they grow into fully developed eels!--and this was solemnly believed, even by educated people, throughout the length and breadth of the land, until a few years ago.
The true story is not easy to tell, because it had to be put together bit by bit. Thus it began in a suspicion of the truth. So long ago as 1864 a guess was made that certain curious, very rare, and extremely fragile fishes were really young eels, in spite of the fact that they did not in the least resemble eels such as we know; and so the matter rested till 1896, when the guess was confirmed. The little creatures of which we speak are almost transparent, very flat from side to side; they have ridiculously tiny heads, and no fins, except a fringe running from the middle of the back, round the tail, and forwards to the middle of the under surface of the body. They are so transparent that the spine and blood-vessels can be plainly seen against the light. Their strange history was discovered by some scientific men in Italy, who found that sometimes mighty currents boil up from the depths of the Straits of Messina, bringing with them samples of the strange inhabitants of those dark waters, and among these were hundreds of our little fish. Many of these were quite unhurt, and being placed in an aquarium, throve wonderfully; wonderfully in a double sense, for it was found that as they grew older so they grew smaller and smaller. But as they shrank in size, so they became less transparent and more round. At last this topsy-turvy growth came to an end, and they started growing bigger again, and lo! as the days sped on, these strange water-babies slowly revealed themselves: they were young eels! More than this, they proved to be nothing less than 'elvers'--long esteemed the daintiest of dishes by those who prize delicate food.
Thus ends Chapter I. of our story. Chapter II. is scarcely less interesting. The deep sea is the eel's nursery; not deep sea in the ordinary sense, but so deep that no light penetrates. Here, in the stillness and darkness that exceeds that of the darkest night, these little children of Neptune pass their earliest days. By the time they have reached the elver stage, they have made their way, guided only by instinct, from the deep sea to the surface, and thence to the mouths of rivers; these they ascend in millions, and in their endeavour to get into fresh water, they have to overcome obstacles such as would deter most boys and girls. They climb vertical walls and flood-gates, and even leave the water and wriggle their way overland at night amid the dewy grass till they come to water again. Such migrations have long been known as 'Eel-fairs,' and fishermen at this time take them by the ton. In 1886, for example, more than three tons were taken from the Gloucester district. Now, it takes upwards of fourteen thousand baby eels to weigh a pound; how many eels are there in three tons? There is a sum for you! Those that escape grow up to furnish the 'eel-pies' and stewed eels which some people find so toothsome. In 1885 the annual consumption of eels was estimated to be at least one thousand six hundred and fifty tons, with a total value of 130,000_l._
This story would not be complete without Chapter III. This concerns the eel's parents, and it is not without a note of sadness. After living several years in the security of the nice warm mud at the bottom of our quiet streams, they suddenly become seized with the desire to make their way to the sea--a journey full of danger, and full of mystery, for since their ascent as tiny elvers, they have lived apart from the great world of the ocean, and all that it contains. Now they set out, and fishermen, knowing well the time of this journey, spread nets along the route into which thousands rush. Other fish prey on them, and as soon as they reach salt water their enemies increase a hundredfold. Only a remnant reach their destination, and then, after having laid their eggs, fall into a deep sleep from which there is no awakening.
Surely this story is more wonderful than all the yarns of former days, be they ever so old. Truth is stranger than fiction, and much more beautiful.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
MARY'S REWARD.
'Mary, we want to ask a favour.'
'And what is that, Miss May?'
'We want to learn how to cook. Mother said perhaps if we were very good, you would give us a lesson.'
So said little May, the youngest of the Trevor tribe of boys and girls, who were now at home for the holidays.
'Well, if the mistress is willing, I am,' replied the good-natured cook. 'Do the young gentlemen want to learn, too?'
The two boys shook their heads. 'No, no,' cried Guy, the elder; 'too many cooks spoil the broth!'
Mary soon set the girls to work, with the utmost patience and good-humour, giving her lesson meanwhile. The boys, in spite of the laughing remarks which they occasionally made, were immensely interested; as for the girls, they threw themselves into their task with such a zest that Mary declared, in time, they would all make first-rate cooks.
'I don't believe any one but you, Mary, would have such patience,' said Ellen, one of the maids, as she passed through the kitchen.
'Oh, Mary will have her reward one day,' laughed Elsie; 'you see if she doesn't, Ellen.'
But little did Elsie think, as she said these words, of what Mary's reward would be.
No one looking into the cook's sunny face would dream that she had any sorrow hidden in her heart; but it was so. Her dearly loved and only brother had gone away to sea, many years before, and from that day to this Mary had never heard a word of him. But so unselfish was she, that she would not allow her trouble to shadow any one else around her.
In the afternoon the girls wended their way to the neat little cottage-home where dwelt Mrs. Jones and her children. She was the widow of a sailor, and so poor that but for Mrs. Trevor's kindness she would often have been in great straits. Her face looked quite bright as she welcomed her visitors, and showed them into the back room where she had been sitting at needlework.
'We have brought you some pastry of our own making,' said Elsie, 'and some other things besides.'
'Then it's very, very kind of you, Miss,' was the grateful reply. 'I am well off just now, for I have a lodger for a few days, who pays me wonderfully well. He is a sailor man--a captain, I believe--and he says he once knew my husband. The children are in with him now,' went on the woman; 'he has taken a wonderful fancy to them all.'
Then said little May, who did not know what bashfulness was, 'I wish I might go and see him, too. I should so like to know if he has ever seen the island where Robinson Crusoe was wrecked.'
A peal of laughter greeted May's remark, but nevertheless her request was granted.
Five minutes later she was chatting to the 'sailor man' as if she had known him all her life.
'What do you think we have been doing this morning?' said little May, after busily talking about a host of other things.
'I'm sure I don't know, little Missie,' replied the man.
'You would never guess, I am sure--we have been making pastry!'
'Pastry! have you, indeed?' said the pleasant-faced man, with a smile; 'well, now, that's a thing I could never make.'
'We couldn't have done it by ourselves; Mary helped us, you see,' said truthful May.
'And who is Mary, little Missie, if I may ask?'
'Mary is our cook,' replied the child; 'she is so kind and good-natured. Her real name is Mary Greymore, and---- '
To May's surprise the sailor started to his feet.
'What!' cried he. 'Greymore, did you say?'
'Yes,' said May, looking startled. 'What's the matter, sailor man?'
'Nothing is the matter,' was the reply, given in a voice deep with feeling; 'only, if what you say is true, I have found the sister I have been looking for these many months past.'
Mary's joy at seeing her long-lost brother again was almost beyond words; as for the Trevor family, they were scarcely less excited than she.
It was found that James Greymore had been such a wanderer that none of his sister's letters had ever reached him, and, as Mary herself had long left her native village, the two had been quite out of touch with one another.
'It is all through that lesson in pastry-making,' said Kitty, 'that Mary found her brother. May, very likely, but for that, wouldn't have spoken of Mary at all.'
'Then I was right,' laughed Elsie. 'I said Mary would have her reward, and so she has, and well she deserves it, too.' M. I. H.
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
III--THE FIRST PUBLIC RAILWAY IN ENGLAND.
In the middle of the eighteenth century, the Duke of Bridgewater, with the aid of a great engineer named James Brindley, had increased the prosperity of Manchester and Liverpool by constructing a canal to convey merchandise cheaply and easily between them. Enterprising people, seeing the great advantage of the canal, wished to follow this good example, and increase the means of carrying goods from one place to another, if not by canals, by better roads than England possessed at the time.
In different parts of the country it had been found that horses could drag heavier loads if the wheels of the cart were allowed to run on rails made of wood or iron. The knowledge of this fact led certain men connected with the coal-mines of Darlington, in Durham, to propose the building of a tram-line between their town and that of Stockton-on-Tees. But when Mr. Edward Pease, who was the leader in the enterprise, sought to collect money to bear the cost, not twenty people in Stockton would give him their support. The idea of making a metal road over twelve miles of country seemed only matter for laughter, and Mr. Pease was told that he ought not to expect sensible people to spend their money on such a scheme. So Mr. Pease did without the 'sensible people.'
Application for leave to lay the line was made to Parliament, but was refused, the principal opponent being the Duke of Cleveland, who said that the proposed line would go too near one of his fox-covers, and frighten the foxes away. The application, however, was renewed, and was reluctantly granted at last.
In the meantime a young man had called on Mr. Pease to offer his services, and the initial at the head of this article shows his portrait. The young man's name was George Stephenson. He had had some experience, he said, in the laying of railways, and Mr. Pease was so impressed with his honest manner that, in the end, he engaged him on the great undertaking.
George Stephenson was full of suggestions. He pointed out the kind of rails that ought to be used: cast-iron rails were the cheapest, he said, but they could not be relied on, as they often snapped when a heavy load passed over them; and, though he himself was a maker of cast-iron metals, he recommended that another kind, called 'malleable,' should be used. Malleable metal is much tougher than ordinary cast, because, after being poured into the moulds, it is only allowed to cool very slowly, and is not exposed to the air until quite cold. But as the expense of using malleable rails only would be very great, Mr. Pease and his friends decided to use both kinds of rails.
Another of George Stephenson's suggestions was more than even Mr. Pease could seriously entertain. In a private conversation the young man strongly urged that locomotives should be used to drag the coal-trucks instead of horses!
'If you will only come to Killingworth,' said he, 'I will show you an engine I made and have been driving in the colliery yard for more than ten years. It is forty times as strong as a horse, and cheaper in the end.'
Mr. Pease kindly promised that he would accept this invitation some day, but nothing had been said about locomotives in the Act of Parliament, and for the time being things must go on as they were.
The first rail was laid on May 23rd, 1822, and the whole twelve miles of line were ready for traffic, on September 27th, 1825. Three years doing twelve miles! That does not seem very fast, but we must remember that there were rivers to be spanned, and hills to be cut through, and valleys to be crossed by high embankments. And George Stephenson had progressed very much more than twelve miles in these three years. He had taken Mr. Pease to Killingworth, and shown him his engine; he had convinced him it would travel even faster than a horse, and drag a heavier load behind it; and he had won a promise that the railroad between Darlington and Stockton should be opened with a locomotive driven by steam, though he was made to understand that it was only an experiment, and no one really expected it to succeed.
On September 27th, therefore, in 1825, crowds of people streamed along the country roads in the direction of Brusselton, nine miles from Darlington, to see the beginning of this strange experiment. Some were interested, most were inclined to laugh, and many had come with the secret hope of seeing this 'ridiculous engine' blown into a thousand pieces.
At the bottom of a slope the monster stood, puffing and hissing with impatience to show these unbelieving people how mistaken they were. It was a strange-looking machine, quite unlike any of the giants that we know. A large boiler lay full length between four ornamental iron wheels. Out of the front end of the boiler rose a tall and ugly stove-pipe, while over the boiler was a confused collection of rods and levers communicating with the crank of the big wheels. It was called the 'Locomotion.' George Stephenson stood ready to drive it as soon as the trucks, which a stationary engine was lowering down the slope by means of a wire rope, had been attached to it. In the first of these trucks came the Directors of the Railway Company and their friends, followed by twenty-one trucks (all open to the sky, like ordinary goods-trucks), loaded with various passengers, and finally six more waggons of coal. Such was the first train. A man on horseback, carrying a flag, having taken up his position in front of the 'Locomotion' to head the procession, the starting word was given, and with a hiss of steam, half drowned in the shouting of the crowd, the first railway journey ever made in England was begun.
The man on horseback probably stepped aside before Stockton was reached, for, to the astonishment of everybody, George Stephenson's engine insisted now and then on travelling at the giddy speed of twelve miles an hour, though it was sufficiently modest to do most of the distance at a slower rate. Many trains have travelled since at over seventy miles an hour, and a good many in England do long distances every day at an average speed of well over fifty miles an hour.
When the train steamed into Stockton the number of passengers had greatly increased; they had seized hold of passing carriages, and secured a foothold as best they could.
After that the 'Locomotion' had a distinguished career. Twenty years later it had the honour of opening the railway from Middlesborough to Redcar, and to-day it stands in state on a pedestal in the Bank Top Station at Darlington.
When Parliament gave permission for Mr. Pease's railway, it was ordered that any one should have the use of it who liked to pay for the privilege. Consequently there were soon large numbers who were glad to avail themselves of the opportunity. Carriers fitted suitable wheels to their carts, and drove their horses up and down it, while stage-coach owners offered travellers an easy and comfortable journey on the smooth metals. When we remember that it was only a single line, with side openings every quarter of a mile, we can easily understand that there were frequent quarrels when two vehicles met half-way. Sometimes one of the opponents would be a puffing engine, and if it happened to be dragging a load of coal, back it had to go until the siding was reached, that the plodding horse might pass. To us such a state of things is hard to imagine, but the railway and it possibilities were not thoroughly understood at first. Even George Stephenson did not think it would be very suitable for passenger traffic.
At last the confusion was put an end to by the Company taking entire command of the line, and turning the quarrelsome competitors off it. Then prosperity came.
The twelve miles of railway laid down by George Stevenson has grown to over twenty thousand miles, making about two hundred and fifty miles every year for eighty years. It is pleasant to know that both Mr. Pease and his engineer lived to see more than their greatest dreams realised.
JOHN LEA.
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By HAROLD ERICSON.
III.--IN THE JAWS OF DEATH.
'A tiger is my subject to-night,' said Ralph Denison, when his turn came round again, 'since you said you liked my adventure among the lion-whelps. I don't know exactly why, but I would always rather deal with a lion than with a tiger; he seems somehow to appeal to me, as a fellow-sportsman, more than a tiger does.'
'Hear, hear,' Vandeleur chimed in; 'I quite agree.'
'Though, mind you,' Ralph continued, 'I think the tiger is quite as plucky, taking him all round.'
'As a rule, yes,' said Vandeleur; 'but I have known lions attack a human camp at night, and I don't fancy any tiger would do that, so long as there was a fire burning.'
'Nor a lion either,' laughed Ralph.
'Excuse me, I have known them do it,' said Vandeleur; 'and I will tell you about it one of these evenings.'
'Get on with your story, Ralph,' growled Bobby; 'arguments are against the rules.'
Ralph laughed, and proceeded.
* * * * *
I was in India at the time (he said), and stationed at Fuzzanpore, pretty dull and longing for a change or some sort of excitement to relieve the monotony of my work, when a letter came from a great friend of mine, Charlie Eccles, who sent me an invitation which made my mouth water.
'I'm going on a month's leave,' Charlie wrote, 'shooting; the sport will be mostly snipe and other small game, but there's a chance of tigers. Now, I know you are a busy man---- '
Bobby laughed rudely when Ralph quoted these words. 'I say, Ralph, your friend couldn't really have written that,' he said. 'You a busy man! I can't imagine you ever doing any work!'
Ralph looked offended. 'I should like you to be aware,' he observed, with much majesty, 'that before my uncle left me the income which I now enjoy, I worked very hard indeed as a tea-planter.'
'Sorry,' laughed Bobby--'my mistake. You don't look like a chap who has been overworked; does he, Vandeleur?'
Ralph ignored the jest, and continued his quotation. 'I know you are a busy man,' he repeated, 'but if you could spare the time, and would join me, we should have a rare old time. Start next Friday, and be at Malabad, where I shall meet you, on Monday. Bring as many cartridges as you can lay hands upon, for we shall have plenty of snipe and partridge, whether we come across big game or no.' Charlie then gave me a list of the dâk bungalows at which he might be found at certain dates, in case I should not be able to start upon the day indicated. I meant to start on the Friday as he had suggested, but some of our native workmen went wrong--there was a kind of little mutiny--and I was delayed nearly a week, assisting my partner to arrange matters. When this had been satisfactorily settled, I collected my sporting traps and started, making for the bungalow at which Charlie had intended to put up on the sixth day of his trip.
When I reached my destination, which was a dâk bungalow, or little house built by the Government for the accommodation of Britishers travelling by road between towns which are too far apart to be reached within the day's journey, I found Charlie Eccles was not yet at home. The two servants left in charge at the bungalow reported that he had gone tiger-hunting, a 'bad' tiger having been reported in the district, by which was meant a man-eater--a beast which had killed and eaten a native postman and others, and which Charlie, on his arrival, had been implored to destroy.
The native shikaris or hunters were absent with my friend, I therefore did the best thing possible under the circumstances--I ordered my lunch, and sat down to enjoy it.
It was very hot, and I think I had fallen asleep over the cup of coffee which the servant set before me after my meal, when I was awakened by a sudden uproar from outside, and, starting up, I went out to see what was happening. Down the road I saw several straggling natives--every one of them was running, and every one of them was shouting or crying or blubbering, or what not.
I walked towards them; as yet I had not thought of possible disaster. I met the first man, apparently a beater, for he carried a kind of native drum for striking in the jungle when the tiger is to be moved, and set afoot for the benefit of the sportsman. 'What is the matter?' I asked him. 'What are you and these other fellows howling for?'
The man salaamed, and assumed an expression of the greatest misery. 'The sahib!' he exclaimed; 'the poor sahib--the bad tiger. Alas! how terrible are the misfortunes that happen in the world!'
'Which sahib? is it Sahib Eccles you speak of? What has happened? Stop blubbering, fool, and tell me plainly!'
'He is eaten, sahib--killed and eaten; here comes the chief shikari with the sahib's own rifle--let him tell you.'
The shikari came flying down the road; he saw me and stopped, salaaming very low. 'Benefactor of the people!' he exclaimed. 'Protector of the poor! there has been a calamity, sahib; though you have come too late, I thank the gods that you are here--you can at least find and slay the accursed beast. Oh, miserable man that I am! My good master, Sahib Eccles! so young and so brave, and to die in the teeth of such a beast! oh, woe! woe!'
My heart stood still. Did I dream, or were these men really telling me the dreadful news that poor Charlie had been killed by a tiger?
I could scarcely speak, but I contrived to return to the verandah of the bungalow and to sink upon a chair. The shikari had followed me to the house, lamenting aloud.
'Stop!' I said, angrily. 'Now tell me plainly what has happened.'
The man began his tale. It was to have been a battue, he explained. Natives had come overnight, hearing that a sahib had arrived. They reported that a bad tiger had lived for a month in the jungle, close to the village. It had already killed and eaten three persons, besides destroying many bullocks belonging to the people. 'Unless the sahib comes to our assistance and kills the beast, we are lost--we and our children!' they told him. The Sahib Eccles had been delighted to hear of the tiger; it was just what he most wanted. 'Are there beaters to be had?' he asked. Fifty beaters were found in the surrounding district, but the reputation of the tiger was so bad that all the men and women were very nervous, and the sahib had laughed when told about them, and had said that he did not think they would be of much use if they were so frightened before they went into the jungle.
Nevertheless, the Sahib Eccles chose a tree for himself in a place where he could see well in many directions, and climbed up into the branches, and the beaters were placed at a distance around the place where the tiger was supposed to be lying. The beat began; that is, the natives shouted and banged their drums, and smote the trees with sticks, and produced horrible sounds from many different kinds of instruments; but, almost as soon as the noises began, the tiger suddenly uttered a single, terrible roar, and (said the shikari) nearly all the beaters immediately left for home. The beat ended, there were no more weird noises, and silence fell upon the jungle.
'I was with the Sahib Eccles in his tree,' said the shikari; 'and, first the sahib was very angry indeed, and then he laughed.
'"We shall do no good up here," he said, "for the tiger will not move unless he is driven." He had killed a bullock in the night, and was lazy with much food. "Dare you enter the jungle with me, shikari? You heard where the beast roared--there or thereabouts we know his position. Shall we make an attempt to move him, you and I?"
'There were one or two beaters close at hand. They had not dared to run away because they were in full view of the sahib and of me. "These men shall help us," said the sahib, "if they dare; they shall walk behind us and shout."
'"We will try, sahib," I replied; "but he is a dangerous beast and very crafty."
'"I have two rifles," the sahib said, laughing, "and they are also dangerous beasts."
'So we two climbed down from the tree and spoke to the beaters, who then followed us into the jungle, keeping well behind us. They must not shout, we told them, until told to do so, when we came close to the place where the tiger had roared.
'Then we moved slowly and cautiously into the jungle, looking this way and that, the sahib walking in front and I a few yards behind; and, behold, we had scarcely walked for two minutes when suddenly came three loud noises, almost simultaneously--first a terrible roar from the tiger, then the report of the sahib's rifle, then a shriek from the sahib himself and---- '
The shikari placed his hands before his eyes as though to shut out some horrible picture, and groaned aloud.
(Concluded on page 98.)
LONG LIVED.
In certain parts of the African desert, where it is too hot for any plants to grow, the ground is in places thickly covered with white snails.
In 1858, a naturalist travelling through this region collected some of the shells from a spot on which it was believed no rain had fallen for five years. These snails' shells were packed away and left untouched until the year 1862, when the naturalist, at home once more, unpacked his shells and placed them in a basin of water to be cleaned. To his amazement, a quantity of healthy living snails were found on the following morning crawling all over his study table!
S. C.
THE ALMOND AND THE RAISIN.
'Twas an Almond and a Raisin In a dish all silver bright, A Raisin dusky purple, And an Almond creamy white.
Said the Raisin to the Almond, 'I was once as full of wine As a dewdrop is of sunlight, And a glossy skin was mine.'
Said the Almond to the Raisin, 'And I've a tale to tell-- I was born inside a flower, And I lived within a shell.'
Said the Raisin to the Almond, 'We are both from Southern lands, And we came once more together, Having fallen in English hands.
'Don't you think we ought to marry? I am sure 'twould be as well, Though I have lost my juices And you have lost your shell.'
Said the Almond to the Raisin, 'It is my dearest wish.'
* * * * *
That is why you always find them Side by side within the dish.
F. W. H.
FAITHFUL TO DUTY.
A gatekeeper on one of the German railways kept a goat, and one day, when his wife was ill, he went himself to milk it. But it would not allow him to come near it, as it had not been accustomed to any one but its mistress. At last he determined to put on his wife's clothes, and this plan succeeded admirably. But he had not time to take off his disguise before he heard a train approaching. He ran out at once, just as he was, and opened the gate, but his appearance caused the passengers to think that he was mad. The case was reported, and an inquiry was made, but on the truth being known, the gatekeeper was praised for his faithful discharge of duty.
H. B. S.
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
III.--THE CAPTURE OF BUENOS AYRES.
The long sea voyage was over at last, and the Expedition which had set sail from England in the previous autumn cast anchor in the bay outside Buenos Ayres on the 26th of May, 1806.
This city, the capture of which was the object of the Expedition, lay very dimly outlined in the western horizon, for the sea was too shallow to allow the larger vessels to approach within six or seven miles of the shore, and even when the troops had landed, three miles or more of a perfectly flat plain would have to be traversed before they could arrive at the city itself.
'Will the Spaniards fight, do you think?' asked Gerald Anstey, a young ensign of marines, as he stood on the deck of H.M.S. Narcissus, and strained his eyes towards the direction of Buenos Ayres.
'I expect so,' answered a brother-officer who was by his side. 'But hallo, Anstey! here is the General's orderly--what is up, I wonder?'
A trim private advanced towards Anstey, and said respectfully: 'The General wishes to see you in his cabin, sir.'
'The General! To see me!' ejaculated Anstey, turning to his friend in utter amazement. 'What can he want with me?'
'To consult you as to the best manner of landing the troops, perhaps,' laughed his friend, for Anstey was the youngest ensign in the regiment. 'But you had better make haste and present yourself, for Sir Popham Horne is not the man to be kept waiting.'
Anstey hurried away. On entering the General's cabin he saluted, and then waited to receive the orders of his commanding officer.
'Mr. Anstey,' said the General, looking up, 'I have sent for you, as junior officer, as I wish you, immediately on landing, to proceed to the Governor of Buenos Ayres and give him these dispatches, proposing to him the unconditional surrender of the town, as I am anxious to prevent useless shedding of blood. You will take a corporal and two men with you as guard, and of course a flag of truce, and I hope you may be successful in your mission.'
'I will do my best, sir,' said Anstey, quietly. Then the General returned to his map, and the young man left the cabin.
Meanwhile, the preparations for landing were being rapidly proceeded with, and some twenty-four hours later men and guns were all safely landed on the sandy shore, and all eager to march towards the city. First of all, however, they had to wait for the return of Anstey, and hear whether his terms had been accepted by the Spanish Governor. Towards sunset the young ensign came back, and great was the excitement among the whole force on hearing that the Governor had refused the terms offered by the British General, and that the march towards Buenos Ayres was to begin at dawn on the following day.
It seemed as if this march would present no great difficulty either to men or guns, as the plain to be traversed was an immense flat, green meadow, which promised an easy road for the cannon. But the 'green meadow,' which proved so satisfactory at first, became softer and looser as they got further inland, and finally it ended in a treacherous bog, which threatened to engulf both men and guns; and to make matters worse, the enemy, entrenched behind some trees at the little village of Reduction, a mile or so away, now opened fire on our troops, as they struggled to get across the morass.
It was soon evident that progress in that direction was an impossibility, and very reluctantly the General gave the order to retreat. But it was almost as impossible to retreat as to advance, for the ground, trodden by the feet of so many men and horses, was now but pulpy mud, in which the gun-carriages sank to their axles.
A British force, however, is not easily discouraged, and the men of all ranks worked with almost super-human energy, till at last the whole army had once more a footing on firm ground.
The General had been invaluable at this crisis; he was here, there, and everywhere where the difficulties were greatest, and was one of the last men to leave the morass, having insisted on seeing all the force safely over. He was then riding alongside the rearguard when his horse staggered, recovered itself for a moment, and then sank with the General heavily into the morass.
'All right! all right!' he called out cheerily to an officer who ran to his assistance; 'I am not hurt in the least.' The next minute, however, he called out in a very different voice, 'Help! help! I am sinking!'
It was indeed true! He had fallen on to a bad patch of marsh. The morass seemed now to be rapidly changing into a quicksand, in which the General and his horse who had gone to his assistance were gradually sinking.
Other men were about to rush in, when they were stopped by the loud tones of Anstey. 'Stop! stop!' he cried energetically. 'You can do no good rushing in like that, you will only get engulfed yourselves. I know these bogs--I have lived in Ireland.'
As he spoke he had seized one of the ladders which were fortunately carried with the force in case they should be wanted for scaling, and holding this out across the oozy patch, he let the General support himself by it for a moment. Then he laid the ladder flat, and crept along it till he reached the still sinking man: he caught him by the arm at once, and started to haul him out. Anstey's strength was well known in the regiment, and perhaps he was the only man who could have dragged out the General by sheer force of arm, but he did it somehow, and the cheers of the men simply rent the air as they saw their loved commander safe once more.
'Thank you, my lad,' said the General simply, as soon as he was on the ladder; 'you saved me from an ugly death. I shall not forget you.'
Nor did he. Later in the day Buenos Ayres was captured, with but slight loss to the British. Four thousand Spanish cavalry fled away inland, leaving the artillery and all the treasures of the city to be the spoil of the army, and that same evening Anstey was once more summoned before the General, and told that to him would be entrusted the honour of conducting to London the precious stones and jewels and the other treasures found in the city coffers.
On September 20th of the same year a strange procession might have been seen passing along Pall Mall to the Bank of England. First of all came eight waggons loaded with gold and precious stones, each waggon being preceded by a Jack Tar carrying a flag with the word 'Treasure' on it. Then came the field-pieces and the Spanish colours captured at Buenos Ayres, and last of all rode Gerald Anstey--the proud guardian of these valuable trophies.
The jewels, stones, and boxes, containing over a million dollars, were deposited at the Bank of England, and the colours and field-pieces were taken to the Tower of London, where those interested in such matters may still see them.
History, however, compels us to state that the capture of Buenos Ayres was but a short-lived triumph, as it was wrested from us in the following year.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page 75.)
Having secured the turret door to prevent interruption, Alan drew Marjorie to the settle, and began the story of his adventure in the wood: how he had discovered the secret passage from the cliff into the great cave; how he had lingered that very morning near the old ruined summer-house, and heard Thomas and the other man talking; and how he had seen Peet leave the ruin.
'Now it comes to this,' he wound up. 'Thomas is up to some fishy thing or other, bribed by a greater villain than himself. The question is, what is he up to? Can you guess?'
'If it was burglary,' said Marjorie, sagely, 'what could they possibly want in the ruined summer-house? I have never been into it, but I can't fancy anything of value can be kept there.'
'Yet those two men were hunting just now for the cellar door that led to it.'
'So they were.'
Marjorie sat silent, thinking the problem out. Alan did not interrupt her, so great was his faith in his sister. She often hit on the right clue when they were puzzled over things, and he felt that, even if she could not do so in the present case, it would be a great comfort to be able to talk over each new discovery with her, and have her help when he needed it.
'One thing struck me,' said Marjorie at last. 'When there was that fuss about the summer-house door being open, do you remember how anxious Thomas was to get in? Did you see what a cross look he had all the time Peet was speaking? It was just as if he hated Peet. I wonder if he wants to do him some injury?'
'Hu-um,' pondered Alan, taking in the new idea slowly; 'no one can like that surly old Peet, but doing him an injury is another thing. I expect you have the right end of the thread, but what is it going to lead to? Has Peet anything valuable in the ruin? And if he has--and it seems as if he must have--how can I find out what it is, or where it is? I dislike him, in spite of Aunt Betty calling him a rough diamond; but of course I wouldn't see him robbed or cheated.'
'I should think not, nor anybody else either. But what do you think we ought to do? Why not tell Father about it, and ask him to keep the secret till something turns up? He would find out at once what Peet has in the summer-house.'
But Alan, always inclined to be rather selfish and wilful, thought this would spoil the fun of discovering it themselves, and would not listen to the proposal for an instant.
'We will make a thorough examination of the ruin outside first,' he began; 'that is, as soon as this weather will let us. The whole place will be dripping for a day or two, but I don't mind that.'
A sudden outburst of barks and yelps, accompanied by a clamour of voices, came up from below. Running to the window, they caught sight of the cause of the shouts and howls. The dogs were being led back to their kennels, and as they were in a savage mood, the men were persuading or forcing them on. To the amazement of the brother and sister, Thomas was with the party, apparently as completely at home as if he had never fled from the hounds.
'I say!' exclaimed Alan; 'I wonder how he managed that?'
'I know,' said Marjorie; 'he probably told them he was running after the other man, but could not catch him. You see the other one isn't there. I expect it was the only way of preventing the servants and dogs going into the room where they took refuge.'
And this is exactly what had occurred. Alan, much impressed with this version of the affair, sprang up, declaring he must go down and hear how it was that the dogs were loose, and had got upon the man's track.
Off he rushed, leaving Marjorie to go downstairs and see how Estelle was. She found Miss Leigh had been looking for her for a long time, and was not in the best of tempers in consequence. Estelle was better, but the doctor desired she should be kept in bed for the remainder of that day, and not run about much for a day or two. No one could understand the cause of the fainting fit, and Marjorie was called upon to explain what they had been doing. They had been playing in the passages, she said, and were on the tower stairs when the dogs burst in. Estelle was frightened, and had rushed into the corridor, and when Marjorie and Alan followed her, she was found lying on the floor. It all sounded very simple. But Marjorie felt very mean and uneasy about the concealment; she felt that it was as bad as telling a lie, and only her promise to Alan, rashly given, kept her from disclosing everything.
'The whole business is most mysterious,' said Colonel De Bohun, in a tone of annoyance. 'How it came about that there was a strange man--a tramp, I suppose--wandering so near the house, I cannot imagine. Thomas saw him, and so did James, most luckily; and Thomas was wise enough to give chase at once, but the rascal seems to have escaped him. He was a nimble sort of a fellow, James says, and it seems that the moment the grooms got wind of it, they let the dogs loose. Lucky none of them were hurt.'
'So this was the way Thomas managed!' thought Marjorie. 'What a sharp fellow he is! Oh, if Father only knew!'
'Has the man gone?' asked Lady Coke, anxiously.
'I should think so. We can't find him, at all events. He knows all the men are on the alert, so I think you are safe, I will remain here if you are nervous.'
It was considered better that he should remain, Lady Coke being old and very frail in spite of her activity and energy of character. Miss Leigh was to take the children home, and explain all that had occurred to Mrs. De Bohun, who was laid up with a cold.
(Continued on page 94.)
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
III.--THE STORY OF A CAPTIVE.
'Captive among the Moors.' These words used once to account for many a sad gap in the families of southern Europe. We, in these days, can hardly realise the dread in which those pirate vessels were held for hundreds of years, and we find it difficult to believe that not a century ago Christian captives were wearing out their lives in suffering and exile, and the bitterness of hope deferred, in the Moorish stronghold of Algiers.
And it seemed specially hard when a company of Spanish soldiers, who had done great things in the sea fight at Lepanto, were attacked on their homeward journey and carried captive by the very infidels they had so lately conquered.
Arrived at the port of Algiers, the prisoners were awarded to different masters, the poorer ones, from whose friends there was little hope of ransom, being set to the hardest tasks and often cruelly ill-treated, while those of higher rank had an easier service, unless, indeed, the captors considered that the report of their sufferings might bring money to redeem them. The only means of escape from slavery was to embrace the Mohammedan religion, and the renegades who denied their faith often became the most cruel persecutors of their countrymen.
There were two brothers among these Spanish soldiers, sons of a poor though well-born gentleman of Alcara. The younger of these was to make his name, Miguel de Cervantes, famous throughout the world. He had distinguished himself in the wars, and had lost the use of his left hand 'for the greater glory of the right,' as he was wont to say in his joking fashion. But a letter from his great leader, Don John of Austria, which was found about him, convinced his captors that he was a person of importance, and his ransom was fixed at a sum which he knew his father could never pay. After a while, however, his family, by tremendous efforts, scraped together a sum sufficient for the redemption of one brother, and Roderigo, the elder, returned to Spain, Miguel remaining to endure five years' captivity which would have broken any spirit less gallant than his.
The captives dwelt in cells opening upon an oblong courtyard; they were all Christians, and they had at least the comfort of their own services held in one of the little chambers, which was set apart as a church. 'How good it is in this place to say "Our Father which art in Heaven,"' Cervantes makes a little captive boy say in the drama in which he afterwards describes his life in Algiers, and we can see there how the suffering of the children went to the heart of the gallant soldier, who encouraged many a tempted little one to hold firm to his faith. And now and then a strange sight would be seen in the prisoners' quarters, nothing less than a play in rhyme acted by some of the captives, and stage-managed (as we should call it) by Cervantes, who had invented this device to turn the thoughts of his companions for a little while from the miseries of their lot.
But this high-spirited prisoner was not content with merely enlivening his own and his friends' captivity--day and night that active brain of his was plotting escape. One attempt to get away by land failed at once, but with him a failure only meant a fresh start, and he was soon at work again with those bold enough to join him. A slave named Juan, gardener to Hassan Pasha, the Viceroy of Algiers, was induced to contrive a hiding-place in his master's grounds where any of the captives who could contrive to escape so far might conceal themselves until the arrival of a friendly boat on the coast. A cave was hollowed out, all unsuspected by the owner of the garden, large enough to contain fourteen men, and thither one after another of the Christian slaves contrived to make his way. From February to September fugitives were hiding there, fed by stealth by the contrivance of Cervantes, who succeeded in sending information to some of the vessels visiting the port either with merchandise or to treat for the ransom of prisoners.
All had been carefully arranged for the escape, the hour was almost come, when some one proved false: the story leaked out. The prisoners in Hassan's garden, so near, as they believed, to the end of their long waiting, were startled by footsteps and voices breaking the stillness of the warm African night; lights flashed at the mouth of the cave, and with shouts of triumph and threats of horrible penalties the luckless fugitives were dragged forth. But one man stood forward in front of the trembling, despairing group.
'I am the author of the scheme,' cried Cervantes, 'I devised it, I carried it out; on me be the blame; take me before Hassan.'
So before Hassan the intrepid soldier was dragged, heavily manacled and with a halter about his neck. He faced the Viceroy, who was a renegade and a bloodthirsty tyrant, with the same cool, smiling courage with which in the Gulf of Lepanto he had faced the Turkish guns. Once more he repeated his statement that the whole scheme was his; his comrades had but followed his lead, and the penalty was due to him alone.
Why Hassan spared his life it would be hard to say. Scores of men in his position had died by the most cruel tortures for a less offence, while he was only threatened, and kept for a while in chains. Possibly Hassan felt that such a man must surely be ransomed sooner or later, and spared him in hopes of gain. He is said to have remarked, 'If I could keep hold of that maimed Spaniard, I should be sure of my slaves, my ships, and my whole city.'
Nor was he much mistaken, for Cervantes, while the chains were still upon his limbs, was busy with new plots. One more attempt at escape failed through treachery, and the indomitable prisoner conceived a yet more daring project, and contrived to appeal to the King of Spain, begging for armed help, and promising a revolt of the whole slave population. The thing might well have been carried out, for there were something like twenty thousand Christian captives in Algiers, but, alas! King Philip was too busy quarrelling with his neighbours in Portugal to win himself the honour of crushing the pirate city which was the scourge of all Christendom.
And then at last arrived in Algiers Father Juan Gil, a good monk, whose work it was to collect and carry to Africa the ransom money for some of the captives, and with him he brought three hundred ducats, scraped together with sore pains and privations by the mother and sister of Cervantes, to purchase his freedom. Hassan, however, would have none of such a paltry sum; even when it was increased to five hundred he demanded double the amount, and as his viceroyalty in Algiers was just over, he declared his intention of taking the Spanish slave with him to Constantinople.
So good Father Juan, feeling that it was now or never, went from one to another of the merchants trading along the coast, and, begging and borrowing right and left, made up the required sum. On the very day fixed for the Viceroy's departure, the good Father bore the ransom in triumph to Hassan, and Miguel de Cervantes was a free man. He carried back with him to Spain the love and gratitude of many a fellow-sufferer, and I think that much of the kindly humour, the hopeful courage and patience with other people's follies, which has made the author of Don Quixote the friend of the whole world, must have been learned in the hard school of his Moorish captivity.
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
A PINCUSHION FACTORY.
May and Ada were thinking. That is how they would have described their long fit of silence one Saturday afternoon. They were alone in the room which did duty for dining-room, schoolroom, and everything else; but they were quite used to being left to themselves. Mother and Jane had always lots to do, and the little girls were often troubled about this, and talked of the time when they would be able to help.
'May, I have thought,' cried Ada, suddenly.
'Have you?' said May, slowly. 'I haven't. But you're always quicker than I am, Ada.'
'Well, I have thought. I am sure Grannie and Grandfather would come and live with us always if Mother had more money.'
'Oh! I know that part,' cried her sister. 'That's what we started to think about.'
'Don't be in such a hurry,' said Ada, reprovingly. 'We want to get the money. Well, you know the dear little pincushions we made for Aunt Ellen's bazaar, and how she said they were sold directly?'
'Of course I do, but---- '
'Well, let's make lots of them, and go out and sell them. I know we shall have to make lots and lots, but they won't take long to sell, and then we shall have plenty of money for Mother. Perhaps she would get another Jane, too, then she wouldn't have so much to do. Well?' and Ada stopped, a little breathlessly, and waited for her sister to say something.
'It sounds quite splendid,' said May; 'but do you think that Mother would like us to sell for ourselves? The bazaar seems different.'
'But we mustn't tell her,' cried Ada. 'The surprise will be the best part. Think how pleased she will be! She's always glad when we do something for her when she doesn't expect it. I am sure it is the very thing. I was thinking hard for ever such a long time, but nothing else would do. We are too small to go out and work to get money---- '
'And Mother couldn't spare us,' cried May. 'Besides, you forget our lessons.'
'And we do not knit very well yet. At least we could never finish a sock unless Mother helped us, and then she would know. But, May, hadn't you thought at all?'
'I am afraid I hadn't, and I did try so hard. But that doesn't matter,' said May, who was accustomed to follow her younger sister's lead. 'Let's start making directly, Ada. Have we any bits of silk left?'
'Plenty; and I've got some cards cut. We can get one or two done before tea.' And the two little girls were soon as silent over their work as they had been over their 'thinking.'
For the next few weeks they were continually to be seen cutting circles out of old postcards, covering them with silks, and sewing them together. Mother teased them sometimes about their 'Pincushion Factory,' but she was glad to see them happy and busy, especially as spring was coming in 'like a lion,' with day after day of gales and storms, which made walks impossible. Jane was rather inquisitive about their doings, and a little hurt at not knowing their secret. She was accustomed to be told all about their 'thinking,' and to have a share in all the wonderful plans that Ada invented and May followed; but neither of the sisters would explain why so many pocket pincushions were wanted all at once. 'It isn't another bazaar,' said Jane, to herself, 'or Mistress would have told me. It's just some new fad Miss Ada's got hold of. I dare say it's all right. They are as good as gold, those two, and the pincushions can mean no harm.'
'Three dozen exactly,' said Ada, one bright Saturday morning, 'and every colour that any one could want. We shall make a lot of money! We must begin selling them to-day, May.'
'Must we?' said May, rather dubiously. Somehow that part of the business did not quite please her. She had been glad that the stock took so long to accumulate, and that the business of selling did not begin at once.
'Yes, indeed. We're going to the baker's for Mother this morning. She said we might, because Jane's too busy. So we will take some out with us. Aunt Ellen got sixpence each for hers at the bazaar.'
'But can we?' said May. 'Let's ask threepence. They are very small, you know. How many will your pocket hold, Ada?'
Two little girls left Grove Villa an hour later. They were neatly dressed in dark blue, with a bright red ribbon round their sailor-hats, and there was a spot of bright colour on each of the four cheeks, telling of the excitement in the little minds. Ada was eager to begin, but May almost hoped that no likely buyers would be met with.
'Shall we ask the baker?' she whispered, as they drew near his shop.
'No, I don't think so,' said Ada, uncertainly. 'I don't quite know, but I don't believe that a baker wants pocket pincushions. I would rather ask some one who doesn't know us. Gentlemen are best because they have waistcoat pockets to slip them into.'
But there are not many gentlemen to be seen in a London suburb in the morning on Saturday, or any other week-day, and the sisters had walked farther down the High Road than they imagined before a likely buyer came in sight.
'There's a gentleman,' said May, in a very shaky voice. 'You ask him, Ada--you.'
'Please, sir, will you--would you buy a pincushion?' stammered Ada. The pincushion factory was all very well, but the selling part did not seem so pleasant, now that she had come to the point.
'And what should I want with a pincushion?' said some one far above their heads, so gruffly that Ada longed to run away, and May, somehow, found that tears were very near.
'And what may you be doing here alone with your pincushions?' went on this terrible voice; but it was not so gruff this time. There was something in it which they thought they had heard before. Looking up, who should it be but their father's Irish friend, Mr. O'Brien, whom they were trying to capture for their first customer!
'Oh!' cried Ada, 'it's you!' and the whole story came tumbling out in such a confused way that Mr. O'Brien had nearly taken them back to Grove Villa before he quite understood it.
Mother, too, was very much puzzled. 'No, I don't say it was naughty, my dears, but you had better not have surprises out of doors again,' she said. 'But what made you think of it at all, Ada?'
'But Grannie and Grandfather could live here if they wanted to, only the country is better for them,' she explained, when the little girls had told her the reason of their 'factory.' 'Yes, you do hear me say we can't afford things, but they are things we don't really need. You always have all you want, don't you? Don't worry your little heads about money, then, and promise me one thing--never to go a step farther than I send you when you go out alone! You might have been lost if Mr. O'Brien hadn't met you!'
'Indeed we will not, Mother darling!' cried the two in one breath.
'And I think,' said May, soberly, 'we will tell Jane or somebody about our next surprise, and then we shall know whether it is all right.'
E. S. S.
THE SLOTH.
Waterton, the famous naturalist, has told us concerning his doings with a sloth when he was going through a forest near the River Essequibo. He says: 'I saw a large sloth on the ground upon the bank. How he had got there nobody could tell. My Indian said he had never surprised a sloth in such a situation before. He could hardly have come there to drink, for both above and below the place the branches of the trees touched the water, and afforded him an easy and safe access to it. Be this as it may, though the trees were not above twenty yards from him, he could not make his way through the sand in time to escape before we landed. As soon as we came up to him, he threw himself on his back, and defended himself with his legs.
'"Come, poor fellow," said I to him, "if thou hast got into a hobble to-day, thou shalt not suffer for it. I will take no advantage of thee in misfortune. The forest is large enough both for thee and me to rove in. Go thy way alive and enjoy thyself in the wilds; it is probable thou wilt never have another interview with man, so fare thee well!"
'After this I took up a long stick which was lying there, held it for him to hook on, and then conveyed him to a high and stately tree. He ascended with wonderful rapidity, and in about a minute he was almost at the top. He now went off in a side direction, and caught hold of the branch of a neighbouring tree; next he went towards the heart of the forest. I stood looking on, amazed at his singular mode of progress. I was going to add that I never saw a sloth take to his heels in such earnest, but the expression will not do, for the sloth has no heels.'
The Indians of Guiana declare that the sloth travels chiefly when the wind blows. During calm weather the animal is still, but if a breeze rises, the branches of the trees generally become interwoven, and he can pursue his journey safely from branch to branch. Should a wind blow, as it often does, after ten o'clock in the morning till sunset, a sloth will manage a good distance without resting.
Seldom, unless perhaps by accident, is a sloth seen upon the ground. There its movements do seem laborious and painful. Its home is amongst trees, and its favourite position not on, but under, the branches. Off the trees it obtains the various insects which are its food, and escapes the danger of being seized by most beasts of prey. When the sloth is at rest under a branch, it has been noticed to make a sort of purring sound, expressing pleasure, though at times one is heard uttering a plaintive shriek, possibly telling of discontent.
The head of the sloth is small and round. It is well clothed with shaggy hair, and the fore-legs are long and strong. While quite young, the little sloth is carried about by its mother.
THE NIGHT BEFORE MY BIRTHDAY.
The longest night--so people say-- Follows the short December day; And if by hours you count the night, Then surely what they say is right.
But years, and years, and years ago, When I was very young, you know, The longest night, I'm bound to say, Followed the shortest month's last day.
That night I always lay awake, And longed to see the morning break, And sunshine through the window burst, For I was born on March the First.
I heard the big clock--stiff and stark-- Sedately ticking in the dark, And when I murmured: 'Hurry, do!' It made reply by chiming 'Two.'
And on from hour to hour it seemed I dozed, I waked, I thought and dreamed Of pleasures mine--an endless sum-- If March the First would ever come.
And yet the morning's earliest peep Would always find me fast asleep: So fast asleep that at my door They called and called me o'er and o'er.
So, since that time I've learned, my dear, The longest night in all the year Is that on which we lie awake, Impatient for the dawn to break.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page 87.)
Chapter V
'Where's Estelle?' cried Alan, bursting into the schoolroom at the Moat House a few days later. 'I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle, for startling you like that, but I thought Estelle was sure to be here.'
'She has gone to the Bridge House,' answered Mademoiselle, with an indulgent smile.
She was quite prepared for any amount of interruption and noise during the holidays, since Alan always brought a lively, breezy air with him, in his delight at being home again, and free from school work.
'Estelle is taking some grapes and roses to Dick Peet,' continued Mademoiselle. 'He seemed very weak and poorly when we passed yesterday, and she has so wanted to do something for him. He's a sad wreck, poor fellow!'
'Poor chap! It's hard lines on him. I will cut down and catch Estelle before she leaves the Bridge House.'
He was off, and Mademoiselle heard his fleet steps in the corridor a moment. Then she saw him going at full speed down the drive, so brimming over with health and spirits, so keen in the enjoyment of life and activity, with a future before him so rose-coloured and fortunate, that she could not but contrast him with that poor broken specimen of humanity, Richard Peet, the gardener's son. A contrast to him, indeed, were the children as they stood together in the little garden at the Bridge House. Dick, seated in his armchair, was looking at them in his peaceful, half-sleepy way. A handsome fellow he must have been in the days of health and prosperity. Even now, though he was paralysed in brain as well as in limbs, there was a wonderful expression of goodness and patience in his worn face.
'Are you well to-day?' asked little Georgie, putting his hand on the invalid's knee, and looking up into his face with his blue eyes full of childish sympathy.
Dick smiled. Getting better every day,' replied he, in the indistinct accents of the partially paralysed.
Estelle was arranging her flowers on the little table at his side, and Marjorie had gone to speak to Mrs. Peet.
The house was close to the old drawbridge, and its garden sloped down to the waters of the moat. Shining like silver in the bright sunshine, the waterlilies were resting on their broad leaves, and two swans were sailing in stately beauty. The summer sun had banished all signs of the thunderstorm, and Dick's chair had been placed near the elms overhanging the water. It was a pretty, well-kept garden, and a very old-world house, with a deep porch, overgrown with honeysuckle and clematis--a home not to be despised by any one. The rooms were of good size and well furnished, and everything had been done which could make Dick happy and comfortable in his misfortune.
'Better!' said Mrs. Peet, who came down the lawn with Marjorie, and had heard Dick's reply to Georgie's question, 'It's not the sort of getting better that we understand. He is a bit weaker, if anything. Perhaps 'tis the heat tries him. My poor Dick!' she went on, putting her apron to her eyes, 'he will never be better in this world, that's what I says, though it does make his father angry.'
'Is he angry?' said Estelle. 'Why?
'He thinks it is hard on us, is poor Dick's illness. It is hard! But it seems to me we have much to be thankful for, specially in my lady's goodness to us in our affliction.'
'I think it's worse for Dick than for any one else,' declared Alan, who had joined the group; he could not imagine a more terrible life than the one of utter helplessness to which Dick was condemned.
'So it is,' returned Mrs. Peet, with a heavy sigh, as she gazed at her son with tears in her eyes, 'and he is so patient! Why, you never so much as hear a grumble, nor a fret! Now, what do you think his great wish is--what he is always wanting, miss?'
'If it is anything we can do---- ' began Marjorie.
'That it isn't, miss, nor nobody else. He wants some news of the man what done him the mischief. Dick's that soft. And--and, well, he is an angel. His father don't understand it, but Dick has really forgiven that man. He's downright anxious to hear how that rascal's been getting on.'
'Why should he care about that?' said Alan, who knew very little of Dick's story.
'He's afraid that the man thinks he's killed him, and that perhaps he's made wickeder than he was before,' answered Mrs. Peet, shaking her head. 'He said he'd die satisfied if he could hear that the fellow had repented.'
'Perhaps he will some day,' said Estelle, looking with pity at Dick's face.
''Tisn't likely, Miss. We shall never be likely to meet Dick's enemy; don't you believe it! But it pleases him to think he will, so I don't gainsay him.'
'I shall hope he will,' returned Estelle, as her cousins made a move to go back to the gardens.
The children were to have tea on the lawn with Lady Coke, and they could see preparations even now being made for it. They did not often have such a treat: Lady Coke, sweet and loving as she always was to her great-nephews and nieces, was too old and delicate to indulge in their companionship for very long at a time. The children were on their quietest behaviour with her, but the little voices tired her unconsciously, and she would not spare herself while they were with her.
Lord Lynwood, Estelle's father, and Colonel De Bohun were brothers and nephews to Lady Coke, while Mrs. De Bohun was the niece of Sir Horace Coke, Lady Coke's husband, who had died many years ago. This close relationship on both sides, and the nearness of the two properties, made the two households almost like one. Colonel and Mrs. De Bohun were deeply attached to their aunt, and glad to take counsel with her in the bringing up of their children. Lady Coke, in her turn, was very dependent upon them for companionship, her own sons being away on foreign service.
A merry party the children made. The laughter and chatter were as free and happy as Aunt Betty loved to hear it. The adventure in the tower appeared to interest them more than anything else, and very wild were the guesses as to what the man could have wanted. But when Aunt Betty ventured to express some admiration for Thomas' bravery, to her astonishment she was met by silence on the part of the two greatest talkers, Alan and Marjorie. The latter almost at once turned the subject by asking how Aunt Betty supposed the man managed to escape. Aunt Betty had no ideas to suggest. Alan frowned at Marjorie, but she went on quite serenely.
'Do you know, Auntie, what the summer-house contains? Peet keeps the place locked up as if he had something of value there. I wish you would let us go and see. Father says it is dangerous because of the falling of stones from the roof, but if it is safe for Peet, and the stones don't crash down on his head, why should they on ours?'
'I think it would be a good lesson if they did knock him over for once,' said Alan, grimly.
'I know he is trying at times,' said Lady Coke, in her soft, gentle voice, 'but he is a sterling old man all the same, and it is a pity you cannot let him alone.'
'He won't let us alone, Aunt Betty,' said Alan, 'and he is cheeky too. I suppose we do worry him a bit,' he added, as recollections came to him of the havoc made with the tidy paths, or the injury to shrubs when hunting for lost balls after games of tennis.
'We went to see Dick just now,' said Estelle, 'and oh, Auntie, what a dreadful thing it seems that he should have become like that! Mrs. Peet told us a little about him, and how good he is.'
'Perhaps,' answered Lady Coke, 'you would all feel more kindly towards Peet if I were to tell you how sadly he has suffered. Almost as much as his son, only in another way.'
(Continued on page 102.)
ROUND THE CAMP FIRE.
III.--IN THE JAWS OF DEATH.
(Concluded from page 83.)
'I waited a moment (continued Denison) in order to give the shikari time to recover himself. I can tell you that I was not feeling at that moment much more cheerful than the poor fellow himself, who had evidently witnessed some terrible calamity to my poor friend, Charlie Eccles. I waited on tenterhooks; then I could bear the suspense no longer.'
'Did the tiger then spring upon the Sahib and kill him?' I faltered. 'Where is the Sahib's body?'
'Alas!' said the shikari, 'who can tell! Listen, Protector of the Poor. The Sahib Eccles shrieked, for the great yellow beast--may he lead a life of pain!--sprang upon him, as you say. The Sahib's bullet had struck but not killed him. He bore the Sahib to the earth, and lay for a moment upon him, the Sahib crying out once and twice again. With the Sahib's second gun I fired into the body of the beast, but whether I hit him or not I cannot say, for all was confusion and dust and terror, and also there was the fear lest the bullet should strike the Sahib. Then, in a moment, the tiger had disappeared, and the Sahib also. There was none to see, for these other men, the beaters, had quickly taken flight at the sound of the roar of the tiger, and, as for me, I must confess that, for a moment, after shooting at the beast, I turned my back upon the animal, fearing lest he should now fall upon me. When I looked again--it was but a few seconds later--both tiger and Sahib had, as I say, disappeared; therefore I made no doubt that the savage brute seized the Sahib Eccles and carried him into the jungle. Alas! there is no doubt that he is dead. This is an evil tiger, an eater of men. There is no hope that the poor Sahib is still alive.'
I listened to the shikari's narrative in speechless horror. It was difficult to realise that he had spoken of Charlie Eccles, my old school friend; that this tale he had just told me was of Charlie's death; and that his death had happened within an hour or so, and might have been prevented if I had arrived but a single day, or even half a day, earlier.
'Shikari, this is a dreadful tale you have told me,' I groaned. 'If you have told me the truth, and not lied in order to hide your own cowardice, the Sahib Eccles is probably dead. This, however, must be ascertained immediately, and his body must be found and brought in. You will guide me at once to the spot, and we shall follow upon the tiger's tracks.'
'Into the jungle, Sahib!' exclaimed the shikari. 'Upon the track of a wounded tiger! Then we are lost men, both of us.'
'At any rate, if you are a coward, and dare not help me to seek your master, you shall at least show me where he was seized, and I will go alone.'
The shikari, though evidently a nervous man, was no coward. He pulled himself together.
'I will go with the Sahib,' he said. 'It shall not be spoken of me that there was a thing of which I was afraid. The Sahib will allow me to carry this second rifle of the Sahib Eccles?'
'Of course. You have answered well, shikari; it shall be said that you are a brave man. Take the rifle and come, for this is a matter that cannot wait.'
So we set out for the place where poor Eccles had lost his life, some two or three miles from the bungalow, and my heart was heavy as lead as I tramped along with the shikari at my side, recalling many scenes in which old Charlie had been my companion at school and at Oxford and in after-life. I scarcely thought of the extreme danger of the enterprise upon which the shikari and I were now engaged, my mind being otherwise occupied; but when we came near the place, and the native, looking frightened and positively trembling as he spoke, whispered that here, within twenty-five yards, was the spot where the tiger had sprung upon the Sahib, I suddenly realised that we were about to meet a crisis in our lives.
'Have your rifle ready,' I whispered back, 'and look all ways at once. If you see the tiger, fire at the same instant.'
We reached the spot where the scuffle had taken place. The grass was trampled and broken, and there were marks of a struggle. A yard or two further on lay Charlie's helmet, with puggaree attached, and a scrap of his clothing fluttered in the midst of a thorny bush, through which, I suppose, he had been dragged. The jungle became denser at this point with every step forward, and we advanced inch by inch, very slowly, very cautiously, feeling that we carried our lives in our hands, for a wounded tiger lying hid in the cover, with so much energy left in him as this beast presumably still possessed, since he had carried Charlie's body away with him, is one of the most dangerous things that a man can face. I need not tell you fellows that, however, both of you being experienced hunters. Probably, being wounded, the tiger would not travel far. Of course, there was only the shikari's word for it that he was wounded; but, in any case, being burdened with the body of a twelve-stone man, he would not go further than he need. So we crept slowly forward.
It, was a gruesome experience. To tell the truth, I was almost more afraid that I should suddenly come upon the body of poor Eccles lying across our pathway, than of hearing the terrible roar of the wounded tiger and seeing him crouch to spring upon us. Expecting him, as I did, at every second, it would be hard if I could not get in my shot before he could get in his spring.
The track was easily followed. A great beast cannot drag another large creature through grass and plants of all kinds without leaving behind pretty evident signs of his passing. We had gone forward--creeping almost as noiselessly as snakes--some quarter of a mile, scarcely more, when suddenly the most astonishing thing happened that ever I experienced.
Not fifty yards from the place in which we then stood, as it happened, listening for any sound which might reveal the whereabouts of the tiger, a shot suddenly rang out, instantly followed by a kind of sound, half roar, half moan; then came the noise of a scuffle, the crashing of twigs, a few gasping coughs--then silence.
'Shikari,' I cried aloud, scarcely knowing in my excitement what I said, 'it is the Sahib! Come!' I dashed forward. 'Charlie--Charlie Eccles!' I yelled, 'is it you? I am Ralph!'
A feeble cheer replied to my shout. The next moment a remarkable spectacle opened itself out before us.
Charlie Eccles half lay, half sat upon the ground--pale, tattered, but smiling; a few feet away lay upon its side the body of an enormous tiger. I sprang forward. 'Don't touch me, old chap,' said Charlie, 'I feel as if I was broken all over!'--then he fainted.
Well, except a couple of broken ribs and some nasty gashes and scratches, there was nothing seriously the matter, and with the help of a litter and half-a-dozen natives summoned by the shikari, we got him home to the bungalow without further damage. There he told me his story. The tiger had been wounded, but not seriously, by his first shot. The shikari fired and missed. Then the beast had seized him by the shoulder, which was lacerated, and had dragged him to this place. Charlie had clung to his rifle, and upon reaching the spot where we had found him, the tiger laid him down and rested. Fortunately the pain of his wound had rendered the brute disinclined to eat. He stood over him for nearly half an hour, listening, licking his wound, and growling. Charlie lay still as death, for he knew that if he moved a finger he would be slain that instant. After half an hour the brute left him and lay a few yards away, but in such a position that Charlie could not fire a fatal shot; he therefore waited in hopes that he would change his attitude. The tiger lay and attended to his wound for a full hour or more, and Eccles waited patiently.
At last--just before we arrived--the tiger shifted, presenting his side and shoulder, and Charlie, pointing his rifle with the utmost care, for he knew his life depended upon the shot, pulled trigger.
'I think,' Ralph concluded, 'that evening in the Dâk Bungalow was about the happiest I ever spent. The doctor had been summoned from the camp at Bandapore and had pronounced Charlie Eccles to be progressing excellently. You may imagine how happy I must have felt after my fears. You may imagine, also, what a hero Charlie was among the natives after his exploit. Of course my friend the shikari, in telling them the story, made out that the chief honours were his, but he was good enough to admit that the Sahib behaved also like a brave man, and probably his hearers, knowing each other's little ways, distributed the honours pretty fairly.'
ABOUT TOPIARIES.
What is a topiary? If you have never been in one, you may have seen one represented by some artist who draws scenes that show us gardens or shrubberies of bygone days. Perhaps you may at least have been in some old-fashioned garden, which had one or more trees of odd shapes, into which they had been cut and trained years ago. When a number of such trees are growing together, the place is called a topiary, and lately people who can afford the money have been contriving topiaries in some parts of their grounds. Gardeners who understand how to make trees resemble the human figure, or different animals, or other objects, can usually get plenty of employment.
We read about sculptured hedges as far back as the times of the Tudors; it was chiefly the yew hedge that people cut and shaped into odd figures. But it was not till the Dutch gardeners came over in the reign of William III., that it became the practice to give curious shapes to trees and shrubs scattered over gardens, or brought together into a topiary. Various trees were used, but chiefly yew and box.
The Dutch were fond of making figures out of trees, and so were the Italians. At Savona, a traveller tells us that he saw a group representing the flight of Joseph into Egypt, formed of variegated holly, box, myrtle, laurel, and cypress. The poet Pope alluded to the Duke who owned the splendid estate of Canons, as a nobleman who had
'Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees,'
and he remarks that he was shown, in greenery, Adam, Eve, and the serpent, but the figures were damaged somewhat. All such figures need attention to keep them in order. There are many about England that are of good age, and may last some years yet; though, of course, these trees may be injured by wind or heavy rain. Shrubs and trees are formed into curious shapes by the help of wires, and much trimming or twisting of the shoots is needed at first. A young tree, therefore, representing a peacock, or some other bird, will cost four or five pounds, and specimens that are larger may be worth many times that amount. Figures of men, horses, bears, dogs, and various animals, including dragons, are to be seen, as well as letters of the alphabet, triangles, or other inanimate objects, some trees being cleverly made to look like jugs, bottles, and bowls. Occasionally, a singular change has been made in a tree; thus, what was a boy with a rake, by a little alteration becomes a soldier carrying a rifle.
When taking a country stroll, we may sometimes come upon a specimen of a tree-sculptor's art in a wayside cottage garden, perhaps two hundred years old. One of the finest topiaries in England is in the grounds of Levens Hall, Westmoreland, and the Earl of Harrington has a notable one at Elvaston Castle, Derbyshire.
A GENEROUS ACT.
The sons of a great landowner were permitted by their father to associate with the poor boys in the neighbourhood. One day, when they had to return home to dinner, a lad who was playing with them said he would wait till they returned.
'There is no dinner for me at home,' said the poor boy.
'Come with us, then,' said the others.
The boy refused, and when they asked him if he had any money to buy a dinner, he answered 'No.'
When the boys got home the eldest of them said to his father, 'Father, what was the price of the silver buckles you gave me yesterday?'
'Five shillings,' was the reply.
'Then please give me the money, and I will give you the buckles again.'
This was done accordingly, and the father, inquiring privately, found that the money was given to the lad who had no dinner.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
IV.--THE LIFE HISTORY OF THE CRAB.
The more we study the living creatures around us the more wonderful they become; and in many ways this is especially true of what we may call the little people of the lower world. Most of us regard the crab as a creature good to eat, or, in the case of some of the smaller kinds, as something to be hunted for in rock-pools at the seaside; but only a very few appear to know anything of the crab in its infancy.
What we may call the childhood of the crab makes a really curious story. Boys and girls, until they are quite grown up, are, as a rule at any rate, carefully nursed and shielded from the hardships of life; but with the young crab it is otherwise. From the moment of its birth it is called upon to enter life's battle alone; of brothers and sisters, mother and father and home, it knows nothing. And such a tiny little mite it is, too, needing a microscope to see it. Stranger still, at this early period of life it is not the least bit like a crab; for a crab, as most of us know it, is a creature with a shell broader than it is long, and long legs, and a pair of pincers which can give a most painful nip to unguarded fingers. As a youngster, however, he presents a very different appearance, as may be seen in fig. 1. That is what he looks like just after leaving the egg--a creature with a huge eye, a big round body, and a long, slender tail--a sort of compromise between a crab and a lobster, but without the familiar legs and pincers.
A little later he assumes a form which is certainly fantastic, for from the top of the shell (as you will see in fig. 2) there grows out a long, curved spine, while the legs have taken a shape suggesting jointed paint-brushes. Later still the eyes grow out from the head and are supported on short stalks, the legs and pincers appear, and lastly the long tail curls up, till at last it grows into a curious three-cornered shield and is carried tucked away under the body. As soon as this takes place he becomes at once the crab with which we are familiar, and changes no more except in size.
The strange flap hinged to the hinder edge of the body of the adult crab, and held close to its under surface, really answers to the long body of the lobster. To make this clear, look at the series of figures 3 to 6: fig. 3 shows the back view of the last stage of the crab's infancy, and fig. 4 a side view of the same, where you will note that the tail is already beginning to curl up. In fig. 5 you have the under side of the full-grown crab with all that remains of the hinder part of the body and the tail in the position in which it is carried during life, and in fig. 6 the upper side with the tail showing as if it were unfolded. If you compare figs. 5 and 6 with fig. 7 (a lobster), you can see that the hinder part of the body of the crab, with the tail unfolded, really does answer to that portion of the body of the lobster which lies behind the last pair of legs.
But there are some relatives of the crab which come into the world still earlier, and these in the early stages have a still more un-crab-like shape which is known as the nauplius stage of growth.
The crab, on leaving the egg, enters the world not in the form of a Nauplius, but as a 'Zoea,' as it is called; this is shown in figs. 1 and 2. By the time the stage shown in figs. 3 and 4 is reached, he has attained the dignity of what is known among scientific men as the megalopa stage. What a nauplius looks like you will see in fig. 8.
This curious order of things is true, however, only of salt-water members of the crab-tribe. With certain near relatives of the crabs and lobsters which have taken up their residence in fresh water, a different order of things prevails, for here we find some trace of maternal care. Thus, in the fresh-water crayfish the young not only leave the egg in a much more advanced stage, but they are carefully carried about by the mother, until they have learned to shift for themselves, which they do in a very few days. During this time they cling to the swimming legs of the parent by means of their pincers. When all is quiet they drop off one by one, and crawl about to gather experience and food. But at the least sign of danger the mother appears to give some note of warning, and in a moment they have scuttled back, and fastened hold of her skirts, so to speak; then, if need be, she hurries off to a place of safety. At this time these little crayfish are very tiny indeed; but to get an idea of what they look like, and how they hold on, look at fig. 9, which gives a picture of the swimming foot of a mother crayfish, and two of her youngsters hanging on to it.
It would seem that this great care is necessary, because in the swift-running streams where these creatures generally live, their young, if uncared for during their early days, would be swept away by the tide and carried out to sea, where they would speedily die.
W. P. PYCRAFT, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
A TALE OF BREMEN.
Bremen was a growing city, but its ruler, hard and proud, Insolent in power and riches, all his humble subjects cowed, Till one day a bold man pleaded to the Count on bended knee: 'Sire, for just a little season set my toiling brethren free! Let them leave awhile their labour, let them roam the country fair, Quit the close and crowded city for a breath of purer air; Or, perchance, their faithful service you will graciously repay, And a piece of ground assign them from your gardens vast and gay?'
Frowned the Count, and answered, mocking: 'Not a little do you ask! Well! your prayer shall find a champion, and I'll set him just one task: He shall march from dawn to sunset, pacing my fair gardens round; All his footsteps can encircle shall be then the people's ground.'
Morning came, the folk assembled, full of hopefulness and glee, But their eager eyes no other than the Count himself can see. Stay! there standeth one beside him, Hans the cripple, small and weak! 'This is he,' the Count cries, scoffing, 'who shall give you what you seek. Fly! Hans, fly! Around my pleasaunce speed as quickly as you may!' And the cripple, smiling bravely, starts forthwith upon his way.
All that day, from morn to even, Hans the cripple did his best, Walking on without cessation, pausing not for food or rest. Miracle both Count and people deemed the prowess he displayed, And the tyrant scowled in anger as he saw the progress made. Faint and weary, for his brethren Hans toiled on till eventide, Then, amid the people's cheering, knelt, and breathed a prayer, and died.
Feudal days are gone for ever, but in Bremen's ancient town Tell they still of Hans the hero, who for them his life laid down.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page 95.)
The children were all eager to hear the story, and a sad one it was. They had become accustomed to see Dick half asleep in his armchair in the garden, or before the fire at the Bridge House. They knew him to be almost helpless, for it was only with assistance he could move, even on his crutches. They had thought very little about his condition, however, except for that feeling of pity which even a child experiences in the presence of suffering. Mrs. Peet's words had roused their interest in her son, and Lady Coke saw an opportunity for deepening the impression she had made. It would be good in many ways for these young people to hear that sad story. It had its lessons, and these she trusted would sink into their young minds; they might make it more possible to feel patient and to show more consideration for Peet, whose irritable temper, she was forced to admit, was very trying to their high spirits.
Dick, the only child of Peet and his wife, had been a fine handsome lad, with an unusual amount of brains, and with, what is still better, a wonderful capacity for really hard work. He had won all the prizes that he could possibly compete for in the little school at Lynwood, as well as most of the honours in the cricket and football field, for he was quite as good at games as at books. Peet was at that time, and had been ever since his youth, a gardener on the Earl of Lynwood's estate--Lynwood Keep, in Scotland. He had risen through steady work to be head gardener and bailiff. On finding himself possessed of sufficient means to take a wife and settle down, he had married an old love of his, a Cornish girl from the village of Newlyn, and had carried her off to the home he had so proudly prepared for her. A very happy couple they had been, and the birth of Dick had added a still greater happiness to their already bright life. Peet's temper had not then become what the sore trials and disappointments of his later life had made it. He was contented and prosperous, and the clouds which afterwards darkened his existence had not so much as sent the tiniest little messenger before them to tell of their coming.
As Dick grew older, and showed of what true, strong metal he was made, his parents' pride in him became greater than they could quite conceal. A certain amount of envy and ill-will was the natural result. Dick himself was not in the least conceited. None knew so well as he how hard it was to restrain a naturally hasty temper, to give up the games he loved for the work he did not, to labour as thoroughly at the subjects he disliked or took no interest in as at those he liked. But he had grit enough to determine he would not thus lose the battle of life in the beginning of it, and step by step the habit of overcoming difficulties prevailed.
He rose steadily and surely over the heads of his school-fellows, gaining prize after prize, until there was nothing more to win either in places or rewards.
Having by this time laid by enough to enable him to retire from work, Peet allowed himself to be persuaded by his brother-in-law to take a small cottage at Newlyn. This brother-in-law, captain of a merchant vessel, offered at the same time to give his clever nephew a berth on board his own ship, a barque trading between England and Australia. It would be a good opening for the lad, and offered him a fair prospect of advancement in life, should he choose to stick to the sea afterwards as a profession. If not, no harm would be done. On the contrary, Dick would have passed through some experiences which could not fail to be useful to him, whatever line he might prefer to follow later on.
Much to Lord Lynwood's regret, therefore, Peet resolved to take the advice thus offered him, and, resigning his post at Lynwood, took his family to Newlyn. Delighted as Dick was at the bright future opening before him, he was as sad at parting with his old friends and companions as they were at losing the most brilliant scholar and athlete the school had ever known. His warm-hearted, unaffected manner had made him a general favourite, in spite of the fact that his ability had not failed to arouse envy and dislike in some.
Dick took to the sea like a duck to water. He set himself to learn his work and become 'handy' with a zeal that soon made him a smart sailor. He managed, also, in spite of all he had to do, to carry on his own education by reading whenever he could. There were other apprentices besides himself on board, and he was treated with exactly the same discipline as they, no favouritism being shown or desired. He preferred to share like the others, and there was nothing in his behaviour, or in the treatment he received, which could have led any stranger to suppose he was the skipper's nephew. Nevertheless, his talents soon became evident. He was always the one to whom a difficult job could be safely trusted; and this came out more clearly when he went up for his second mate's certificate, which he gained with so much ease as to raise some jealousy among his fellow-apprentices. This was increased when it became known that Dick had been offered a berth as fourth officer in a well-known line of steamers.
His usual success followed him in his new career. Hard work, an even temper, and the well-kept resolution to educate himself by steady reading were good preparations for his next examination for a first mate's certificate, for which he went up at the earliest possible opportunity. But, alas! the cloud had already risen in the hitherto sunny skies of his life. He passed the examination with his usual success. The certificate was duly signed, and, happy that he could carry it down to his parents, he looked out the train to Penzance. Finding that he had an hour or so to spare, he went to an inn to snatch a meal before he started off on his long journey.
He had partaken of many a meal in that same inn. It was close to the Board of Trade offices, and he had met many another merchant sailor in the same dingy rooms, and had discussed the prospects of the service with them gladly. As he entered it on that day, happy and cheerful, with his future looking brilliant and rosy before him, he little imagined how near was the end of all his hopes. Such a small thing had turned the tide! Only that fatal decision to go to the inn to which he had been so often before, and pass the time till his train started! Others were taking their lunch there, but the number was smaller than usual; perhaps it was yet early for the rush. Dick sat at a side-table, reading over his certificate as he ate his modest meal.
So far all is clear. After this the account became so confused and contradictory that the actual truth was never known. After a good deal of sifting, the following facts were accepted as the best version of what must have taken place. According to the landlord's tale, most of the guests had left, Dick and another sailor being either the sole remaining men in the room, or nearly so. They were lunching at the same table, and were apparently good friends. He did not remember that there were any others. He and the waiters happened to be in the pantry for a few minutes; he was sure it was not longer, when they were startled by the sound of a fall, followed by the loud bang of the outer door. On rushing in to find out the cause of the disturbance, they found Dick lying insensible on the floor, with a severe wound on the back of the head, evidently inflicted by the heavy knobbed stick discovered near him. There was no clue as to what had given rise to the quarrel. The wounded man's certificate being on his plate, and open, as if it had just been read, it was imagined that a sudden fit of rage and jealousy must have led his companion to the terrible deed.
The police and the doctor were at once sent for. A thorough search was made for the culprit, but, as no one specially remembered him, he made good his escape. From that day no trace of him was ever discovered, and the whole affair gradually dropped out of recollection.
Meantime, Dick was taken to the nearest hospital, where for a long time his life was despaired of. Having found the address of his parents, the hospital authorities telegraphed for them, and they were allowed to be with him as much as possible. As may be imagined, grief and terror filled their hearts when the telegram reached them. There was no time to dwell on their sorrow, for Dick's condition took up all their thoughts. The report of the doctors filled them with even deeper grief and anxiety. They declared it would have been better for the poor fellow if he had been killed outright. The blow had been so severe that the brain and spine were both injured. Even if he lived for years, he would never again walk; in all probability, he would never again understand or speak properly.
Dick did get better, however, and, as soon as he was fit, was taken down to Newlyn. Every care and attention were given him with the hope of proving that the doctors were mistaken. But, alas! in vain. It was a long, expensive illness. The little home, so full of comfort and happiness, the pride of Peet's heart--full, as it was too, of Dick's strange and beautiful things, relics of his voyages--all had to go: sold to meet the bills of the doctors, and to buy things which were needed for the invalid. Brought to a very low ebb by this terrible affliction, and not knowing where all the money was to come from to pay the demands made upon him--too proud to ask help from even his own brother--Peet resolved to go back to work again. He applied to his old master, Lord Lynwood; there being no vacancies at Lynwood, however, the Earl wrote to his aunt, Lady Coke, whose head gardener had died but a short time before, and who, he knew, was looking out for a capable man to replace him.
Such a berth as he found at the Moat House Peet might have searched the world in vain to discover. Lady Coke's sympathy was at once roused on hearing of his sorrows, and from her he accepted kindnesses which would have been an offence from anybody else.
(Continued on page 110.)
STORIES FROM AFRICA.
IV.--A GREAT SEA CAPTAIN.
Once more our tale begins in the city of Lisbon, but now it is on a summer day in the year 1497, when the banks of the Tagus were thronged with those who had come to give God-speed to the gallant captain Vasco da Gama, sailing to-morrow for 'the Indies.'
This was the age of great sailors and discoverers. Ten years before, Bartolomeo Diaz had rounded the southern point of Africa. 'The Stormy Cape' he called it; the 'Cape of Good Hope,' as his rejoicing countrymen would have it, when he came home with the news. A few years later, Columbus, sailing westward, set up the flag of Spain upon the shores of a new world. And now Manoel, the young King of Portugal, was all on fire to finish what Diaz had begun, and to earn for his country the glory of finding the way round the Cape to India, the mysterious land of which such wonderful tales were told. He could have found no fitter man for the work than the captain who knelt to-day in the little church above the river to pray for success in his perilous undertaking. Absolutely fearless, quick-witted, and prompt in action, delighting in danger and adventure, and indomitable in perseverance, Vasco da Gama was a brave leader of men, and he had himself chosen two companions after his own heart, who were to command the other two ships--his brother, Paolo da Gama, and his friend, Nicolo Coello. On his knees the captain received from King Manoel the cross-marked flag on which he swore fidelity to his sovereign, and then, followed by the cheers and good wishes of all Lisbon, the good ships set sail.
Near the Canary Isles they met with such heavy weather that, for a week, Vasco's ship, the San Raphael, was parted from the other two, and his friends had nearly given him up for lost. The ship reappeared, however, battered but safe, and the expedition waited for awhile to repair in the Bay of St. Helena.
It was November when they sailed southward again, and now the Cape of Storms began to prove worthy of its name. Such terrible tempests fell upon the three ships, as they struggled along, with much ado to keep within sight of each other, that the hearts of the crew failed them altogether. The question began to be asked among them whether the report of Diaz had after all been well founded, whether the sea passage really existed, or whether the land which bounded the eastern horizon did not go on for ever and ever until the very world's end. But when the crew of the San Raphael begged their captain to abandon the hopeless attempt, his reply was that of the captain in the song--
'"Now I've come so far, I'm not going back," says he.'
By word and example he encouraged the whole crew, now laughing at their fears, now turning their thoughts to the triumphant return with glory for their country, himself sharing the hardest work, and, doubtless, making it quite clear that any man who failed him at the pinch would find scant mercy at his hands. And, at last, the wind dropped. The land was no longer on the eastward, the Cape of Storms had been doubled, and from the decks of the three vessels went up the sounds of praise and thanksgiving that the 'passage perilous' was accomplished.
But the crew of the San Raphael needed yet another lesson to make them into such a band as their captain needed for his great adventure. According to the strange custom of that age, Vasco had on board several convicts, who had been released from prison, where they lay under sentence of death, that he might employ them upon any service of danger for which he was unwilling to risk his better men. A band of criminals who had broken their country's laws and were not likely to be troubled with scruples, must have been a rather dangerous element among a somewhat disaffected crew; and, as the ship sailed northward and again met with rough weather, the convicts on board the San Raphael, seeing their opportunity, began to plot treason against the captain. One after another of the crew was won over to a plan which promised a speedy end to the weary, dangerous voyage, and the ringleaders found means to communicate with their friends on board the other two ships, so that all was arranged for a general mutiny.
But there was one member of the expedition, perhaps the smallest and least important person on board, to whom it was given to save the whole undertaking from destruction. One of the conspirators on board the ship San Miguel, had a little brother, who had been kindly treated by the captain, Nicolo Coello, and loved him with a boy's hero-worship of a brave man who had been good to him. Perhaps the conspirators thought the lad too insignificant to be dangerous; at any rate, he knew the details of the plot and told the captain of what was planned.
Coello's one thought was how to save his friend and leader. It was too rough for him to board the San Raphael; the warning must be shouted above the noise of winds and waves, and yet it must be for Da Gama's ear alone. His only hope was in his friend's quickness of wit, and in the perfect understanding between them. So, from the deck of his own vessel, he shouted to the San Raphael that his men were all for abandoning the expedition, and that he was constrained to agree with them and to pray the captain to give the word for returning. How the brave Coello must have hated to give, even in stratagem, such craven counsel, and how carefully he must have chosen words that might carry the double meaning to his friend.
Coello need not have feared: Da Gama knew his brave colleague too well to imagine that he was really thinking of retreat. Possibly he already suspected something amiss; at any rate, he knew which of his men he could trust, and, with their aid, he discovered the names of the ringleaders. Then, calling the crew together on deck, he announced to them that, acting upon the advice of his friend, the captain of the San Miguel, he had decided to give up the expedition and return to Portugal.
'But,' he continued, 'that I may not appear as a traitor before the King, I will myself draw up an account of what we have undergone, and those of most repute among you shall sign it, that all may see that you hold with me in my judgment.'
The mariners agreed readily, and Da Gama, having prepared his statement, sent for the chief men among the crew to his cabin to sign it, managing to include among them the most dangerous of the conspirators. All unsuspecting, down they went, leaving their companions to wonder what had made the captain change his mind. Then came a summons from below, more signatures were wanted, and down to the cabin went another band of picked men.
As they crossed the threshold, one at a time, they found themselves pinioned, and, staring round them in dismay, saw their fellow-mutineers in irons, guarded by the loyal members of the crew. At Da Gama's order all were marshalled on deck, and stood, sullen and powerless, before the captain.
'Where are your instruments?' he asked sternly of the pilot, who was among the prisoners.
Then, as the man pointed to them with his chained hands, he flung them into the sea.
'You will use them no more,' he said; 'henceforth I will myself be pilot to my own ship. If God sees us worthy He will guide us to our destination, but be sure that I will never return alive to Portugal with my purpose unfulfilled.'
That day's work made Vasco da Gama master once for all of the men who sailed with him. He spared the lives of the conspirators after a captivity long enough to teach them an enduring lesson, so winning their allegiance by mercy as well as severity.
And we may like to remember that a famous colony of our own was first sighted by Europeans on the Christmas Day of that year, 1497, and was given its Christmas name, Natal (the 'birthday' place) by the great Portuguese captain who, in those southern waters,
'Did win a gallant name, And ruled the stormy sea.'
MARY H. DEBENHAM.
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
IV.--A GOOD CONSTABLE.
A hundred years ago the streets of London were very insufficiently guarded. Of police, as we now understand the word, there were none, but at night the public buildings and principal thoroughfares were handed over to the care of aged and decrepit men, called 'Charlies,' who, being too old to work by day, were supposed to be able to take charge of the streets by night!
These 'Charlies' were furnished with staves and lanterns, which were often violently wrenched from them, for it was then a fashionable amusement of wild young men of the upper classes to 'go on the ran-dan,' as it was called--that is, to run up and down the ill-lighted streets, knocking down first one old Charlie and then another, and carrying off the staff and lantern as trophies. A young fellow who managed to upset a wooden watch-house, with a poor old man inside, was very proud of himself indeed, though, maybe, the old 'Charlie' was meanwhile being almost suffocated to death with the watch-house on the top of him.
Besides 'guarding' the streets, these old watchmen had to announce each hour as it struck, and to give the news of the weather; thus: 'Past one o'clock and a windy morning!' Once, when many Londoners were expecting an earthquake, which had been prophesied for that day, some jesters, returning from a noisy tavern-meeting, frightened the householders by calling out, as they passed along the streets, 'Past twelve o'clock, and a fine earthquake!'
It is needless to say that robbery and ill-doings of all kinds were of nightly occurrence, and no decent person was in the streets of the City after dusk except by necessity, for neither life nor property was safe from the ruffians who then roamed about.
So things went on until the time came when Mr. John Sewell, a bookseller, was appointed Constable for the Ward of Cornhill. He was a very energetic man, who had long been ashamed of the state of the City streets, and he determined, now that he was in office, to try and introduce some reforms. The first thing he decided upon was to serve as constable in person, instead of providing substitutes, which had been always done by former Head Constables.
His friends were shocked at the idea of a respectable bookseller acting as a common constable, but Mr. Sewell was not to be moved from his purpose, assuring them 'that the office of Constable was of too much importance to be executed by every one.'
He first of all put a stop altogether to the wooden watch-houses which were wheeled out every night, and placed against the Bank and other public buildings, and, instead, converted the back room of his shop into a guard-room. Here he and many of his friends would keep watch, when his turn for service came round, which was every fourth night, and they would go the rounds of his ward, seeing that every man was in his proper place. Mr. Sewell so arranged his men that every house in his ward was passed by one of them four times in the hour, and he would constantly pay surprise visits to be sure that all were attentive to their duties.
The public executions were his next care, for hangings were in that day, alas! of weekly occurrence. Instead of the ribald scenes and unseemly jokes which accompanied the progress of the unfortunate wretches to Tyburn, Mr. Sewell insisted that a solemn decency should now mark these processions. He had his watchmen dressed in long cloaks, with crape on their hats, which he provided at his own expense; and then, as they marched slowly, two and two, he himself led the procession from Newgate Prison to Holborn Bars, where his authority ended.
It is also interesting, in these days of naval volunteers, to find that Mr. Sewell started a 'Proposal for a Marine Voluntary Association for Manning the Ancient and Natural Defences of Old England.'
Altogether, this old Cornhill bookseller was a wonderful man, and might have lived in this day instead of a hundred years ago.
OLIVE AND THE BEES.
'I mean to make a study of bees!' said Olive, in an important manner, as she looked up from a big book on natural history which she had been reading for the last ten minutes. 'Listen to this, Charlie,' she went on, addressing her elder brother, who was arranging his fishing tackle; 'it says here, "To such as have leisure, and are desirous of amusement, we know of no study which promises a greater degree of satisfaction." I have plenty of leisure these holidays, and I mean to be like Hüber, and study bees, and find out wonderful things about them. He was blind, you know, and as I am not blind, I ought to find out a lot more than he did!' Olive finished up, complacently.
Charlie, however, far from being impressed with this speech, only burst out laughing. 'You are conceited!' he exclaimed; 'to think that you, at twelve years of age, are going to beat Hüber, who spent a life-time in studying bees! However, there is no doubt you will learn something from them, and by the time you have been well stung you will be able to describe some of their habits,' and he laughed again.
'I shall not be stung,' said Olive calmly; 'bees are wonderfully intelligent little creatures'--here she was again quoting from the big book--'and they will understand that I have no wish to hurt them, but am only studying their ways.'
'And one of their ways is to sting inquisitive folk,' said Charlie. 'Let me advise you to have Mary's blue-bag handy--the thing she uses on washing-days, you know. Nothing like it for the sting of an angry bee!' and picking up his fishing-rod, Charlie walked away to the river.
It was the first summer that Olive had spent in the country, and all its sights and scenes were new to her. So now, rejoicing in the freedom of being able to roam about without her hat or jacket, she ran lightly out of the low French window of the sitting-room, and down the path towards a large clump of lemon-coloured foxgloves.
'The bees were in and out of these foxgloves yesterday,' she said, as she stooped over the bed. 'Ah, yes! here is one--buried quite deep in the flower. I must have that bee,' and taking out her handkerchief, she threw it over the flower, and caught the bee in its folds, carrying it in triumph towards the hives, which stood on a shelf under a sunny wall by the high garden gate.
'Now then, dear bee,' said Olive, loosing the bee with all the calmness of ignorance, 'here is your hive; let me see you go in with your load of honey.'
Bees, however, are not creatures to be trifled with, and this one did not mean to go to its hive with its honey-bags only half full. Instead, it turned fiercely on Olive and stung her sharply on the hand.
'Oh! oh! it hurts!' she screamed, and hurrying away, she accidentally upset the straw cover of a hive. Instantly, scores of angry bees came buzzing round her, and Olive ran as she had never run before. But she did not escape without several severe stings, and she was all but fainting with pain and terror when she at last reached the kitchen door and slammed it behind her.
Fortunately, Mary was there, and at once applied the blue-bag, which eased the pain of the stings greatly.
'I only wanted to study the bees,' sobbed Olive, 'and I never meant to offend them, and make them sting me.'
'You had better study obedience, Miss, and leave the bees alone,' said Mary curtly. 'I told you only yesterday to keep away from the hives. If you want to study bees, get the old bee-master to tell you how to set about it.'
Some weeks later, Olive had an opportunity of watching the bee-master when he removed the honey from the hives. He did not get stung, though the bees were all round him, and Olive could not help admiring the fearless way he went to work.
Charlie was right. Olive did learn something from the bees, and one of her lessons was humility. She did not again think she knew all about a subject after reading of the wonderful discoveries of men who had given a life-time to it.
PERHAPS.
Before the dustman comes to me As in my bed I lie, All sorts of curious things I see Up in my nursery high.
I see the little curly flames Jump upwards from the fire; I think they must be playing games, They never seem to tire.
And now and then one leaps so high That all the ceiling glows: Quite suddenly it seems to die-- I wonder where it goes.
Sometimes out in the street I hear The tinkle of a bell, It's first far off, and then quite near; It's passing, I can tell;
And then I see a narrow line Of light quite slowly crawl Across the ceiling, till its shine Stops as it meets the wall.
I wonder how it comes, and why, And where it was before, And where it's gone to now, when I Can't see it any more.
Perhaps I'll meet them in my dream, Those curly flames so odd, And see the little narrow gleam Light up the Land of Nod.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page 103.)