Chapter XIII…

Chapter XIII

'Goody,' said Estelle, as they sat round the blazing logs, 'why did Madame Bricolin call Jack the Giant of the Hospice de la Providence? I don't think it half so nice a name as the Giant of the Treasure Caves. There is something romantic, like a fairy story, in a treasure cave. Don't you think so, Jack?'

The sailor was standing up to separate the nets he was about to mend. They lay in a tangled heap at his feet, and it looked to Estelle as if he would never have room enough to spread them out, large as the kitchen was. Yet he must do so if he wanted to find the torn places. No such difficulty presented itself to Jack's mind, however. He laughed as he drew himself up to his full height of six feet seven inches.

'I haven't read many fairy stories, Missie,' he said; 'but treasure caves, such as ours, don't figure in them, I fancy. Our treasure is mostly smugglers' stuff. Some day I will take you to see them, and some of them will astonish you.'

'Oh, yes. Do take me. I love caves. I know of some---- ' She stopped, hesitating. 'I am sure I do--but where? Did we go to some once?'

'Only those we went to to-day.'

'And they are the treasure caves?'

'Yes; but the real thing is below, where you have not yet grown strong enough to go.'

Little did he guess under what circumstances he would show her that mysterious cave, the entrance to which was his secret.

'But,' went on Estelle, 'you have not told me why Madame Bricolin calls you a giant---- '

'I suppose,' answered his mother, with a glance of pride at her tall son, 'anybody would call him a big man. Even in England he would not be thought small.' Mrs. Wright laughed. 'And in France, where the men are mostly short--no height at all, to speak of--why, he is a mighty man! So Mère Bricolin calls him a giant.'

'He is a giant,' said Estelle, looking at Jack, admiringly. 'But why of the Hospice de la Providence?'

'Because we live in the Hospice, dearie. It does seem more natural to call a man by the house he lives in.'

'Was this ever a hospital?' exclaimed Estelle, in surprise. She did not like the idea at all.

'It was some years ago,' said Jack, his foot in the twine, his needle ready to begin work. 'You wouldn't think it, would you? It is a vast deal more cosy and comfortable now than it ever was then.'

'How sick people were ever got up here I can't imagine,' observed Mrs. Wright, knitting vigorously. 'I know I'm never too ready to trudge up and down that steep path, and I'm a deal better than many of them poor folk were.'

'A bit lazy, eh, Mother?' replied Jack, smiling. 'We were glad enough of this shelter when we first came.'

'So we were, my son,' said Mrs. Wright, heartily; 'and I for one am not grumbling over what should be a blessing. You and I am very happy here, and it's solid, which some of the houses in Tout-Petit are not. We can't have our roof blown off,' she added with a laugh.

'There wasn't a decent house to be had then, nor is there-now,' went on Jack. 'The empty ones were all tumbling to pieces, and in such a state of dirt that when the landlord offered this to Mother we jumped at it. It is damp, year in year out. We always have fires burning in the rooms we use. But what of that? It is cheerful, and we must have some draw-back wherever we are. But, Missie, this is only a very, very small part of the old Hospice, just the driest corner. The caves and passages run the whole length of our terrace, and all the shrubs and flowers you see were planted to cheer up the sick people.'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Wright, 'they used to sit on this terrace, as well as take their exercise here. You have seen how sunny and bright it is. But it is very different in the rooms they lived in. They are very gloomy, damp, and get no sun at all. They have no windows, and only a glimmer of light comes through the door.'

'And that was all the air they got, too,' added Jack. 'You shall come and see them one day, if you like, Missie. It isn't cheerful, but it is interesting. For more than twenty years these places have never been used at all, so we had no difficulty in getting the landlord to let us make changes. It just suited us, and we were allowed to do as we liked. So, you see, we have windows and doors; we have a fireplace in each of the rooms we inhabit, and shafts to the top of the cliff, which act as chimneys. So we are pretty comfortable, on the whole.'

'But,' said Estelle, drawing nearer to Mrs. Wright, 'isn't it dreadful to have those long, gloomy places so near you? Did any of those poor sick people die, and are they buried here, too?'

'They are not buried here,' replied Mrs. Wright. 'Why should they be? There's the churchyard in the village. But the new hospital is in a far healthier place than this, and better for everybody.'

This conversation made a deeper impression upon Estelle than even the Treasure Caves had done. She was very silent, and all Jack's efforts to rouse her met with but little success.

'You are going out to fish to-night?' she asked, her eyes wide open with a nameless terror.

They had risen from the supper-table. Mrs. Wright washed up and put away the china, and Jack had gone to prepare for the night's work. His appearance in his oilskins seem to put the finishing touch to the child's misery. He was going away all night. She and Goody would be quite alone--quite alone, with all those dreadful rooms where the sick and dying had lived; those gloomy, chill, sunless abodes for the suffering. Her mind, sensitive and imaginative, shrank with horror from the picture presented to her by her active brain.

'Don't go!--don't go!' she cried, clinging to the sailor's arm, as he stooped to gather his nets and other necessaries together.

He looked at her in astonishment. She was trembling from head to foot, while she clasped and unclasped her hands on his arm.

'My dearie, my dearie, what is it?' cried Goody, as surprised as was her son. She was frightened at the excitement the little girl displayed. 'Nothing shall hurt you, dearie. Jack is going only for one night. He will be back in the morning.'

'No, no, he must not go!' almost screamed Estelle, beside herself with despair because he did not at once yield to her entreaties. 'He can't leave us all alone.'

'She will be ill again,' sighed Mrs. Wright, her kind old face puckered with anxiety. 'What has terrified her so?'

'Missie,' said Jack, firmly, 'nothing can be done while you go on like that. Be quiet, or you will be ill. Don't you hear what the mother says? She will be with you all night, and what more do you want?'

He unloosed her fingers from his arm, and, holding her hands, told her she must be calm before they could listen to a word she said. He would not even let his mother caress her, fearing the child would be still more unnerved by any display of tenderness at this juncture. Mrs. Wright, however, hurried off to fetch some cordial in which she had firm belief, and which she felt sure would restore Estelle after her fright.

(Continued on page 246.)

A STUDIOUS ELF.

In Fairy-land, long years ago, There lived a tiny Elf, Who studied hard from morn till eve, Just to amuse himself.

His copy-books he never soiled-- I know it for a fact-- Nor was he ever known, to do A single naughty act.

And if there came to him a chance Of fishing in the pool, He'd shake his head and say, 'No, thanks; I'd rather be in school.'

The 'tuck-shop' he could freely pass, With ne'er a backward look, Because his little eyes were glued Upon his lesson-book.

But if my tale seems strange to you, I'd have you understand An Elf like this is seldom found, Except in Fairy-land.

THE GROANING TREE OF BADDESLEY.

Gilpin, who wrote a pleasant book on forest scenery, especially about the New Forest, tells his readers the curious story of the groaning tree at Baddesley, one of the small villages. Under the influence of the wind, trees often creak, or crack, and they may sometimes whistle, but 'groaning' is very unusual, and hence the surprise this tree caused many years ago. Very likely, if there was such a tree anywhere now, the railway would run excursion trains for people to visit it. Even at that time many persons came from long distances to hear this natural marvel.

The tree was discovered by a cottager, whose wife was ill in bed. She was much frightened by a peculiar moaning sound that seemed to come from some one in dreadful pain; and she asked her husband what it was. He told her that he thought the noise arose from the stags in the forest, but the neighbours also heard it, and found that it came from an elm-tree, young and apparently vigorous, at the end of the cottage garden. The villagers were greatly alarmed. Several naturalists came to see the tree, but they could not explain the noise. News of this strange tree spread, and many people travelled a long way to hear it. Some members of the Royal Family, who were staying on the coast not far off, paid it a visit. A little book was actually written about the groaning tree.

Some people said the noise came from the twisting of the roots, and others that there was water or air in the wood of the tree which could not get free. The noise seemed to come from the roots, and people fancied it groaned least when the weather was wet, and made most noise in dry weather. This went on for nearly two years, until at last a meddlesome gentleman took an opportunity to bore a hole in the trunk. The result was that the elm ceased to groan. It was then decided to take the tree up by the roots and examine it; but nothing has ever been discovered to account for the noise.

TIME MORE PRECIOUS THAN MONEY.

Thirteen men once agreed to meet at a fixed place and at a certain hour. At the appointed hour they all appeared except one. He was five minutes late. When he arrived, one of the others said, 'You have caused us to lose an hour.'

Looking at his watch, the man who was late said: 'No, only five minutes.'

The other replied: 'There are twelve of us waiting on you, and twelve times five minutes make sixty minutes. So we have lost an hour.'

PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

VIII.--THE STORY OF THE JELLY-FISH.

Nature is full of surprises, and the greatest of these almost always arise out of the most commonplace looking objects. No more striking instance of this can be found than that furnished by the story of the Jelly-fish. Most, if not all, of my readers have met with this creature, either in the shape of a lifeless lump of clear jelly lying on the sand by the sea-shore, or gracefully swimming in the summer sea, a thing of beauty indeed, yet not to be treated too familiarly. If it could but speak, what a strange tale it would have to tell! But Nature has imposed silence on most of her children, which is after all a good thing for us, for this very silence makes us anxious to discover for ourselves the wondrous lessons which she has to teach, whereby we learn that these humbler creatures, like ourselves, find the world a stern reality, to be faced bravely: and the sooner we realise this the better and more useful lives we ourselves shall lead.

But to our story. You must allow me to tell this in my own way, which I shall do by asking you to go to the nearest pond, get a bottle full of water and weeds, and stand it in the light for an hour or so. Then look carefully on the side of the bottle next the light for some tiny little creatures about half an inch long, with slender stalked bodies, attached by one end to the glass, and provided at the other by long, very delicate, slowly-moving arms: you must seek, in short, for a creature such as that shown in the picture as if seen under the microscope, sticking to a piece of weed (fig. 2). At the top end of the stalk is the mouth, and if you watch carefully you may be fortunate enough to see the long arms catch a water-flea, and carry it towards the mouth. This creature is known as the hydra. In some cases you will see two or even three of these creatures all attached to the same stalk, and if you watch every day, you will at last find that sooner or later this partnership is dissolved, so that the branched hydra has split up into a number of separate individuals--just as many as there were branches.

Now, the fresh-water hydra has some very near relatives which live in the sea, and these fashion their lives on very different lines. In the first place, they, like the hydra, start as single individuals, but sooner or later develop little buds which grow out into arm-bearing creatures exactly like themselves; but these, instead of breaking off as in the hydra, remain fixed and themselves produce branches, which again branch, and so on, until, as you will readily see, in a very short time a colony of animals is produced which bears a remarkable resemblance to a little tree! Such for example as you will see in fig. 4, growing upside down!

You will have noticed that the fresh-water hydra had a wonderfully elastic body, so that when frightened, as by a tap on the bottle, it suddenly pulls itself down into a mere speck of jelly (fig. 2). This feat its sea-dwelling cousins cannot perform, since, frail as they are, some support became necessary when they took to the tree-like habit of growth, and this support is found by encasing the whole body and its branches in an outer coat of a horny, transparent character, with a hole at the top of each branch expanded to form a cup to guard the long arms. So then, when alarmed, all they can do is to draw down the arms into the cup. In the illustration (fig. 5) you will see a branch of one of these colonies as it appears when highly magnified. Some of the animals you will note are fully expanded, while others have partly withdrawn themselves into their cups, which are here very small, though in some species they are quite large. A little closer study of this magnified portion of a branch will show you, here and there, little bud-like bodies like unopened flower buds, attached by a short stalk. One of these you will notice is more developed, and resembles a tree ('jelly-fish,' in fig. 5). If you could only watch it in the living colony you would find that one fine day it broke off from its stalk, and sailed away--jelly-fish, such as you see in fig. 3.

Probably all of you have found the empty shells of these wonderful animal-trees dozens and dozens of times on the beach, and many of you will find them in your collections of sea-weeds brought home as treasures to remind you of the summer holidays. The so-called sea-fir is all that is left of such a colony: the little tree-like tufts which you doubtless found attached to rocks and stones represent other forms. Of course, some of your sea-weeds are really what they appear to be--that is to say, they are true plants; but those of which I speak now, though they have a superficial resemblance to plants, are really animals. In fig. 1 you will see some of the commoner forms of these strange animals as they appear in life.

These colonies furnish us with an interesting illustration of the division of labour, for, as you see, they are formed of two very distinct kinds of individuals. The most numerous of these, those with the long arms, have to capture and digest the food for the whole community, including the little buds and bell-like individuals, for they are mouthless. Their life of work begins, however, after they blossom into jelly-fish, and they have a very important duty to perform. With the great wide sea for a playground, they wander for a time at will, warmed by the glorious sun, feeding on the delicious meats to be found at the surface, for which their humble sisters at home must stretch their arms in vain. And so they wander, far from the place which gave them birth, growing bigger and stronger, finally fulfilling the task which they were sent out to perform--the production of eggs from which new colonies are to be started. These eggs grow into a little slipper-shaped creature which swims by means of the rapid waving motion of hair-like elastic rods which cover the whole body. At last, tired out, it settles down, grows into an animal resembling its cousins of the fresh water, and then starts branching out to form a colony like that from which it started.

This device of fixed and stay-at-home workers and wandering egg-layers is of the greatest use to the species, as a little reflection will show. If the eggs dropped to the ground and hatched all around the parent colony the neighbourhood would soon become like some human cities--overcrowded, and overcrowding means starvation and disease; but by sending off individuals specially charged with the founding of new colonies on new territory, all these troubles are avoided.

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

NOW.

'Now' is the syllable ticking from the clock of Time. 'Now' is the watchword of the wise. 'Now' is on the banner of the prudent. Whenever anything presents itself to us in the shape of work, whether mental or bodily, we should do it with all our might, remembering that 'now' is the only time for us. It is a sorry way to get through the world by putting off till to-morrow, saying, 'Then' I will do it. 'Now' is ours; 'Then' we may never have.

HOW GORDON KEPT SHOP.

When General Gordon first went to the Soudan, he found that the native chiefs knew nothing about money or its use. All the European traders who had visited the country up to that time had paid the chiefs with a handful of beads, or a few pieces of calico, for any work which they had done, and the chiefs prized the beads and calico far more than copper or silver coins.

Now, General Gordon was not quite satisfied to do merely as other people had done. He thought it was time these grown-up children learned to buy and sell with the help of money. But, as the people themselves wanted none of his money, he was puzzled how to teach them the use of it.

At length he hit upon a rather clever plan. He made a number of little piles or lots of beads, wire, and other things which they valued, and which they usually received as the pay for their labours. But, when pay day arrived, he gave to each man a small coin, equal to an English penny in value. When each man had received his pay, General Gordon, playing at keeping shop, offered to exchange one of his piles of beads or wire for each coin. The men soon saw what was wanted, and thus learned the use of money. Then Gordon put before them other things of greater value, and told them how many coins he would take for each. When the men saw what things were to be bought by saving up a few coins, they refused to buy any more beads. 'No,' they said, 'we will keep the money till we get more, and can buy more expensive things.'

BARNACLES AND GEESE.

Probably the readers of Chatterbox, when they have been along the sea-shore as the tide was running out, have noticed a spar, or some other fragment of wood, which the waves threw up, dotted over with a number of odd-looking shells. This cluster was most likely made up of barnacles, of some sort or other--in fact, a family party.

Some people think barnacles resemble crabs more than they do fishes; they go through changes, and while young possess no shells. After they have grown to be of some size, they leave the parent barnacles, and swim off, to start colonies elsewhere. The larva has twelve legs or arms, large compound eyes, and suckers enabling it to cling firmly. When of full growth, the barnacle's grip is so strong that it is very difficult to pull it from its hold. Some of the South American barnacles are sought after as a delicacy, having the flavour of a nice crab. One kind of barnacle is shaped rather like an acorn.

The soft part of the common species of barnacle, which occurs along our coast, rather resembles a small bird, and hence arose a curious fancy or fable, some centuries ago. It was believed by many persons whose common sense might have taught them better, that the barnacle was transformed into a bird by a sort of miracle, and the particulars were recorded exactly. People said they had seen it themselves, and others declared they had touched little birds which were found inside shells. Some described larger ones, but, whether large or small, they called them all barnacle geese, probably because they were plump, and tempting to eat, if they could be caught at the proper time.

One of the strangest things in this old story about shells producing geese was, that several writers described the shells as growing upon the branches of live trees near water. This would be convenient for the newly hatched geese, because when they were hatched, they could drop into the water beneath, and swim about. A picture exists, drawn by an old artist, showing the birds hanging by their beaks, just ready to fall, the wings small and not opened out. Of course, barnacles and similar creatures are not found on trees away from the ocean.

Gerard, who wrote a famous book on plants, called the Herbal, was a good observer, and yet he believed in the barnacle geese. People living on the coast of Lancashire told him all about them. Upon old and decayed timbers, so he writes, are found shells like mussels, but whitish and sharp-pointed; the inside of them is soft, like silk lace, but by degrees this takes the form of a bird, which when grown is larger than a duck, and smaller than a goose. 'Those who have seen such birds,' he adds, 'tell me they are black and white, spotted as magpies are, with a black bill and legs.' According to others, the barnacle geese could both run and fly. Whatever were the birds they saw, or fancied they saw, it is certain they were not hatched in the way described.

COUNTING.

Do you remember learning to count? I dare say not. But I am pretty sure you learnt to count on your fingers, or perhaps you were given bright counters or shells to use instead.

Savages learn to count in just the same ways; most of them use their fingers, and so they learn to count by tens as we do, and some of them give their numbers very funny names. The Indians on the Orinoco call five 'one hand' and ten 'two hands.' But they use their feet as well and call fifteen 'whole foot,' 'sixteen,' 'one to the other foot,' and twenty 'one man.' This plan becomes very complicated with higher figures, for twenty-one is 'one to the hand of the next man.'

The African savages count in much the same way. The Zulu for six, is 'tatisitupa,' which means 'taking the thumb,' that is, the man who is counting has used the five fingers of one hand, and is beginning to use the second hand, starting at the thumb.

Some races use the joints of the finger instead of the fingers themselves, and they are very badly off, for they can only count up to three.

Some Australian tribes count thus--one, two, two-one, two-two, and can go no further. Other races have only three words, 'one,' 'two,' 'a great many.'

But savages sometimes use other things for counting than fingers or joints. Our own word 'calculate' means 'working with pebbles.' One African tribe calls forty 'ogodze,' which means 'string,' because they use cowrie-shells strung together by forties for counting. Their name for hundred is 'yha,' which means 'heap'--that is, a heap of cowries.

'BILLIKINS.'

Billikins' father was a soldier, and Billikins' father had to go to war.

Billikins wondered why Mother looked so worn and sad, and why Daddy hugged and kissed him very much, one night, as he was going to bed; and why Father's face felt wet. The next morning, when he came to breakfast, no Father was there--only Mother, with tear-swollen eyes, who tried to smile at Billikins, and could not. He felt in his tender little heart that something was wrong, and so he just climbed on Mother's lap, and put both his arms round her neck. Mother pressed him tightly to her heart.

'Oh, little Billikins!' she said. 'Father's little Billikins!'

'Where's Father?' asked Billikins.

Mother began to cry bitterly. 'Father has gone away for a long, long time,' she said, as soon as she could speak.

'Has he gone to the war?' asked Billikins, in an awed voice.

'Yes, dear, to the war. It is very wrong of me to be so silly. I'm a soldier's wife, and I ought not to grudge my husband to his country. And remember, Billikins, you are a soldier's son--always remember that. You must never run away from a danger; you must face it. A soldier's son must be a brave man.'

'I shall not forget, Mother,' said Billikins.

Mother set him gently on the ground, dried her eyes, and began to bustle about.

'And a soldier's wife must be brave, too,' she said to herself.

For many, many weeks after that Billikins and his mother were very anxious, though Billikins tried his best to be cheerful, and not let Mother see that he felt sad. News came to them--sometimes, good news, and then Mother brightened.

At last, one happy day, they heard that the war was over.

'Father will be home soon,' said Billikins, joyfully.

'Yes, dear, thank Heaven, very soon now,' said Mother, and kissed him fervently.

As the time passed Mother grew more and more cheerful. The ship that was bringing Father home would soon be due.

'Billikins, do you think you can stay here alone, dear, while I go out and do a bit of shopping?' Mother asked one evening, and Billikins answered, 'Yes, Mother; I will be good while you are gone.'

Mother put on her bonnet and cape, took a basket, and sallied forth. Left alone, Billikins sat at the window, and gazed out at the busy street. There was a great deal of noise going on overhead. The Jones children, who lived in the 'flat' above, were always rather noisy. Billikins had seen Mrs. Jones go out with a basket some time ago, so he knew that they were all alone. Suddenly there was a great crash, a sound of breaking glass, and then wild screams of distress, which seemed to come from upstairs.

Billikins rushed out.

Two Jones children were flying wildly downstairs, while a third followed more slowly, crying and sobbing.

'What is the matter?' asked Billikins.

'Oh, oh, we have upset the lamp!' sobbed little Lizzie Jones. 'The rooms is on fire, it's all ablaze! What shall I do? What shall I do? I am so frightened!'

'Where's the baby?' gasped Billikins. He knew there was a Jones baby--a new and tiny one.

'Oh, I don't know! I don't know!' sobbed Lizzie. 'In the cradle, I think.'

Billikins simply tore upstairs. A great puff of smoke came out on the landing from the Jones's door, and nearly choked him. For an instant he hesitated; then he seemed to hear his mother's voice----

'Remember, Billikins, you are a soldier's son; you must never run away from danger, always face it.'

He rushed across the room, half-blinded by smoke, feeling the flames scorch him, he reached the cradle. The baby was in it. Already the flames were beginning to lick the sides. With a strong effort he lifted the baby, feeling the flames scorch his arms as he did so. Oh, the heat and the smoke that were stifling him! Would he ever reach the door? He staggered, and nearly fell.

'A soldier's son, a soldier's son,' seemed to ring in his ears. He staggered forward and reached the landing, to be caught in the arms of a splendid man in a brass helmet. And then all grew dark, and he knew no more.

When he woke he was lying on a strange bed, in a strange place; his head was bandaged all over the top, and his arms were all bandaged, too. He felt very weak.

'Where--am--I?' he said, feebly, and some one, in a white cap and a large white apron, came to the bedside and bent over him. 'Where--is--Mother?' said Billikins. 'And--who--are--you?'

'Mother will be here soon, and I am Nurse Katherine,' said a sweet voice, and a soft, cool hand was laid on Billikins' forehead.

He smiled gratefully, and then from sheer exhaustion he fell asleep.

When he woke again Mother was sitting by the bed, talking to Nurse Katherine.

'Yes, going on nicely,' he heard Nurse say. And--and--who was that sitting by the other side of the bed? A tall, bearded figure----

'Father!' cried Billikins, joyfully.

'My brave, brave boy!' said Father, and his voice was not quite steady. 'My own son! To think how nearly I lost him!'

Then remembrance came to Billikins. 'The baby?' he managed to say.

'The baby is safe, darling,' said Mother, from her side of the bed. 'Thanks to my brave little Billikins, who risked his life to go and fetch it.'

Billikins smiled feebly.

'I--was not--brave,' he said; 'I--only remembered--what you told me, that--I was--a--soldier's son.'

And he was so tired that he only wondered faintly why Father made a funny sound in his throat, as if he were choking, and why Nurse Katherine wiped her eyes.

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

VIII.--SOME MEN WHO WON THE BLESSING.

I leave the work with you,' said Livingstone in the Senate House at Cambridge, after speaking in burning words of the needs of Africa. He went back himself to the land from which he returned only to his grave in Westminster Abbey, and around the slab in the nave which bears his name, we read his words to those who should take up the work he left them: 'May Heaven's rich blessing come down on every one, American, English, Turk, who will help to heal this open sore of the world.'

The 'open sore' was the traffic carried on in those days, without let or hindrance, in the great slave-market of Zanzibar. The crowds of men, women, and children who were paraded up and down, examined, and bargained for, and then taken across to the clove plantations in Pemba, or kept as domestic slaves in Zanzibar, were brought from the interior by the Arabs, the great slave-dealers of East Africa. Sometimes a native village had been attacked and set on fire, some of the inhabitants shot down among their blazing huts, and the rest carried off. Sometimes the Arabs would settle for some time in a neighbourhood for elephant-hunting, and, when they had secured as much ivory as they required, would stir up a quarrel between two villages and offer their powerful aid to one side or the other, on condition of receiving all the prisoners in payment. Then came the horrible journey to the coast. The luckless slaves were yoked in gangs, often with their necks fastened into forked sticks. The sick or feeble, unable to keep up with the rest, were either killed or left to the mercy of wild beasts. Babies, whose mothers were hindered by their weight, were flung aside upon the terrible track. Those who reached the coast alive were packed in the hold of a slave-dhow, and, after enduring untold miseries upon the voyage, were sold in the market of Zanzibar. No wonder that the sight of such things as these roused the loving heart of Livingstone to a white heat of indignation, and sent him home to infect his countrymen with his own anger.

For some time the conscience of Christian Europe had been awakening to the duty of putting an end to these horrors, and, as in the case of the pirates of Algiers, it was England who first played the part of policeman. Early in 1873, Sir Bartle Frere was sent to Zanzibar to confer with the Sultan, Seyid Barghash, on the suppression of the slave-trade, and, a few months later, he was followed by six English men-of-war, reinforced by two French and one American ship. The effect of these nine good arguments for reform was that, on June 6th, 1873, a treaty was signed, by which the slave-traffic was abolished and the Zanzibar market closed for ever.

For years after that, however, the Arab dealers managed from time to time to evade the law, and to ship their cargo of miserable human beings, kidnapped from their homes on the mainland, from Zanzibar and Pemba. Therefore, there was plenty of work for the officers and men of H.M.S. London, appointed to watch the coast for slavers, and with authority to search suspected vessels. Many were the exciting chases and triumphant rescues made by the English sailors; many, too, the disappointments when the dhow proved to be empty, the slaves having been hastily smuggled on shore and hidden among the undergrowth till the search was over. As a rule the Arabs, though expert in tricks and shifts, did not offer armed resistance, but now and again they showed fight, and the rescue of their captives cost the life of more than one brave Englishman.

In 1881 the gallant Captain Brownrigg was killed in a struggle with an Arab slaver, owing chiefly to his own punctilious respect for the French flag under which the dhow was sailing. Not wishing to begin hostilities, he came alongside the Arab without arming his men, who were powerless to make any resistance when boarded by the enemy. The Captain, who wore his sword, kept up a gallant fight single-handed, even killing one man with his telescope before he fell at last bleeding from twenty wounds.

Six years later a pinnace from H.M.S. Turquoise, with Lieutenant Fegan in command, was watching the creeks and bays running up into the coast of Pemba Island. At daybreak one May morning, a dhow was seen making for an opening known as Fungal Gap, and the dinghy, or small boat, with three men, was sent to hail her. The dhow replied by a volley, and, as Lieutenant Fegan turned his nine-pounder gun upon her, she left the small boat and bore down upon the pinnace. The Arab crew numbered twenty desperate men armed with swords and rifles; the Englishmen were ten, of whom three were in the dinghy, but Lieutenant Fegan, shouting to his lads to stand firm, led a gallant resistance to the fierce, dark-faced men who sprang upon the deck as the two boats crashed together. Two men he shot down, and ran another through with his cutlass before he received a severe wound, disabling his sword-arm. Only the timely help of a sailor, who cut down his opponent, saved him from being killed outright. The dhow, finding the pinnace a tougher vessel than she had anticipated, tried to escape, but the English, though four of their number were wounded, at once gave chase, and were presently reinforced by the men in the dinghy.

Some of the Pemba Arabs, hearing the shots, came down to the shore and fired upon the pinnace, but the gallant vessel held on to her prize until the dhow foundered at last in shallow water and capsized, the crew jumping into the sea and trying to save themselves by swimming. Their well-wishers on the shore were soon dispersed by the English fire, and those of the crew who were not utterly disabled by their wounds, turned to the task of rescuing the living cargo of the dhow. The wretched slaves, crowded together in the hold and terrified by the firing, saw the kindly faces of the English sailors looking down upon them, and learnt by degrees that they were safe and among friends.

It was ten days before a doctor could be had to attend to the wounded; one man died, but the gallant fight had won freedom for fifty-two slaves, and in many cases not only freedom, but teaching and training such as they would never have had but for their short, bitter experience of captivity and the rescue that had ended it. The Universities' Mission was the direct result of Livingstone's appeal to the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge; it offered to take charge of slave children released in Zanzibar, and in the girls' school at Mbweni, the Boys' Home at Kilmani, and the College for elder lads at Kiungani, a new generation was growing up of children saved from degradation and misery for a happy, useful Christian life.

And the most striking sign of the change that has been worked, is the scene which now meets the eye of the visitor to Zanzibar when he seeks the site of the old slave-market. The ground was bought by a member of the Universities' Mission, and upon the spot once given over to injustice and cruelty arose the stately Cathedral of Zanzibar: a church full of memories, where Bishop Steere was master-builder, watching over the mixing of the mortar and the laying of the stones, studying brick-making in England that he might put it into practice in East Africa. It was he who suggested the material for the roof--pounded coral, of which the island of Zanzibar actually consists, mixed with Portland cement and forming a solid arch across the church.

'It is supported by charms until the opening day,' said the Arabs; 'then it will fall and crush the Christians.' But the roof of Zanzibar Cathedral stands sure and firm after twenty-six years, and on the opening day, Christmas 1879, the hymns, 'Hark, the herald angels sing,' and 'While shepherds watched their flocks by night,' were sung in the native tongue on the spot where men had bought and sold their brethren, and as the 'up-and-down music' of chiming bells greets the traveller from the Cathedral tower, it will bring to his mind many a brave name among clergy, teachers, sailors and statesmen who took their part in 'healing the open sore of the world.'

MARY H. DEBENHAM.

SAVED BY A GIPSY.

The late Archduke Joseph of Austria was fond of telling a story of how he bad been saved from disaster by a gipsy soldier.

It happened during the war with Prussia, in 1866, when the camp was pitched near a Bohemian village. A little before dawn the Duke was awakened by the sentry's challenge, 'Halt! who goes there?' and directly afterwards an adjutant came in to say that a gipsy was outside, and insisting on speaking to him in private.

The gipsy was a soldier, and on his being admitted, the Archduke asked him what he had to say.

'The enemy is stealing on us, and wishes to surprise us,' was the man's answer.

'But the outposts have seen nothing suspicious,' said the Archduke.

'No, your Highness,' said the gipsy, 'because the enemy is still far off; but he will soon be here, and then we are undone.'

'Well! but how do you know this?'

'Will your Highness step to the window?' said the soldier respectfully. 'Do you see the number of birds flying out of the woods to the south?'

'I see them--but what then?' said the Duke.

'What then?' repeated the gipsy, looking full at the Archduke; 'do not birds sleep at night as well as men? They would not be on the wing if there was peace in the forest. The enemy is certainly coming through the woods, and that is what has scared the birds.'

So the Archduke gave orders to strengthen the outposts and to rouse the camp, and when the foe arrived, they found--not a sleeping camp, as they had expected, but an enemy well prepared to give them a warm welcome.

The camp had been saved by the intelligence of the gipsy soldier.

'FIRE!'

Calm and still the waves are lapping, Silvered by the moon's pale light, As the noble ship glides onward In the silence of the night; While the exile, home returning, Dreaming of his heart's desire, Starts from slumber, rudely wakened By the dreadful cry of 'Fire!'

In the smoke and din and turmoil, There the captain takes his stand; 'First the women and the children,' Clearly rings his stern command. Boats are manned, and strong arms rowing, Bring them safely to the shore, Where kind hands are stretched to greet them, Safe from danger, home once more!

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

VIII--THE FORTH BRIDGE.

The mouth of the Forth has very nearly bitten Scotland in two, and anybody who wishes to travel from Edinburgh to Dunfermline would have to go a long way round if they objected to crossing the river. Formerly a great many people did object to this, because they knew that, although the voyage was only about a short mile, the great billows from the North Sea would meet them before it was over, and give them a very unpleasant time. So everybody who had anything to do with the Forth was willing that it should be spanned by a reliable bridge, and plans for carrying this into effect were frequently proposed. Indeed, arrangements were almost completed in 1879 for building a huge suspension bridge from shore to shore. The drawings were made, the estimates prepared, and the spades and trowels even beginning to work on the foundations, when, one sad December night, a terrible gale arose. All through the hours of darkness it roared and shrieked across the British Isles, working havoc upon sea and land, but, when morning came at last, few were prepared for the appalling catastrophe it had caused. Sweeping up the Firth of Tay, it had torn away a portion of the great railway bridge that crossed the inlet, and hurled it into the water. A train was passing over at the time, and plunged into the abyss with all its passengers. The terrible event shook public confidence, and we might almost say that the gale of that December night caught all the drawings and papers connected with the proposed suspension bridge over the Forth, and swept them from public favour.

Immediately afterwards, Sir John Fowler and Mr. Benjamin Baker (both celebrated engineers) came forward with an alternative plan of which no one could doubt the strength. It may perhaps be described as an arch-suspension bridge, because the design includes the strength of both styles; but engineers themselves call it a cantilever bridge.

Work was begun in earnest in June, 1883, and the first passenger train crossed from shore to shore in March, 1890. At the place chosen for its erection, the river is one mile and one hundred and fifty yards wide. Nearly in the middle of the stream there is a rocky island called Inchgarvie, and on this the great striding giant would have to plant one of its ponderous feet. But Inchgarvie was private property, and trespassers were likely to be prosecuted. So the stepping-stone for the giant to place its foot upon could not be laid there until the island had been bought and paid for. This being done, a huge caisson, similar to those which we have seen sunk under the piers of Brooklyn Bridge, was floated out to the island, and there lowered on to the rock under water, and firmly bedded. It was followed by three others, forming, as it were, the four corners of an oblong, which is two hundred and seventy feet long and one hundred and twenty wide. Eight more caissons were built, four for each side of the river, and these were sunk on to beds of firm clay, some of them being as much as seventy feet below the surface of the water. On each caisson a stone pier was built to take the iron columns of the main structure, and thus we see the bridge was to cross the mile-wide river in three strides. Starting from the southern shore at Queensferry, the first group of four stepping-stones lie six hundred and eighty feet away. Then comes a leap of one thousand seven hundred feet to the four on the island of Inchgarvie, followed by a similar bound to the four near the northern bank, and then a half-stride again of six hundred and eighty feet to land.

The three sets of caissons once being in their places, and the stone piers built on top of them, people at last began to see the beginning of the Forth Bridge. From each of the four piers in each group there slowly rose a huge steel tubular column, twelve feet in diameter, each pair leaning inwards, so that though at their bottoms they stood one hundred and twenty feet away from the pair on the opposite side (that being the width of the base of the bridge), the head of both pairs were only separated by a distance of thirty-three feet. This was done to afford greater resistance to the wind. Each group of four columns forms what are called the towers, and rises to a height of three hundred and thirty feet. They are firmly braced together by tie-girders and cross tubes nearly as large as themselves. They were erected section by section, rivets and hammers being used instead of trowel and mortar. Scarcely were their summits united when, from their feet, there began to spring on either side the great tubes forming the lower part of the arch. In the cantilever construction, the bridge grows right and left from its piers at the same moment, because balance must be maintained. As the lower arched tubes just mentioned stretched further over the water, sloping girders started downward from the tower top to meet them, and they were soon connected by lighter cross-ties. Tubes were used for the arch because they are best suited to bear the compression strain caused by a train passing over the bridge. The girder form was chosen to stretch downward from the tower top because it is better able to bear the tension or pulling strain. They together form what is called a cantilever; if you lay the letter V on its side, the open end will represent roughly the place where the arch and girders start from the tower. Thus we see how the two strengths of suspension--cable and arch are combined in the Forth Bridge.

When the sets of cantilevers from the grouped piers had grown out toward one another till they were separated by only three hundred and fifty feet, the gap was spanned by a connecting girder, the joints between it and the cantilever being sufficiently loose to allow of the expansion and contraction of the great bridge with the changes of temperature.

The two 'skeleton towers' on the north and south sides of the river are not so wide as the one on Inchgarvie, because their shoreward cantilevers are supported on strong stone buttresses, whereas the Inchgarvie cantilevers are both stretched out to the connecting girders only. The broader base helps to prevent the bridge see-sawing when a heavy train goes over it, and it is further assisted by the landward ends of the other two cantilevers being heavily loaded. This prevents them 'tipping up' when the train has crossed the first tower on its way across the river.

It is easy to understand that such a mighty work was not accomplished without great danger, and it is surely a wonder that the knowledge of this danger did not make the workmen careful. Yet frequent accidents occurred entirely through their indifference to peril.

On one occasion a company of riveters were working on a platform which was being slowly raised to the summit of one of those lofty towers. Suddenly the winch at the top, by which they were being hoisted, refused to act, and instead of looking down to ascertain the cause, the men continued to force the handle of the winch round till the toothed wheel broke. Down went the platform with its gang of workers, crashing from girder to girder, and striking other men headlong into the air, to be killed or wounded among the network of girders far below. This terrible accident caused the death of three people. A constant source of mishap was the thoughtless dropping of tools from great heights, and no appeals would induce the men to lay their implements down instead of throwing them from them as soon as done with. The authorities themselves did all they could to preserve the health of their men. Warm clothing was supplied to them, and even warm food and shelter were to be found on the summits of those windy towers, and out on the ends of the cantilevers over the icy river. Portable stoves in small kitchens were built in the most precarious positions, and a man could dine there as comfortably on a stormy day as in his own home.

Those who are fond of figures will be interested to learn that this enormous structure weighs fifty-one thousand tons, and is held together by nearly seven million rivets. It cost three million pounds, almost enough, one would think, to cast the stepping stones on which it rests in solid gold.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 235.)

On her return, Mrs. Wright found Estelle calmer; still very shaky, and with tears but half dried, but ready to listen to reason. Jack was assuring her there was nothing to be afraid of: that nothing could or would happen to her in his absence. The cavern passages and chambers were absolutely empty, and securely shut up by doors and iron gates. It was foolish to be so frightened about mere fancies.

Mrs. Wright gave her some of the cordial, and said she had better come to bed. She would soon forget her terrors in a sound, healthy sleep, and in the morning Goody would take her down to watch the boats come in, and Jack along with them. She should see all the beautiful fish they brought, and choose what she liked for their supper.

Estelle made no reply. She stood leaning against Goody, but her eyes were fixed with the same terror on Jack, as when he gathered up his things, and prepared to start.

'You are really going?' she began, her voice quivering, and the tears welling up again.

'Hush, my dear,' said Mrs. Wright, holding her tight in her motherly arms. 'I'll take right good care of you.'

'That she will,' said Jack, heartily.

Embracing his mother, and with a touch of his hand on Estelle's head, he smiled down into her tearful eyes, and was gone.

Great indeed was the blank he left behind him! Knowing from sad experience the perils of the toilers of the sea, Mrs. Wright never saw her son depart without anxiety and dread; and to-night, as if to make matters worse, the rain was coming down heavily, and the sighing of the wind was not promising. But it did no good to stop and think, and there was plenty to do.

'Come, dear,' she said, choking down the lump in her throat, 'it won't do to sit down and mope. That's not the way to bear our sorrows. You must think your fears are nothing to matter, with me here to defend you. Come along to bed now. That's the first thing to think about.'

Estelle obeyed, only begging Goody not to leave her.

Nevertheless, the evening's excitement left its trace. Estelle tossed about some time before she could get any sleep, and when at last she fell into a feverish doze, her dreams were distressing. She was back again in the long passage of the ruined summer-house. Behind her was the closed door, all around her fell the earth and stones from the roof, while the continual drip of water filled her ears. She was quite alone--every one had forgotten her--no, no! she heard footsteps running. The bay of mastiffs came near; they were on the track of two men, of Thomas (though she could not remember his name); and she was in front, her feet too heavy to run, the way too long and dark for any hope of escape. She heard the ripple of the sea; and then she was in a boat, and saw herself falling, falling--the cruel water swallowing her up.

She sat up with a stifled scream.

Mrs. Wright, who was sound asleep, woke with a start, and hastening to her, made her lie down, soothing her, and assuring her it was only a nightmare.

Again Estelle sank into a sleep. She was in a large library, the room was surrounded by book-shelves, the backs of the books glistened in the ruddy firelight. All around spoke of luxury and comfort. She was sitting on the hearthrug, her head against the knee of--whom? A gentleman was stroking her hair, and she heard him say, 'It is the sweetest name on earth to me, my darling.' What name? She was sure he pronounced it, but no sound seemed to come from his lips. Weeping, she entreated, oh, if she could only hear that name! It was her own. She felt sure of that, but she could not tell what it was. She looked up to ask again, but the gentleman was gone. There was a sweet old lady sitting in an armchair, surrounded by four children. They had been having tea on the lawn. Before them was a wide stretch of green grass ending at the lily-pond; yellow and white blossoms dotted the calm water, and swans were pluming their wings in the summer sun. The lady was telling the children a story--something sad, something that contained a great lesson, and Estelle tried with all her might to hear what that story was. It seemed quite natural that she should be there; the old lady and the children appeared to be connected with her in some close way. She tried to touch the lady to ask her name, but she could not.

A sense of misery overcame her. She appealed in vain to be heard, but the old lady went on with her story, and the four children listened very gravely and sadly. Throwing herself back upon the grass, she sobbed till a voice said, 'Come, come, Missie, don't take on like that.' The lady, the children, the garden had gone, and she was in a strange place, surrounded by dirty people, men, women, and children, and still more dirty stalls of toys and sweets. Jack held her hand, and pointed out a big flaring painting on the front of a marquee, but as she looked a face peeped out from between the canvas curtains, and, terrified, she clung to Jack's hand, for it was the face of the man after whom the mastiffs had been running. He grinned recognition at her, he nodded, and, coming out of the marquee, advanced towards her.

Trembling with terror, Estelle awoke. Daylight was struggling through the window, Mrs. Wright was beginning to move about, and Estelle herself was safe and sound in her own little bed.

'Your bath will be ready in a couple of minutes, dear.'

Estelle made no answer. Hastening to her, Mrs. Wright was much disturbed to see the condition she was in. There was no getting up that day. The horrors of her dreams had exhausted her, and she lay white and wan, scarcely opening her eyes. She was able neither to talk nor to eat, only wanting to lie still, and see her dear Goody close to her.

Coming home at noon, Jack was horrified to hear the news.

'We forget how young she is, and talk too much of these caves and such things,' he said.

Towards evening, however, Estelle became better. The sense of safety, now that Jack had returned, was comforting. She would not think of that long row of empty chambers in the cliff which had once been full of the sick and dying.

A good sleep that night restored her. She was able not only to get up as usual, but accepted Jack's offer to take her with him when he went to do the marketing for his mother. The change of scene, he thought, would do her good; so would the walk in the fresh air and sunshine. Accompanying them the whole length of the terrace, Mrs. Wright stood smiling and nodding as they looked up at her at every turn of the path, till the trees hid her from their sight.

(Continued on page 254.)

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO

True Tales of the Year 1806.

VIII.--THE CLOWN'S PET BEAR.

The chief attraction of the Royal Circus, London, in the year 1806, was the clever performances of a young black bear belonging to one of the clowns--Mr. Bradbury. This bear was so tame that it had travelled from Liverpool to London with its master on the top of the coach, and had made great friends with its fellow-travellers.

After the bear had gone through its performances at the circus, its master used to reward it by taking the docile beast to a coffee-house, and here it would sit amongst the company with a tall hat on its head, and eat and drink in a truly dignified fashion.

This bear was never muzzled, for it was so gentle that the children of the neighbourhood would fearlessly romp and play with it, and it was so devoted to its master that it would follow him about like a dog.

There came a day, however, when Mr. Bradbury was suddenly summoned to Manchester, and during his absence he left the bear in charge of a man who promised to take good care of it. This promise he did not keep. The poor animal was shamefully neglected, and kept so short of food that hunger drove it at last to desperation, and one night, breaking loose from its chain, it made its way into a yard and killed a dog.

The piteous howls of the dog aroused the neighbourhood and brought several people to the spot. The first was one of the carpenters of the circus; the bear instantly pounced on him, but the man, with a sudden wrench, shook himself free,--leaving his coat behind him, however. The bear next attacked a goat, and then, seeing a boy of about thirteen amongst the crowd (for boys a hundred years ago were always foremost in a crowd, as they are to-day) the infuriated animal pursued him, overtook him, and fastened upon him from behind, with its two paws on his shoulders; and before a spectator with a gun managed to shoot the bear, the poor lad was almost scalped.

He was at once taken off to the hospital, and, in time, recovered from his injuries; but when Mr. Bradbury returned from Manchester, all that was left of his pet was the shaggy skin and a large supply of pots of bear's grease in a neighbouring hairdresser's window.

ABOUT THE ASH.

Some of our well-known trees have a long and curious history belonging to them: the Oak, Elder, and Willow are good examples, but perhaps the Ash excels all others in its remarkable history. It is a tree often found growing on a ridge or hill by itself, and therefore exposed to storms, which it withstands wonderfully. Though in former days it was held to be a sacred or lucky tree, people believed that it attracted the lightning--no doubt a solitary ash has been sometimes struck. The wood is valuable for its toughness; it seldom splinters, and will bear a greater weight than the wood of most other trees. In the olden time, the Romans made from it spears and ploughs, and the Greeks also used it for several purposes. Hop-poles are chiefly manufactured from ash saplings in England; tables and pails of ash are also fairly common.

In some years much harm is done to ash-trees by a caterpillar which bores into the wood; when full-grown, the insect turns into a handsomely spotted moth, which is called the Leopard, from its markings. To Eastern folk the ash was a notable tree, because of a legend that it was the first tree under which Adam, the father of mankind, sat. Our northern ancestors also thought much of this tree, because it would thrive in exposed places, where few others could make progress. An old woodcut shows women working along the fields, while their babies or young children were hanging in baskets upon the branches of an ash. The reason for this was that the tree had the fame of keeping off snakes, and also of protecting persons from witches. About the thorpes and granges of the old Anglo-Saxons the ash was common, the tree being sacred and a favourite. Even now we see many a group of knotted ash-trees on Hampshire hills and Devonshire moors.

About some parts of the West of England they burn ash foggots at Christmas, to keep in memory, it is said, a cold winter when King Alfred and his soldiers were marching through the country and had to warm themselves by fires of ash-wood.

Some people used to wear the flowers of the ash, commonly called 'kegs,' in their hats or coats, owing to a belief that they kept away diseases, and a medicine was prepared from them by the old herbalists. Evelyn, who lived in the seventeenth century, says that some people pickled them for salad. Search used to be made upon the twigs for a double leaf, for if one was discovered it was supposed to bring good luck to the finder. Sometimes, when a child had a painful illness, people split a pollard ash down the middle, the two parts were held back, the child was passed through the opening, and then the tree was tied up again. Ash-trees that have been cut in this way to get a cure are still to be seen here and there about the country. There are also noticeable shrew-trees, as they are called, in which a hole had been cut to receive a shrew mouse, owing to an old notion that, by being hidden there, this little animal cured the sick cows.

'If the oak is out before the ash, 'Twill be a summer of wet and splash; But if the ash is before the oak, 'Twill be a summer of fire and smoke.'

The summer of 1903, for instance, was certainly one of 'wet and splash,' with little of the heat implied by the 'fire and smoke;' but was the oak first, then, to put forth new leaves? It is said that the two trees leafed at nearly the same time, both being backward owing to the cold spring. But there is another version of the rhyme which gives the last three words as 'souse and soak.'

* * * * *

Reading is the cheapest of all amusements, and the most lasting.

NOT GUILTY.

'Douglas, I want you.'

Douglas jumped up obediently from the kitchen floor, where he was bathing a wound in his terrier's side. He followed his father into the study, and Bully the terrier followed at his heels.

A red-faced man stood in the door, and Douglas guessed what was wrong.

'That's him,' almost shouted the visitor. Bully crept closer to Douglas' side, and bared two teeth, for it was to him the farmer alluded.

'It wasn't,' said Douglas, and his face grew as red as if it were he who was accused of some crime. 'He has been with me all the time. He has not touched anything of yours.'

'He knows, you see, mister,' said the man slily, 'knows all about it before a word's said. If that was my boy---- '

Douglas' father interrupted. 'A moment, please,' he said. 'Listen to me, Douglas. Mr. Wilkins says that your dog and you, too, were in his yard a few days ago. Is that so?'

'Yes, Father,' said Douglas, 'the cowboy threw mud at me, and I went over to thrash him.'

'Trespassing,' said the farmer, 'and the lad rolled him in the mud for his pains.'

'He is bigger than I, a lot,' said Douglas; 'I didn't see him properly till after I had hit him once.'

'Well, my lad has seen him in the yard once before--the dog I mean, not you, boy; and I have missed three chickens this week, and that's the dog which took them. It ought to be shot.'

Douglas' hand tightened on his friend's collar, and his face whitened. 'It's not true,' he said. 'Bully is an awfully good dog. He never touches anything; he wouldn't even touch my rabbits if they were loose.'

So far as looks went, Bully came short of this good reputation. His face was villainous-looking, and a wound on one side, and sundry scratches on his nose did not add to his beauty.

'I have paid for those chickens, Douglas,' said his father, when the angry farmer had gone away. 'I don't suppose it was Bully, but as he is so much at large, we must take Mr. Wilkins's word for it. In future he must be kept under control.'

Several weeks passed without any further complaint. Bully spent all his time, when Douglas was at school, on his chain by the back-door, an injustice which the boy resented as bitterly as the dog.

After an interval of this restraint the discipline was gradually relaxed, and Bully at times was allowed his usual freedom.

Douglas was scarcely surprised when the farmer appeared at their house again, this time with his enemy the cowboy.

'Here sir,' Farmer Wilkins hailed the boy, 'that dog of yours has made away with four as nice pullets as ever I saw.'

'I don't believe it,' said Douglas, bluntly.

'Well, here is my boy. Saw the dog in the yard, didn't you, boy?'

'Yes, I did, said the boy. 'I saw it with my own eyes, slinking away in the dusk.'

'Are you sure?' asked Douglas's father.

'Quite sure, sir,' answered the boy.

'I have never caught him telling lies,' said the man. 'I would take his word before your boy's.'

The upshot of it was that the chickens were again paid for, and Bully the favourite--Bully, who was almost one of the family--was condemned to go. Douglas polished his coat-sleeve with some salt tears in private, and Bully poked him all over with his damp cool nose, as if he guessed that something was wrong.

Towards evening, Douglas went out, taking Bully with him. He thought he would see for himself if Bully would try to take the chickens, and with this idea, went up the garden to a place overlooking the farm hen-roost. The chickens were chirping and snuggling on their perches, and he felt sure that Bully was innocent, for he did not even prick an ear at the sound.

As he stood there, somebody came quietly up the yard.

'The boy, to shut up for the evening,' thought Douglas, for he knew that at this time the farmer was generally out with the milk. But when they came nearer he saw that there were two people, the cowboy and a man with a bag.

Douglas tightened his hold on the dog's collar to cut short a growl, and listened with all his ears, as the lad went into the shed, and some squawking and fluttering went on.

'I daren't take more than one,' he said; 'and it is the last time. I have been putting it on the dog over yonder, and they are getting rid of it now.'

The man looked annoyed. 'Make it half a dozen, if it's the last time,' he said. 'I can't give you more than sixpence for that one. It's not worth coming up here for.'

Douglas loosened Bully's collar.

'Watch him,' he said, and Bully needed no second telling, managing to keep the tail of his eye on the frightened cowboy as well as on the stranger with the bag.

'You wicked boy,' said Douglas. 'It was you that stole the chickens. I heard everything you said.'

'I will never do it again,' cried the boy, blubbering. 'Don't tell Master, young gentleman, it won't happen again.'

'No, that it won't,' put in a new voice, as Farmer Wilkins arrived unexpectedly on the scene. 'I will take good care of that. Call your dog off, if you please, Master Douglas; I don't much like the looks of him.'

Douglas secured Bully, and the farmer seized the dishonest cowboy by the collar. The stranger was quick to take advantage of the moment, and before anybody could say 'knife,' he had slipped behind the barn, and away over the fields.

'Let him go,' said the farmer, who was too fat to want to run. 'He has had a fright. As for you.' turning to the cowboy, 'I have an account to settle with you, before I send you off. I am much obliged to you, young sir,' he said, turning to Douglas, 'and very sorry for the trouble you have been caused.'

'Well, look here,' said Douglas, 'will you do something to oblige me?'

'Why, yes,' said the farmer.

'I wish you would let him off pretty easily. You won't send him away, will you?'

'I just will,' said the man, hotly; 'and give him up to the police too.'

'Oh, please, don't do that,' Douglas, pleaded, 'to oblige me. Give him one more chance.'

Farmer Wilkins scratched his head.

'It's perfectly ridiculous,' he said; 'but there, seeing that you have got a say in the matter, so to speak, I don't know but what--'

And the cowboy gave Douglas such a grateful look that he could not help feeling that there was still some hope of his turning out all right in the end.

'You see,' Douglas afterwards explained to his father, 'I felt so awfully glad when I found that I should not have to send Bully away, that I didn't want to pay the boy out in the least. And I think it would do him more good to be forgiven than if he was sent to prison, don't you.' And Father thought it would.

MOVABLE ROOFS.

The roof is by far the most important part of the houses or huts of savages. It is the part upon which most labour is spent, and it is the part which is taken most care of when the whole house is finished. Many huts are, in fact, little more than a roof borne up by a few posts. A native house in Samoa is simply a great dome-shaped roof resting upon a ring of posts which are only about four feet high, and supported by three central posts which are as much as twenty-five feet high. When seen from a distance the house looks like an enormous mushroom just rising from the ground.

The making of the roof is the great task in building one of these houses, and the Samoans think so much of their roofs that in times of war they have been known to take them off their posts, and carry them away to some place which was safe from attack. The roofs are very large, but they are so constructed that they can be taken down in three or four pieces, and each of these may be placed upon a raft made of canoes, and carried away by sea.

Although it would perhaps be difficult to find movable roofs so large as these in other countries, there are many houses in Africa which are constructed in a similar way, and are little more than roofs resting upon a few posts, from which they can be easily removed. Dr. Livingstone saw a great many of them in the heart of Africa, and the villagers, with whom he and his men stayed for the night, frequently took off the roofs of their huts, and lent them to the travellers. As soon as the natives learned where Livingstone had decided to encamp, they lifted off the roofs of some of their huts and brought them to him. Livingstone's men propped up the roofs with a number of small posts, and the houses were made. The roofs kept off the rain, and in that warm country no other shelter was needed. On one occasion it rained so heavily that the water flowed in along the ground, and flooded the travellers' beds. To prevent such an accident occurring again, Livingstone made his men in future dig a trench round the hut, and throw the earth inwards to raise the ground under the roof. By this means the rain-water was caught in the trench, and the beds lay high and dry upon the raised floor of the hut. When the travellers moved onward to another village, they left the roofs just as they were, and the villagers put them back in their proper places at their leisure. The roofs were always lent by the natives without any expectation of receiving payment for their use, though I have no doubt that the noble-minded missionary never forgot to reward them.

When Speke, a traveller who discovered one of the sources of the Nile, was returning homeward, and passing through the country of the Madi, near the head of the Albert Nyanza, he saw similar huts to those which I have just described. In one of his books there is an amusing picture of a Madi village removing. The greatest burden is a conical roof, which four men are carrying on their heads. Other men and women are carrying a few sticks or baskets, but the all-important thing is the roof. These roofs are easily lifted from their posts, and Speke once saw a number of Turkish traders take off the roofs of a village without permission, and carry them off to make a camp for themselves.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

9.--WORD CHANGES.

1.--A committee of management, Curtail--and find a wild animal. Behead and curtail--a kind of pole. Transpose--wide, extensive, liberal.

2.--The end of being. Behead and curtail--to do that without which we cannot be. Transpose--thoroughly disliked.

3.--A borderland--measured movement. Behead--a curved stone structure. Behead and curtail--a part of a circle. Transpose--an irresistible power to please.

C. J. B.

10.--MESOSTICH.

The central letters read downwards will give the name of a fragrant flower.

1. A fair woman, who was the cause of much warfare. 2. A wrong and illegal act. 3. A celebrated physician. 4. A continuous line of cars. 5. A philosopher and essayist.

C. J. B.

[Answers on page 286.]

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLE ON PAGE 214.

8.--1. Alcester. 2. Camberwell. 3. Dunfermline. 4. Doncaster. 5. Dursley. 6. Middlesex.

THE COUNT AND THE DOVE.

Count Zinzendorf was a great German noble who did a great deal of good in the world. One day, when he was a boy, he was playing with his hoop near the banks of a deep river, and he spied a dove struggling in the water. By some means the poor bird had fallen into the river, and was unable to escape.

The little Count quickly rolled down a washing-tub, which had been left near the water's edge, jumped into it, and, though generally very timid on the water, by the help of a stick he managed to steer himself to the place where the dove lay. With the bird in his hand, he guided the tub back, and got safely to land. Then he set the bird free.

'Were you not afraid?' asked his mother, when she heard of it.

'Yes, I was,' he answered, 'but I could not bear that the dove should die. You know, Mother, its little ones might have been watching for it to come home!'

THE LITTLE BLIND LINNET.

I have a linnet small and brown, And I to it am kind, Because it must be sad at heart, For it is quite, quite blind.

Oh! only think what it must be Never to see the flowers, And never see the sky and trees, In golden summer hours.

But still my linnet sweetly sings A rippling, happy song, As though its tiny heart o'erflowed With joy the whole day long.

And so, whenever I am cross, And tears fall like the rain, Oh! when I hear my linnet sing, It makes me good again!

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 247.)

A very pretty little fishing village is Tout-Petit. The deep blue sea, the green hills, and the tiny red-roofed, white-walled hamlet straggling down to the port made it very quaint. A rivulet, spanned by a cranky bridge, swept round the base of the hill to the left, and down the centre of the village street, till it found its way into the sea at the harbour. There were shady paths close to the shore, little knots of silver poplar and birch, winding walks among the rocks and on the smooth sands. The port was full of brown sails and tall masts; the air redolent of tar and sea-weed. When the fishing boats spread their canvas and glided out one by one into the open sea, the scene was enchanting. At the top of the hill was the Grande Place, where stood the ancient church, the market-place, the municipal buildings, and the houses of the better class.

It was at the top of the hill, where there was a great stone cross, that the women and children collected to watch for the returning boats. It was to this old cross that the homeward-bound mariner first turned his eyes. He knew that his dear ones were standing there waiting, longing for him.

Estelle was charmed with the village, and with the many kindly greetings she received from the peasant folk. All seemed glad to see her, the market-women even pressing an apple or a few plums on her. They, on their side, were delighted with her graceful manner and her excellent French. They seemed to know all about her.

Madame Bricolin, busy over the important business of buying a chicken, vegetables, and fruit for M. le Curé's table, found time to draw her master's attention to the child. The old man was coming down the hill, but he stopped to look at the fair-haired, slender English child, whose high-bred, dainty little air, caused him to ponder. Who and what was she? He smiled when Mère Bricolin brought her to him, and put out his hand to greet her.

Estelle thought he had the kindest of faces, and accepted with joy his invitation to let Jack bring her one day to see him. At that moment the doctor, hastening across the Grande Place, caught sight of her.

'What!' he exclaimed, striking an attitude of surprise, as his face beamed in merriment on her; 'you here, my little patient! Come to life again all right, eh?'

'Have you tried to find out who your little friend is?' asked the Curé, turning to Jack while Estelle laughed with her old friend.

'She cannot remember the name, sir, yet,' replied Jack, 'so I don't know how to set about it. I have not the means to search without some clue. Anyhow, I thought we would wait till she is stronger. She's hardly up to a journey yet.'

'Journey!' cried the genial doctor, overhearing the last remark, 'who's going to take a journey? Not this little lady? No, no: not yet. We cannot lose our petite dame' (little lady) 'yet.'

'It can't be me,' said Estelle, her face clouding. 'I have nowhere to go.' Then the remembrance of her dreams returning to her mind, she added, 'At least, I can't think what my name is---- '

'All in good time--all in good time,' exclaimed the doctor hastily. 'Why, M. Jack and his mother are here to take care of you---- '

'And kind friends round you also, petite dame,' added the Curé, with his pleasant smile.

It seemed to soothe Estelle, and she went on with Jack, smiling too.

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

Chapter XIV

The excitement in Tout-Petit increased as the day of the fête drew near. The arrival of huge vans, decorated with gaudy colours and glaring pictures, was received by a crowd of all sorts and conditions of the peasant folk. This great fair was an annual business, and was held in April each year.

It was held in the great meadows beyond the village, where there was no limit to the space which it might occupy if its promoters chose to stretch it out--space for booths innumerable; space for the great circus, with its big tent for animals as well as men, women and children; space for the huge varieties of shows, and space enough and to spare--one would think--for the motley crowd to wander about in. Neighbours from all the country round visited the fête. The richer women, of all classes, secured lodgings. The poorer, who could not afford this luxury, procured rooms among friends. Others camped out all night with their husbands and sons, returning to their homes only when the very last van and show had disappeared.

All Tout-Petit collected to watch the putting up of the booths, the erection of the tents and marquees, and the getting into line of the menagerie. This part of the fête Mrs. Wright and Jack had wished to avoid. Jack would not have allowed Estelle to be exposed to the rough sights which were to be seen on such occasions. He was annoyed that the subject had been mentioned before her. He considered it wiser, however, to make no objection, as the idea had caught her fancy, and he and his mother would be there to protect her. Nevertheless, as the day drew near, he disliked the thought of the crowd more and more. The child might catch any sort of complaint, or meet with unhealthy adventures, or see cruel sights. But even these did not altogether account for the dislike he felt to taking her to the fête. After doing his best to get rid of his own fears, he resolved to consult his mother. She, after all, was a better judge than he. Since his great trouble he had shunned any large concourse of people. Rarely had he gone to any village festivity, though he had lived at Tout-Petit for many years. Mrs. Wright never cared for them either. Estelle's presence had brightened her up, however, and her opinion now appeared to have altered. She spoke of all there would be to see as if she quite looked forward to a bit of pleasure. The desire to please Estelle was of course the reason for this sudden change of mind. It was with some hesitation, therefore, that, Estelle having gone to bed, Jack broached the subject a few evenings before the fête.

'What can happen to the child?' asked Mrs. Wright, surprised. 'We will take care not to lose sight of her. There's plenty of room for stirring, and it won't be difficult to steer clear of the crowd. You are a tower of strength, Jack,' she added, with a proud look at him. 'With you as our guardian, we have no one to fear.'

Jack gave an uneasy laugh. 'I can't account for the misgiving I have,' he said, sighing.

'The child would be bitterly disappointed if we made difficulties now,' continued his mother, wondering what had suddenly made her son fanciful. He could not be afraid of meeting any of his own countrymen, could he? That was not likely. What did he fear then? Concluding that he was out of sorts, she did not encourage his talking more about the subject. She meant to go, she meant the child to enjoy herself for once in a way, and there was nothing in Jack's objections which could reasonably interfere with their intentions.

(Continued on page 262.)

THE CAPTAIN'S PUDDING.

The following story is told of an American captain and his mate. Whenever a plum-pudding was made, most of the plums, by the captain's orders, were put into one end of it, and that end was placed next the captain, who was rather a greedy and selfish man. The captain, after helping himself, passed it to the mate, who never found many plums in his portion.

After this trick had been played for some time, the mate coaxed the steward beforehand, and got him to place the plumless end next the captain. But the captain no sooner saw the pudding than he discovered that he had the wrong end of it.

Picking up the dish, he turned it about in his hands, as if examining the china.

'This dish,' he said, in a casual manner, 'cost me three shillings in Liverpool.' With these words he put down the dish, with the 'plummy' end of the pudding turned towards himself.

'Really,' said the mate, in his turn lifting the dish, 'I should not have thought it worth more than a shilling.'

Then, with apparent carelessness, he put down the pudding, with the plums towards himself.

The two men looked at one another. The captain laughed. The mate laughed.

'You have found me out!' said the captain. 'Well, we will cut the pudding lengthwise, and in future the plums shall be fairly distributed.'

FIRE PICTURES.

Watch the pictures in the fire; How they gleam and come and go, Making trees and birds and cows, And red houses in a row.

Did the fairies put them there When the coal was underground, So that we, at eventide, All their hidden treasures found?

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By HAROLD ERICSON.

VI.--HOW WE LEARNT SKI-RUNNING.

'I don't know whether any of you fellows have tried snowshoeing,' began Bobby on the following evening, when it was his turn to spin a yarn, 'ski-running, as they call it in Norway?'

'Yes,' said Ralph, 'I have. Why?'

'Well, I was thinking of telling you how I and another fellow, Billy Onslow, took it up one winter when I was in Russia. We--at least, I--had read about the competitions at Holmen Kollen, near Christiania, when the Norsemen have their annual fling for the great "ski-hop." Reading of this had caused me to have a great ambition to be able to shoot hills and precipices upon snowshoes as the Norse fellows do, and I persuaded Billy to be ambitious also, and to practise the things with me near St. Petersburg, where they use the same kind of snowshoes or ski' (pronounced shee).

* * * * *

My cousin Tom, being an expert snowshoe-runner, accompanied us to the country place where we should find slopes of every grade of difficulty, in order to show and explain how the thing was done.

'You may fall about a bit,' he said, 'at first, but you will soon learn to glide down a moderately steep hill-side safely enough. You won't be qualified to compete at Christiania this year though, Bobby, for it's an art that requires much practice before perfection is attained. One cannot do anything well that is worth doing,' added Tom, 'without a lot of trouble; that is a lesson one is constantly learning through life!'

Well, we found this true enough, for the ski-running gave us a lot of trouble, as Tom had hinted.

The shoes are peculiar-looking things. They are about six or seven feet in length, some four inches in width, and are made of thin, strong, seasoned wood, half an inch thick, running to a point in front, the 'toes' turning up, of course, for otherwise they would catch in the snow. One stands in the middle, inserting the foot in a strap, which closes round the instep. Then one slides along the surface of the snow in the best way one can--which, at first, is a very awkward way indeed.

We drove down to a shooting-lodge, near Lavrik, and then, having lunched, we called for snowshoes and strapped ourselves into them.

'Now then,' said experienced Tom, 'we will just walk off towards the gully, where there are some nice easy slopes for you to begin upon.'

With these words Tom glided away upon his shoes; it looked the easiest and most delightful thing in the world. Tom moved forward like a bird upon the wing, slid a dozen yards away, turned, and came back to us.

'Lovely, isn't it?' he said. 'Come along, just skate forward; keep the front part of the ski well apart, or the points will cross, and you will come to a sudden stop.'

Billy made a few awkward slides forward; one of his shoes went south-east and the other south-west; one of his feet left the earth as though it would soar heavenwards. Billy sat down with some violence.

'Here, I say, that won't do,' he observed.

'What made the things behave like that?' I said.

'Keep the ends apart'--Tom laughed--'but not so far as that; point them both the same way, but keep them six inches or so from one another.'

Billy got up and tried again. The points of his shoes now rushed towards one another like old friends who meet after long parting. Billy's progress was instantly checked, and he sprawled forward on his face in the most ignominious fashion.

Billy scrambled up awkwardly, for one of his ski would stand on the other and keep it down. He fell three times before he finally stood erect.

'You said it was so easy,' he said, reproachfully. 'Stop laughing, Bobby,' he added, 'and try yourself.'

I did so, profiting by Billy's experience, and slid carefully forward. Ten yards I covered in safety, then a small birch-tree suddenly rose up before me. I knew no way of giving it the go-by. I tried to guide myself to one side of it, and, lo! one snowshoe went to the right of the tree, the other to the left, and I found myself jammed against the trunk.

'I say, help!' I cried. 'Cut down the tree, or take me out of the snowshoes. I can't move!'

Tom shrieked with laughter; so did Billy, who ought to have known better.

'Try to back away from the tree,' Tom suggested.

I endeavoured to do so. This time the heel ends of the shoes crossed, and I sat down very suddenly, while Tom and Billy laughed even more rudely than before. I began to realise that the art of ski-running was not a perfectly easy one even upon the level. What would it be, I wondered, when we reached the hill-side?

Though the gentle slopes chosen by Tom for our first lesson were distant but a short mile from the lodge, I think we took at least three-quarters of an hour to reach the place. The pointed ends of our snowshoes--Billy's and mine--went exactly where they pleased. They behaved like ill-natured animated things, and did us all the harm they could. This was not much, of course, except to make us appear very ridiculous; but Billy and I soon got tired of laughing at one another, so that it did not matter after a while. But when we reached the hill-side, and made our first efforts to 'shoot' the slope, the real fun began.

Bill took the first attempt. Tom had shown us how it was to be done. He had poised himself upon the top of the hill like a bird about to take wing. He had allowed his ski to tip over the edge, and in an instant he was in full flight, going at nearly thirty miles an hour over the slippery, even surface of the snow, bending slightly forward, keeping his two shoes straight as arrows, and heading, true as a bullet, for the point which he had fixed upon.

'How easy it looks,' said Billy, 'and how delicious it must feel to go through the air like that, eh?'

I answered nothing, for I felt that what mattered most to me at present was whether the snow was nice and soft for the somersaults which I felt sure I was about to perform. No question for me, as yet, of a delightful thirty mile an hour excursion through air. I was going beneath the snow, and knew it.

However, Billy led off. Tom came back, and placed him carefully, saw that his snowshoes were straight at starting, gave him his final instructions. 'Don't bear too much forward, or you will over-balance. If you feel yourself going, sit down; that will save you a header under the snow; but you needn't be afraid of hurting yourself in any case, the snow is very soft.'

For a few moments I really thought Billy was about to pass through the ordeal with success. He glided down the first twenty yards of the hill in a manner which recalled the impression of 'easiness' which Tom's skill had aroused. Then something happened which inclined our poor William to direct his right snowshoe towards his left one. Instantly the left one, like an angry dog, resented the liberty, and turned upon its companion. They crossed; then disaster overtook William Onslow. For an instant he suggested a catherine-wheel at the Crystal Palace fireworks; he went three or four times head over heels, his snowshoes looking like the arms of a windmill as he went round. Then he stopped, and it seemed as though a sort of explosion had taken place. There was no sound, but the snow was cast up on all sides to a great height, and Billy disappeared. All that could be seen of our unfortunate William was the point of a snowshoe sticking out of his snow-grave, slowly waggling to and fro as though to remind us that Billy might still be found alive somewhere down below if any one thought it worth while to look for him.

Until I glanced at Tom's face, I felt anxious about Billy. Could he breathe down there? I wondered; and in how many pieces should we find the poor chap when we dug him up? But Tom was bent double with heartless mirth, and I concluded that probably he knew best about such disasters.

'Will he be all right?' I gasped.

'Rather,' Tom replied. 'He will struggle up in a minute.'

Billy did struggle up. There was a kind of upheaval in the white hill-side, and from the midst of the eruption appeared our William, gasping, angry, blinking, spluttering--snow in his mouth, in his nostrils, in his eyes. Snow filled his ears, his pockets, his boots; had crept between his neck and his collar; his hair was white with it, and in the midst of this mass of snowflakes blazed two angry eyes, which shot murderous glances at us because we laughed. Billy said nothing--he could not until he had got rid of the snow which filled his mouth. When he spoke at last he only gasped, 'All right, Bobby; your turn now. You will think it awfully funny when you have been buried alive in wet snow!'

'I'm sorry,' I said; 'but you did look so frightfully funny coming out of the hill-side in a kind of volcanic eruption.'

'Oh, don't mention it!' said angry William. 'I see Tom's amused too; I suppose he was never a beginner! Perhaps he will catch his foot in a root one of these times, and may I be there to see!'

We soothed him as best we could, but he informed me that the only consoling thing I could do would be to take my turn, while he watched. There was nothing for it. I braced myself up for the enterprise, took my position at the edge of the slope, adjusted the toes of my ski, and started.

Was I a bird in air? Oh, the delight of it, this rapid passing through crisp air! and how well I was doing it, ten--twenty--fifty yards in safety! Why, it was quite easy. How disappointed dear old Billy would be! Then, suddenly, a check, a whirl through the air, a sense of chill and suffocation, blindness, deafness. What had happened?--Where was I?--What was this hard thing in my mouth? Why was I standing on my head? Where on earth were my arms and legs?

I found all these useful members presently; I also discovered that I was chewing the end of one of my snowshoes. I seemed to spend a century in making these discoveries, but I believe it was in reality a short half-minute. Then I struggled up into the light of day. I spluttered the snow out of my mouth and looked around. One of my ski had finished the hill-shoot 'on its own,' and lay on the level far below. Close by stood Billy Onslow, behaving in a manner which provoked in me a momentary feeling of hatred for him. He was loudly roaring with laughter, doubling and undoubling himself in exaggerated mirth. I felt that the situation was not in the least funny, and that Billy was simply--and in very bad taste--taking his revenge.

And that was how we began to learn ski-running.

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

IX.--INSTRUMENTS OF PALESTINE.

In the Great Synagogue of Aldgate, in London, a very fine specimen of the Shophar or Ram's Horn is blown on New Year's Day, and on the Day of Atonement.

This particular kind of trumpet is interesting because it is the only known instrument used uninterruptedly from the earliest times to the present day.

The Shophar is first mentioned in the Old Testament, when the Lord descended upon Mount Sinai; it is frequently alluded to throughout the Bible, and takes a prominent place in the Vision of St. John, or Book of Revelation.

We must all remember, too, the description in Joshua of the downfall of Jericho, at which the mighty blast from the rams' horns, with the great shout of the Israelites, shook the walls to the ground and gave the stronghold to the conquerors.

Shophar is the Hebrew name for what is usually translated 'ram's horns.' It simply consists of a ram's horn flattened by the force of intense heat, and blown through a very small opening or mouthpiece.

Shells have in many nations been used in similar fashion, and to-day the ceremonies of the Buddhist religion are accompanied by the sound of these primitive trumpets.

In ancient and modern times, whether in civilised or barbarous nations, great events, such as the accession of monarchs or proclamations of war and peace, have been announced by the sound of the trumpet. The accession of the despotic rulers of Egypt many thousand years ago, and of King Edward the Seventh in our own time, was proclaimed in much the same fashion by herald and trumpeters. The original use of trumpets probably had its origin in Egypt, and the frequent intercourse of that country with Greece probably accounts for its introduction there. The Greeks are said to have used it first in the Trojan war, when it took the place of the rough conch shells, which had in their turn replaced the ancient battle signal of the flaming torch. One of the coveted prizes of the Olympic games was awarded for the best trumpet solo, and we hear of one fortunate person, Herodotus of Megara, who gained this honour more than ten times. It must have taken real genius to have roused melody from the primitive trumpets of early days, and even with all the facilities afforded by the scientific knowledge of the present time, the trumpet requires great skill and careful playing to make it a really musical instrument. It is usually made of brass, and occasionally of silver, which is supposed to give a softer tone.

The Rehab is the violin of Palestine, and in appearance almost suggests to European eyes a dustpan and brush. The frame is of wood, covered, like a tambourine, with parchment, and placed across a handle from which hangs a single string of thick, black horsehair, very coarse in texture. It is played with a bow, also of horsehair, and is held much after the fashion of a violin, being chiefly used to accompany songs and the romances in which Eastern people delight. Playing is almost always done by professionals, for, although music is much appreciated, it is thought unreasonable to take trouble oneself when some one can take it for you.

At a Palestine Exhibition lately, amongst curiosities of great interest, the writer was given for exhibition a specimen of the Rattle used by the Jews at the Feast of Purim, held in memory of the deliverance of the Jewish nation by Queen Esther from the plot of Haman. The Rattle was made of tin; it was of the usual rattle form for twirling round and round, and its use was to scare away evil spirits from the Feast.

HELENA HEATH.

TO THE RESCUE!

A True Story.

Chirp! chirp! chirp! Twit! twit! twit! Such a noise of chirping in the ivy at the back of the house! Just like a crowd of children after a school concert; but it was a much more serious affair than a concert.

We could not at first see anything to cause the disturbance, although we could not help knowing that it was a sparrow in some sort of peril or distress. At last one of us discovered that a poor little bird had entangled itself in some stout string which dangled from the ivy, and it was swinging at the end of this in a very dangerous manner. None of us could think what to do, because it was too high up for our only ladder to reach, and too far away to get at from any one of the windows.

While we were all standing looking at it we heard another chirp, as much as to say 'Hang on, dear, and I will soon set you free,' and then we saw another sparrow fly into the ivy and try and stretch itself far enough to peck at the string. But, alas! the brave little ball of brown feathers could not reach so far. The captive was perfectly quiet, and seemed to understand that some help was coming to him; and when the second sparrow found he could not reach it, he began to talk--shall we say?--to the other. They seemed to consult, as two doctors do over a patient, what was best to be done. All this time the captive sparrow was hanging by one foot with his head downwards, except when he fluttered about and tugged at the string. After they had talked for some seconds the helper flew away, and we were very disappointed: but he had not been gone long before he appeared again with another sparrow--a much bigger one!

The first sparrow seemed to do just what the last comer told him to. It was just as if he said, 'Now, my dear boy, you stand very firmly on my back, and I will fix myself on a twig of ivy as near as I can to our friend; mind you stretch as far as you possibly can, and if you cannot reach him then, you may stand on my head. Jerk the string with your beak and perhaps that will set him free.'

Number one sparrow did exactly as he was told, and nearly over-balanced himself; he only just saved himself by spreading his wings and starting to fly, and he could not reach the string. After another talk amongst the three of them (the poor prisoner only chirped very softly now), the two helpers flew away again in different directions, making as much noise as they could; and then in a very short time a whole crowd of them came. We counted fifteen of them; they talked and talked as they sat together in the ivy, until at last, as if at a given signal, they all flew out together. They fluttered, flew round and round, and pecked at the string and gave it jerks all at once, till it shook and trembled more and more.

They did this three times, each time returning to and starting from the ivy, in perfect order, as if they had been drilled to it. At last they were successful; they shook the prisoner free! Then they adjourned to the branches of a tree, near where we were standing, and the poor mite seemed to be telling them how he got into such a sad plight. It was a beautiful lesson in kindness to us all, as well as a wonderful example of the instinct which the Creator has given these little birds, so that not one of them 'shall fall to the ground.'

FLOWERS AND COLOURS.

Some one has said that our English language is not rich in words describing colours; occasionally we have to join two words, as when we speak of something being bluish-green or reddish-brown. It is different in China, where the people have a large number of words for colours, belonging to their singular language. Many of the names of these colours have been taken from flowers. In Britain we find that colours and flowers are sometimes linked together; a plant has had its name from a colour, or that of a colour has come from a plant. This has rather an odd result now and then, because flowers may alter their colours; there are white bluebells and white violets, and gardeners can raise crimson primroses. Again, people who stroll in the lanes or fields have seen such a curious object as a white blackbird, though it is rare.

The violet has given its name to a shade of blue--really blue with a purple tinge. Some violets look decidedly red. The dog violet is usually of a lighter blue than the sweet-smelling species. It does not seem to have been called 'dog violet' because it had any connection with dogs; the word 'dog' was an expression of contempt, and forms part of the name of other English plants that were not admired. Some violets have been raised of so deep a blue as to appear nearly black. The blue wild hyacinth has given name to a colour, not very unlike the violet tint; it is sometimes called the bluebell, but pink ones may be found in woods, and garden hyacinths are of various colours. Other bluebells belong to the Campanula family.

In the olden time, one of the London street cries was, 'Fine lily-white onions!' the lily being commonly spoken of as a white flower. Yet we have several kinds of lily that are not white: 'Lent lilies' are yellow, and the showy tiger lily is red and black. Yellow is a common colour among the crocuses and plants akin to them; saffron, taken from one of these, has been used as a dye for ages. But of course our gardens show blue and white crocuses, with other hues. It is curious that Homer speaks of the dawn being 'saffron-robed.' We may notice ourselves that sometimes, at sunrise or sunset, the sky is first deep yellow, and then red.

Our gardens exhibit irises of many colours: blue, white, and brown kinds are well known, but it is thought the plant took its name from Iris, the Greek name for the messenger of the gods, and from the rainbow, because the Greeks knew a plant of this kind which had three or more colours in its flower. There is very little doubt that the Latin name of 'rosa,' given to the queen of flowers, means red, that colour being familiar before white and yellow roses had been grown. The carnation was so called because one kind was like flesh colour, a tint of red; but many carnations are much darker. Wild and garden pinks we all have seen, but the commonest 'pink' nowadays is white. Again, we have lilacs that are white, and not of lilac colour. Lavender is a colour taking its name from the flowers of the fragrant herb; we might describe it as a sort of blue-brown. Mauve is a colour approaching the hue of the marsh-mallow. Cerise, a French name for a colour, is really the same as our cherry.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 255.)

Jack dropped the subject of the outing, and did not again refer to it till the evening before the fête. Estelle had been very eager to see the dancing at the Fontaine des Eaux, which was to begin at six o'clock that evening. Mrs. Wright had consented, and both were ready to start by five. It was quite half an hour's walk, but the way being on level ground when once the village was reached, Mrs. Wright was equal to the exertion.

Estelle, dressed in well-made (Mrs. Wright was an excellent dressmaker) but quite plain, dark blue serge, was putting on a neat white sailor hat, when Jack took advantage of her absence to say,

'Don't you think she would be satisfied with this evening's amusement, Mother? Must we take her to the fête to-morrow?'

'At it again, Jack? Why, what should hinder our taking her? I can't think what has come to you that you make so many objections.'

Estelle came dancing into the room, in the wildest of spirits, and Jack felt as if he were cruel to wish to disappoint her. Putting aside his feelings, he determined that, as she was to go, she should enjoy herself.

Estelle had been to the Fontaine des Eaux several times in her walks with Jack. It was a favourite spot of hers. The way lay through the village, across the rickety old bridge, and up the narrow valley to the left, following the course of the river. The green hills on each side had all the bright freshness of early spring, but the real beauty of the walk was the Fontaine des Eaux itself. Here the valley broadened out into a wild and lovely glen; the hills were wooded to their base; the river, roaring and dashing over its rocky bed, followed the sweep of the hills to the left, leaving a wide, grassy expanse on the right which stretched to the foot of the hills, where it was broken up by a tangle of rocks, wild flowers, and brushwood.

Here there were seats for the spectators of the dance. A rough sort of shed had been run up, and boarded for those who feared night dews, or early morning chills. Near the Fontaine, a little bubbling spring of clear water fringed with delicate ferns and 'morning glory,' was a refreshment booth, which appeared to be driving a thriving trade when the little party of English arrived.

Everybody was in gala dress; everybody beamed with joy. The white caps and beautifully embroidered bodices of the women--though their dresses were all either black or dark blue--lent a brightness to the crowd; a bright touch was added by the gay shawls of the elder dames, and the broad slouch hats and flapping white collars of the men, got up in their best.

It was a calm evening, with a silvery crescent moon, and very warm for the time of year. Though it was scarcely dark yet, the Chinese lanterns were lighted, lanterns of every shape and size and colour. The people appeared to have gone mad on the subject. Not only did lanterns hang from the trees, outline the sheds, and shine from the tops of poles along the banks of the river, but some of the men carried them on their hats, or hanging from their thick walking-sticks.

Mrs. Wright was warmly greeted by her numerous friends. Many a smile was turned on her and on Jack, who had a bow and a smile for them all as he made way for his mother and Estelle. The little girl found it very bewildering and delightful after her long quiet days in the Hospice de la Providence. She thought she had never seen such kind people. They came to ask how she was, and commented on her looks with the politest of compliments. Until now she had not known what a stir her arrival, and the mystery which still surrounded her, had caused in the village. Shy though she felt, her gracious manner, and gentle way of receiving all the notice she attracted, charmed the simple people.

Jack found seats in the front row of the great shed. He chose them on the side which was nearer the exit by which they could slip away if his mother were tired. Here Estelle watched the animated scene, her chair close to Goody's, too fascinated to talk.

The circus troupe had brought a fairly good band with them, and to its music the gay, happy throng were dancing. Estelle was greatly entertained by the vigour shown. Still more delighted was she when M. Fargis (the captain of the boat which had picked her up) insisted on Jack dancing with his daughter, to which the sailor consented. He did not wish to appear surly or stand-offish. The manly grace with which he bore off the young lady charmed Estelle, and she scarcely heard the skipper's question: 'The young lady does not dance?'

Before Mrs. Wright could answer, M. Matou, the Préfet, was bowing in front of her, his hat pressed with both hands on his chest. His son, he said--a boy of fifteen whom Estelle knew well by sight--desired to be presented to the little English lady, to pray her to give him the pleasure of the dance. M. le Préfet was quite one of the élite of Tout-Petit society, and Mrs. Wright was fully conscious of the honour paid to Estelle by this invitation. The boy had often seen her during her walks with Jack, or when she accompanied Goody to market.

He had watched her from the moment she had appeared on the scene that evening. His father, noticing his abstraction, rallied him on not joining his companions, and making merry with the rest in the most inviting waltz that was ever played. M. le Préfet, on learning his son's wishes, at once offered to assist him in the accomplishment of his desire. Alas for Julien Matou's hopes! Mrs. Wright answered him as well as M. Fargis in the same breath:

'Mademoiselle cannot dance to-night. She is far from strong enough for such exertion. She has only come to look on, and will be returning home soon.'

M. le Préfet and his son were a little inclined to resent the refusal, but Mrs. Wright thanked them for the honour they had done her little girl, and Estelle smiled so prettily that they were disarmed. Drawing up a chair in front of them, M. Matou sat down to talk to Mrs. Wright, while Julien leant against the side of the shed, and, looking down at Estelle, ventured on some shy remark.

Little did they think, as the elders chatted and laughed, and the younger were gradually thawed into an animated talk, that a pair of eyes were riveted on the little girl--at first in amazement, then in settled purpose. Jack's strange instinct had not been altogether at fault. It is not on record what the owner of those eyes would have felt impelled to do if M. le Préfet and his son had not taken up their position close to the little English girl.

(Continued on page 270.)

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

IX.--THE MAN WHO NEVER MADE A SACRIFICE.

Although the travellers' tales from Africa are so numerous and so interesting that the difficulty is not to find them, but to choose among them, there is one traveller who stands out head and shoulders above all the rest. And though his name be 'familiar in our mouths as household words,' we cannot speak of the heroes of Africa and leave it out. Yet, strange to say, though there is no life-story more enthralling than that of David Livingstone, it is less easy to find thrilling adventures in his account of his own travels than in the journals of most explorers. For the man whose heroism has helped so many was never a hero in his own estimation. It is of his work, his beautiful surroundings, the poor people he sought to help, the crying evils of the slave-trade that he writes. He really meant what he said so simply in the Senate House at Cambridge, 'I never made a sacrifice.' To be permitted to do such work for his Master was, to him, reward enough. If it meant sickness, suffering, separation from those he loved, and death at last alone in the wilderness, these were just the incidents of no sacrifice, nothing to boast of or to magnify him in the eyes of his fellow-men. Yet, even from his own matter-of-fact account, we can see how, again and again, his cool courage saved his own life and the lives of the men who followed him.

During his great journey to the West Coast, Livingstone found himself in the village of the Chiboque tribe, where the chief sent to him a demand for tribute, in the form of a man, an ox, a gun, or some cloth or powder. All the fighting strength of the village surrounded the travellers--grim-looking warriors, whose naturally plain cast of countenance was not improved by the prevailing fashion of filing their teeth to a point. Livingstone overheard the sinister remark, 'They have only five guns,' as if the Chiboque chief were quite prepared to measure forces with the strangers. The Englishman knew his own followers to be loyal, and by no means disinclined for a fight, and they would, he believed, be a match for their assailants, but he was most anxious to avoid bloodshed, and not to risk his character as a messenger of peace.

Accordingly, he sat down coolly on his camp-stool, his gun across his knees, and graciously invited the very unpleasant-looking party to be seated also. The Chiboque, accordingly, squatted on the ground, thus giving Livingstone's men, who remained standing, spears in hand, the chance of first blow, if it were impossible to avoid a fight. Fortunately, they were all well under control, and stood watching for a signal from their master, who quietly addressed the chief, bidding him state what he wanted.

A man, an ox, or a gun would do equally well, the Chiboque returned, but tribute he must have, as he always did from strangers.

The first-named was quite impossible, replied Livingstone, calmly; he and his followers would rather die than give one of their number to be a slave. Neither could they part with one of their guns; but he would give a shirt as a present to the chief, who had no right to demand any tribute at all from him. The chief was pleased to accept the shirt, but wanted something more, and Livingstone followed it up with a bunch of beads and a handkerchief. But seeing that each fresh treasure encouraged the enemy's desire to plunder the party, he resolved upon a bold stroke. It was clear, he said, that the Chiboques had no wish to be his friends. He and his men would fight if they were obliged, but the Chiboques, not they, should begin the attack and bear the guilt of it. Let them strike the first blow. Having delivered his challenge, he sat perfectly silent, waiting for the reply.

Should it come in the form of an attack, he knew that the first stroke would be directed at the white man, and he admits that the moments of suspense were, as he puts it, 'rather trying;' but he was 'careful not to appear flurried,' as he sat with his life in his hand, the centre of the wild group.

But the bold proposal succeeded. Perhaps the Chiboque measured the strength of the resolute party, and came to the conclusion that 'good words are better than bad strokes;' perhaps they felt the presence of a superior power in the quiet, watchful-eyed white man. When at last the chief spoke, it was to renew his demand for an ox. He would give in return any present that the stranger liked to name, and they could be friends. Livingstone, seeing approval in the eyes of his men, agreed, asking for some food, of which he and his party were short, and which the chief readily promised to supply. He and his warriors withdrew with their prize; and, later in the evening, a messenger arrived with the return present, a very little meal, and a few pounds of Livingstone's own ox, which had been converted into beef in the meantime!

How the cheery-hearted traveller, whose sense of humour helped him through so much, and whose laugh, Stanley tells us, was 'a laugh of the whole man, from head to heel,' must have chuckled over the generous gift of a bit of tough beast which he had brought so many miles along with him!

But though no stouter-hearted traveller ever pushed his way into the dark continent, we think less, after all, of Livingstone's heroic courage than of the burning love for all mankind which sent him into the waste places of the earth, to carry the truth to those in darkness. We think of the little orphan girl who hid behind his waggon that she might travel under his protection to seek her friends: of how he fed her, hid her from her pursuers, and vowed that, if fifty men came after her, they should not get her. And there is another story which we shall seek for in vain in his own account of his life in Africa, but which has been recorded by one who loved and honoured him.

The incident happened during those happiest days of Livingstone's African life, when, with his true-hearted wife beside him and children growing up around him, he lived in the house he had built for himself at Kolobeng. A very busy, simple life it was, with plenty of occupation to fill the days: teaching, gardening, building, doctoring, making careful observations of the plants and animals, and winning the love and confidence of the native people. One evening, news came to the little settlement of a furious attack made by a rhinoceros upon the driver of a waggon. The unfortunate man had been horribly gored; he was lying in the forest, eight or ten miles away; would the doctor come to him?

The request seemed almost beyond reason, for the night--the terrible night of Africa--was falling, and those words, 'when all the beasts of the forest do move,' have a very real meaning in that land. Ten miles' ride through the dense undergrowth, which might hide every conceivable enemy, would scare the stoutest heart. But a fellow-creature was suffering in those horrible shades, and Livingstone was not the man to weigh the value of the poor native's life against his own. Promptly he went on his way at the call of duty, but, alas! only to find the man dead, and his companions gone, and so to ride back again by the same 'passage perilous.'

Seven years after, Livingstone's worn-out body had been laid in its honoured grave in Westminster Abbey, where his countrymen crowded to do him honour, and the African, who had watched so faithfully over his remains, nearly threw himself into his loved master's grave. A man who was also to lay down his life for Africa, met a native of the Rovuma country wearing a part of an English coat. It had been given him, he said, by one who treated black men 'as if they were brothers,' and who knew his way to the hearts of men; and of all the honours paid to the name of Livingstone, none surely would have pleased him better than that memory, lingering among the dark brethren whose cause he had made his own.

MARY H. DEBENHAM.

TIME FLIES.

Tick! tick! tick! the seconds go, Flying, oh, so fast, And almost before I know Quite an hour is past: Hour by hour goes quickly on, Till another day is gone.

Day by day is going fast, Morning grows to night, Till they make a year at last Vanished out of sight. Days, weeks, months, all sped away-- Yet they wait just day by day.

As the days and minutes go, Speeding one by one, So my childhood, youth, I know Will ere long be done: Books and toys all put away, Done with lessons, done with play.

Be it mine to use with care Time that will not stay, Doing always here or there Something good each day: For as streams to ocean flow, Youth is speeding fast, I know.

THE SELF-HEAL.

The Self-heal has had a very wide repute for its good-qualities. It belongs to the family of plants known as Labiates, which includes mint, sage, thyme, and other aromatic plants; these flowers mostly have a curious lip, and grow in a spike. The self-heal is not a tall plant, though it flourishes more in the rich soil of a garden than on that of the field-bank or the hedgerow. One curious thing about the plant is, that the flowers do not open all together, but a few at a time, so that it never looks in full bloom. These flowers are bright blue, with a touch of crimson at the edges, the leaves being round and smooth. It is the habit of the plant to throw out trailing shoots, so that when it spreads over corn-fields, it causes much trouble to the labourers who have to pull it up.

The name may seem a little singular. It does not mean the plant heals itself, but that it contains the power to cure or heal without having to be mixed up into a compound, with other articles added to help the effect. Self-heal was used both inwardly and outwardly; a decoction made from the plant was swallowed as a remedy, and it was applied to wounds and sores. Even now, in Cheshire, Yorkshire, and some other parts of England, the plant is said to heal wounds, and relieve sore throats, though it is seldom called by the old name. Cheshire folk know it as Carpenter; it is not clear why the name of Sickle-flower is also given to it, unless it be that reapers use the plant for a wound made by a sickle; a very similar name is Hook-heal. Some people in the West of England call the plant the Fly-flower, though it has no particular likeness to a flower, nor does it draw flies or insects more than other plants. Yet another name is Irish; about Belfast it is known as 'Pinch and Heal.' The Dutch and Germans seem formerly to have called it Brunell or Prunel, which is nearly the same as the botanical name, prunella; both Dutch and Germans, as well as the French, in old books, rank it amongst the sovereign remedies for complaints.

APPLES OR THISTLES?

Every year, at Eynsford, in Kent, an 'Arbor Day' is kept, when a number of trees are planted in different parts of that pretty village.

'Arbor,' of course, is the Latin word for 'tree.' There are not many places in England which have an annual 'Tree Day.' It is an American institution. An American settler in Nebraska, feeling sorry to see so few trees there, suggested that on a certain day of each year the children should devote themselves to tree-planting. This idea was acted upon, and the youngsters of Nebraska doubtless enjoyed the fun. The scheme succeeded so well that it was taken up by other States, and introduced later on into Australia, and others of our Colonies.

The pleasant custom of 'Arbor Day' was begun in Eynsford in 1897, and was initiated by Mr. C. D. Till, a local landowner. In that year the farmers and cottagers planted many apple-trees, and the children set a row of trees on a bank in front of their school.

The reliefs of Ladysmith, Kimberley, and Mafeking were commemorated by the planting of special trees in the village street, and in 1902 thirty trees were planted in memory of Queen Victoria.

But on the first 'Arbor Day' which was kept in Eynsford, it was discovered that the planting of commemorative trees was by no means a new thing in the place. Sixty years before that day, in 1837, a cottager, named Howard, had planted an apple-tree in honour of the Queen's accession. In 1897, this tree yielded thirteen bushels of apples. The old man, upon being presented with a testimonial, made a little speech. 'If I hadn't planted that there tree,' he said, 'I should not have had all this here fruit.'

The story recalls another. A Scotch farmer's son amused himself one year during the summer vacation by sitting on a gate and blowing thistledown about. The natural consequence was a fine crop of thistles. When, the following summer, Master Thomas came home for the holidays, his father took him to the field. 'Here is a nice little bit of work for you, my lad,' said the farmer. 'Just pull up all these thistles for me.'

As Thomas bent over his wearisome and prickly task, he said ruefully to himself, 'If I had not scattered that thistledown, I should not have had to do this!'

We are always sowing and planting something in our lives. What shall it be? Apples, or thistles?'

E. DYKE.

AN INTRUDER.

The Leslies had taken a house on Dartmoor for the summer holidays, and when they arrived and found it was a small farm their delight knew no bounds.

Cook was very glad that they would be able to have plenty of milk, cream, and butter, eggs and poultry, for there were no shops in that desolate region, and she could not provide breakfasts and dinners out of nothing.

Janet, the eldest girl, clapped her hands when she saw the chickens running about the field in front of the house, the sheep and cows a little farther off, and beyond, on the moors, the dearest little black ponies, with shaggy coats and long manes and tails. From the window she saw a girl crossing the field towards a gate where two big lambs were bleating their loudest and trying to wriggle through the bars. She rushed downstairs and across the field and found that Kate, the farmer's daughter, was carrying the tame lambs their supper.

'Why do you feed them and not the others?' Janet asked?

'The other lambs have their own mothers to feed them,' Kate told her; 'but these two are orphans, so we have to bring them up by hand.'

'Oh, what dears they are!' Janet cried, as they began to jump and frolic about her and about Kate, in eager expectation of their supper.

Then Kate filled a bottle with warm milk and tied the finger of a kid glove over it, through which the lambs sucked eagerly in turn, each trying to get a bigger share than his brother, and needing some quite severe pats to keep them in order. A little corn was given them as a second course, and, when nothing more was to be had, they gambolled away and joined the games of the wilder members of the flock.

'Now I must call the calves,' Kate said. 'Will you carry the bottle, because I shall want both my hands free?'

Janet could not quite understand this until, after a call by Kate, six calves came galloping up from a distant part of the field. She held out her fingers, and the nearest calves took them in their mouths, and so she ran towards the farmyard, a calf clinging to each hand and the others following close behind. Here she had two pails of milk, and with one hand in each let the calves find her fingers and so lap up the milk.

'What greedy things!' Janet cried. 'How they shove and push! You are clever to let each get his proper share.'

'They are just like children, and want some training and scolding to make them behave properly,' Kate said. 'That big one is a most masterful creature, and sometimes he upsets the pail and nearly upsets me too.'

The next morning Janet had proof of this. She was in the kitchen, watching Cook make some pastry, when in through the door a great creature bounded, knocking over one chair, and thrusting his head into a large bowl of milk which was standing on another. The milk poured over in a white flood on the floor. Cook screamed, and brandished her rolling-pin.

'It's a great, fierce bull!' she cried. 'Oh, Miss Janet, run for your life while I chase him out of the kitchen!'

'Nonsense, Cook,' Janet said, catching hold of the frightened woman's arm; 'it is only the masterful calf, and I think it is very clever of him to find his own breakfast!'

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 263.)

The watcher at the fête had made no plans. His ideas did not develop quickly, but one thing was certain: here was a chance ready to his hand. Only an old woman, evidently rheumatic, was with Estelle. If she had no other protector, his course was easy. Yes, it was well that the Prefect and his son were there. It prevented the man from being in too great a hurry. He must mature his plans. To further the process, he crept up under shadow of the trees, to the side of the shed near to which the party were seated. Jack's selection of places enabled him to get close enough to hear every word that was said. Bitter was his disappointment. It had been the joy of Julien to find that the conversation could be conducted in French, of which language the watcher possessed but a slight smattering. He had picked up enough, however, to learn that Estelle would be at the fête the next day; but at what hour, or with whom, he could not understand. The probabilities were in favour of the old lady being the child's sole protector; the boy, even if he did accompany them, need not count. He could be made short work of.

Julien was by no means the only suitor who pressed for the honour of dancing with Estelle. No less a person than the village doctor himself came to beg her to tread a measure with him in the quadrille which was just forming. They might make up a select little party of their own. Mrs. Wright, smiling, but firm, said the little girl was not equal to the exertion, and begged the doctor not to undo all the good he had done during the many months of illness and delicacy by urging her to over-exert herself now. So the good man, putting his annoyance in his pocket, joined the group, much to the anger of Julien. Julien did not care for the doctor's jokes, and disliked his engaging Estelle's attention, and plaguing her with compliments. As he had promised himself the pleasure of meeting Estelle next day at the fête, he was not sorry that Jack's return broke up the party.

Estelle could scarcely sleep that night from excitement. It had been a delightful evening, and there was all the pleasure of the next day to look forward to. She had not seen the shadow so close to her at the shed; neither had Jack. The shadow kept dark in dark places. It was quite possible that the man had not seen Jack. The coming of the doctor had caused a little stir, and fear of detection had made the shadow draw back, out of sight of the little group. When he stood forward again to watch Mrs. Wright and the little girl move away, it was impossible to distinguish in the crowd who belonged to whom.

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

Chapter XV

The next morning was not brighter and clearer than Estelle's face as she flew about, helping Goody to make everything ready for their early dinner, specially early that day, as they were to set off for the fête as soon as it was over.

'Julien Matou is going to show me the celebrated elephant, called "Napoléon,"' announced the little girl, as they were about to start. Mrs. Wright was casting a careful eye round the room, to see that all was as it ought to be before she left.

Jack looked up sharply. 'There must be no wandering away from me or Mother, Missy,' he said, almost sternly. 'Julien Matou is but a boy, and cannot look properly after you.'

'He says he can,' replied Estelle, dancing along in front of Jack and Goody, as they descended the steep path to the village. 'He says there is so much to see, and when you are tired, he will take me. But I would rather go with you.'

'You see, Jack,' said his mother, as the little girl ran too far in advance to hear, 'your fears about the child last night did not come to anything. I don't know why we should be so very particular to-day. Every one in Tout-Petit knows her, and she is not at all likely to come to harm among them.'

'Right enough,' returned Jack, quietly; 'that is, as far as our own people go. But you forget, Mother, this fête brings strangers and loafers who may be most undesirable. I am glad, and--I must confess it--very much relieved to find that yesterday evening passed off without any mishap. I looked in your direction several times, and was glad to think you had the doctor, M. le Préfet, and Fargis close to you.'

Mrs. Wright laughed. 'I can't help it,' she said; 'it sounds as if we were threatened with some terrible accident; what these French call "un coup de main," and as if only having our friends with us prevented it.'

Jack made no answer.

'You're not angry, are you, my son? I don't want you to worry yourself and us by fancies. That's all. Let the child enjoy herself.'

Jack merely said, 'All right, Mother; I understand.' He was walking very straight and still; his head in the air, his shoulders squared. Mrs. Wright looked up at the set face so high above her, and was sorry she had spoken. Jack smiled as she put a caressing hand on to his arm, though the look in his eyes did not satisfy her. He called Estelle back to him as soon as they came upon any stragglers from the fête, and took her hand in a way that neither his mother nor the child ventured to resist.

Estelle was too much interested to think anything about it; indeed, she preferred the security of his presence.

As they approached the fête, the noise of the revellers grew louder, and soon they came upon the bonfires, where joints of meat, fowls, and geese were being roasted on spits. The children and young men were offering assistance, or dashing about amidst a din of voices. A little further on, a booth, with hot fried potatoes cut in slices, had a crowd round it.

They were by this time near the great streets of booths, up and down which the majority of the people strolled; some buying articles long wished for, but unobtainable at any other time; some eagerly visiting every show in succession; other shooting at targets for prizes--clay pipes and piles of thin hardbake in the shape of a cornucopia, five to each successful shot, or bags of nuts.

Julien Matou met them at the shooting range, which was at the first booth. He wanted Estelle to walk with him, that he might show her all the sights that interested him. Jack, however, would not let go of her hand, and the four had to walk more or less abreast when the pressure of the passers-by permitted. He did not object to plunging into all the fun of the fair in a moderate way. There were the mountebanks, and the dancers, and the driving team of fleas and the little dogs that acted a play.

Finally, to Estelle's delight, they reached the circus. Here Jack secured good seats, and for the next hour she and Julien were enchanted with the riding, the driving, the clown; and lastly the performance of the great elephant which shot the gun--a mortar which produced an explosion quite startling for its size. This wound up the entertainment, though Estelle would have liked it to continue indefinitely. She felt quite depressed as she followed the rest of the crowd leaving the marquee, and heard the men proclaiming that the next performance began at eight o'clock.

She had been charmed with everything. As they forced their way through the noisy crew, and Jack saw that the streets of booths were full of an increasing number of persons more or less excited, he proposed to take the other way back. Passing between two booths, they came out at the back of the rows, where it was comparatively quiet. It gave them greater space to move, but it was not pleasant walking. Every now and then they came across piles of dingy straw, or a bundle of old rags, or odds and ends of soiled draperies, which had become almost too worn out to use, or wooden cases which had seen many journeys, and were overflowing with shavings and paper. This was indeed a contrast to the life and brightness on the other side.

Here was a man who had sold them some chocolates in the most smiling, obsequious manner; now he sat huddled up on a wooden case, eating something out of a grimy, but gaudy cotton handkerchief. At his feet were two thin, miserable-looking children, both dressed as acrobats. Out of the grimy handkerchief he handed them some indescribable mess, which they seized eagerly, and ate hurriedly. A little further on, a woman, wrapped in a big shawl, was scolding a small girl; she was one of the children soon to appear in the fairy scene of the play, which was being acted in the marquee they were passing. The child looked forlorn enough as she stood sobbing and shivering in her airy muslin dress, her arms and neck bare, and her feet shod with the thinnest of white shoes. 'They have stolen my bright franc,' she sobbed. The woman gave her an angry shake, and it went to Estelle's heart to see how the thin, meagre little body shrank together after it. A tiny boy in a bright yellow and red costume, with yellow cap and bells, watched the scene; he had a puckered little face, down which the tears were washing off the paint. His little soul was full of anger against the persecutor of his sister, but he was too tiny to defend her. All he could do was to choke down his wrath like a man, and comfort her when they should be alone again.

The scene was too much for Jack. He could not go by and let the helpless suffer. Dropping Estelle's hand for a moment, he went up to the woman, holding out some coins in his hand.

'How much has the child lost?' he asked sternly.

'It is a new franc that a good lady gave her. She should have brought it to me!' screamed the woman. Then catching sight of the glitter of silver in the sailor's hand, she cried in altered tones, 'but, Monsieur, you see she is but a child, and though I must not let her lose things---- '

'I didn't lose it--it was stolen,' sobbed the child.

'Well, here's your franc,' said Jack, interrupting some exclamation which the woman was about to make. 'Now let the child alone.'

He was slipping some coins into the hands of the children also, when a cry from Estelle made him turn hastily.

(Continued on page 274.)

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 271.)

Interested in the miserable children, Estelle had moved a little away from the rest of the party. She wanted to speak to the brave little boy, and to give him some bonbons for himself and his sister. The little bag was in her hand, when she saw a dingy curtain on her left pushed aside. A face looked out at her. In a moment her dream came back: there were the curtains, wrinkled and dingy. Between them peered the face of the man after whom the mastiffs had rushed--the face of Thomas! He grinned in recognition of her; he nodded, and, thrusting open the curtains, came out into full view. Estelle's eyes opened wide with terror. There was something in the man's expression which appalled her. Greed; an eagerness he could not conceal; a cunning smile which was made more terrible by a stealthy movement towards her. For a moment Estelle was paralysed. Jack's back was turned; his attention taken up by the scene he had witnessed. Julien Matou stood with his hands in his pockets, watching it too. Mrs. Wright had gone on; she wished Jack had not brought them this way, but, since he had, there was nothing for it but to hurry out of it as quickly as possible. For the time Estelle was alone. Thomas was nearer to her than any of her friends, and she was incapable of even crying out for help.

'You here, my little lady?' whispered Thomas, stretching out his hand. 'Come along with me. I will save you.'

Though she shrank back, she yet managed to summon up courage enough to push his hand away.

Thomas had no time to lose. Estelle must be seized, and he had hopes that those behind him would back him up. Fargis would not dare to refuse, he argued. Had he not come to this outlandish place on purpose to get employment from him? The skipper had proved to be very unwilling, and they had come to no terms. Now, however, there were golden reasons for gaining his consent to anything. Once in possession of Estelle, he could make his own bargain with Lord Lynwood. How high his hopes had been when he and the Dutchman had carried off the orchid! The Frenchman had failed them, but they had managed to get it by boat to the nearest port, and, unsuspected by the police authorities, had reached Holland safely with the unique plant. He had been 'done' over that business, had received but half what he expected. Was it his fault that the paper did not mention where the plant was discovered? The orchid itself was of immense value, and the sum paid to Thomas, for his share in its capture, was by no means a despicable one. Like most ill-gotten gains, however, it had not remained long in his pocket. Driven by necessity, unable to return to his own country, and not knowing where else to turn, he determined to go to Tout-Petit, and seek assistance from Fargis, as his ally had once advised.

He had no money left to pay his way there, but accidentally hearing that a caravan, consisting of a circus, mountebanks, and the usual paraphernalia of a fair, was about to start for Tout-Petit, and that a strong man was wanted in the circus troupe, he offered his services, and was accepted.

But times had changed since the Dutchman, Thomas's former fellow-conspirator, had known Fargis. The past had been effectually buried, Fargis hoped; the last spark of it was the help his smack was intended to give in the conveying away of the orchid. Thomas's many delays in securing the plant had frustrated this plan, but Fargis had done his best. He considered all indebtedness wiped out henceforward. He received Thomas ungraciously, therefore, and beyond a vague promise that he would speak to some other skippers, Thomas had no satisfaction from his visit. Gloomy, and not a little resentful--for he had come far on what he considered his friend's misrepresentation--he wandered aimlessly towards the Fontaine des Eaux. Too busy all day to get away, it was only when the afternoon was far advanced that he managed to go down to see Fargis. The dancing had, therefore, begun before he reached the valley. Strolling up towards the booths, he watched the dancers with a sort of inward anger because people could be so happy when he was so wretched. All at once he caught sight of the group in the shed. His first indifferent glance changed into a look of astonishment. He had not heard of the loss of Estelle, never having dared to write home to his broken-hearted mother. He stood staring, puzzled to behold Lord Lynwood's daughter among all these peasants.

How did she get there? Who were her companions? Why had she been sent from home? His brain worked over the riddle as he lingered under the shadow of the trees and gazed at the well-known face of the child. He found it a hard nut to crack. Suddenly his Dutch friend's question in the cave, just before their rush to save the box with the orchid, recurred to his memory: 'Is not the Earl's daughter an heiress?'

She has been stolen, then! For a moment Thomas was 'struck all of a heap,' as he would have expressed it. He was blinded by the flash that seemed to reveal to him what had happened.

Creeping up closer, he listened to what the group of strangers around the little girl were talking about. To formulate any plans on the spur of the moment, even to take in what this amazing discovery might mean to him in his fallen fortunes, was beyond the power of Thomas's slowly working brain. He must have time to think. He must find out how the land lay. And meanwhile, it would not be wasting precious time if he set himself to find out who were Estelle's protectors; where they lived; what facilities their abode offered for approaching the child; and how he could bring the brilliant but hazy notions now throbbing through his head into something more than mere dreams. His only clear ideas at present were, that the Lady Estelle de Bohun was certainly a great heiress; that the Earl would pay any price, probably, to get her back; and that he, Thomas, must be the important medium through whom this good fortune must be brought about. Thomas, too, would be sure that well-lined pockets did not fail him this time. He had had his lesson in sharpness.

Beyond this point he had not had time to go. Nothing turned up next day to help him, till the early stragglers appeared at the fair in the morning. He was on the alert. He looked and found faces he had seen on the previous night. He managed to get up a talk with one and another, during which it was easy to learn a good deal on the subject of the little waif. Before he saw Estelle again, he found that she lived in the Caves of the Hospice de la Providence; he discovered that Jack was a fisherman, and was often away in the boats, sometimes for several nights together. At such times no one remained on guard except the old woman--by which term he meant Mrs. Wright. He also found out that Estelle had not been stolen. He heard the story of her loss of memory concerning certain vital points, and of the doctor's prophecy that some little thing would, without doubt, reveal the missing link, and restore her powers of recollection. This he was rather sorry to hear. It would have been better if she had remained ignorant till he had made his own terms with her father. However, she was but a child, and could be suppressed. He could see to that.

He saw clearly that the most difficult obstacle to the whole of his somewhat indefinite scheme would be M. le Géant (Mr. Giant), as the villagers smilingly called Jack. The giant was not a giant to no purpose. He would show fight. There was absolutely no doubt about that. He must, therefore, be away whenever it suited Thomas to act. But--and Thomas thought a great deal over that but--would it be possible to come to some sort of terms with Jack? They might share and share alike. Thomas was quite willing to do that, provided the sum agreed upon was large enough. If he refused, and if Estelle were unable to give an account of herself--that is, if the little something did not occur which should assist her memory--Thomas considered his course clear. Neither her name nor her belongings would be revealed. Jack could not take any steps towards restoring her to her family if he did not know where her home was. Thomas preferred to manage the whole business single-handed. The orchid had been a lesson to him against trusting any one with his secrets. He had come off second-best. Another time it might go even worse with him. No, he would be his own master in this matter.

Careful as his watch was on the crowds surging through the long street of booths that day, he had missed Jack and his party. The tears of the dancing girl, and the loud voice of the woman, he scarcely noticed till they ceased suddenly. The silence aroused his curiosity as the noise had not done. Peeping through the curtains, he saw to his delight and amazement that the child he so longed to seize was standing close by, alone and unprotected.

The golden egg lay ready to his hand. He would be a fool not to take it. His eye wandered for one doubtful second to the broad back of the stalwart sailor. Could he manage it before that giant turned round? It was worth trying. Oh, if he could only get hold of her without her screaming! Possession was nine points of the law!

(Continued on page 286.)

PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

IX.--SOME FROG NURSERIES.

We do not generally expect such apparently dull and stupid creatures as fish and frogs to have any very deep parental feelings, yet we shall see presently that, among the fishes, some are most exemplary parents. And so it is, also, among the much-despised frogs and toads, and some of their near relatives. Indeed, I should have to write a very long chapter if I were to set myself to relate at length every case that is known of this kind. It must suffice to take a few of the more striking instances. But, before I begin, let me ask you to try and recall some of the main facts with regard to the care for the young displayed by the common frog. This animal, you will remember, formed the subject of the first article in this series, wherein it was pointed out that the eggs were laid in huge masses and left to hatch. Beyond seeking out a suitable place for the eggs, no further trouble is taken by the frog, and it is on this account that so many hundreds have to be laid. There must be enough to be eaten by prowling ducks, and enough to hatch into tadpoles, of which, again, there must be enough to be eaten by hungry animals of all sorts, and enough to grow safely into frogs.

This waste of life is, however, avoided when the parents take charge of their eggs, and, in consequence, there is no need to provide so many.

Let us begin with an example or two of nest-building frogs. One of the simplest of these nests is that of a South American frog known as the Ferreiro, or 'Smith,' from the remarkable call which it makes during the spring--a call resembling the sounds made on a smith's anvil. Its nest is made by the little mother of the family alone, who, from the bottom of some shallow pool, scoops out a little basin, using the displaced mud to form a wall or rampart, some four inches high, round the pit, and employing her hands to smooth the inside of the wall, much as a mason uses a trowel. After the nest is ready, she lays therein a few eggs, and then retires with her mate to some secluded spot to watch over her treasures!

Another little group of South American frogs--the 'Phyllomedusa' frogs--lay their eggs to the number of about a hundred, in 'pockets' formed by bringing the edges of a leaf together. Into this 'pocket' the eggs are dropped by the mother; the jelly-like coat with which the eggs are covered serves to hold the pocket together.

Some frogs build 'foam' nests. Thus, a little frog that lives in the West Indies glues her eggs on to a broad leaf, and covers them in a mass of foam. Similarly, the 'banana-frog' of Malacca lays its eggs in a leaf, and surrounds them with a mass of yellow froth (which afterwards becomes steel-grey) as large as a cricket-ball. Herein the eggs develop, until at last the tadpoles emerge and drop into the water below, as in the case of the other frogs who attach their eggs to leaves. A Japanese frog, closely related to the species just described, lays its eggs in a hole in the ground, and then covers them with a mass of froth and air-bubbles formed by working up a sticky slime with its feet until this mass, too, is as large as a cricket-ball!

But many frogs carry their eggs about them. The South American Goeldi's frog carries its eggs on its back, the skin of which on each side is raised up to form a wall holding the eggs in position. A near relative of this species--the pouched frog--has carried this device further, so that the walls meet each other above the eggs, and form a most wonderful pouch. Until lately, it seemed impossible to account for the presence of the eggs in such a strange place, but it is now known that they are placed there by the frog-mother's mate.

In another case--that of a kind of toad which is common on some parts of the Continent--the father of the family winds the eggs in 'chains' around his hind legs, and sits with them, during the heat of the day, in some shady place, emerging with the shade of evening to bathe his growing brood in dew.

A little frog met with in the Seychelles carries its little ones about on its back, much as a duck will carry its ducklings. But the curious Surinam toad of South America has improved on this arrangement, and lodges each little one in a little pocket in the skin of her back!

Lastly, and strangest of all, we have a species--again a native of South America--in which the father carries first the eggs, and then the young tadpoles, in a pouch in his throat! This pouch, in the early part of the year, serves as a voice-organ, or, rather, as a musical organ, for when filled with air it is capable of making a sound which has been likened to that of a little bell. Later, he places the eggs therein, and, as these grow, the pouch increases in size, finally extending down each side of the body, beneath the skin, as far as the hind legs.

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

THE GRUMBLING ROSE.

'It is all very well,' said the Rosebud, That close against my window lattice leans, 'But April is as false as he is fickle, And there's never any knowing what he means. He loitered just before me with a whisper Of mischief much too cunning to detect; But when I peeped with wonder at the garden, It wasn't what he led me to expect; For the rain fell fast On a rude and chilly blast, And it wasn't what he led me to expect.'

'It is all very well,' said the Rosebud, As April softly sighed a fond adieu; 'But after all, I'm sorry you must leave me, For May's a month I dread much more than you. She prates of all the wonders of the summer; She promises--but only to betray, And those who tell the truth about the spring-time Are never complimentary to May; And e'en a baby Rose Can be pardoned, I suppose, For feeling some anxiety in May.'

And thus through all the months of happy summer This foolish Rose no cause for pleasure found, And when the winds of autumn swept the garden, They scattered all her petals on the ground. Oh, let me urge this on you--to remember That no one should enlarge upon a wrong, For those who spend their time in idle grumbling Will find there's not a moment for a song, And sadly they'll recall, When the autumn shadows fall, The summer that was worthy of a song.

'AS YOU PLEASE.'

In the ancient times there lived a wonderfully wise man, of whom it was said that he could answer correctly any question put to him. There was one, however, who thought himself clever enough to outwit the sage. This man took a poor, captive bird, and clasped it so closely in his hand that only the head and tail were visible.

'Tell me,' said he to the renowned guesser of riddles, 'is the bird which I hold in my hand alive or dead?'

If the answer were 'Dead,' thought this artful plotter, he would just open his hand, and let the bird fly; if the answer were 'Alive,' he would with one little squeeze crush the poor bird to death.

But the wise man proved himself equal to the occasion, and replied, 'It is as you please.'

Each one of you holds within his or her grasp the fair bird of life. Which is it to be? A blessing or a bane? It is 'as you please.'

THE PENGUIN.

There are several kinds of penguins, and several different names have been given to the same kinds, so that the number of names is rather bewildering. We hear of the Great Penguin, the Grey Penguin, the Cape Penguin, the Jackass Penguin, and several others; but, as they are all very similar in most respects, we will not trouble much about the kinds, but learn what we can of the habits and peculiarities of penguins generally.

These birds live mostly in the cold countries, especially islands, near the South Pole. They are aquatic birds, spending much of their time in the water, and living upon the fish which they chase and catch in the sea. For this reason they congregate upon the rocky shores, where they may be seen standing in thousands, like regiments of soldiers. Their webbed feet are placed very far back, close to the stumpy tail, and so the long body has to stand very straight up in order to balance itself. This gives them a very odd, man-like appearance. Their wings are small and narrow, and look more like flappers, or stunted arms, than wings. They are not covered with feathers, but with stumps, which look more like bristles or scales, and the wings appear to be set on to the body almost the wrong way about. They are not of the smallest use for flying, and the penguin never attempts to do that; but when it takes to the water, the wings are seen to be admirably formed and placed for swimming.

The penguin is lighter than the water, yet it swims with its body below the surface, never at any time having more than its head out. It is enabled to do this by the peculiar shape of its wings, which will carry it down and forwards, as the wings of air-birds carry them upwards and forwards. So well fitted for swimming are these curious wings that the penguin is more than a match for most fishes in their own element. When chasing its prey, it comes to the surface with a spring, and dives again so quickly that it is almost impossible to distinguish it from a fish leaping in the air. How confident it feels upon the sea may be imagined when we learn that Sir James Ross once saw two penguins swimming calmly along a thousand miles from the nearest land.

The penguin is an enormous eater. It has a very long stomach, which reaches to the lower part of the body, and is capable, in the case of a large bird, of holding more than two pounds of fish. The largest kind of penguin may be from three to four feet tall, and will weigh about eighty pounds. This is only about half the weight of a well-developed man, so that you may judge the capacity of the penguin's stomach by doubling it and comparing it with a man's. The bird, like many other birds, appears to swallow pieces of stone to help it to grind down its food, for Sir John Ross found ten pounds of granite and other kinds of stone in the stomach of a penguin which he caught--no light weight for such a bird to carry about.

On land the penguin uses its wings as fore-legs, and crawls or runs on four feet, as it were, so quickly that, on a grassy cliff, it might be mistaken for some kind of quadruped. Living in regions which are rarely visited by man, these birds have not yet learned to dread him, but often stand still until they are knocked down with a stick. They are very courageous. A naturalist tells us how he attempted to stop one as it was going down to the sea. He intercepted it, but the bird fought him and drove him backwards step by step. Every step the bird gained it kept, standing up erect and fearless before the naturalist, and continually rolling its head from side to side. Nothing short of heavy blows, he tells us, would have stopped it.

The penguin lays one egg, of a whitish colour, about twice as large as a goose's egg. It is said that the female bird hatches its egg by keeping it close between its legs, and that if it be disturbed at this time, it will carry its egg away with it. While the female bird is hatching its egg, the male goes to the sea to catch fish for them both; and, when the young one is hatched, both parents go to sea and bring it food. They do this so well and so unselfishly that the young bird grows quite fat, and is scarcely able to walk, while the old birds themselves become thin. The young bird takes its food in a very curious way. When its mother has just returned from the sea, she stands up over her little one, and makes a great noise something between the quacking of a duck and the braying of an ass. After that has gone on for a minute or so, she puts down her head and opens her mouth, and the young one thrusts its beak in and takes out its food.

Living in such cold countries, and spending so much time in the cold water, the penguin needs to be well protected from the cold. And so it is. Its short feathers are closely packed, and form a water-proof coat. Under the skin there is a thick layer of fat, which helps to keep out the cold; and, as we have already seen, the penguin eats enormous quantities of food, much of which is no doubt used up in keeping the bird warm. Some people tell us that the penguin's flesh is not disagreeable to eat, while others say that it is far too oily to be pleasant. In Newfoundland it used to be burnt upon the fires in place of wood. The flesh is, indeed, so oily that in some places a lamp is said to be made by sticking one end of a piece of moss into the body of a dead penguin and lighting the other. The penguin's body serves as an oil-vessel, and the moss as a wick.

W. A. ATKINSON.

CUTTING IT DOWN.

Those who follow their friends' advice in everything soon find that they have to obey a good many different masters. A man was once setting up in business as a hatter, and he consulted all his acquaintances as to what he should set up as a sign outside his shop. He proposed 'John Thomson, hatter, makes and sells hats for ready money,' with the sign of a hat. But the first friend he asked suggested that the word 'hatter' was not wanted, because the rest of the sentence showed that Thomson was a hatter. So 'hatter' was struck out.

The next remarked that 'for ready money' was unnecessary; few people desired credit for articles such as hats, and, in any case, the hatter would know best whether credit could be given. Another omission was therefore made.

The third friend declared that nobody cared to know who made the hats, so long as they could be bought. Accordingly, the sentence was cut down to 'John Thomson sells hats,' with the sign.

But the last friend who was consulted objected to the words 'sells hats.' 'The sign of the hat,' he said, 'will show your business; and nobody expects you to give the hats away.'

Thus, by following the advice of all his friends, the hatter cut down his announcement simply to 'John Thomson,' with the sign of a hat.

'A WILL OF HER OWN.'

Rosa was a Swedish girl. She had so often heard people say, 'Rosa has a will of her own,' that she began to think it rather a fine thing, and when people think it is rather a fine thing to be naughty, trouble is sure to follow.

One beautiful summer day Rosa's mother said to her: 'Put on your Sunday frock, Rosa, and take these eggs to your grandmother. You may stay to tea, and play a little; but you must be back by seven o'clock.'

This pleased Rosa, for she was not often sent alone to her grandmother's, although she lived quite near. Soon she was ready. She looked very smart in her scarlet petticoat, bright apron, and white blouse, and started off proudly with her little basket of eggs.

Her grandmother was a beautiful old lady with gold spectacles and enormous white cap. She thanked Rosa for the eggs, gave her delicious tea with strawberries, cream, and cakes, and then said, 'You can play in the garden until the bell rings. Only do not go near the river.'

'Thank you,' said Rosa, meekly, and walked away.

When she had shut, the door, she gave her head a little toss and her shoulders a little shake, and said: 'I only said "Thank you," not "Yes, thank you," for I mean to go near the river. There is nowhere else to play. Mother always lets me go by the river, so why should Grandmother forbid it?'

Now, the stream where Rosa generally played was only a tributary, and was not nearly so deep and wide as the main river where she now was. Rosa stood on the bank watching the great pine-trunks, which, in Sweden, are always floating down by the rivers to the sea. The woodmen cut the trees down, mark them, and let them float where they will, and the owners claim the logs when they reach the Baltic. Rosa and her brother Rolf used to jump on these trees sometimes when they struck near the shore, float down the stream a little way, and then jump off again. It was always a dangerous game for children to play, but much more dangerous on the large river than on the little tributary.

After a few minutes Rosa saw three large trunks, firmly bound together, coming close up to her.

'What a lovely boat!' she cried. 'Oh, but I have on my best clothes!'

Rosa loved her clothes--but she loved floating on the river more; with a skip and a little jump, there she was, perched like a bird on the tree-trunks, floating away in the middle of the stream, with her scarlet petticoat held out for a sail.

'Oh! how lovely,' she said to herself. 'I am going ever so much faster than in our stream, and how far away the banks seem. I am like a big steamer in the middle of the sea itself.'

For some time Rosa thoroughly enjoyed it. Then she became a little bit afraid, though she was too proud to admit it, even to herself. There was nothing on either side of the river, but deep pine forests that she did not know. There was no sound but the rush of the river; and she wished her little boat would go near the bank. Perhaps it would catch on that bit of rock sticking out. No, the river gave it a wicked tug and swept it round the point with a triumphant gurgle. Could Rosa catch an overhanging tree? She tried to, but the effort nearly jerked her into the water, and left nothing but a few crumpled leaves in her hand.

The thought of falling into that dark, cold water thoroughly frightened her, and she now quite forgot even to pretend to enjoy herself. She firmly stood on the logs, shutting her eyes tight, so as to try to forget her fears.

Then a distant roar suddenly made Rosa scream with terror. 'The waterfall! oh, the waterfall!'

Her father had told her of the great waterfall somewhere on the river. She must be getting nearer and nearer to it every second. She looked desperately to the banks; they seemed ever so far away, and the current was swifter than ever, and looked dreadfully hungry and cruel.

'It will go quicker and quicker,' she thought, 'and the noise will be louder and louder and louder, and there will be the edge, and then---- '

But Rosa never got any further; there was a jerk and a jar; the logs ran into something with a bump and Rosa felt herself thrown off them on to some hard, firm surface. She lay quite still for some time, for the noise of the waterfall thundered in her ears, and she felt she must hold on for dear life.

When at last she looked up, to her surprise she found herself on a tiny beach, lying half in the water. She jumped to her feet, meaning to run home as fast as she could; but she found that was impossible, for she was on a little island just a few yards from the edge of the waterfall.

At first she could not think of anything but how glad she was to be on dry land; but that feeling did not last long. She was soaking wet, and very hungry; the weather had changed too--it was raining a little, and the wind sighed through the great forest trees, making them creak and groan.

All that Rosa could do was to make a poor little supper of a few wild strawberries and beech-nuts, which grew on her island, rest against a tree, and try to sleep. She woke early the next morning (for Swedish summer nights are very short), and after eating some more strawberries and beech-nuts, ran about in the sunshine to try to get warm.

Suddenly she spied a pair of little black eyes looking at her through the leaves. It was a squirrel, very surprised to see a little girl in a scarlet frock running about his island. He began to chatter to her, and Rosa felt happier now she had a companion. She was so taken up with watching him running up and down the trees, hunting for breakfast, that she jumped when she suddenly heard a cry of 'Rosa, Rosa!' being shouted behind her. It was her father on the mainland. She was so pleased to see him that she nearly cried for joy. She could not get to him, however, and it was some time before a boat could breast the current and rescue her from her island.

Rosa was so pleased to be at home that she almost forgot how naughty she had been, until her mother told her what a terribly anxious night she and her father had had, and that they had not been to bed at all. That made Rosa more sorry than her own unpleasant experiences had done; and one result of her adventure was that she gave up thinking what a fine thing it was to have a 'will of her own.'

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

IX.--A TALE OF A TUB.

It was a fine June afternoon in the year 1806, and two boys, aged twelve and thirteen, were strolling idly along the muddy shore of the Thames by Millbank. There was no Embankment there then, nor indeed for many years later, and so many strange things, thrown out from incoming ships, were cast up by the tide on this side of the river, that it was the favourite resort of the boys of the neighbourhood, especially as there was a rumour that pearls had been found in several places on the muddy foreshore.

This, however, must certainly have been romance on the boys' part, though it was firmly believed in by most of the younger lads--our two friends, Tom and Roger, being among the number--and they were to-day walking with their eyes fixed on the mud, in hopes of finding treasure, till Roger raising his head, exclaimed hastily--

'I say, Tom, look there!'

'Where?' inquired Tom, gazing across the river.

'No, not there!' said Roger, pulling his brother's sleeve to make him turn round. 'Over there!' and he pointed down the river where a little crowd was assembled by the side of the water.

'Let's go and have a look!' declared Tom. Away scudded Tom and Roger, eager to miss nothing of what might be happening. The sight that had drawn the crowd together was a fool-hardy young carpenter, who, for a wager, had undertaken to row himself in a washing-tub from Millbank to London Bridge.

'Will he do it, Tom?' asked Roger anxiously, as he looked at the sturdy young carpenter, who was just about to step into the big tub which a friend was holding steady for him.

'He may,' cautiously answered Tom. 'The river is smooth enough to-day, but I should not care to be in his boat when he gets in the whirl of the bridges; that tub will spin round like a tee-to-tum.'

The carpenter now took off his coat, and throwing it to his friend said jokingly, 'It's yours, if I don't come back to claim it.'

'You will come back, right enough,' said his friend, as he handed him a pair of sculls. Then with a cheer from the crowd--in which Tom and Roger heartily joined--the tub was started on its adventurous voyage.

There was intense stillness on the part of the crowd as the tub went rolling uneasily along, but in a minute the tension was relaxed, as across the water came the notes of 'There was a jolly miller,' sung with calm unconcern by the voyager in his strange craft.

'He will do it!' said Roger excitedly. 'It's not the first time he's sailed in a tub, I feel sure, and if he keeps his head at the bridges he will do it.'

'Let us hurry to London Bridge; we shall hear if he has got safe, even if we are not in time to see him land,' said Tom.

'All right,' answered Roger, and off ran the two. They knew all the short cuts through the City, and by dint of hard running they actually arrived on the scene before the final act.

'There he is! there he is!' shouted Tom, 'and he is still singing. What a plucky fellow he must be.'

There in the middle of the water was the tub, sure enough; but the worst part of the journey had still to be done, for the tide swept very swiftly under the narrow arches of London Bridge, and the tub spun round and round till it seemed at one time that it would never make the land.

'It will be swamped!' cried impulsive Tom.

'No! no!' answered Roger, 'he's got it into quieter water already. There! he's bringing it on shore, and close by us! Let's give him a cheer, Tom.'

And with hearty goodwill the two boys set up a cheer, and then ran down into the water to help drag up the tub, and to congratulate the hero of this strange feat of 1806.

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

IX.--THE MANCHESTER SHIP CANAL.[2]

The merchants of Manchester were not satisfied with the means they had for receiving goods from abroad and dispatching their own in return. They wanted to be nearer to the sea; but as Manchester was much too large a place to be carried to the coast, it seemed more reasonable to carry the sea to Manchester, and so turn the town into an inland port. They had thought and thought about it for a very long time, without being able to hit upon any satisfactory plan, when, in 1882, a Mr. Daniel Adamson invited some friends to his house in the suburbs of Manchester, and made a proposal and a suggestion which led to the accomplishment of the great design. Mr. Adamson was a gentleman of great energy and courage, and though cities might stand in the way, he would bring the sea to Manchester when once he had made up his mind to do so. It was almost safe to say that he would have cut the canal with his own hands rather than fail in his determination. It is such men as he who make England prosperous.

[Footnote 2: The illustrations are based upon photographs kindly supplied by Mr. Banks, of Manchester.]

Permission having at last been gained from Parliament, a number of steam dredgers arrived in the mouth of the Mersey, and work was begun. The distance from the starting-point to Manchester is thirty-five and a half miles, and over most of these the river itself was followed.

At Eastham, on the south side of the river, foundations were laid for three locks side by side, and these form the entrance of the water-road to Manchester. One or two points with regard to them must be mentioned. In the first place they are not locks in the ordinary sense, as the water that flows through them is tidal water; but they serve to keep that tide in the canal at one uniform level. As they are within reach of boisterous sea-water, there is an additional protecting gate in front of each, while between them and the shore there are three large sluices to regulate the passage of unusually heavy tides.

On passing through the Eastham lock, vessels bound for Manchester find themselves in a channel about one hundred and seventy-two feet wide and twenty-six feet deep, separated from the broader Mersey by a long embankment thirty feet wide at the top, and following the curves of the river for nine miles. But in that nine miles there are several sights to see, for Eastham is not left very far behind when, on the right, the river Weaver is reached. This is a broad river flowing into the Mersey, and its ancient rights could not be taken away, though it was absolutely necessary to control them. Consequently, all across its wide mouth a number of sluice-gates, sliding up and down on rollers, had to be erected. These are worked by hydraulic power, and are raised at suitable times, according to the condition of the tide, when the water, flowing from the Weaver across the canal, finds its way into the Mersey through long openings in the top of the embankment of which we have spoken.

Streams less important than the Weaver are treated in a less dignified way. Thus, a little farther on we come upon two small rivers which are carried under the canal in huge cast-iron pipes. At the busy town of Runcorn we reach the first railway bridge, and the canal is narrowed to ninety-two feet, flowing in a graceful curve between concrete walls. The railway bridge, as it stands to-day, was built by the Canal Company, for the old one was too low for ships to pass beneath. It is now seventy-five feet above the surface of the water, and all other fixed bridges that cross the canal must be equally high.

Ten long straight miles beyond Runcorn a vessel comes to a halt in front of the first lock on the canal proper. It is at a place called Latchford. We are twenty-one miles from Eastham, and at the end of the tidal course. Fourteen and a half more miles to Manchester--and in that distance we have sixty feet and six inches to climb! As we move slowly into the lock the hydraulic machinery is set in motion; the gate behind us is closed, and the one in front slowly opens. In rushes the foaming water, lifting our vessel as it rises in the lock, and in a few more minutes we are steaming on our way--sixteen feet above the level of the waters just left behind. We have mounted the first step in the watery stairway leading to Manchester's front door.

Some seven miles further on another lock is reached, and passing through this we shortly come in sight of what is, perhaps, the most interesting engineering feat performed in this great enterprise. It is the Barton swing bridge, and was constructed to carry the Bridgewater Canal across the one upon which we are travelling in imagination. About the year 1756 the young Duke of Bridgewater employed an engineering genius named James Brindley to make a canal from his coal-mines near Manchester to the town of Runcorn. With astounding skill, James Brindley carried out the work, finding his greatest difficulty at the point of which we are speaking. The river Irwell flowed directly across the course of his canal and at a considerably lower level. Friends advised him to lead his canal down to the river by a large number of small locks, and lift it again on the other side by similar means. 'That is the usual thing to do,' they said.

But Brindley preferred the best way to the usual way, and boldly carried his canal over the river on a stone bridge or aqueduct. It was the first time such a thing had been done in England, and it served its purpose for nearly one hundred and fifty years. Then the Manchester Ship Canal comes along the Irwell, and the stone aqueduct must be turned into a swing bridge, or how is any ship to pass?

'Very well,' said the owners of the Bridgewater Canal, 'but you must not let much of our water be lost, for we have little to spare.'

And this is how Mr. Leader Williams, the engineer, got over the difficulty. He built an island in the middle of the Ship Canal for the iron bridge to turn upon, leaving the two ends free. The bridge itself he made in the form of a long tank, nineteen feet wide and seven feet deep, the two ends being hinged so that they would open and close like doors. Strengthening iron girders, rising to a height of some twenty feet, form the sides of the bridge, while cross-girders close in the top. The two ends of the canal proper where it reaches the entrance to the bridge, are also provided with watertight doors. When the bridge is in position there is a narrow gap between its two ends and the canal. This is filled up and made watertight by a ponderous wedge, weighing twelve tons and shaped like a U, its sides and lower part thus corresponding in outline with those of the tank and canal. The wedge is further padded on each side with indiarubber which, when squeezed into place, effectually prevents any leakage. As soon as a ship is signalled on the Manchester canal, the doors at each end of the tank-bridge are closed, together with those at the ends of the canal. Then the U wedge is lifted from between them, and the bridge (weighing, with the water it contains, sixteen hundred tons) is swung round on its island pivot till the channels are open on either side. The ship passes by and the bridge is swung back to its original position. The towing-path (for all craft on the Duke of Bridgewater's canal are drawn by horses) is carried across the bridge on an iron shelf, nine feet above the water.

Beyond Barton the Salford docks are reached, and after passing one more lock, we sail triumphantly into the magnificent docks of Manchester to which this thread of silver leads.

When first the canal was opened Manchester seemed to be taken by surprise, and hardly knew how to perform the part of a seaport; but that is all changed now. The docks are growing fast, and only in 1905 their Majesties the King and Queen opened a new dock two thousand seven hundred feet long, two hundred and fifty feet wide, making an area of fifteen and a half acres, and capable of accommodating ten of the largest steamships entering the canal.

Thus this great city, at a cost of fifteen million pounds, opened its gateway to the ocean, and receives at its doors rich freights of merchandise from all quarters of the earth, though it stands thirty-five miles away from the sound of the sea.

IRON-SMELTING IN INDIA.

In many parts of India iron is made in a very simple way, which has probably been followed for centuries without much change. The iron-worker builds a little furnace of clay, in the form of a tower which is narrower at the top than at the bottom. This tower is only four or five feet high, so that it is after all no bigger than the towers and castles which children build in the sand; but its builder makes good use of it, small though it is. The top of it is open, and at the bottom there are one or two openings in the side, through which the iron-maker can blow the air of a pair of bellows. These bellows are goat-skin bags, which have been made by sewing up whole skins. A hollow bamboo is fitted into the end of each bag, in order to form the pipes of the bellows and there is also another opening in each bag which may be closed very quickly by the man who blows the bellows. He works the bellows by pressing upon the goat-skin bags with his feet, so as to drive out the air through the pipe which is fixed in the end of each bag. He works two bags at one time, pressing first upon one and then upon the other. While he is pressing one bag, he raises the other, which is empty, and allows it to fill again through the hole which has been left in it for that purpose. In this way he contrives to have one bag filling with air, while he is squeezing the air out of the other.

The smelter, before he can make iron, must have iron ore and fuel, as well as furnace and bellows. The ore he has already dug from the ground and arranged in a little heap near his furnace. It is usually a rather dark-coloured stone, or a soft, red earth. The fuel is charcoal, which the smelter makes by burning wood in a heap more or less covered with earth, in such a way that the wood chars rather than burns away.

A very hot fire is needed to change the stony or earthy iron-ore into iron, or rather to burn out the iron which lies in the ore, and the clay furnace and the bellows are employed for the purpose of maintaining this hot fire. The smelter lights the fire inside the bottom of his furnace, and the tower acts as a sort of chimney. The pipes of the goat-skin bellows are joined on to clay pipes which pass into the bottom of the furnace, and lead the draught of air from the bags into the fire. The bellows-pipes themselves cannot be put into the furnace, because they would take fire.

When the smelter has got his fire well aglow, he places upon it a layer of charcoal, and above that a thin layer of iron-ore. On the top of these he puts another layer of charcoal and another of ore, and thus he goes on loading his furnace until he thinks that he has filled it sufficiently full. Then he works away at his bellows for three or four hours.

At the end of this time the charcoal and much of the ore are burned away, and there is not much left but glowing embers in the bottom of the furnace. The smelter breaks a hole through the furnace, and, poking with his tongs into the ashes, draws out a little red-hot ball of iron, scarcely as large as a cricket ball, which has been formed from the ore, partly by the heat of the fire, and partly by the help of the red-hot charcoal which has acted chemically upon the ore. This little ball of iron is well hammered, in order to knock out any ashes which may have lodged in it, and it is then ready to be worked up into an implement, or to be made into steel for a sword-blade or some other weapon.

THE PRINCESS HAS COME.

The white snow has gone from the vale and the mountain; The ice from the river has melted away; The hills far and near Are less winterly drear, And the buds of the hawthorn are peeping for May. I hear a light footstep abroad in my garden; Oh, stay, does the wind through the shrubbery blow? There's warmth in the breeze, And a song in the trees, And the Princess of Springtime is coming, I know.

The crocus has lighted its lamp in the forest, Though it shelters its flame with a close-drawn green hood; The primrose peeps out, With a shiver of doubt, And wonders if winter has left us for good. But hark, from afar comes the sound of a bugle! Or is it the bee where the rose-bushes grow? He loiters so long, With such joy in his song, That the Princess of Springtime is coming, I know.

The blackbird has climbed to the top of the cedar, And there in the sunshine he whistles a strain. 'She's coming! She's here!' Are his messages clear, As squadrons of swallows sweep by in the lane.

Now the woodlands rejoice with the green-tinted hedges; The young wheat peeps up and the blue sky looks down. Then out and away! Our respects we must pay, When the Princess of Springtime is wearing her crown.

THE MISUNDERSTOOD POETS.

The village wiseacres of Cumberland, to whom the habits of the poet Wordsworth and his eccentric friend Coleridge were a mystery, had decided that they must be terrible scoundrels. One sage had seen Wordsworth looking fixedly at the moon; another had overheard him muttering in some strange language. Some thought him a conjuror; some a smuggler, from his perpetually haunting the sea-beach; while others were sure that he was a desperate French conspirator.

One day, while on a walking excursion, Coleridge met a woman, who, not knowing who he was, abused him to himself in unmeasured terms for some time. 'I listened,' wrote the poet to a friend, 'very particularly, appearing to approve all she said, exclaiming "Dear me!" two or three times; and, in fine, so completely won her heart by my civilities, that I had not courage enough to undeceive her.'

This hostility seems very ludicrous now; but at the time its effect was such, that the person who had the letting of Allfoxenden House refused point-blank to re-let it to Wordsworth.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

II.--AGRICULTURAL ACROSTIC.

My first is very quiet, My second was very noisy, My third is very watery, My fourth is often very fierce, My fifth is very musical, My sixth is done to newspapers.

Every week my finals and initials are held in many large towns.

W. S.

[Answers on page 323.]

* * * * *

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES ON PAGE 254.

9.--1. Board. 2. Death. 3. March.

10.--Lilac.

1. H e L e n. 2. C r I m e. 3. G a L e n. 4. T r A i n. 5. B a C o n.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page 275.)

Thomas advanced towards Estelle cautiously, an artful smile on his face. Before the little girl was aware of his presence, he was close to her.

'Hush!' he muttered, fearing she would cry out; 'you come along with me, and I will take you home, my lady. It is not true friends that keep you here. I know my lady is dying to see you.'

He caught her suddenly in his arms, and bore her back into the tent. The curtains dropped heavily behind him, just as Estelle, the spell of her terror broken, uttered the cry Jack had heard.

Jack turned at the sound; so did Julien; so did Mrs. Wright. But Estelle was nowhere to be seen. No further sound betrayed her whereabouts.

But Jack was not a man to be easily disconcerted. Mrs. Wright and Julien stood still in consternation, but Jack made up his mind at once. He was naturally impetuous and hasty in thought and action. Only the sore troubles through which he had passed, and the knowledge that he had brought so much unhappiness on his mother as well as on himself by his quick temper, had had power to make him as calm and gentle as he had shown himself to Estelle. It was as if a fire smouldered within him always, but was held in restraint by a strong will.

Now, however, calmness was cast to the winds. The child was in danger. She had no helper but himself. Till her parents were found she was his child--his by right of being her protector, her preserver. On him she depended for everything; on him and his mother. Who had dared to touch her? His face flushed, then turned white. His keen eye searched every corner. There was one place only in which the child could have been concealed--the tent. She had been standing near it when he turned to give the coppers to the children.

Without an instant's hesitation he sprang forward, the curtains were thrust aside, and he was among the tawdry, excited crowd of play-actors. They had been resting between the performances. Suddenly they were startled by one of their number rushing through the tent with a child in his arms, whose cries he was stifling with a large cloak. None understood what the noise was about, nor had any of the men and women seen the face of the little girl; therefore none were interested, and none stirred themselves to ask what had happened. Only one spoke--she whose cloak had been snatched up to enfold the child. She called out a rough remonstrance, but Thomas answered her hurriedly, as he tried to wind the garment closely about Estelle, with small regard as to whether she could breathe or not.

'The child has been kidnapped,' he said, quickly. 'I know her parents, and I must---- '

He got no further. Jack was upon him. The sudden appearance of the tall sailor in hot pursuit caused a sensation among the people standing about. The men pressed forward to see what would happen, and were knocked over by the giant. A storm of resentment arose as they struggled to their feet, and threatening fists were shaken at Jack. None, however, ventured to attack the broad-shouldered, sinewy sailor, whose gigantic height and powerful arms inspired awe. At sight of him Thomas caught up the little girl, the cloak still trailing on the ground and hampering his movements, and tried to escape through another opening in the curtains of the tent. He did not require a second look at Jack's enraged face and blazing eyes to understand that in him Estelle had a mighty defender, who was not likely to let her kidnapper off easily. It seemed barely a moment before violent hands were laid on Thomas's collar, the child torn out of his hands, and himself hurled back among the angry crowd behind him. A murmur of increasing wrath went up, but Jack paid no heed to it. Getting rid of the cloak, and taking Estelle in his arms, he strode out of the tent to where he had left his mother and Julien. Estelle had fainted, and he was anxious to get her home as quickly as possible. Her white, unconscious face alarmed him.

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