A GENTLE DONKEY.
(Continued from page [399].)
Peace was soon restored, and by the time that the Common was reached, Mrs. Raeburn had again quite explained away the donkey's behaviour.
'He is evidently very nervous,' she said. 'Poor little beast! Perhaps he has been ill-treated at some time, and dreads the sight of the whip from sad experience; we must take care not to frighten him again.'
'Yes, Ma'am,' acquiesced Mary meekly. 'The mistress drives horses beautifully,' she confided to Nannie later, 'but she knows nothing about donkeys and their artful ways. You take my word for it, that donkey is a wicked one.'
'Now then, pretty one!' chirruped Mrs. Raeburn to Tim as they rambled along the broad road on the Common, 'you must be good, and not show us those naughty little heels again.' Tim whisked his tail in response and trotted amiably along.
'Why, the road is quite gay to-day, Mary! Oh! of course, it is market-day. Now, good little Tim, keep to the side of the road, so as not to frighten these tired sheep. Warm day!' she called out genially to a man who trudged wearily along behind his flock.
But in spite of her kindly precautions, the nervous sheep scuttled across the road on to the heather-clad common, bleating plaintively: then their scuttle became a run. At sight of this flying column, Tim stopped, put his head on one side, and prepared to follow.
'No, thank you, Tim,' laughed Mrs. Raeburn as she tried to pull him up. 'I have no ambition to herd sheep. You little wretch!' she continued in quite a different tone of voice; for Tim was in "full cry" after them.
Bump, bump, bump went the springless governess cart over the lumpy Common, rocking from side to side like a boat in a storm.
'What are you doing?' yelled the herdsman. 'I'll report you, that I will, trying to steal my sheep.'
'This is very exciting,' whispered Harry. 'I like driving with you, Mother.'
But Mother was not enjoying herself. Here was she, the wife of a Justice of the Peace, apparently stealing a flock of sheep in broad daylight. At this moment she could have killed Tim.
'This is dreadful, Mary,' she murmured. 'What can we do? Oh, these idiots of sheep, why won't they stop?'
But the terrified sheep, instead of stopping, only increased their speed. Away they flew over the Common, and behind them, in hot pursuit, galloped Tim, while round both sheep and governess cart barked the frantic sheep-dog.
On, on they raced, over hillocks, through gorse bushes, down into treacherous holes, till at last the gate leading out upon a narrow road was reached. Through this surged the sheep, and close behind them tore Tim. The cart gave a bone-shaking dump as it took the descent from grass to hard road, and Mary, who at the beginning of Tim's flight, had opened the door, was thrown out.
Suddenly a motor was seen coming towards them, along the narrow road, and Mrs. Raeburn gave a gasp of fear.
'Hold your hand up, Harry. Quick—quick!'
Harry, eager to assist, raised both his arms.
'Hullo!' called a familiar voice: the motor came to a sudden standstill, and out of it jumped Major Raeburn.
'What in all the earth are you doing, Maud?' he said in a voice of the greatest astonishment, as he walked towards them; but Mrs. Raeburn motioned him back.
'Turn the motor across the road as fast as you can, and don't let one of these sheep pass it!'
So the panting sheep were stopped, and Tim's race was at an end.
'And now, good people, please explain yourselves,' continued the Major.
'Oh, Jack,' burst forth his wife, 'we have had the most awful morning with Tim. He has smashed Mrs. Laurence's gate, run off after these sheep, Mary is thrown out, and I expect is lying dead somewhere, and I don't know where the drover is.'
'And, Father,' interrupted Harry in his shrill treble, 'we have had such an exciting drive! Mother can drive Tim just beautifully!'
'Well, look here!' said the Major, smiling, 'I suppose I must stay here and speak to the drover of the sheep. You two had better go home across the fields. I will drive Tim home,' he added, with a look in the direction of the donkey.
Half an hour later the motor puffed into the stable yard, and close behind it cantered Tim, looking a most angelic little donkey.
'Can't make the little beast out,' said Major Raeburn to his wife, as they walked towards the house; 'I shall take him out myself to-morrow.'
(Concluded on page [410].)
THE SINGING BIRD.
SINGING bird within my heart
Has surely built a nest,
For every morning when I rise
So early from my rest,
I find a song for me to sing
Is waiting in my breast.
One song is of the flowers bright,
That nod in every breeze,
Of birds that in the tree-tops dwell,
Of butterflies and bees,
Of fairy-haunted woodland ways,
And tall, dark, swaying trees.
Another song it softly croons
As from a far-off land:
But this a deeper meaning has,
I don't quite understand,
Because of all the mysteries
That lie so close at hand.
These sweet songs thrill me with delight—
I carol them all day;
I hope that cheerful singing bird
Has really come to stay;
But whence it came and why it's here
I'm sure I cannot say.
HUGE BIRDS.
Travellers in all parts of the world hear strange and surprising tales about the huge or wonderful creatures which the natives have seen, so they say, and which, perhaps, they also declare they have hunted years ago. People believed all these stories formerly, and put them in books for the benefit of others; but matters have altered now. Travellers' tales are not so plentiful, because they are not deceived as they used to be, and when they are told, their truth is searched out. The sea-serpent, for instance, has been 'seen' many times, and once at least—in 1906—by properly trained scientific observers. But people are still unwilling to believe entirely in its existence.
Some of the commonest stories brought home from far countries have been about the existence of gigantic birds, and, when we look into these, we find they are not all fables. In many countries, birds quite unlike any now seen, and of huge bulk, existed before man's time; and it is evident that a few of these bird-monsters—shall we call them?—did not vanish till a recent date, so that human beings had the chance of making acquaintance with them.
Australia, New Zealand, and other countries that are on the opposite side of the world to Britain, are the home of many curious forms of life, animal or vegetable. New Zealand has, in time past, been the habitation of a family of immense birds, which have not died out very long. In fact, some suppose there are retreats there where the birds still live, which are seldom or never visited by men of any race. We have no English name for them, so we must give them the Latin one of Dinornis. A search during 1870, amongst the old cooking-pits, or ovens, in the Province of Canterbury, brought to view sundry remains of the dinornis, being a sure sign that some of the huge birds had been caught and cooked.
Farther back, in 1842, there was an account of a strange bird the New Zealanders knew, and called a Moa, published by a Mr. Williams. They told him it had lived in places difficult to reach amongst the hills, and that their grandfathers had seen the bird alive, but they themselves had not, though they had discovered bones of the species in the mud of some rivers. According to observations, the height of the dinornis may have been from twelve to fourteen feet, or even more; it is supposed the birds were numerous at one time, and lived to a great age. What their food was is only to be guessed, probably vegetable, for the dinornis does not seem to have been a bird of prey. The natives described them as running or striding over the ground with tremendous speed, but nothing was said about their being able to fly.
While searching volcanic sand, Mr. Mantell came upon an immense egg-shell, for which he said that his hat would hardly have been large enough to serve as cup. But the size of a bird does not always indicate what that of the egg is, so this may not have been one laid by a dinornis. Thus, the Apteryx, or Kiwi, of New Zealand, a curious, almost wingless bird, lays an egg which is about a quarter of its own weight.
Madagascar, in the past centuries, had also its big bird, which has been named Œpyornis, but only fragments of its bones have been obtained, and a few eggs, mostly broken. It is reckoned, however, that, the average egg of the Œpyornis must have been a foot long, and about two feet round, six times as big as that of the ostrich. There was a fine bird, yet not equal to these giants, named the Great Auk, which used to be found at the North of Scotland, and elsewhere. It was a good swimmer and diver, but has vanished.
CROWDED OUT.
A family of mice, consisting of father, mother, and three sons, living in a large log-house, near the shore of a great American river, went to sleep one night without a thought of what was going to happen before the morning. Angry words and bitter spirits, I am sorry to say, were uppermost with them. Jealousy, Covetousness, Spite: these three evil spirits stirred up the brothers, and the grey-whiskered parents, although they said little, remembered that they too had often, in bygone days, entertained the same three evil spirits, and thereby set a very poor example to their children.
So, jabbering, biting, clawing, they fell asleep this night—squeaking, scratching, and snarling forth their wicked feelings even in their dreams.
What an awakening was theirs! Four or five square inches of half-decayed flooring-board was their sole home. The keen air blew about them from all quarters: the morning sky hung dull grey above their heads, and surrounding them everywhere was the river—cold, rushing, and troubled.
Yes, the floods had come, and the log-home of the mice, like many another, was now a dismantled wreck—floating, a plank here, a log there; and upon their bit of soddened plank huddled the unfortunate family.
Where were now the three evil spirits? Not on the poor little raft: there was no room for them. Jealousy? why, there was not a pin to choose between the refugees, and they knew it: there was nothing to be jealous about. They had no room even for their tails, which, almost unheeded, were soaking in the water behind them, and getting nibbled now and then by the little fishes. No, there was no room for jealousy.
Covetousness, too, was crowded out. There was nothing to covet; they had divided that bit of boarding up so equally that if the father mouse had tried to take a survey of the other side of the river he must have upset his second son in turning about. All were cold, all were wet, all miserable, starving, and despairing! No room for Covetousness? I should say not. And the spirit of Spite, the ugliest, most hateful of them all, was banished with the rest. It was the only good this trial could do to these poor mice—to bring them face to face with their wicked feelings, and by their common sorrow teach them their need of and dependence on each other. There was no gleaming of little white teeth, no biting, no clawing, any longer!
So the day wore on, till evening, cold, grey, and dark, was spreading over the troubled waters. Fortunately, they were drifted by the flood very near the shore, where it jutted out into the river, and at last, very, very miserable, and weak, and hungry, one by one the five suffering but penitent mice sought and found a shelter for the night in a hollow tree, the bottom of which was full of dry leaves, and as warm as an oven.
"No room for Jealousy."
They found a delightful old farmhouse the next day, and, living in one of the sweet-scented hayricks for a time, until they could find out about the kitchen and the cook, this now happy and loving family learnt to think gratefully of that otherwise dreadful day when, adrift on the river floods, they had bidden good-bye for ever to Jealousy, Covetousness, and Spite.
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
XI.—A COLORADO RAILWAY.
HEY called it the 'baby road,' when the first rails were laid near Denver City, the capital of Colorado, in the spring of 1871; and every one agreed it was a brave baby that could start upon such a wild journey. Over the lonely, snow-topped mountains, through the gloomiest gorges the route would lie. Here the whistle of the engine would be answered by the cry of the condor, or deep in the lonely pine forest would startle some ambling grizzly bear. It was in the days when the settler was still subject to attacks by marauding Indians, and civilisation had only a slight foothold among the savage byways of Colorado.
The 'baby road' was started under the guidance of a party of wealthy men from Philadelphia, and the first steps were quite easy. Denver City lies on flat ground at the foot of a long range of majestic mountains. Along the side of these the line was laid, past Pike's Peak, which rises from the plain to a height of fourteen thousand one hundred and forty-seven feet, and on to the city of Pueblo. Here the road turns westward, along the side of the Arkansas River, and a few minutes later disappears into the shadows of a mighty gorge through which the river flows. And here the troubles of the engineer began. From the sides of the stream the granite walls of the cañon, or gorge, rise perpendicularly for three thousand feet. Nearly the whole of the space between the base of these cliffs is taken up by the river itself, though for several miles a sufficiently wide ledge was found to lay the rails upon, just out of reach of the roaring torrent of water. But, by-and-by, a point was gained where the 'ledge' suddenly ended, and for some hundreds of yards the River Arkansas took up the whole space.
Then the engineer had to think. First, it seemed advisable to use gunpowder and blow away the face of the cliff until sufficient space was made to carry the railway. But the gorge is so narrow, and the rock is so hard that the plan did not seem a good one. Finally it was decided to build the railway along a hanging bridge. And this bridge is surely one of the most curious ever erected. From the cliff-face on either side, iron girders spring at an upward slant, like an inverted V, and from the point at which they meet, steel rods descend. These are securely fastened to the river-side of the bridge. The other side of the bridge is built into the cliff-face. Thus it is neither a suspension bridge nor an arch bridge, but is sustained by the strength of the overhead girders. To make this structure, the workmen, with their tools, had to be swung in cages against the cliffs, and it was no easy task, in such a confined space, to manoeuvre the girders into their proper positions.
One of the principal desires of those who were laying this railway, was to get it done quickly. There were wealthy mining regions to be reached by it over the high mountains, and to reach them quickly meant prosperity. Improvements could come afterwards. Consequently it would never do to make tunnels if they could be avoided, even if great distances had to be travelled. In England, tunnels do not count for very much because our mountains are not large, but in Colorado a tunnel would be a serious thing, particularly for a 'baby road.' When the walls of the deep and gloomy cañon at last widened out into the broad valley, the engineers found themselves faced by the still vaster wall of snow-capped mountains. As it was impossible to go through them they would have to be climbed. The only way to do this was to go up them in a zig-zag—backwards and forwards. Miles and miles are often traversed to make only a little progress, and if after looking out of one window you cross the carriage to look out at the other, you must not be surprised to find yourself quite close to some place you remember passing half an hour ago. But you are higher up the mountain, and by-and-by a point is reached at which the trees have ceased to grow. The patient engine has dragged its train into the snowy region, too high and cold for spruce or fir to live in, and a little later the line begins to descend on the other side. The laying of this zig-zag railway was far more difficult than it looks, for great skill had to be exercised in choosing the proper places for the curves, and managing the road so that no parts of it were too steep. On one such railway in America the train travels more than four miles between two places only one mile and a quarter apart in a direct line.
Our 'baby road,' in crossing the mountain just described, climbed to a height of nine thousand three hundred and forty feet—at that time the highest point ever reached by a railway; and the first train passed over it on 16th June, 1877. Among these mountains, in certain places, where, in winter, avalanches of snow are likely to occur, long sheds like tunnels are strongly built over the railway. So terrible are these avalanches at times that the wind they cause in rushing down the mountain-side has been strong enough alone to uproot the forest trees. The sheds are so built as to form no resistance to the sliding mass, which passes easily over their sloping roofs till they are like tunnels cut through a mountain of snow. Their walls are formed of pine-logs laid on one another in the form of hollow squares, the space being filled with ballast and small stones.
But our railway has passed the top and is plunging down to the mining district of San Juan, there to pass through more of those deep cañons. No other railway, perhaps, can claim to traverse such a variety of scenes; but mountain and cañon did not delay it half as much as disputes with another pioneer company that claimed the path it wished to take. Some ten years after it had started from Denver City, however, these disputes came to an end, and the difficult road was pursued right and left. It is hard to say if it will ever cease to grow in length, since the merchants are ever finding fresh markets of fruit and minerals for the engineers to take the iron road to. But since the spring day in 1871, when it first started from Denver City, it has grown in width as well, for the narrow road which was laid down at first for the sake of saving time, has been replaced with metals the same distance apart as those on other American railways.
MR. AND MRS. BROWN'S JOURNEY IN THE FAMILY COACH.
The following is a story written for the 'Family Coach,' a game in which the players sit round the room, whilst some one reads (or tells) a story, in which the names of the different parts of a coach frequently occur. The players each take a name, at the mention of which the owner of it rises and turns round, on penalty of a forfeit. Each time the Family Coach is mentioned all the players change places. The following are names which might be given to the several players: John Brown—Coachman—Cushions—Rugs—Step—Horses—Whip—Dog—Windows—Seats—Wheels—Curtains—Door—Lamp—Box.
Whilst sitting by the fire one night John Brown said to his wife,
'My dear, I think we'll go and see your sister, Mrs. Fife;
We'll travel by the famous coach owned by the good John Brown,
There's not a better coach and man in any market town.'
The morn was bright and frosty, and there the Family Coach
Stood ready in the stable-yard of the fine old inn, the 'Roach.'
The coachman was arranging his cushions and his rugs,
And passengers were giving their friends their parting hugs.
'Now fare ye well,' 'good-bye to you,' and 'may you be safe to-day;'
'Oh, accidents,' the coachman said, 'are never in our way.
The step is very easy, not high at all,' he said,
'And you'll find the cushions quite as soft as any feather bed.
The horses are good, fast ones, they never need the whip,
But the whip, of course, I always take in case of any slip.
My good dog, Bruno, always comes, so I hope you'll not object,
My passengers in danger he would pluckily protect.
The windows are so very large, they make it cheerful too;
So you may view the country, which to some may be quite new.
Come, take your seats, this Family Coach it can no longer wait,
Or else at night,' the coachman said, 'we shall be very late.'
The whip he cracked, the wheels went round, so very, very fast,
The people at each other some anxious glances cast.
The coachman said his horses were the steadiest in town;
'I'm sure I don't agree with him,' cried frightened Mrs. Brown.
'Take care, my dear, or I am sure you will jolt off your seat:
'Indeed, I'm sure I shall be glad when we your sister meet.'
The dog by this was far behind, but now there was a hill,
Up which the coachman's horses walked, and at the top stood still.
''Twas down this hill,' the coachman said, 'that Benson's got smashed up,
When his dog—Bruno's mother—was but a little pup.'
And so they travelled on again through village and through town,
But all around the country now looked white instead of brown;
For snow was falling thickly, and the rugs about their feet
Did not feel half as warm and snug as when they took their seat;
The step outside was covered o'er with snow some inches thick,
The hedges, they were covered, too, you scarce could see a stick.
'This Family Coach was said to be the warmest in the town;
My dear, I don't agree again,' said angry Mrs. Brown.
'Let's draw these curtains, for my seat is in a horrid draught;'
At which the other passengers looked up, and then they laughed.
'There's very little light comes through these windows now,' they said;
'And if these curtains are drawn round, we might all be in bed.'
'I never go to sleep until I've had a supper good,
And among my fellow-passengers I don't see one who would.
I'm much afraid we shan't get one, at any rate to-night;
The wheels scarce go, this Family Coach is in a pretty plight!
Let's put the dog inside with us, he is so cold, poor chap;
And he may sleep upon this rug—if you object, my lap.'
The coachman's whip was broken quite, he urged the horses so,
But all this was of no avail, the horses could not go.
'The snow has drifted high,' the coachman opened the door, and said,
'I do believe the horses are very nearly dead.
I never knew this happen to my Family Coach before,
And if I'd known I would have brought two good, strong horses more.
The horse that is the least done up is jolly little "Clown,"
And by your leave, if you'll stay here, I'll ride off to the town;
In two good hours I will come back with four good horses more,
And long before the morning comes you'll find your own friends' door,'
They shouted out as in one voice, 'And, coachman, if you please,
Do bring us something back to eat, if only bread and cheese!'
'All right!' the coachman said; 'and here's my lamp, for it is dark,
Although the little light it gives is not more than a spark.
If you, good sirs, would take my place, and mind these horses three,
The ladies on the cushions quite warm and snug might be.
This Family Coachcontains a box, and in it you will see
A poker and some other things, and they might useful be.'
With this the coachman said 'Good-bye,' and mounted on the 'Clown.'
He left the Family Coach to reach Braintree—a market town.
A hunt was made, the box was found just underneath the seat,
The ladies lay on cushions with rugs wrapt round their feet.
'I'll take this good strong poker,' said brave old Mr. Brown,
'And if a robber comes to me I just will knock him down!
Look sharp! here's some one coming! Oh, dear! what shall I do?
I would jump into the Family Coach if the door would but undo.
Oh, if I could but get in safe!' cried out poor Mr. Brown;
'I'm sure I always will again stay in my little town.
Here, take this poker, do, you chap, and I will stand behind,
And if the fellow gives you one, be brave, and never mind.
If I were just as young as you I should enjoy it quite.
Oh, dear! oh, dear! I do declare the fellow is in sight!'
'All right! all right!' a voice cried out; 'I am your own coachman,
And I, to get you safe to town, have hit upon a plan.
This drift is only fifty yards, and then the road is clear,
This horse can take the ladies through to me it does appear;
But such a man as Mr. Brown I'm sure he will not mind,
But walk right bravely through the snow unless he's left behind.'
'Not so, indeed,' he did reply; 'if on a horse you get,
I shall as well, or else I know my two feet I shall wet.'
And so he did; although they laughed and called him Johnny Brown,
He safe was carried through the snow on the horse called 'little Clown.'
The walk was done in safety, but when they passed the wood
Old Mr. Brown he clasped his wife as tight as e'er he could.
And when they reached the sister's door he said to Mrs. Fife,
'By Family Coach I ne'er again will travel with my wife.'
NOT AFRAID.
As at the time of the signing of the 'Declaration of Independence' the issue of the revolutionary struggle was still doubtful, all those who signed it risked both their lives and property. One of the signers, named Charles Carroll, was very wealthy, and after he had affixed his name, one of the others said: 'There go many millions.'
'Oh, no,' rejoined another, 'for there are many men of the same name, and they will not know whom to take.'
'Not so,' said Charles Carroll, and added to his signature the words, 'of Carrolton.' This is the only name to which the residence is attached.
VERY CANDID CRITICISM!
A would-be poet and flatterer wrote two sonnets in honour of one of his patrons, and submitted their merits to his judgment, desiring him to retain the best. After having read one of them the patron said, 'The other is the best.'
'How!' exclaimed the poet in surprise; 'you have not read it; how can you tell?'
'Because, indeed,' answered the other, 'it cannot be worse than the one I have read.'
THE PEDLAR.
OWN the quiet village street,
The pedlar takes his way,
His old top hat, and long black coat,
Have weathered many a day.
Before an open door he stays,
With cheery word and smile,
Where mother, with her babe in arms,
Is standing for a while.
A little lass is by her side,
Her eyes with longing bright,
For see, the pedlar has displayed
A lamb, all soft and white!
Ah, well he knows, the wise old man,
The way his wares to ply,
For Mother, moved by childish plea,
Is tempted soon to buy.
He next admires the bonny babe,
His pretty curls of gold,
And after bargaining awhile,
Another toy is sold!
His sunny smile and pleasant words
Beguile both old and young,
Whatever else the pedlar lacks,
He has a winning tongue.
"He has a winning tongue."
"They were passing a field of ripe corn."
TEACHING HIM A LESSON.
A conceited young nobleman was riding over part of his estate in the company of a farmer, an industrious and honest old man, whose hair was grey, and his shoulders bent with age and hard work. The young man thought he would have a little cheap fun at his companion's expense. So he said, 'Why don't you keep yourself straight, and hold your head up as I do?' Just then they were passing a field of ripe corn, and the farmer quietly answered, 'Look at the ears of grain over there, my lord. The heavy, valuable, full heads hang down, while the light, worthless, and empty ones stand bolt upright.' The young man did not attempt another joke at the old fellow's expense. He had the worst of the laugh.