CHAPTER VI.

'Have they ever found the man who injured Dick?' asked Alan, as Lady Coke's story came to an end.

'No,' replied Lady Coke sadly, 'never. Not a trace of him ever came to light. Shall I tell you why—or perhaps one of the chief reasons why—the search was discontinued? It is the grandest part of poor Dick's story,' continued Aunt Betty, putting down her knitting and looking earnestly at the children's interested faces. 'Dick alone knew who did the cruel deed. During the delirium of illness his nurses were keenly attentive to every word he uttered, hoping he would mention the name of his assailant. But no! All through the dangerous fever, and all through the suffering, he never gave the smallest hint as to who the man was, or what the quarrel (if there had been one) was about. On recovering his senses he made his father and mother understand, in the halting speech which was all he could manage, that he wished to keep the name of the man a secret; that, should he have mentioned it during his fever, he begged they would respect his desire, and not permit the name to escape them. 'Give him a chance,' he said. He always feared that the knowledge of what he had done might some day drive the man to desperation, and make him become more wicked through horror at his own action.'

'Don't his father and mother know even now who did it?' asked Georgie, with wide-open eyes of wonder.

'No, as Dick never told them, they will not press him to do so against his will.'

'I could have understood it,' said Alan, 'if the man had fought him fairly, face to face. But to set on him unawares! That's what the scoundrel seems to have done!'

'Yet Dick forgives him!' replied his aunt, gently.

'I don't think,' said Marjorie, 'that Dick is quite right all the same. It is fair enough that Dick should forgive injuries to himself if he chooses, but it is hardly just to his father and mother not to have that man punished as he ought to be.'

'I can't see how it would help Peet even if the man were caught' said Estelle, thoughtfully. 'If he is a sailor, he would not have enough money to pay any of Dick's doctor's bills. I thought sailors were so poor, Aunty?'

'They generally are, dear, and most probably this man was. We know nothing about him, however, nor what it was that led to the terrible thing he did. Let us hope, as Dick does, that the unhappy fellow has repented.'

'Then he would have to come back to say so,' said Alan.

'I don't know that. First, he may think he has killed Dick, and be afraid to show himself. Or he may not be able to find Dick now that Peet has left Cornwall, without betraying why he was inquiring for him. A deeply repentant man would give himself up to justice, certainly; that is, one would think so. But we know absolutely nothing to help us in our judgment of him, and can but hope and pray for him as Dick does.'

Lady Coke was silent for some moments, then, with a smile, she said: 'Now we have talked enough. Go and have your play, my dears.'

'I like what you said, Aunt Betty,' said Alan, as they all got up, and prepared to set off on their games; 'and I, for one, mean to try to follow Dick's example, and be as good as he is.'

The story of Dick's misfortune had greatly excited the sympathy of the children. Alan and the two girls allowed Peet's caustic remarks to pass without reply. They even tried to avoid annoying him by a too free use of the lawns and shrubberies. Georgie, whose youthful fancy had soared to greater heights of pity and sympathy, had at once glorified Peet into a hero, and, to the wonder of the gardener, would stand staring at him with respectful admiration. One day, unfortunately, his feelings carried him so far as to make him offer to help his former enemy in some work in the hothouses, over which Peet appeared to be very busy.

'There's no way for you to help me,' was the gardener's surly answer, 'except by taking yourself off, Master Georgie. Children ought not to be about when there's serious work going on.'

Peet's hero-stage passed away on the spot. Georgie was deeply hurt, and came to the decision that Aunt Betty had been taken in. Peet was not at all the person she thought him. He was nothing but a very disagreeable, rude old man, and he wished that his aunt would 'send him away.'

Nevertheless, Peet had improved. It was not all imagination on the part of the children. Lady Coke had sent for him after her talk with the young people, and the result of the interview was good for all parties. Peet's chief reason for soreness, as regarded the three children from Begbie Hall, was that they made as much use of the grounds of the Moat House as they did of the gardens of Begbie Hall. Estelle's arrival appeared to him to make the state of things worse, since she was the excuse for the whole party to tear about his neatly kept lawns, and climb his trees, instead of confining themselves to those of Begbie Hall, and worrying their own gardeners. He had not dared to express as much as this to Lady Coke, but she was too quick not to discover the true cause of his discontent, though she only alluded to it by saying she desired all the children should play together, whether in her grounds or elsewhere. Kind as she was, Peet understood that he had a mistress who must be obeyed. He was devotedly attached to her, and grateful for her goodness to him and his. This, perhaps, more than anything, made him exercise self-control. He was more than ever careful in hiding the key of the ruin, and would not allow even the other gardeners to enter it on any excuse whatever.

Another reason for the calm which prevailed was, perhaps, that Marjorie and Alan were fully occupied in trying to discover why Thomas was making so much effort to get into the ruined summer-house. It seemed a delightful thing to be mixed up in a mystery, and each hoped to have a share in solving it. Such a puzzle made constant private talks necessary, in order to think out a clue. Estelle took an almost painful interest in their conjectures, but shrank from all part in their wanderings round the ruin, or down to the cliff walk. Alan had shown Marjorie where the secret entrance to the cave was, and called it the Smugglers' Hole, for want of a better name. Together they had penetrated to the foot of the slippery, broken steps. Each had carried a bicycle lamp to make their footsteps clear, and great was the rejoicing when they finally arrived at the sandy beach of the bay.

But the young, active spirits were too restless to remain long there, where nothing was to be gained by lingering. The cave itself was more full of interest than the beach, and they devoted the remainder of the afternoon to hunting about among the crevices and chasms, and peeping into gaps and fissures till they almost forgot the time.

(Continued on page [114].)

"'Children ought not to be about when there's serious work going on.'"

"The daylight was streaming through a great opening."

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page [111].)

When at last Alan and Marjorie had turned their steps homeward from the cave, and had climbed the greater number of the rough steps, they came quite unexpectedly upon a most important discovery—one which, without their lamps, would have entirely escaped their attention.

They had reached a sort of landing, when Alan, looking keenly at the rocks, suddenly perceived a narrow opening, almost entirely concealed behind a projecting spur of limestone. Calling to Marjorie, who was in advance of him, and already some way up the last flight of steps, he held his lamp high, and examined the gap till she joined him.

'There is something more than a mere attempt at a cave here,' he said. 'We must see what it is.'

'It's very late,' hesitated Marjorie, doubtfully. 'If we are asked where we have been, what shall we say? All our secrets will come out, and then good-bye to all fun.'

'Oh, this won't take us long,' returned Alan, who did not intend to give up investigations just as he appeared to be on the verge of scoring the greatest success of the day.

As it turned out, it was fortunate indeed that the quest was not given up, for something happened only a few days later which made their discoveries of the utmost importance.

The narrow cleft led them, after some winding, into a comparatively wide passage, into which the daylight was streaming through a great opening to the right. In some excitement they ran to look out, and found, to their delight, that they were standing at the hole in the cliff which they had seen from the beach in Smugglers' Bay. Sure enough, there was the stream of water flowing at their side which made the thin cascade.

'I do believe we are in the passage which leads to the ruined summer-house!' cried Marjorie, breathlessly.

Alan was for trying it at once, but here Marjorie's counsels did prevail. She pointed out how low the sun was, and that probably they were very late for the schoolroom tea already.

'Right you are,' said Alan, looking longingly up and down the passage and walls, which stretched away into deep but—to him—alluring gloom. 'We will come again to-morrow. We must slip away directly after breakfast; and mind we don't let anybody see or follow us. It will be a feather in our caps if we can get into the ruined summer-house without troubling old Peet for the key.'

'But,' said Marjorie, after a long pause, during which she was thinking deeply, 'what if Thomas knows of this way in?'

'He can't,' returned Alan, 'or he would have been before, and got all he wanted.'

'Then,' replied Marjorie, after another pause for thought, 'you may be sure there is some reason: something that prevents his going up the passage, and will prevent our going too. Thomas is sure to be up to all dodges.'

This idea was so distasteful to Alan that he required a good deal of persuasion before he gave up his determination to explore further. Marjorie did persuade him, nevertheless, but next morning he could not refrain from reproaches for having yielded to her. It turned out that Colonel De Bohun had some business to do in the neighbouring town of Matherton, and told Alan at breakfast that he was to go and see if Estelle would like a ride. He intended to take the three elder children with him.

'What a nuisance!' exclaimed Alan, as he and Marjorie stood a moment on the doorstep before he started off on his father's mission. 'Why should father have ordered the horses just to-day? We can't make an excuse either, for we are all supposed to be keen on riding. If only the horses could go dead lame for an hour or two!'

Marjorie sympathised, but there was no help for it. More provoking still, there appeared to be things for the children to do for the next two or three days. A large garden party for young people, given by Mrs. De Bohun, took up most of one day, the children being required to help in the preparations for the entertainment of their guests. A picnic with friends, to a distant ruin by the sea, fully filled another day, and it was not till these and a tennis party for children at Lord Gallway's were over, that a free afternoon left the brother and sister at liberty to carry out their plans.

They had intended to set off immediately after breakfast, but an exciting rumour had come that a strange vessel was to be seen hanging about in rather a suspicious way. The coastguard had been on the look-out, but the result of his investigations being as yet unknown, the Colonel asked the children if they would like to accompany him to the cliffs. The proposal was hailed with delight. The whole morning passed only too quickly in talking to the coastguard on duty, peeping through his telescope, and staring at the vessel. The sailor gave it as his opinion that it was a French boat, though something in the rig made him not quite positive. It cruised about in a queer manner, 'just as if she was on the watch for something,' as the man said. However, towards mid-day she drew out into the offing, and they saw her sails slowly disappearing below the horizon.

The excitement of this incident only died down in the children's minds when, after lunch, they started off for the Wilderness. Alan and Marjorie had other ideas concerning the ship, and were determined to watch for its return. There would be plenty of time for that after their search in the cave was over. Meantime it was certain that neither Estelle nor Georgie must be allowed to accompany them. Happily for all parties, Estelle had promised to read a new fairy story to Georgie, and had settled to go to the top of the ruined summer-house for the purpose.

The air was fresher there, and the shade of the trees seemed cooler than anywhere else on that hot August day. Estelle sat lazily comfortable on some rugs, her back against the coping, while Georgie stretched himself at full length on the iron seat close to her. Here Alan and Marjorie left them, feeling sure that Georgie would be asleep in the twinkling of an eye. They begged him, nevertheless, to keep that eye, as long as it was open, on Bootles, the fox-terrier. Georgie gave a lazy assent, without troubling himself to keep either eye on the dog. Estelle was quite as capable of attending to such matters as he. Accordingly, she it was who drew the dog to lie down near her, keeping a hand on his collar till Alan and Marjorie were out of sight. Alas! they little knew what would be the result of her care.

(Continued on page [123].)

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

5.—Arithmorem.

Substitute Roman figures for the Arabic numerals, and transpose the letters. The initials will give a woman's name.

1.—300.A T S R A U A.
2.—560.R E A N E A.
3.—100.B E G R R N O A O.
4.—50.Y 0 E N.
5.—1050.R T A I E.
6.—500.A N I I.
7.—1500.N N Y R O A.
8.—2000.E T E.

C. J. B.

[Answer on page [147].]

Answer to Puzzle on Page [75].

4.—Quick-lime.

THE DEAD WATCH.

In the eighteenth century, when watches were less common in country districts than they are now, a Highland soldier gained one as part of his share in some plunder after a great battle. The watch was going well and ticking merrily when he received it; but naturally, at the end of a day or so it ran down and stopped, because he knew nothing of how to wind it.

The man had never seen a watch before, much less possessed one, and he was greatly alarmed at this sudden silence. But he determined to do as well as he could with the treasure that had fallen to his share, and so offered it to a comrade in exchange for some really far less valuable article of jewellery. His friend, not being so ignorant, was curious to know why he parted with it so cheaply.

'Why,' said the other, with a proud look, as though he had got the better of the bargain, 'why do I want to get rid of it? Because it died last night!'

LYING AWAKE AT NIGHT.

OOD morning Mr. Sun!' Jack said,
As by the blind he stood;
'All night I lay awake in bed
And thought you'd gone for good.
The white moon kept me company
From ten o'clock till two:
Then in the darkest hour of night,
Behind the hill she slipped from sight
To go and look for you.
'I thought and thought of lots of things
As in my bed I lay;
The whole long list of English kings
From Alfred till to-day.
I thought of bats and bicycles,
Of stilts, and tops that hum,
Then turning to the window-pane,
I thought of you, and sighed again:
"Whenever will he come!"
'The house was still as still could be,
But on the stair-case near,
The big clock seemed to talk to me
In whispers hard to hear.
"He's coming! Tick! He's coming soon!"
I thought I heard it say:
"Look, look toward the window-blind,—
Tick-tock, tick-tock—and you shall find
The darkness growing grey."
'But as it spoke, a gurgle low
Towards me seemed to float,
As though the poor old clock, you know,
Had something in its throat.
And then it chuckled: "All is right,"
And loudly chimed with glee:
"Oh, what's the time? Oh, tell me, do!"
I cried, and counted one and two,
And then I counted three.
'But after that I fell asleep,—
At least, I think I did,—
For soon the sun began to peep
Beneath a sleepy lid.
Then bright and brighter grew the ray,
And o'er my bedroom cast
A glow that chased the gloom away
From every corner where it lay,
And morn had come at last.'

THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.

IV.—THE JURUPARIS OF SOUTH AMERICA,
THE MEXICAN WHISTLE, AND THE CHINESE HINEN.

Of all the so-called musical instruments of the world, that known as the Juruparis, used by the Indians of the Rio Negro, seems to involve most misery to humanity in general. To women and girls the very sight of it means death in some form or other, usually by poison, and boys are strictly forbidden to see it until grown to manhood, and then only after a most severe preliminary course of fasting.

The Juruparis is kept concealed in the bed of some stream far away in the gloomy forest, and wherever that river may wander, or however brightly its waters may sparkle in the sunny glades, no mortal who values his life may cool his parching lips with its freshness, or bathe his aching limbs in its clear depths. Only for solemn festivals is the Juruparis brought out by night and blown outside the place of meeting, and it is restored to its forest home immediately afterwards.

The word Juruparis means 'demon,' and it is supposed that its mysteries date back to some pre-historic Indian tradition, as various tribes inhabiting the vast forests round the Amazon district practise weird ceremonies in honour of the demons.

The Juruparis in casing.

In form the Juruparis is a slender tube from four to five feet long, made from strips of palm wood. Close to the mouth is an oblong hole, and when the instrument is to be used a piece of curved Uaruma or Arrowroot wood is inserted into the opening, which is then nearly closed with wet clay.

When not in use, the Juruparis is wrapped in a great-coat made of strips of the tough bark of the Jebaru-tree, which are wound round and round the sacred instrument and held in place by a rough framework of wood. In the museum at Kew Gardens a Juruparis in its outer casing may be seen. In ancient days the Indians of the American continent seem to have been more clever at making musical instruments than of recent years.

The Aztecs held pipes and flutes in great respect, and they were played at all religious ceremonies. At the great yearly festival of Tezcatlepoca, who was always represented as a handsome youth, a young man was sacrificed to the god, and a chief condition of the selection was that the selected person should be a really fine flute-player, presumably so that he might amuse Tezcatlepoca in another world. As the victim ascended the high mound on which the sacrificial altar stood, facing the rising sun, it was his duty to break a flute on every step.

The Hinen.

The whistle shown in the illustration is made of burnt clay and painted. Instruments were shaped like all kinds of grotesque animals, birds, fish, and so on. Some have finger-holes, enabling the pitch to be altered and give different tones, others have a little ball of clay set loosely in a hollow place, so that when the air is set in motion a shrill whistling sound is emitted.

Whistling with the mouth, by the way, is strongly disapproved by the Arabs, who call it 'El Sifr,' and say that Satan must have touched any one before he can whistle, and that it takes forty days to purify the mouth which has so defiled itself. The Burmese were, up to a very late date, ignorant of the art, and expressed great astonishment when an American whistled an air, exclaiming that 'he made music with his mouth.' The natives of Tonga Islands, in Polynesia, consider whistling most disrespectful to their gods, and even in European countries it is objected to at certain times. In Northern Germany peasants say that whistling in the evening makes the angels weep, and in Iceland the feeling is so strong that even swinging a stick or whip, which may make the air whistle, is supposed to have an evil effect.

Mexican Whistle.

The curious little instruments called by the Chinese 'Hinen' are of very ancient construction. They are made of baked clay with five finger-holes, three in front and two behind. They are wind instruments blown by the mouth and tuned in what is called the Pentatonic scale, which sounds much as the scale of C Major would if F and B were omitted.

Helena Heath.

FLOWERS OF THE NIGHT.

People often speak of flowers going to sleep at night, and it is perfectly true that many of them do close up their petals when it is dark. Some, indeed, sleep very early—our British wild plant, the goat's beard, is also called 'Jack go to bed at noon,' because the tops close about mid-day. We have other plants, such as the daisy and the dandelion, which shut their flowers early in the evening. But numerous are the blossoms that are open all night, both wild and garden kinds, affording food to night-flying insects. Then, again, we have flowers which are usually closed by daylight, but open after sunset, and which we should call 'flowers of the night.' Most of these are garden species, though there are a few wild ones. Often we are drawn to them by a fragrance which is wafted upon the evening air.

Perhaps the best known of all, a flower which seems to be at home even in a city garden, is the evening primrose, an American plant, which does not belong to the family of the true primroses. But the flowers have a primrose tint, and they are slightly fragrant, opening usually about six or seven in the evening, though an occasional bud may expand during the day. The flower has little hooks upon what is called the calyx, and when the petals open they burst the hooks with a snapping noise. One of the garden varieties has snow-white flowers. Another name for the plant is 'evening star.'

The most splendid of all the flowers of darkness is the cereus, the blossoms of which begin to open at seven or eight o'clock in the evening, and are fully out when midnight comes. Before daylight arrives the flowers have generally decayed, so rapid is their progress. So huge are these that they quite surpass the largest blooms found on the sun-flower, being nearly three feet in circumference. The outer portion is dark brown; the inner shades range from yellow to a pure white. When a dozen or so happen to expand at the same time the effect is startling. They also give out a fine scent.

One of these plants of the night caused such wonder when it arrived in England, that folks called it the 'marvel of Peru.' It is not at all uncommon now amongst the choice garden plants of other lands. The flowers are of several colours and open when the sun has set; the most conspicuous kind has long, dull, white flowers, which have a scent like the orange blossom or the heliotrope. One kind, however, opens earlier in the afternoon, and so that is known as the 'four-o'clock flower.' They are plants fond of warmth, but they do well out of doors during a hot summer.

One of the jessamines is named the night-flower, because it opens towards evening; and that grand species of lily called the Victoria Regina comes amongst the flowers that prefer night to-day.

We have in Britain a family of wild plants named the 'catch-flies.' They do not catch flies or other insects by their flowers, as some plants can, but they take them by the stems, which are sticky, and insects coming against these are entangled. The Latin name of Silena arose from an old legend that it belonged first to a young man whom the goddess Minerva employed to catch flies for her owls. She found him one day idling about, and in her anger turned him into a plant which should be always catching flies. Yorkshire has a night-flowering plant of this kind, with pale flowers and a forked stem. Then there is the white or evening campion of our hedgerows, which opens generally in the twilight, sending forth a perfume. Another, rather rarer, is the 'dame's rocket,' also a night flower. Yet another well-known evening flower in gardens is the tobacco plant, which has a white flower and a very strong, sweet scent.

SOWING AND REAPING.

The day had really been very sultry, and it was not to be wondered at that Miss Allan had not explained the lesson quite so clearly as she generally did. The children, too, had been troubled by the heat, and let their attention wander, so that a few of them went home with very vague ideas about spring-time and harvest, sowing and reaping, planting and watering. Ella and Willie Hope especially had their heads full of ideas which would have greatly surprised any farmer had he heard them.

'Dead things become alive in the earth,' said Ella.

'Little things grow big underground,' declared Willie.

One thing turns into many if we bury it,' continued Ella.

They walked on in silence for some time, then Ella's face began to shine. 'Just think, Willie,' exclaimed she, eagerly, 'if I bury my doll, it may turn into a real baby.'

'Yes,' assented the boy, 'and if I bury my box of tin soldiers, before long I shall have a regiment of strong men to fight the Russians with.'

'And—who knows?—if Mother were to give us her purse, we might make a whole tree of sovereigns grow! How happy Mother would be if she could have money without Father tiring himself so much to gain it!'

A moment's pause to enjoy the thought of such happiness, and then Willie remarked, a little doubtfully, 'Ella, don't you think that if it were so easy to make live soldiers and trees of gold grow up, people would have thought of it before now? I don't understand why nobody has ever tried.'

Ella wrinkled her brow, and looked very serious indeed. The remark was not to be slighted, and yet she felt quite sure that no real objection could be made to the conclusion at which they had arrived. Indeed, her brow soon cleared again, and, turning to her brother with a triumphant air, she exclaimed, 'Now I know! Of course, if we have ideas that other people never think of, it means we are geniuses! Most people never think of the plainest things till some genius has done so, and then it all seems so easy. I remember what Miss Allan said when she told us the story of Christopher Columbus. Any one could have taken a ship and sailed away to Africa—— '

'America,' murmured Willie, timidly.

'Well, America, then; it's all the same,' went on Ella, with an impatient shrug of her shoulder. 'But nobody did. There were no geniuses except Columbus, and he thought, "People are stupid not to go to America, but I will show them the way." What did he go for, Willie? Do you remember?'

'Cousin Jack said he went to find the egg conjurors play with, but I think he was joking.'

'Well, anyhow, he was a genius, and that's why we read about him in our school-books. Wouldn't it be fun, Willie, if children were to read about us at school?'

Willie looked doubtful. 'I don't think they'd like us,' he answered. 'People in school-books are often not nice.'

'Well, it doesn't matter much,' said Ella.

Then the children went home in silence with all their wonderful plans dancing wildly in their brains. What grand things they would do, what a marvellous garden they would have, and how every one would try to discover their secret! They were rather old for such fancies; but they had not begun lessons very early in their lives, owing to both being in rather weak health.

Unhappily there was no one at home to whom they could tell their plans. Mother was away, Father was too busy to listen to all the stories of his children, and their elder sister, Mary, had laughed at them too often to be taken into their confidence. But, after, all, they concluded it was better so. Their secret would remain a real, real secret, and so, at the right moment, all the world, even the world of home, would be struck with surprise!

That night nothing could be done; they had too many lessons to learn, too many toys to put away, too many tiresome questions about school to answer. Besides, there were so many important things to think about before beginning the great work. In what ground, for example, would it be best to plant the soldiers, and was not the season too far advanced? It would be such a pity if any stupid mistake should spoil their beautiful plan, for then nobody would believe they were geniuses.

'I tell you what,' said Ella next morning, 'we must begin with only one thing. Let us try your soldiers first. If they grow well, then I will plant my doll. If she turns into another doll, then we will tell Mother, and she will give us her money to sow. How many soldiers have you, Willie?'

'Only one boxful,' answered Willie, sadly. 'Perhaps we had better sow our pennies first, and then, when the tree of sovereigns comes up, we can buy whole regiments of soldiers.'

But Ella shook her head. 'No,' said she, seriously. 'You forget that the Japanese are losing a lot of men at the front. Father said so this morning, and they must not be kept waiting for two harvests. You have sixpence, I have twopence; with that let us buy all the soldiers we can, and plant them at once; then they may reach Port—Port Alfred—in time.'

'Port Arthur, Father said.' murmured Willie, timidly, feeling, however, that Ella was decidedly a genius. Yet he had still an objection to make. 'The soldiers should be Japanese,' said he. 'When I asked Father why our soldiers did not help the Japanese, he answered that we were at peace with the Russians, and the army dared not go without the permission of the Government. So, even if the soldiers grew, they would have to stay in England. Perhaps it would be better to send the boxes there to the Japanese. They could put the soldiers into the ground and use them as soon as they come up.'

'No, stupid!' exclaimed Ella, rudely. 'You'd give our secret away if you did that. Besides, if you planted a turnip in a cabbage-field, that does not make it a cabbage. The men would be English just the same. Instead, we can buy a box of Japs and paint those you have, so that no one will ever think they are English soldiers. Mind you plant them with all their arms, so that they may grow up all ready for the war.'

'And, Ella, what do you think?' asked Willie, a little hesitatingly; 'should I plant one of my ships too, so that they may sail away at once?'

'Do!' replied Ella, enthusiastically. And Willie felt his spirits return.

That evening, in the twilight, the roses were awakened from their dreams by the sound of children's voices, and by strange movements at their roots. If ever roses were indignant, I am sure these were so then. What! Their sweet, fragrant, dewy earth invaded by rough soldiers! The soil around their roots violently scraped away to make room for Willie's ship! What did the fair flowers know of war and the Far East? How could they guess that Ella was a genius? The Wind, it is true, told them many things he saw in his wanderings, but he did not care to talk about violence and bloodshed to things so sweet.

But the children did not hear the roses' sighs, and did not try to explain. Had they done so, perhaps they would have heard some murmured words, 'Sow seeds of peace! sow seeds of peace!' The moon saw the children and smiled, thinking perhaps that they ought to have been born in her land. Anyhow, the great work was soon accomplished, and the children stole back to their room full of hope and excitement.

A sudden thought made Ella tremble as she ran along the passage, 'Oh, Willie!' she exclaimed, catching him by the arm, 'if the soldiers come up little by little, they will be seen by everybody, and if they spring up all at once, they will frighten every one. Fancy the garden full of armed men, and nobody knowing where they come from!'

'They are sure to grow up, all at once,' replied Willie, after a moment's reflection. 'Just like mushrooms, you know. They are men toys, not baby toys, so they must spring up men. But they will frighten everybody; what shall we do, Ella?'

Poor Ella! Even her busy brain was puzzled for a moment. But, of course, being a genius, she found a solution even to that difficulty, and Willie was obliged to admire her more than ever.

'Let's write a letter to the General,' suggested she a little while before they went to bed, 'and ask him to go away quietly, without frightening any one. If we bury the letter beside the soldiers, as soon as they become alive they will find it, and read it. We can ask him to come secretly into our room and salute us before he goes.'

(Concluded on page [122].)

"The great work was soon accomplished."

"He placed a sovereign on the counter."

THE HONEST SAILOR.

Many years ago, a young sailor entered a shop in Glasgow, to make a purchase. As he was about to leave, he placed a letter upon a counter near the window, and was sticking a postage stamp upon it, when he clumsily knocked his elbow against the window and broke one of its panes. The poor fellow was much confused when he saw the damage which he had done. He had no money to pay for a new pane, as he had spent his few last coppers in preparing this letter for his mother. He apologised to the shopkeeper as best he could, and promised to pay for the broken square when he returned from his next voyage. The shopkeeper accepted his promise, though he may very well have doubted whether he would ever see the sailor again.

Months and years passed by, and the shopkeeper forgot all about the sailor and the broken square of glass. One day, however, a seaman came into the shop, and looking the shopkeeper full in the face said, 'Do you know me?'

The shopkeeper replied that he did not.

'Well, I am the lad who broke that square,' said the seaman, pointing to the window. 'I have been to China and the Indies since then, but I have not forgotten my debt. Here is the money.'

He placed a sovereign on the counter, and having received the change which was due to him, went out of the shop with the light heart and cheerful face of a man who has got rid of a heavy 'obligation.'

SOWING AND REAPING.

(Concluded from page [119].)

Willie was startled by the roll of drums, and a sharp call of 'To arms!' He sat up hastily in his bed, and returned the salute of the Japanese General standing at the foot of his bed. 'Sire,' said the gallant soldier bravely, 'the moment has come. Our country expects that every man this day will do his duty. We depart with your permission, and when we have taken the Czar prisoner, we shall bring him to you in chains.'

Another roll of drums and the room was filled with soldiers, all of whom greeted Willie with profound respect. They waved their swords in the air, and with a loud 'Hurrah!' which sounded very English indeed, they whirled rapidly out of the room, leaving the little boy quite dazed.

The roll of drums and the blowing of trumpets continued, and Willie thought he heard the sound of cannon, but he was quite unable to leave his bed, something seeming to hold him there. So, with those warlike sounds in his ears, he fell asleep again, and only woke up when Ella rushed into his room all flushed and excited, holding in her hand a tin soldier, like those they had buried the night before. 'Oh. Willie!' she exclaimed, 'wasn't it dreadful? However did those horrid Russians find their way here? I'm quite sure we didn't bury any of them in the garden. What a dreadful battle! And how strange that only you and I should know anything about it! But the Japanese won! This morning I found this soldier on the ground, but he is quite a toy again, and has not a single wound. I'm afraid he's a coward!'

'I don't understand, Ella,' said Willie, quite dumbfounded. 'I didn't see any battle. The General came to salute me before leaving for Japan—for where the war is, I mean—but the troops left quite quietly. Oh, no! I remember now, I did hear the sound of cannon, but somehow I fell asleep. Anyhow, I am sure—quite sure—that I saw no battle. Tell me about it, do!'

Ella looked at him indignantly. 'I hate boys who don't tell the truth,' exclaimed she indignantly. 'As if you hadn't fought yourself last night! Why, you killed a Russian as easily as if he had been a fly!'

'Where is he?' asked Willie, half convinced. 'I really don't remember, but I'd like to see him.' Then, hesitatingly, 'Is he really dead, Ella?'

'I know nothing about him,' answered she, quite snappishly. 'The Japs are very ungrateful and have gone away without a word, and there is not a sign of them, either in the house or in the garden.'

'We told them to go away quietly,' said Willie; 'perhaps they will telegraph from Port Arthur. Do tell me about the battle.'

'Nonsense!' replied she, pettishly. 'You saw the battle as well as I did. Be quick and come into the garden, and you'll see that the soldiers are no longer under the bushes.'

It was quite true. The earth bore signs of having been moved, and neither soldiers nor ship were to be seen.

'Then it is quite true,' murmured Willie, awe-struck, 'and the army has gone to the Japanese. But I really can't remember about the battle. Ella, how do you think the Russian soldiers came here?'

'That's why I'm so cross,' confessed Ella. 'Of course, there must have been another genius at school, who likes the Russians, and who wanted them to win. So he, too, buried a box of soldiers, and when they became alive, they met ours. Anyhow, ours won. Isn't it funny that there's no sign of the battle?'

'Shall we try again with your doll?' asked Willie.

'No,' replied Ella, decidedly. 'If some one else has had the same idea I don't care to have anything more to do with it.'

Some days later, while the children were at breakfast, their father read of a great Japanese victory. The two young ones looked up proudly, then triumphantly told their strange story to their father. He listened with a quiet smile, and gently remarked, 'Did you give any of your soldiers to Tim Jones, or a ship like the one you buried?'

'No, never,' they replied, surprised at the question.

'Well,' continued he, 'I saw him playing with some very like them, to-day; and I have been told he was seen on the garden wall the very night Ella dreamt of the battle.'

Poor Willie! Poor Ella! They were quite astonished to hear such an explanation of the mystery, and rather sad. But their father, talking to them kindly and wisely, comforted them, and explained that nothing made by the hands of man can grow in the earth, but only things produced by Providence in the earth itself, from living seeds fallen from living plants. He led them into the garden and showed them the plants and the roots, and explained how from the living seeds spring up the living plants. He showed them, too, the dead trunks and dry branches, and explained how from them nothing could ever spring any more.

'Well, I'm glad I didn't kill the Russian,' confessed Willie. 'And it did seem all too easy as we had thought of it. I suppose the battle and all that was only a dream.'

'But I believed we were geniuses,' owned Ella, with a little blush; and then Father laughed. Oh, how he laughed!

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page [115].)

CHAPTER VII.

Georgie listened to Estelle's reading till the low murmur, blending with the drowsy hum of the insects, the occasional twitter of a bird, and the warm fragrance of the pines, lulled him to sleep. Estelle read on till the story was finished; then sat gazing up into the green foliage above her. She was thinking that she was not unlike the girl in the story; her father was away, her mother was dead, and though she lived among those who loved her, would any such terrible things befall her as had happened to the heroine of the tale? Her thoughts wandered to the father in that far-off land, and the mother who had died when she was too young to remember her, but whose sweet face and sweeter memory would always be sacred to the little girl she had left behind her. She could almost hear herself say, as once in the days long, long ago—

'Do you like the name of Estelle, father? It sounds very French, but it was mother's.'

'It is the sweetest name on earth to me, my darling. Be what your mother was, as sweet, as loving, as unselfish, and you will be worthy of her name.'

Had there really been a voice speaking to her? Estelle sat up, listening. Her heart beat, though she smiled that the fancy should have come. Her father was so far away. She longed to be with him again; but she had plenty to do to learn all he desired, before he came back, and after that the happy days at Lynwood could begin again. Suddenly, the grating of the door into the ruin startled her. Bootles sat up and snuffed the air, moved uneasily, and got up to stretch himself. Then he lazily stalked away to the steps, flopping down them as if too weary to walk properly. At the bottom, however, he suddenly roused himself. A cat was creeping stealthily across the open glade. Estelle saw it too, and sprang up in her nervous dislike to seeing creatures hunted. But Bootles had at once given chase. He could be heard yelping as he bounded after the animal, till both disappeared in the deep undergrowth. For a time the sound of the pursuit grew more and more distant, then it came doubling back, and Estelle, with dismay, saw the cat rush across the glade, and into the summer-house. In another moment Bootles had followed. Terrified lest the dog should be shut in, and heedless of her own danger, she ran down the steps and into the forbidden room, in the vain hope of catching the dog, and rescuing him before the door closed.

No one was near to see what happened. In her fear she ran on without looking where she was going. Round and round, dodging from this corner to that, flew the cat, the dog after it; presently they both plunged into the black cavernous place Georgie had seen. Feeling her way with both hands, Estelle ran after them, calling to Bootles. The light behind was growing fainter, the way before her was shrouded in the darkness of night. Frightened at last, she stopped, and at that moment there was a crash which shook the whole building. With a terror, which made her cold and sick, she realised that the terrible door had shut. She was imprisoned, and no one knew it!

Meantime, Alan and Marjorie had set off with the intention of going straight to the Smuggler's Hole, and on into the cave passage. But, passing through the wilderness, close to the rear of the rampart, which here jutted out to some distance beyond the ruined summer-house, they both fancied they heard sounds in the brushwood. It turned out to be only a stray cat, but it had the effect of diverting them from their purpose for a time, since the animal seemed scared. Alan decided it was running away from something, and as a bird also flew past at the moment, he determined to make investigations.

Followed by Marjorie, he clambered down into a sort of dry ditch, the remains of the old moat. Though overgrown with ivy and brambles, it would be easier walking than forcing his way through the dense underwood, and they would make far less noise. Without even a whispered word, the brother and sister crept cautiously along, coming at length to an open, but small glen. Up to this point they had had no difficulty; but here the ditch was closed by a stout hedge, made still stronger by faggots and barbed wire. This was unexpected, for there appeared to be no reason for such a protection, and Alan and Marjorie sat on the bank to consider what that hedge was intended to conceal. The mossy glen was behind them, and all around was the deep silence of the woods. In front towered the grey, crumbling walls of the ancient rampart. Their low voices scarcely broke the stillness; they were afraid of something, they knew not what. A stir was in the air, and yet they could not be said to hear anything distinctly. It was more a feeling than a sound.

'You stay here,' whispered Alan at last, rising as he spoke. 'I will just go and have a look round. If I can, I will let you know what is behind that hedge, but if anything turns up, and I am not back immediately, you will be safe here. No, don't come with me. It would make too much noise.'

"Round and round flew the cat, the dog after it."

With that he crawled away, leaving Marjorie to wait and listen anxiously. For a long time, or so it seemed to her, she could only hear the faint movement made by Alan as he parted the bushes, and crept away. Even that soon died away, and the same deep silence settled on everything. It was very hot; the air was so still that it seemed hotter in the ditch than in the open, but she dared not stir. Alan must be able to find her, if he required her. She sat and listened with ears strained to catch every sound. How long she had waited she did not know, when a sound of snapping twigs and running feet came from the near neighbourhood of the hedge. Springing to her feet, she caught a glimpse of two men forcing their way with all their strength through the entanglement of sturdy brushwood and trees, which surrounded that portion of the ruin. One of these men was a stranger; the other, to her amazement, was Thomas.

She did not know what to do. Should she follow, or was it better to wait till Alan shouted to her? Time went on. The sounds died away in the distance, and all was quiet again. Alan had not called, and there were no signs of where he was.

(Continued on page [134].)

THE YAK.

Yaks.

The Yak, or grunting Ox, as it is sometimes called from the peculiar grunt which it makes, is a native of the high table-lands of the interior of Asia, to the north of India—'the roof of the world,' as the country is often called. It is a large animal of the ox kind, with a massive head and front, and it is covered entirely with long hair which reaches almost down to its hoofs. It has large, wide-spreading horns, ending in sharp points, and its shoulders are high and almost humped. Its long tail, unlike the tail of the ox, the buffalo, and the bison, is covered with long, silky hair, reaching to the ground. When the animal is killed, this tail is often mounted in an ivory or metal handle, and used by Indian princes as a fly-whisk. The yak's colour is usually black or a very dark brown, but sometimes it is white, and the hair on its shoulders hangs thick and long, like the mane of a lion.

In Thibet the yak is, perhaps, the most useful animal to be found in the country. It is hardy and strong, and thrives upon the short grass growing in the sheltered valleys of the lofty Himalaya and Kuen Luen mountains, at a height where the air is too cold and the ground too rugged and bare for most animals, especially domesticated ones. Though horses and sheep are domesticated by the Thibetans, the yak in many respects replaces them both, besides serving the uses of oxen or cows in other places. Large herds of yaks are driven from place to place by the wandering Thibetans, who pitch their black tents where there is pasturage for their flocks. These people live very largely upon the milk of their yaks, and upon the butter which they make from it. They have a great liking for tea, which comes from China in the form of blocks or bricks, which they break up as they require them. When the tea is boiling in the kettle, they put in large quantities of milk and butter, and even salt, and though the mixture is one which would be very disagreeable to a European, it is enjoyed by the Thibetans, and is no doubt made much more nourishing by the addition of the nutritious milk and butter. The flesh of the yak is considered to be excellent food, and is eaten by those Thibetans who can afford to do so. But a small wandering tribe cannot often kill a yak or a sheep for food, because they cannot eat the whole of the flesh while it is fresh, and thus a portion is wasted.

The long hair of the yak, like the wool of goats and sheep, is suitable for spinning into thread and weaving into cloth. The Thibetans spin large quantities of yak's wool, and some of it they weave, but much of the weaving is done by the Chinese, who sell the cloth back to the Thibetans. Of this cloth the Thibetans make not only their clothes, but also the large tents under which so many of them live. As the wool is not washed, bleached, or prepared in any way before it is spun and woven, the cloth retains the natural greasiness of the wool, which renders it quite water-proof, and thus makes it an excellent material for tents. Even the ropes which sustain the tents are made of yak's wool. The skin, too, of the yak, when prepared in the native way, makes a very good soft leather.

The yak is also used as a beast of burden. In Ladakh it is harnessed to carts, and made to draw ploughs, but in other places it is usually loaded with packs. In Thibet a clumsy wooden pack-saddle is laid upon the yak's back, and the packs are fastened upon each side of it. Though at times restless, the yak is very sure-footed and plodding, and does a fair amount of work considering the nature of the country. An English traveller, who once drove a pair of loaded yaks in Thibet, noticed that they showed a great reluctance to go any way but their own. By-and-by he found that they were selecting the way, which, although it was considered to be a high road, was only marked here and there by a few footprints. So long as he allowed the yaks to go their own way, they went on willingly, and the traveller soon discovered that it was best to leave them alone and simply follow them. Once or twice when he had lost the track, the yaks led him back to it.

Not only are yaks used for draught and for carrying loads, but they are also ridden, a special saddle being then used. Along the roads between Pekin and Lhassa, a yak will carry its rider twenty miles a day, it is said, or it will carry a load ten miles. Much quicker journeys may be made, however, by taking fresh yaks at certain posts or stages. In this way the traveller already referred to was able to ride one hundred and seventy-five miles in five days, the two longest days' journeys being forty-five and forty-two miles respectively.

GOING TO BED.

S up the stairs to bed I go,
A tiger chases me;
He's somewhere in the dark, I know,
Although I cannot see.
From step to step I quickly jump,
But oh, how slow I seem!
And I can feel my heart go 'Thump!
It nearly makes me scream.
The tiger can go faster, much,
He gains at every stride;
He's sure to get me in his clutch—
He's almost at my side!
I dare not give a look behind,
I fear his savage glare;
His cruel teeth I hear him grind,
A-tingle goes my hair!
At last I reach the landing wide—
I'm at the nursery door;
I shut it tight, and, safe inside,
I pant upon the floor.
But Mother often laughs at me
For getting such a scare;
And, somehow, when she goes to see,
The tiger's never there!

MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.

IV.—THE BRIDGE AT VICTORIA FALLS.

F a railway train could travel over a rainbow, it would hardly have been necessary to build a bridge over the Zambesi River at the Victoria Falls, for during seven months of the year a rainbow can always be seen there; but about the end of August the fairy architects take it down, and do not come to build it again until the beginning of February. The rainbow is made by the sunlight shining on the dancing drops of spray that leap from the waterfall while the river is in flood. But when, after the end of August, the flood subsides, the spray subsides too, and the lovely rainbow fades from sight until the rainy season has returned.

This mighty river collects its waters over a space of a million square miles, but on its way to the sea is met by many difficulties. The greatest of these occurs near Kazungula, on the borders of Rhodesia, and is known by the natives as the 'place of the sounding smoke.' David Livingstone, who, fifty years ago, was the first white man to see it, called it the Victoria Falls, and has told the world how he crept to the edge of the awful abyss and peered over in the vain effort to see the bottom through that roaring, blinding cloud of 'sounding smoke.' Long, long ages ago a terrible earthquake occurred at this spot, and from shore to shore of the Zambesi (which is here more than a mile wide) a huge crack, one hundred yards across, suddenly opened. Into this the river disappears with a mighty thunder, as though to lose itself in the centre of the earth. Four hundred feet down the bottom of the chasm is reached, and, beating themselves against the opposite wall, the waters struggle to find an outlet, throwing up in their fury white clouds of spray, which rise to a height of one thousand two hundred feet, and can be seen for a distance of ten miles.

Near the eastern end of the mile-long crack, there is an opening in the form of a narrow gorge one hundred yards wide, twisting and twining in the most erratic manner for more than twenty miles to the southward. And through this, imprisoned by rocky cliffs four hundred feet high, the boiling Zambesi struggles on its way to the sea. On the lip of the cataract, as though carried to the edge by the flowing waters, hang green wooded isles, glittering with the ever-falling spray and waving light fronds of fern and palm, in the cool airs that are constantly being driven by the falls from the depths below them. It is a spot of great beauty, and it is no wonder that many people expressed regret when they learned that the railway was fast approaching, and would leap across the gorge through which the waters escape. But after all, in a scene of such magnitude, we may hope that the railway will show no more than a scratch in the wide sea-sands.

The spot chosen for the bridge is some four hundred yards below the falls, and, owing to the sudden bends in the channel, the merest glimpse only can be caught of the falling water.

Sir Charles Metcalf, engineer of the Rhodesian Railway Company, having surveyed the place, made a design for the bridge, and a firm of engineers in Darlington, England, undertook to build it. In the meantime, the railway at Buluwayo, three hundred miles away, had been continued to the edge of the gorge in readiness to convey the material.

It was decided that the bridge should be in the form of an arch made of steel girders, the central span being five hundred feet. The work was begun in October, 1904. First a pair of 'shear legs' was erected on the southern side opposite the place where the railway from Buluwayo ended. This is a mechanical contrivance of the nature of a crane, capable of being raised and lowered, and is formed of two or more poles standing some yards apart at their feet, but joined together at their heads, to support a revolving pulley. To save the loss of time and great inconvenience of crossing the river above the falls, it became necessary to find some means of spanning this narrow gorge before beginning to build the bridge. This was accomplished by firing a sky-rocket from the northern cliff-top with a length of light string attached. To the end of the string a slightly stouter cord was tied; then a strong rope, and finally a wire cable two inches thick. Thus, that which could not be done all at once, was done by degrees. The wire cable, being passed over the pulley on the shear legs, was fastened on the other side of the gorge to the top of a steel tower, thirty-six feet high.

From this thin aerial railway hung the 'cage' in which the workmen would cross and recross, and do a great deal of the bridge-building work, being raised and lowered to the required position by the shear legs. Some feet above the two-inch rope ran an electric wire with a motor engine which propelled the car backwards and forwards. Thus we may almost say that the first conveyance across the Zambesi was an electric tram. And the passengers (particularly on the first journey) were not pleased with the trip. They shrank with pardonable terror when they found themselves suspended over that awful gulf by a slender cord that swayed against the sky. But use soon changed all this.

The bridge was begun from both sides at once. In the rocky sides of the cliffs excavations were made to receive the four upright columns from which the arch would spring. On beds of concrete poured into these excavations was bolted an iron plate upon which the foot of the 'post' would hinge, so as to allow movement when the iron girders expanded or contracted with the change of temperature. The 'posts' are one hundred and five feet tall, and the arch which springs from their feet rises to a height of ninety feet at the centre. As the two ends grew towards each other across the abyss, it was found that the weight would require support before the girders met in the middle. To build a scaffolding would of course have been impossible; so the following means were adopted. Into the rocky ground on both sides of the river, two holes were bored, each thirty feet deep and thirty feet apart, their bottom ends being connected by another boring. A strong wire rope was then threaded down one hole and up through the other, to be carried over the cliff-top and passed under the bridge-end as it hung in mid-air. As the weight increased the ropes were added to, while, as a further precaution, the ground between the two holes was loaded with five thousand tons of railway irons. The wire ropes successfully played their parts until April 1st, 1905, but when the central girder was ready to take its place, it was found to be an inch and a quarter too long. It had expanded in the heat; but after a night's cooling it contracted to the right size, and was successfully inserted.

One of the principal difficulties in the erection of this bridge has been the trouble of getting the material to the spot. From Darlington to the Victoria Falls is eight thousand miles of ocean, bush, and desert, and sometimes long delay was caused by the railway being washed away by floods. But once there was interruption from another cause. Many of the English workmen were unable to stop on account of the climate, and they were constantly drenched by the spray, until in many cases natives had to be employed in their stead. These natives were housed in a little settlement of nicely built huts, lighted by electricity. One day, however, the electric wires caused a fire which destroyed the entire 'town' with astonishing rapidity.

Victoria Falls.

The bridge was opened in August, 1905, on the occasion of the visit of the British Association. The roadway over it is thirty feet wide, affording room for a double set of rails, and the panting trains have already begun to cross its web-like span, gliding into sight from the cliff-top on one side, only to disappear the next moment on the other in a green wilderness of ferns and tropic flowers.

A FIGHT TO A FINISH

ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.

By Harold Ericson.

IV.—A FIGHT WITH A RHINOCEROS.

It was now Vandeleur's turn to tell his camp-fire story, and he looked so long and so dreamily into the embers before he began that Denison laughed and said, 'Don't go to sleep, old chap, before you begin!'

Vandeleur laughed also, good-naturedly.

I'm not a bit sleepy (he said) but when I think of Umkopo, one of the best and most faithful friends I ever possessed, it makes me thoughtful. Umkopo, as the name suggests, had something to do with the Zulus or Matabeles. His was an extraordinary career, and I may have more to tell you about him in another yarn; but for the present I will merely tell you this, that, though he looked scarcely more like a 'nigger' than any of us three, yet, as a matter of fact, I never for some time really doubted that he was a young Matabele, simply because it never occurred to me to doubt it under the circumstances. He was a boy of about seventeen when I first met him—a straight, well-made chap of about Bobby's size and weight, black-haired and dark-skinned, but not so dark as the ordinary run of Mashonaland natives, about as dark, let us say, as you and I are at the end of a shooting trip somewhere in the equatorial regions.

Well, I was off some years ago upon a rhinoceros-hunting trip and at the moment in actual pursuit of a huge beast of greyish tint, a rare colour; this was an animal who had given me the slip many times, and I was most anxious to secure him. I was encamped somewhere within the district which he had chosen as his home, but for a week or two I had not been able to hit upon his tracks.

Now this was during the time of the first Matabele war, and I was, as a matter of fact, within the war-zone. I joined in the fighting a month or two later, finding that men were wanted on the British side, but at this time I was only hunting.

One day, prowling about the jungle with a Kaffir to carry my cartridges and a spare rifle, I suddenly came upon an unexpected sight.

A young man, apparently a native, lay by a pool of water at the foot of a tree, breathing, as it seemed to me, his last breath. He moaned a little when he saw us approaching, and made a feeble effort to rise and reach the club which lay at his side.

Finding that he was not going to be attacked, he gave up the effort, and lay breathing heavily.

'He is ill,' said I to the Kaffir; 'ask him whether he is in pain, and what ails him.'

The Kaffir knew something of the Bantu-Matabele dialect, and spoke to the man, who replied in gasps.

'He say,' the Kaffir reported, 'want food; drank bad water, poisoned by Matabeles; better now, but want eat.'

This was a need which was easily supplied. I had plenty of food with me, biscuits and tinned tongue, which I had brought for my lunch. I gave him this, and something to drink. He ate and drank greedily, which nearly choked him. He looked gratefully at me, and I placed him in a sitting posture with his back to a tree, and gave him a couple of prunes, which were evidently a novelty to him, and afforded him great delight.

The Kaffir, who rejoiced in the name of Billy, conversed with the young fellow from time to time, and suddenly Billy burst out laughing; a piece of rude behaviour which greatly shocked him the next moment, for he placed his hand over his mouth and looked very ashamed of himself.

'What is it, Billy?' I asked him.

'He say his people call him "White Witch,"' said Billy. 'He say, "I t'ink I white man like your master."'

Billy again burst out laughing, and again stifled the laugh in shocked surprise at his own rudeness.

I gazed at the sick youth with new curiosity and interest. I examined his features: there was nothing of the low-caste negro type about him, that was clear; but then it often happens that a Zulu or a Matabele is born with features which resemble those of a higher type of humanity.

'Ask him why they call him "White Witch,"' said I.

After a long talk with our new friend, Billy apparently gave up the attempt to solve this mystery.

'No understand,' he told me; 'he talk nonsense—much nonsense; not tell any truth.'

'What's his name?' I next asked.

'Umkopo,' said Billy. 'Dat not white man name—dat Matabele name.'

Billy looked so disgusted, and was clearly so displeased that a nigger should put forward a claim to white man's blood, that I decided to worry the sick man no more at present with questions—at least, he should answer only one more.

'How came he here? ask him,' said I.

'He been see Lobengula at Bulawayo,' said Billy. 'Lobengula chase him away into the jungle because he say bad words.'

'What kind of bad words?' I asked, in some surprise.

'Bad words: he say Lobengula not fight white people; white people eat him up.'

Umkopo, then, thought I, was like one of the prophets, who prophesied evil things which were unwelcome to the king.

'Lobengula chase him into jungle; much men run after him. Umkopo hide, drink bad water, nearly die, then no food.'

It was clear that the poor lad could not be left where he was in his present weak state; he must return with us to camp, which was two or three miles away at the edge of this jungle.

But Umkopo, though he did his best to rise to his feet, and walk with us when invited to do so, proved far too weak. He almost fell in attempting to stand up, and was obliged to cling to the tree-trunk in order to prevent himself from sudden collapse.

'We shall have to carry him, Billy,' said I. 'Collect poles and branches, and we will make a litter for the poor chap.'

Billy was evidently gravely displeased to be asked to do so much for a mere Matabele: he collected materials with his nose in air. 'Who going to carry nigger?' he asked.

And when I replied that, naturally—there being no one else—he and I would do so, I thought Billy would have a fit.

Nevertheless, the Kaffir was obliged to swallow his feelings, for, when I had finished the litter, I took up Umkopo in my arms—I am fairly strong, as you know—and laid him in it, and bade the disgusted Billy catch hold of one end while I took the other.

As for Umkopo himself, he looked very gratefully in my face, but he did not seem in the least overpowered by the fact that a white man was condescending to act as bearer to him. This circumstance seemed to weigh much more heavily upon Billy than upon him; but then Billy was influenced by the feeling of disgust that he, should be called upon to take so much trouble for the sake of a mere native.

We got Umkopo back to camp in safety, Billy making a great show of weariness; and here I had a comfortable couch made for the invalid within the zareeba. He lay at his ease for a day or two, living upon antelope flesh and the best of everything, and even drinking, at my special request, several doses of a tonic which I had brought with me, in case of sickness. The faces he made over it were something too weird to describe.

Under this treatment Umkopo soon picked up strength, and we became great friends, he and I. I endeavoured to teach him a few English words, and one day—to my great astonishment and interest—he rattled off a sentence which I had not taught him, but which was certainly a species of English. It sounded like this: 'Whenima gooboy nannagiv mejam on Sundays.'

It was an obvious attempt to say, 'When I'm a good boy, Nanna gives me jam on Sundays'—a sentence which not only told a tale of its own, but also gave a fellow a pretty wide field 'to think in.'

After this discovery, I began to take a very great and special interest in Umkopo, and taught him all the English I could. He was with me for a fortnight, and grew much attached to me. He was, of course, a bit of a savage, but there was something very attractive about him, and I grew both fond of and interested in him. This interest and fondness for a nigger greatly offended Billy, my chief Kaffir. None of my Kaffirs liked Umkopo, for all were jealous of him, I suppose; but Billy was particularly bitter against him, and once or twice I was obliged to reprimand him severely.

This uncomfortable state of affairs ended in a kind of tragedy, and I will just tell you of this and of its upshot before passing on to the rhinoceros adventure, which is the real part of this yarn.

(Concluded on page [154].)

THE SHEPHERD MOON.

LOVE to wait till the red sun hides,
When from the dusk the Shepherd Moon glides;
And by twos and threes around him peep
His flock of little white starry sheep.
All night they ramble so far and high,
Their pasture wide is the dark blue sky;
Then the Shepherd Moon goes on his way,
And leads them back to the folds of Day.

PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.

V.—THE LIFE-HISTORY OF THE FRESH-WATER MUSSEL.

Most readers of Chatterbox must have seen the fresh-water mussel in its native element. Let those who have not, search in the shallow water of the nearest river or brook till they are successful. When the stream is clear you may often see them lying on the bottom; in deeper water, you may catch them if you go out armed with a big, long-handled rake; plunge this into the water, drag it along the bottom, and carefully haul up the entangled mud and weed. Sooner or later your search should be rewarded. I have caught hundreds this way. Some of them were not more than an inch and a half long, and when placed in a glass jar were so transparent, that I could watch the beating of the heart through the shell. Indeed, I have two such little beauties before me, on my study table, as I write. One has partly buried himself in the mud, the other is lying on the surface. But, when full-grown, this transparency passes away, and they attain a perfectly huge size—six inches long at any rate!

Once upon a time, no doubt, the ancestors of these creatures lived in the sea; then they migrated to the rivers, creeping farther and farther up into fresh water, till at last their descendants have got so used to this element that they can live only in fresh water. Now, when animals gradually change their mode of life in this way, they at the same time undergo a great many structural and constitutional changes—some slight, some profound—and among these the most important are changes in the provision for the young. There is, as you know, a constant migration going on among the more active animals between the sea and the river, which is entirely on account of the needs of the young. Thus, salmon leave the sea yearly and undertake perilous journeys up the rivers, solely that they may lay their eggs there: while eels, on the other hand, as we have seen, are impelled by instinct to pursue exactly the opposite course, and to brave all dangers, that they may provide a nursery for their young in the deepest depths of the ocean.

Let us apply this to the fresh-water mussels. The ancestors of these very helpless creatures lived, I have remarked, in the sea; and we may be pretty certain that their eggs are hatched out into what we call larvae, or imperfectly developed animals, precisely similar to the young, or larvae, of the marine mussel of our seas. Now, this larva has the form of a tiny little creature covered with 'swimming' hairs. By the constant waving motions of these hairs, the little body is driven through the water, till at last, reaching a favourable spot, or tired out, they settle down at the bottom of the sea and turn into mussels, This free-and-easy life is all very well for the salt-water mussels, with the great wide sea to roam in; but such freedom in rivers would by no means be safe, because, though mussels swim, they are, by reason of their small size, quite unable to force their way against strong currents. Thus, on the outgoing tide, they would be swept off to sea, and would die even before this was reached—as soon, indeed, as the water became really salt. So, to prevent such a disaster, the fresh-water mussel carefully nurses her young between her gills, till they are old enough to help themselves. You will be surprised when I tell you the strange device they have come to adopt, so soon as they are cast adrift, whereby they may complete their days of infancy. Shielded throughout the winter months, they are turned adrift on the first warm day of Spring, a troop of very lively youngsters indeed. Each is encased in a very wonderful shell (S in the figure in the top left-hand corner of the illustration), quite unlike that of their parents, being triangular in shape, and armed with a pair of pointed teeth (T). By means of powerful muscles this shell is made to open and shut with great rapidity, and thus the body of the little creature is quickly driven through the water in a series of spasmodic jumps. Then comes a period of rest, obtained by using the long thread or 'byssus' (B) as a float, this thread being thrown out along the surface of the water. Then the hunt for a host begins again. On and on they go, till one after another—'curiouser and curiouser!'—seizes hold of a fish by means of its hooks. Having caught hold tight, each clings like grim death, and as a result of the irritation set up in the poor fish's skin, swelling follows and soon grows up all round the young mussel, and makes him a prisoner. But this is just what he wants. Snugly tucked away in his living cradle he slowly assumes his adult shape, and at last bursts his prison and falls to the bottom!

Fresh-water Mussels.

There is yet another reason for this very strange and somewhat cruel procedure. The love of self, among the lower animals, is so strong that parents always drive away their young so soon as they become capable of feeding, and fending for themselves; because, if they did not adopt stern measures of this sort, famine and disease would be the result, owing to overcrowding. On the whole, this banishment is not so hard as it looks, the young having no sentiment for the place of their birth, and being probably more capable of migrating than the parents. But the method adopted by the fresh-water mussel is wasteful and dangerous; wasteful, because thousands and thousands of young ones necessarily die every year, through failing to catch their fish; and dangerous, because those who succeed are liable to contract the habit of being a parasite, and this, as always, leads to degradation and ruin. Finally, whenever young animals have to depend on other creatures to provide them with a lodging during some part of their growth, many more thousands have to be hatched than is the case where the young are dependent on themselves entirely, for it must always happen that the necessary hosts are hard to catch, and the young die in countless thousands, being unable to succeed in their search.

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

TAKING IT LITERALLY.

All orders to native servants in India must be very carefully and exactly given, for a black servant takes care to obey to the very letter. An Englishman once took with him a native lad as a servant when going on a boating journey. There were no such chances of washing on board the boat as one enjoys at home in a house. Accordingly, a bucket was dipped into the river, and it served as a washing-basin. One day the boy was told to bring some water, and in doing so happened to spill a good deal over his master's feet.

"The lad emptied the pail over his employer."

'You clumsy fellow!' cried his master, angrily, 'why don't you throw it all over me?'—of course not using the words in their literal sense.

'Yes, sahib!' said the lad, and, to his master's astonishment, he took up the pail, and emptied it over his employer!

S.

'PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.'

The articles in Chatterbox under this heading have aroused great interest, and doubtless many readers would like to know more about these fascinating subjects than there is room for in the columns of Chatterbox. Mr. Pycraft, the author of these articles, is a well-know authority on Natural History, and is constantly engaged in research at the wonderful Natural History Museum at South Kensington, a place which many Chatterbox readers probably know well; and he has very generously undertaken to give any further information, or answer questions, if readers of Chatterbox like to write to him personally about the matter. Letters should be addressed to—

W. P. Pycraft, Esq.,
c/o The Editor of Chatterbox,
3 Paternoster Buildings, E.C.

Readers of Chatterbox will probably be glad of this chance of obtaining information direct from a first-rate authority.

THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.

(Continued from page [125].)

It so happened that Alan had seen and heard everything. On leaving Marjorie, he had succeeded in getting round the hedge, only to find that it extended to another part of the rampart, and was strongly fortified with barbed wire the whole way. It enclosed a portion of ground completely cleared of trees and brushwood, thus enabling the sun to shine upon the old walls unhindered by foliage. The grey, crumbling stones seemed to spread its heat, and the grass at their base seemed withered and brown. Alan's curiosity was aroused, and he determined to climb the nearest tree. It was the only way to discover what the plot of ground contained, and whether there were any reasons for all the care which appeared to have been taken to give it the full benefit of the hot summer sunshine.

Having selected a young oak which he considered might suit his purpose, Alan began to climb. He had made but little way when the sound of some body moving softly within the enclosure arrested his attention. He paused, clinging to the trunk and listening anxiously. Presently the movement ceased, and he wondered whether he had been heard. He could not remain where he was, however. That would mean certain discovery. He must either drop to the ground and get away, or stick to his original purpose and trust to the foliage to conceal him. Deciding on the latter plan, he crept slowly up till he reached the first branch strong enough to support his weight. Here a bitter disappointment awaited him. His labour had been in vain. Not a glimpse of the fenced-in ground would the dense summer foliage allow him. He was afraid to change his position lest he should be heard, and could only lie prone upon the bough, listening.

He had not long to wait.

A low murmur; a stir, as if some one was attempting to get through the hedge. 'Can't do it,' came a whisper. 'Give me a leg up, and I will manage it that way. Got the rope with you?'

Alan strained his ears for the answer, but none came. The men—there were evidently two—were moving as quietly as possible, assisting each other, and the result of their efforts soon became visible. Thomas's head appeared above the hedge, his hand caught hold of a branch, and the next moment he was close to Alan's tree. A minute later and his companion joined him. Lucky indeed it was for Alan that the leaves screened him so effectually, and that he was so securely placed that no movement was required to maintain his position. The faintest rustle would have betrayed him.

Thomas was holding a box in his hands, which he carried with the greatest care. No time was wasted in talking. Their sole anxiety seemed to be to get through the brushwood as quickly and noiselessly as possible. Alan watched them as they sped along in the direction of the Smuggler's Hole, in the woody hollow. He had no doubt whatever as to their destination, and only waited till they were beyond earshot to jump down and follow them. In his excitement, he forgot that Marjorie was waiting for him.

Something had been stolen, and he alone could trace the thieves. It mattered not whether it were jewels, or silver, or the merest trifle. He meant to recover it: quietly, if he could; if not, then he must fight for it. It must be of value, however. Had not Thomas received a handsome offer for purloining it?

With beating heart, and quick but stealthy step, he followed the two men, love of adventure spurring him on and blinding him to the real dangers of the pursuit. He was pleased, too, that his enjoyment was not wholly selfish: he would be of real service to some person—he would not care even if it were to Peet himself. It was quite possible it was Peet. He made such a fuss about the ruined summer-house, and was so rigid about keeping the door shut, that no doubt he did have something he valued there. It would be fun if Alan were to recover Peet's lost property for him.

As Alan sped along, he tried to make up some plan for securing the box and escaping with it. He knew neither man would hesitate to sacrifice him in their efforts to get it back, and they were not likely to stick at a trifle if he gave them trouble. He was quite alone; a boy against two men. Still, the thought of giving up the pursuit never occurred to him.

'It must be mind versus matter,' he thought, as he chuckled at the idea of outwitting Thomas.

It was not difficult to creep after the men down the rocky steps of the Smuggler's Hole, though they appeared dark after the brilliant sunshine. He was thankful, however, that he had been over the ground before with Marjorie, and had a pretty correct notion of the whereabouts of the dangerous places.

By the time he had reached the cave, the men were sitting on the rocks at the highest part, the tide being still too high for them to go very far down the cave. It was well for Alan that he had their light to guide him, for he could not venture on one for himself. Indeed, he had to keep on the darkest side, close to the wall, for fear of being seen. The men, he was glad to perceive, had so little suspicion that they were being watched that they never even turned their heads or lowered their voices. The box had been placed upon a flat rock just behind them for safety. To get near it was now Alan's aim.

The faint sound of the receding tide and the voices of the two men alone broke the stillness. The slightest noise would be heard therefore, the rolling of a pebble, a slip on the green, slimy seaweed. As he gradually crept nearer with the utmost caution, Alan listened to the talk of the men.

'I'm not sure this was the best way to come,' said the one Alan took to be a foreigner. 'We shall be hindered by the tide. How much longer shall we have to sit here?'

'About a hour, or perhaps a hour and a half,' returned Thomas. 'And when we are on the beach, what do you mean to do? We can't get away without a boat, anyhow.'

'I have made my arrangements. Jean Marie Fargis is up in these parts. He has fished now and again in English waters, and run before the wind at the first sign of danger. I knew the cut of his rig the other day when he was cruising round about.'

'Fishing?' said Thomas, incredulously.

'Well, he calls it so, and really I don't know myself what he is after. He will get into trouble one of these days with the coastguard people, I tell him. But that's nothing to us. I saw him, and went out to him, and he's to take us off if he can.'

'And supposing he can't?'

'Then we must get to Tyre-cum-Widcombe somehow, and slip down to the nearest port. If you had been a little quicker in your part of the business, we should have got off more easily, for he was waiting for us a bit higher up the coast, where there were fewer eyes to see.'

'I couldn't get the key,' returned Thomas in an aggrieved tone. 'It took me some time before I could find out where it was. I had to watch Peet close, and at last, thinks I, I'll climb the oak in the garden of his house, and see if I could catch him putting it away. I could see right into his windows, and it wasn't long before I saw all I wanted to, and had the key safe.'

'But, man, there's the passage you told me about. It's close by, isn't it?'

'I tried that way once,' said Thomas, with an unmirthful laugh. 'I'm not going to try it again in a hurry, not I. Why, I couldn't 'a been half-way down—no, nor yet a quarter—when a big stone came right down on me shoulder and knocks me flat. Mother did wonder why I couldn't move my arm without pain for quite a long time. I crawled back the way I had come. Master Peet was always saying the roof wasn't safe, but I didn't believe him. But I have had enough of it now. I preferred finding the key, even if it was slower.'

There was a pause. The faint ripple of the tide was followed by the hiss of the water as it surged round the rocks and fell back. Not daring to move in the silence, Alan stood still.

'The game's worth the candle, I suppose?' said Thomas, presently.

'I should just think so!' returned his companion, his voice growing hard. 'I have not had time or light to examine the box, but I trusted you to see that it contained all we wanted. Of course, if it does not—— '

'I put in all I could see,' began Thomas, sullenly.

'Then we have a great prize—the only specimen known, and we shall see our money back for that. As to the rest, why—until I can examine things for myself, I can't tell you anything. I should like to get off before the loss is discovered, and—well, how safe are we here? I should not wish to be caught like a rat in a trap while we are waiting for the tide to go down.'

'We're as safe here as anywhere,' returned Thomas, in the same sullen tone. 'Now, tell me,' he continued, with some irritation in his voice, 'have you got to pay that boat and the crew out of our profits in this business?'

His companion gave a low chuckle of amusement.

'There is not much that Jean Marie Fargis will not do for me, my friend.'

'That's the skipper, I suppose?'

'It is. He got into an ugly scrape not many years ago, and people have not forgotten it. I pulled him out of it, and started him in another walk of life. He is not like to forget, even if I would let him. So he's useful, you see.'

'I see. All the same, I expect this business will cost a pretty penny if Fargis is afraid of you.'

'You will get your pay, never fear.'

'But if the coastguard sees him fishing in British waters?'

'Then his orders are—cut and run. He can meet us at Havre or Cherbourg.'

'That's where he come from, is it?'

'No, it isn't. They are some of his places of call in his fishing trade. He lives at Tout-Petit—quite a small place, further south. Go there, man, if ever you find it wise to disappear, and mention my name to Fargis. He will see you are all right till you can look round. By-the-by, I hear the Earl's daughter that lives here is an heiress. Is that so? Hullo! what's that?'

Both men sprang up at the noise, and crept cautiously forward to listen. It had sounded like a stifled cry, and a splash, but so faint that in the stillness which followed they thought themselves mistaken. Their movement give Alan his chance.

(Continued on page [142].)

"'Give me a leg up.'"

"Concealment was impossible."