LITTLE WORKERS.
SAW a little flake of snow
Fall down towards the land;
'Twas such a tender little thing,
It rested on my hand.
But after, when I went abroad,
And looked on field and hill,
The snow had covered everything,
And all the land was still.
I saw a little daisy-bud
Peep upwards through the green;
It was a tiny little flower,
And yet it promised spring.
And when the summer days had come,
The little blossoms fair
Had made a carpet red and white
That covered everywhere.
A child—it is a little thing,
How weak its hands! how small!
What tiny footsteps it doth take,
How soon 'twill slip and fall!
Yet all the wonders of the world.
The towers and castles fair,
Were thought and planned and built by men,
Who once small children were.
A NEGLECTED SALUTE.
An anecdote is told of one of the sons of the German Emperor which shows that the faults of youth are common to all ranks, and that princes, no less than ordinary boys, require to be trained in the way they should go.
This little prince was a great favourite, and his winning ways made him very popular. It was always his delight to receive the military salute when he passed through the palace gates, and for this reason he looked forward to his daily walk with his tutor.
But in the nursery he was inclined to be unruly, and there was at one time great trouble in making him take his morning bath. One day, to his surprise, when he rebelled he was allowed to go without it, and he thought he had certainly gained the upper hand.
Later in the morning, when he passed the sentinel, the usual salute was not given. He stormed and raged, but no notice was taken. At luncheon, the little prince, with tears of wrath, complained of the insult which had been offered him, fully expecting the immediate punishment of the sentinel.
But the Emperor only shook his head. 'What else could you expect' he said. 'Surely you did not imagine that the guard would salute a dirty boy?'
After this there was no more trouble about the morning tubs.
A STORY OF THE UNFORESEEN.
'It's no good, Baker, the thing we must decide is whether Billy or Pottles will give us the most lines; for we shall get them from one or the other, and that's certain.'
'Bosh! there's another two days yet before we must have the books back, and, at any rate, I know where Billy has put them.'
'What's the good of that? We are not allowed in the school buildings except in work-hours, and then, if his study is not locked, it's because Billy himself is inside it. If you could get him out without locking the door, in the lunch-hour, there would be some use in all your ideas.'
'If I could make him put his head out of the window, that would do quite as well,' said Baker, meditatively. 'The books are on the cupboard just inside the door.'
Paynton laughed. 'It would take an awful uproar in the quad to wake Billy, and if we are creating an uproar, how are we to fetch the books out? It is all your fault. Whatever made you say Billy's window was the window of our class-room?'
'Well, I thought it was.'
'You shouldn't think, you should be sure. If only we'd thrown in anything but the algebra books it would have been all right; but Pottles promised to teach us a lesson next time we came to class without them, and you know what that means.'
'Shut up, Paynton—I've got an idea.'
'I hope it's a better one than throwing books in at wrong windows,' said his friend, and the two boys went along together still arguing busily.
Baker and Paynton were the despair of Mr. Potter, the master of the Lower Fourth, rudely called Pottles behind his back; and even Mr. Wilson, the somewhat absent-minded Head Master, nicknamed Billy by his irreverent scholars, was beginning to wonder whether it would not be better to suggest to the parents to try whether sending them to a fresh school would have any effect on them. It was useless to cane them, it was useless to give them 'lines.' They took their punishment as the natural part of a day's work that was otherwise devoted to 'scoring off' the masters and avoiding the pursuit of knowledge. On this occasion Mr. Wilson had by no means forgotten that he had ordered the two boys to come to his study to claim the books that they had thrown in there by mistake, but he was rather glad that they did not arrive at once, as he wanted to think of some fresh means of impressing them.
The following morning when the upper school began its lunch interval, the lower was being drilled in the 'quad,' round three sides of which ran the school buildings. On the fourth was an iron railing with the big school-gates in the middle, and at one of the windows appeared Baker and Paynton as soon as the bell rang. At the next window Mr. Wilson's back was visible as he wrote at his study table.
'Right, left; right, left!' drilled the sergeant, and the small boys marked time steadily. But his instructions were suddenly cut short, for something charged through the gates behind him and stretched the unfortunate man flat on his back. By the time he had raised himself again to a sitting posture and had begun to wonder what could have happened, he found that the orderly lines had disappeared, and that the whole of the lower school, headed by a rough-looking farm-boy with a piece of broken rope in his hand, was engaged in chasing the most wily and cunning black pig that ever made his escape. He dodged and doubled turned and twisted, charged down the small boys and avoided the large ones, till the whole 'quad' resounded with cries of 'Catch on to his tail!' 'Don't let him pass you!' 'There he goes!' and the windows began to fill with interested spectators. At last Mr. Wilson himself threw open his own window to see what was happening.
A few minutes later Baker and Paynton sauntered into the 'quad' and joined in the chase, which was ended, eventually by the pig being driven into a corner, so as to allow the farm-boy to refasten the rope.
By that time Mr. Wilson had also descended, and was inquiring sternly into the meaning of the pig's presence in his school-yard.
'Well, it's this way,' drawled the boy stolidly, 'it's no use trying to keep this pig shut up, and a pig that isn't shut up puts on no fat, so Farmer Jones says to me on Monday, "Bill, that pig's no good; take him into market on Thursday and see what you can get for him," and just as he was passing your gate he broke his rope and in he bolted.'
'Well, another time see that he breaks his rope somewhere else,' said the Head Master.
'He won't have another chance of breaking ropes with me,' said the boy as he touched his hat and turned away. Then he caught sight of Baker on the outskirts of the crowd.
'Oh, there you be, Master Baker,' he said with a grin;' if so be as you could give me that sixpence now it would save me another walk into town.'
'Why does Master Baker owe you sixpence?' inquired Mr. Wilson with interest.
'Oh! he lives next door to Jones's, he does, and he says to me yesterday when we was talking together, "Bill, if you do a job for me, I'll give you sixpence," and I've done it and I want my money.'
'The job in question being to drive that pig into the school-yard?' said the Head Master sharply.
'I said I'd say nothing about it and I won't,' answered the boy stolidly.
Mr. Wilson eyed Baker with an air of meditation that took in everything from the guilty expression on his face to the algebra book under his arm.
'Give the boy his money, Baker,' he said, 'and I should like to see you and Paynton in the study after afternoon school.'
'You won't catch me following any more of your precious plans,' said Paynton, as, having paid the sixpence, the two boys hurried back to their class-room.
When they entered the Head Master's study in the afternoon, a surprise awaited them. Tea, accompanied by the most delicious cakes, was prepared on the corner table, and Mr. Wilson talked to them and pressed the good things upon them as if there were no such thing as a cane in the cupboard behind the door. Under these strange new circumstances, their awkwardness wore off, and they were soon talking to their Head Master in a manner that surprised themselves.
It was not until tea was over that Mr. Wilson mentioned either the pig or the algebra books, and then he did it in such a friendly way that he astonished them more than ever.
'Well, now, about the pig this morning,' he began, 'suppose you arranged the whole business in order to make me look out of the window, and give you an opportunity of regaining the algebra books which you thought I had forgotten?'
'Yes, sir,' said Baker, feebly.
'And I expect it was something to do with you two boys that the school fire-brigade was summoned out by a false alarm last week, and that no one could go into your class-room without the most frightful attacks of coughing, one day in the week before.'
Baker nodded, but said nothing. He was wondering why he had ever considered the Head Master absent-minded. Even Mr. Potter had not connected him with either of these two exciting events.
'Well, these things all show a very high power of organization. You evidently possess the abilities which, well trained and properly disciplined, would be capable of manoeuvring an army, or at any rate, of carrying their owners to a high rank in the Service.'
The boys stared in astonishment. They had never worried themselves as to the particular nature of their abilities, but the idea of leading armies appealed to them.
'I see that both your names are down for Sandhurst,' went on Mr. Wilson; 'but unless you can get through the classes much faster than you have done as yet, there is not the smallest chance of your being ready for the examination. With really hard work, you might still get into the Army Class at the proper time, and I must leave it to you to decide whether you consider it worth while to do so or not. You can think it over, boys. Good-bye for the present,' and Baker and Paynton found that the dreaded interview with the Head Master was over, and that he had given them a great deal to think about.
The result of their meditations may be summed up in the remark Paynton made to Baker as they went into school next morning.
'I almost wish Billy had caned us,' he said in a regretful voice. 'It will be all right to end up as celebrated generals, but it will be jolly slow in school if we're not going to have any more larks.'
"The most wily and cunning black pig that ever made his escape."
OPPORTUNITY MAKES THE THIEF.
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By Harold Ericson.
V.—SAVED FROM THE MATABELES
'Look here, Teddy,' said Rolf Denison, addressing Vandeleur, whose turn had come round again for a yarn, 'You promised to tell us more about young what's-his-name, the Matabele boy who was half English, or something of the sort, and said he was a White Witch; you left him disappearing into the jungle, offended, and promised you would tell us about him reappearing "at a critical moment." I want to hear about that critical moment.'
'So do I,' Bobby chimed in; 'I was rather interested in that chap—what was his name—Um something—— '
'Umkopo,' Vandeleur laughed. 'All right, here goes, then, for my yarn; I fancy you'd be still more interested in Umkopo if you knew as much about him as I do; I didn't know then, mind you, when all this happened, nor did Umkopo himself; maybe I will make that into a yarn too, one day.'
Well, it was just at the beginning of the first Matabele war that I first came across Umkopo, and it was not until the middle of the second war—the rising in Mashonaland—that we met again. I was out hunting again when the new troubles broke out, and finding myself not far from Bulawayo when the rumour of war reached me, I made all haste to reach the town before I should be cut off by one of the large bands or impis of natives at that time prowling about in search of defenceless foreigners in outlying farms.
I was about thirty miles from Bulawayo, when a couple of Kaffirs, flying south, came across us and gave us news. The Mashona boys were 'up' everywhere, full of fight and full of mischief; already many farms had been attacked, and though the alarm had been sent east and west, and south and north, yet there were many of the new settlers in great danger, and—so far as human probability went—all or most of those who were not safely in Bulawayo would be cut off and murdered, and their homes pillaged and burned.
'You are as good as dead already,' they cheerfully informed us, 'unless you can somehow get safely into the town, and that is very unlikely indeed, because the Matabele are all round it, preventing people leaving or arriving.'
Of course this was said in Kaffir English, and certainly our informants looked frightened enough to warrant the truth of their news.
'Aren't they doing anything at Bulawayo to help the outlying farms?' I asked. 'Surely the towns people are not leaving them all to be murdered in cold blood?'
'They expect to be attacked themselves—the town is going to be besieged,' said the frightened Kaffirs; 'they are fortifying themselves and forming an army, but they are sure to be killed, every one of them.'
This sounded cheerful, indeed. Of course, so far as Bulawayo and its population were concerned the news was only partially true. Bulawayo, as probably you will remember, behaved most excellently; it not only defended its own women and children from attack, but contrived to send out parties of rescue to many of those known to be exposed to danger in outlying parts of the country, saving numbers of British men, women and children, who would have otherwise perished.
The Kaffirs continued their flight southward, and I found myself suddenly called upon to make a very important decision.
Twenty miles away, northward and eastward, lay the farm of a man who had offered me hospitality quite lately. This was Gadsby, a man of some thirty-five years, married and with three small children. His partner, Thomson, lived with him. In all probability these two men, Mrs. Gadsby, and the three little ones—dear little people, two girls of six and five, and a boy of about seven—were all, at this moment, in deadly danger. Surely the least I could do would be to hasten to their assistance; what with my two rifles, a few Kaffirs to keep watch and so forth, and my humble self to help with the shooting I might be of the greatest service—possibly even turn the scale against their enemies.
If I were to decide to take this course instead of making for Bulawayo, I should, of course, run the risk of encountering an impi of natives on the warpath, and I should then have my work cut out to come safely through the danger. But, on the other hand, the journey to Bulawayo was beset with equal risks, and Bulawayo was farther from this spot than the farm.
Naturally, there was in reality only one course open to a self-respecting man, and I decided at once that I would go to the Gadsbys.
I thought it right, however, to explain the matter to my Kaffirs; for it was clear to me that the news had greatly alarmed them, and some of them might prefer to go southward out of the danger-zone.
Three of the five decided to take this course; two—much to their credit—decided to stand by me; one was the driver of my ox-waggon; the other my chief hunter, a man who called himself Dicky Brown, a far better fellow than the Kaffir Billy who figured in the rhinoceros adventure, and who did not then greatly distinguish himself.
So we three set our faces towards Gadsby's farm, and we had not travelled five miles before trouble began.
We had stopped at the bank of a small river in order to search for a ford, when, sitting on a rock, awaiting the return of the Kaffir I had sent to prospect around, I heard a peculiar sound: a kind of rhythmical tramp as of many feet working together, walking quickly or trotting, accompanied by curious noises as of grunting, groaning, coughing, and so on.
'Matabeles—an impi!' said the Kaffir Dicky, his dusky skin looking an unwholesome ash-colour with terror.
Probably they had struck our trail and were in pursuit; it was a bad business at the best!
Well, there was not much time for preparation—five or ten minutes, perhaps, which we spent in fortifying ourselves as far as possible. That is, we placed the waggon along the river-bank in order to protect ourselves against an attack in the rear. We got the oxen tethered behind the waggon, and so we awaited developments.
The impi was now in full view, the whole five hundred or so of warriors trotting over the ground in step, going at a business-like pace—something like seven or eight miles an hour, the usual speed of a Matabele 'regiment' on the warpath.
Two hundred yards or so from us they pulled up, and one or two indunas or officers came forward. The Kaffirs were able to converse with the men, at any rate to understand their demands, and it appeared that I was summoned to give up my oxen, my stock of provisions, and my rifles and ammunition. When I should have done so to their satisfaction, I should be permitted to proceed to Bulawayo.
'To get my throat cut long before I got near the town!' said I. 'Tell them if they want my property they had better come and take it.'
This reply evidently did not please our friends, who returned to their main force looking wicked, and muttering I don't know what threats. Then I saw the entire impi spread itself out in a kind of semi-circle as though in preparation for attack; but instead of attacking us at once, as I expected, the men all sat down and ate the provisions they had brought with them. Doubtless it was their dinner-time and they saw no reason why they should not refresh themselves. We were caught all right—they had us in their power and they knew it. It was the delay that saved our lives, of course; for if they had 'rushed' us then and there, nothing in the world would have saved us from destruction.
We employed our time in attempting to strengthen our defences; that is, we brought stones from the river and built up a kind of little wall underneath the waggon so that at least no one should attack us from below; as for ourselves we got into the waggon, and I was busy teaching Dicky how to load my Winchester quickly, when the second Kaffir uttered an exclamation:—
'See—see!' he cried. 'See, master, a Matabele coming over the water!'
I looked up. Sure enough a 'nigger' was swimming the river, which was deep just at this place and about thirty yards in width.
I was about to raise my rifle to shoot the fellow, for at first sight it appeared to be an attack in the rear; but something about the man caused me to look closer; I seemed to know the face, which, though dark, was not quite so dusky as the usual complexion of the Mashona fellows, neither was the type of face that of the Matabeles.
I set down my rifle and waited until he should land. It had occurred to me that this might be Umkopo. A moment or two later he climbed ashore—it was Umkopo, sure enough.
'Umkopo!' I hailed him—'it is you!' I saw the youth stand and gaze at me. He was taller now than two years ago, and he wore—in spite of his soaking condition at this moment—an air of much dignity. He had on a Norfolk coat and trousers of obviously English make, though they were none that I had given him. Moreover, when he spoke to me in English, though he was by no means proficient in our language, yet he certainly spoke it much better than when I last saw him.
'Come up here and speak to me,' I said. 'Why are you there?'
Urnkopo laughed. He pointed in a dignified way towards the Matabele impi in the distance. 'I am here,' he said, 'because these fools are here. If I was not here you would die.'
(Continued on page [205].)
THE GLOW-WORM.
T lights its little lamp each night
Upon the leaf or ground,
And sheds abroad its tiny light,
Till day again comes round.
Though it is but a tiny spark,
It makes the darkness seem less dark.
So gentle deeds of kindness done,
By little hands like mine,
And kind words spoken one by one
Like to the glow-worm shine;
They shed abroad a tender light,
And make earth's brightness seem more bright.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
VII.—IRISH, SCOTTISH, AND WELSH HARPS.
From very early times the inhabitants of our islands were skilled in the use of the harp. In Ireland the harp was called Clarsach, and in Wales, Telyn; in both countries it was the national instrument. Perhaps the oldest Irish harp known is that said to have been used by King Brian Boru. The story goes that his son left his native country for Rome, taking with him his father's harp and crown. These he presented to the Pope, hoping to induce him to grant his forgiveness for a murder he had committed. Whether he won forgiveness we do not know; but it is certain that a very old Irish harp remained at the Vatican until the reign of our Henry VIII., when the Pope sent it to England. Finally, after passing through various hands, it attained its rest in the library of Trinity College, Dublin. The instrument is about three feet high, and broad and strongly made, which no doubt accounts for its long existence.
One of the oldest and most beautiful of Scotch harps is known as Queen Mary's harp. The carving is still very fine; in former times it was also adorned with the portrait of the Queen of Scots, and with the arms of Scotland set in gold with jewels; but during the rebellion of 1745 the latter ornaments vanished. The harp is only thirty-one inches high by eighteen inches wide, and was played resting on the left knee of the performer, leaning against the left shoulder; the upper strings were played by the left hand. These harps were strung with brass or steel wire, and plucked with the finger-nails, which were kept long on purpose. Queen Mary took her harp for a tour in the Highlands, and while there gave it to a lady who, by marriage, passed it over to its present owners, the Stewarts of Galguse.
| Harp of Brian Boru. | Harp of Mary Queen of Scots. |
Silver Prize Harp.
No amount of repression and misery during the ceaseless rebellions against their English masters seems to have affected the Welsh love for their national instrument. In the year 1568, Queen Elizabeth herself brought her mind to bear upon the matter, and ordered a congress of bards to be held at Caerwys. Here the really good players received degrees and rewards, whilst the indifferent performers were invited to seek some other honest profession; failing this they were liable to be apprehended and punished as rogues and vagabonds. From this meeting the Eistedfodd seems to have arisen, though after awhile Welsh music suffered an eclipse, only reappearing in force during the nineteenth century. The chief prize for many years of the musical contests was a model of a harp in silver, about six inches high, and beautifully executed.
England also had its harpists, and we all remember that King Alfred visited the camp of Guthram and delighted him with his music. Chaucer, in his Prologue to the 'Canterbury Tales,' speaks of one who played a sort of harp so well that when he sang,
'His eyes twinkled in his head aright,
As do the stars upon a frosty night.'
Helena Heath.
THE KESTREL'S EGGS.
ALPH NORTON was home on leave from the Britannia, and it was not easy to find a sufficient outlet for his energies in the quiet neighbourhood where he lived. So when his sister Marjorie told him that she wanted a kestrel's egg for her collection, he explored a wood not far away, and discovered a nest which would give him a good piece of climbing.
'Don't take more than one—or two, at the most,' Marjorie said. 'I can't bear to make the birds miserable, but I don't think they can mind losing one egg out of a whole batch.'
It was a lovely spring morning and Ralph stood at the foot of the tall fir and looked up at the nest, which was built on a branch quite near the top.
'It is a stiff climb,' he thought, 'and it's a good thing I am not heavy, or that branch would never bear me.'
But he was not a Britannia cadet for nothing, and the harder the climb the better fun he would think it, so up he scrambled.
A few minutes later a game-keeper came along, and stopped when he got near the fir-tree.
"'Hold hard there!'"
'I will just put a charge of shot into that hawk's nest,' he said to himself. 'Hawks do too much damage. I may catch the bird sitting there, and at any rate I can smash the eggs.'
He raised his gun to take aim when a piercing yell seemed to come from the sky. He lowered it hastily, and it was fortunate the shock did not make him discharge it.
'Hold hard there!' came a shrill voice from the direction of the nest. 'If you don't look out, you will bring down a bigger bird than you reckon for.'
The kestrel at this moment flew swiftly away, and the keeper was so perturbed he missed his opportunity of bringing her down.
'Oh, it's you, is it, Master Ralph?' he shouted. 'I declare I never can tell what prank you will be up to next. You do frighten a man most out of his wits.'
'And what about me?' Ralph retorted. 'I have had about as much of a scare as I want. It was hard-enough work getting up, without seeing the ugly muzzle of a gun pointed at me. And a jolly good thing I did see it, or you might have been had up for manslaughter.'
'Well, I like that!' muttered the game-keeper. 'I wonder who is about his proper business—that daring young scamp, or a harmless man like myself?'
But he knew from experience he did not often get the better of Ralph in a war of words.
'As you are up there, sir,' he called, 'you might take all the eggs, and then I need not waste my shot.'
'Right you are!' was the answer; but Ralph found there were seven, and he thought of Marjorie's injunctions.
'I will leave a couple,' he decided, and even then he hardly saw how he could get the others safely down. Two could be carried in his mouth in the orthodox fashion, and the other three must take their chance in his pocket; not much of a chance though, considering the scramble before him.
However, he was soon on the ground beside the keeper, displaying his treasures.
'A good set too,' he said, 'from rusty red to one almost white. But you did give me a turn with that old gun.'
'I'm sure, sir, I am thankful enough I didn't fire it off, but I should have been doing no more than my duty, and that's more than you can say, seeing that this wood is strictly preserved.'
Ralph laughed, and they sauntered off together, and the kestrel sailed back to her despoiled nest. If only she had known it, she had reason to be grateful to Ralph, for if he had not been in the act of robbing the nest, she might have been shot herself, and at any rate her eggs would have been destroyed. As it was she had in time two little downy fledglings to console her, and this fact was a comfort to Marjorie, though perhaps Ralph thought more of the fun of the little adventure than of the bird's feelings.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [187].)
Having seen Mrs. Wright and her son about her from the earliest moment of consciousness, and after the first feeling of strangeness in her surroundings had worn off, Estelle took everything quite naturally, as if she had never known any other life. With the experience of the child's terrible illness to frighten her, Mrs. Wright dared not perplex her mind with questions, or attempt to rouse her memory. Till she had strength to think and realise under what altered conditions she was living, the child had better be treated with simple love and care. Being naturally healthy, Estelle soon began to gain in strength steadily. The headaches from which she suffered gradually grew less distressing, and as soon as she was able to sit up, she was carried in Jack's strong arms into another room, and laid upon a great soft couch.
Estelle looked about her with a growing wonder and delight. She was in the queerest and quaintest room she had ever seen. It appeared to be a little of everything: a sitting-room and a kitchen and a cave. There was a big fireplace, in which huge logs of wood were burning on the floor, partly supported by iron dogs; the floor of the room was of sand, with a rug here and there. The ceiling and walls were of rock, the light being admitted through an opening at a great height above the ground. Very large, high, airy, and beautifully clean, it was yet very marvellous. A long dresser covered with plates and jugs stood against the end wall; an old-fashioned oak settle occupied one side of the fireplace, and the couch on which she lay the other side, thus forming a sort of cosy encampment in the great cave. A big round table stood in the centre, decorated with a bowl of wild flowers, in honour of Estelle, arranged by Jack's deft fingers. A number of books, some work, and a few photographs were scattered about on this table, for no meals were ever served on it. Another and smaller table close to the settle was used for this purpose, in front of the wall on which all the brass and copper pans were hanging in shining rows.
Curious and wonderful relics of a seafaring life were visible everywhere: from Japanese cabinets to nautilus shells; from flying fish to the sargasso weed in bottle; from the wedding dress of a Solomon Islander to the exquisite models of the ships he had sailed in, executed by Jack's skilful fingers. He had also rigged up shelves, or made cupboards into which to put his curiosities; and every addition of his handiwork increased the air of quaint comfort in the room.
Estelle was never tired of asking questions about all she saw, and Jack never showed any weariness in answering them, and showing her his treasures. He would tell her long stories of his sea-life, and describe many a curious scene and object he had seen in the wild islands he had visited. But in all his tales Jack never said a word that Lady Coke would not have liked; and there always seemed some good in every person he had met, even the roughest and toughest. Estelle delighted in his stories. They served to beguile many an hour of weakness and weariness. When, however, even these did not please her, Jack would carry her round the room, and point out various little things she had not noticed. He would tell her how he had found them, or he would take down one of his ships, and show her how to rig them, while he taught her the names of the spars and ropes. As she grew stronger, Estelle would read aloud to Jack and his mother, while the latter knitted her jerseys and sea-stockings for sale, and Jack made or mended sails and fishing-nets, or carved little trifles for Estelle with the view of teaching her. She was an apt pupil, enjoying these lessons and showing much ambition to out-rival her master. Thus her strange life and surroundings occupied her thoughts fully, and very seldom did she appear confused by any chance word recalling a forgotten memory. Mrs. Wright, watching her carefully, would not as yet risk any suggestions. The child appeared to be quite happy and contented, and evidently loved the friends who had shown her so much kindness. That was enough for the present.
'Such pretty ways as she has!' said the good woman one day. The little girl having fallen asleep on her couch, she covered her carefully with a rug. 'One would think she had known us all her life, she's that fond of us.'
'I shall be sorry enough when she goes,' returned Jack, in a hushed voice. 'So will you be. You haven't been nursing her for so long, and loving and caring for her as none knows better how to do, without feeling as if she was a bit like a child of your own. Oh, I know you, Mother! She's a little lady and no mistake; but come what may, neither you nor I will ever look upon her quite as we do on other people, nor she on us—I'll be bound. That's Jack Wright's opinion, right or wrong,' he wound up, laughing noiselessly.
Mrs. Wright smiled. It was evident she agreed with him, having just as soft a spot in her heart for the little waif as he had.
'I'm sorry in one way,' went on Jack, sitting down on the settle and lighting his pipe; 'sorry we can't find the little Missie's friends. But somehow I can't be properly sorry either. It is funny how one has a double sort of feeling about it. I'd be really anxious about her if she was taken away from us before she was well, and I'd miss her pretty eyes and her "Thank you, Jack!"'
Mrs. Wright was bending over the fire, cooking their mid-day meal of Scotch broth, and apple dumplings, while keeping a watchful eye upon a dainty dish of fish for the child. She smiled at her son, but a little sigh escaped her also as she shook her head.
'I won't be saying that you did not take trouble enough to find her people,' she remarked. 'I should love to keep her here, but it makes me all the more grieved for her friends. It's hard on them to lose a dear little girl like that. I suppose your skipper had such a fright with that gunboat that he will not be likely to take another trip to English shores?'
'We only got off by the skin of our teeth as it was,' replied Jack, with a grin at the recollection. 'After all, the Frenchman owed his escape to an Englishman being at the helm. He looked pretty grim about it. He has no taste for fines, but it's a jolly sight worse when they have to be paid into British pockets. He never had quite such a narrow shave as this one, and I fancy he will not be in a hurry to cruise in that direction again.'
'What will you do, then?'
'Wait. There's nothing else for it. I have no money, and I don't know where the child came from, nor how far she floated. I don't know the coast, nor anybody living about there. The child will be able to help us by-and-by.'
'What were you saying about me, Jack?' asked Estelle, waking up just in time to hear the last few words.
'"Ask no questions and you'll hear—" You know how that proverb ends, Missie,' laughed Jack, getting up to place a chair for her at the table. 'Here's dinner ready, and Mother only waiting for you.'
Mrs. Wright was indeed in the act of carrying the steaming dishes as Estelle went to her seat. She was so much stronger that she could manage to sit through a meal, supported by cushions and the arms of her chair. Jack told her he had a great treat in store for her, provided she ate a good dinner. Watching her face as he spoke, with its varying colour and delicate outline, Mrs. Wright felt anxious.
'I fear whether it isn't a risk, Jack?' she said.
'Not a bit, Mother. It's a lovely day—calm as a mill-pond, and will do you good as well as the little lady.'
'For half an hour only, then,' said Mrs. Wright, still doubtful of the wisdom of Jack's proposal.
'What is it? Oh, do tell me!' cried Estelle, flushing and paling with eagerness.
'Perhaps, if you eat a good dinner, I will take you out,' returned Jack, smiling. 'Now, if you want to hear any more, you will finish that plateful of fish.'
'Am I going out for a walk? Oh, how lovely! You will come too, dear Goody?' Estelle had learnt to call Mrs. Wright by this pet name.
'Well, you see, we have all to wait till that plate of yours is clear,' answered the old woman, laughing.
Estelle laughed also, and set to work. Her appetite had scarcely begun to be keen as yet, and Jack and his mother agreed that a little fresh air and sunshine might be good for her, if it could be managed without fatigue. Estelle was persuaded to eat all that was expected of her, and promised to lie still upon the couch till Mrs. Wright had cleared the table. Then, while Jack went out to make his preparations, his mother put on her bonnet, and collected some cushions and rugs.
(Continued on page [202].)
"Jack told her he had a great treat in store for her."
"Jack sprang out with Estelle in his arms."
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [199].)
It was not very long before Jack returned to tell them all was ready, and to laugh at Estelle's eager face and sparkling eyes.
'I don't want you to tell me what it is,' she cried. 'It will be a real surprise. I love surprises!'
Jack called her a 'contrairy' young lady, who wanted to know every thing one moment and nothing the next. Mrs. Wright, in a wonderful black bonnet, appeared at that instant, her arms full of warm things. Estelle sprang to her feet in delight, scarcely able to stand still a second to have her hat put on, and the big cloak wrapped round her slender little figure.
'Gently, gently, dear,' said Mrs. Wright, as the child bounded towards the door the moment she was released.
Jack laughed. 'That will never do,' he said; 'you must walk before you can run, Missie.'
As long as she went out, she did not care about the manner of her going, and willingly allowed Jack to lift her in his strong arms. Mrs. Wright opened the door at the end of the kitchen, and Estelle found herself on a terrace, where some high shrubs hid the view beyond, and a few flowers had been planted wherever there was soil enough for them. A steep path led down the cliff till they came to a wider place, whence there were two routes—one which Jack pursued, narrow and rough; the other, broader and paved here and there with cobble stones, in order to keep the earth from being washed down the hill.
'That's the way to Tout-Petit, our little fishing village,' said Jack. 'You may walk miles before you will see anything half so pretty. But oh, the dirt!'
'Everything is thrown out into the middle of the street,' added Mrs. Wright, making a face as if the remembrance of certain sights was not pleasant. 'It takes a good heavy rain to wash them places clean. Oh!' as a stone rolled under her feet. 'I do believe, Jack, this path gets worse and worse.'
'I wish I could carry you, dear Goody!' said Estelle, smiling at her over Jack's shoulder, and brimming over with a happiness which made her long to impart some of it to others.
'Or that I could carry you both at once,' laughed Jack. 'Mother is an independent body, Missie, and many's the time I'm obliged to take the law into my own hands, when it's a matter of helping her for her good. She does not like to be done good to against her will.'
'And Jack takes after his mother if that's her character,' retorted Mrs. Wright, laughing.
'Then you would not wish him to be different,' said Estelle, with a look of affection at Mrs. Wright.
'Yes, she would!' exclaimed Jack. 'I've got some ugly faults, and she'd rather see me without them: wouldn't you, Mother?'
'Have you faults?' asked Estelle, in such an incredulous tone that both her listeners laughed.
'He's getting the better of them by degrees,' answered Mrs. Wright, suddenly becoming grave, as if some thought troubled her.
They had now reached the end of the path, and, turning round by a group of pine-trees which grew at the foot of the hill, came out upon the sandy beach. Oh, what a sight for the enchanted eyes of the little girl who had been a close prisoner for so long!
The sun was shining in a sky flecked with soft, fleecy clouds. Before them was the rippling, dancing sea. Far in the hazy distance the grey smoke of a passing steamer could be seen, while white-winged boats or brown-sailed fishing smacks dotted the wide bay. Estelle's eyes were full of tears as she uttered exclamations of delight and surprise.
'How lovely! How lovely! Are we going to sit on the beach?'
'Better than that, Missie,' replied Jack, marching down the pebbly slope with long, easy strides. 'Don't you see the skiff down there on the sands? It's a trip in her you will have, where you will get fresh air, with nothing to tire you.'
'Dear Jack! How delicious! Are you not very happy, Goody?'
'I am if you are, dearie. But if you go and get excited, you will have to come back. It will never do to have you ill again.'
Declaring she was not excited, only happy, Estelle clung to Jack as to a tower of strength against any return. He laughed.
'Obey orders, little Missie,' he said; 'be happy, but keep quiet. There's no call to tire yourself.'
'Why, you silly Jack, you are carrying me! How can I get tired?'
The boat had been drawn up on the beach, and Jack now put Estelle into it, making her a comfortable nest among the cushions and rugs, and erecting the umbrella over her head. Then, assisting Mrs. Wright to a seat near her, he ran the boat into the water, springing in as it slid off. With a 'long, long pull and a strong, strong pull' he rowed them out of the shadow of the rocks into the open sea. There he ran up the sail, while Estelle lay quite still in an ecstasy of pleasure. It was one of those golden moments which are seldom forgotten in a lifetime, when mere living and breathing are a delight; when the tongue is silent, because the eyes and thoughts are full of the beauty of the light, and the colour of trees, sea, rocks, and sky! With anxiety Mrs. Wright watched her little charge, as, speechless with delight in the sunlight and sweet air, she lay drinking in health with every breath. But Mrs. Wright was no longer young, and believed in moderation in all things, especially first things. She insisted that the sail should be a short one. Jack, therefore, put back at the end of the allotted time, in spite of Estelle's imploring eyes. She gazed at him as he lowered the sail, and took up his oars, till he almost fancied there were tears in her eyes.
'I did so want to go on!' she sighed. 'It may rain another day, and it is so long since I have seen the sun.'
Mrs. Wright shook her head, however, as one who is deaf to appeal.
'No more to-day, dear,' she said. 'If it is fine to-morrow you shall go again—that is, if you are none the worse for what you have done to-day.'
Jack, who could not bear to see his 'little Missie' distressed, assured her it would be fine to-morrow, and probably for some time longer. April would soon be upon them, and the time for the singing of birds begin. That meant fine weather.
'He ought to know,' added Mrs. Wright; 'it is a sailor's business to understand the sky.'
The words appeared to rouse some train of thought. After gazing earnestly at Jack's smiling face, Estelle knitted her brows, as if puzzled, saying, with some hesitation, 'A sailor? Yes, I know a sailor—now, where did I see him? He had something about him. Oh, what was it? You must remember, Goody. Will you tell me?'
'I have known a good many sailors, dear, in my time, being the wife and mother of sailors; and this one,' putting an affectionate hand on Jack's knee, 'is the biggest of them all.'
But Estelle was not diverted from puzzling over where she had seen the sailor she wanted to remember, whose name and circumstances she was conscious had something especial about them.
'I can't recollect!' she exclaimed, putting her hand to her head. 'Somebody said something, and we were sorry—what could it have been?'
'Don't try to remember, dear. It does not matter. As likely as not it was only a story somebody told you,' urged Mrs. Wright, alarmed at the flush and distress this first effort to recall anything in the past had produced.
'Here we are!' cried Jack, cheerfully pulling round into the bay, and running the little boat as high as possible up the shelving beach.
The tide coming in fast had already covered the sands, and was roaring on the pebbles. Holding the painter of the boat in one hand, Jack sprang out with Estelle in his arms, and, after putting her down on the dry shingle, proceeded to haul the little craft sufficiently high out of the water to enable his mother to land.
'Sit still, Missie,' he called to Estelle, 'and I will carry you up in a jiffy.'
(Continued on page [214].)
A WONDERFUL WEIGHING MACHINE.
The Bank of England has in use a machine so delicately adjusted that it can give the accurate weight of a speck of dust, whilst the same machine will also weigh metal up to four hundred pounds. A postage stamp placed on this scale will swing an indicator on a semi-circle a space of six inches.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
VII.—SOME CURIOUS NURSERIES.
You will find—many of you have found already—that the longer you pursue the study of Natural History the more fascinating it seems to become. Now, a part of this fascination is certainly to be traced to the fact that the unsuspected is always happening; and this, too, happens even to those who have studied nature's ways long enough to know that what we call the 'rules of nature' are always subject to exceptions. That is to say, we know that it would be wrong to suppose that, after we have traced out the life-history of any particular creature, we have the key to the life-history of all its near relatives.
For example, you will remember that not long ago we described the complicated history of the starfish, sea-urchins, and sea-cucumbers. Strange and different as were the changes which these creatures passed through when young, we agreed that they were all cast by their parents adrift into the great world while yet so tiny as to require a microscope to see them; and each mother sent forth her young in this defenceless state by the thousand, so that, as a natural consequence, perhaps not more than a dozen of each family survived. But there is one species of sea-urchin which appears to assume some sort of responsibility and tender care for her young ones. This is the Hemiaster sea-urchin. She lays but a few eggs, and these she jealously guards in a number of pouches on her back. Here they hatch, and in due time become young sea-urchins (fig. 2). One of the starfish, again, carries its young on its back under a wonderful tent stretched across the tips of specially constructed spines; and, in order that water may constantly reach her family, the roof of this tent is pierced with holes! Even the unsightly sea-cucumber, or sea-slug, is not to be outdone. In what are known as the 'plated' sea-slugs—so called from the overlapping stony plate borne on the back—the young are housed in a nursery on the back of the mother, the plate referred to serving as a roof (see fig. 1). In another of the sea-slugs the young cling to the skin of the mother until they are big enough to shift for themselves.
In all these cases, you will notice, the extraordinary forms taken by their unprotected relatives during early life are dispensed with. The reason of this is clear after a moment's reflection. The peculiar shapes which we described earlier are so many special devices designed to aid the young in gaining a living until their full-grown shape has been developed. But when these are specially sheltered in nurseries, they have nothing to do but grow, for their food is brought to them.
The higher we search in the scale of animal life, the more numerous and striking become the instances of the love and care shown by parents for their children. Among the fishes and the frogs and toads, for example, there are such wonderful instances of this that we must deal with each of these groups separately.
When we come to birds and mammals, we find it hard indeed to select instances, because, with but few exceptions, these creatures are most exemplary parents. Let us take, by way of example, one or two cases among the mammals.
The ponderous hippopotamus carries her young one on her back when swimming, to save it from the jaws of the hungry crocodile. Some of the opossum family are remarkable for devotion to their young: one species, for example, though considerably smaller than a cat, cheerfully carries her large family about on her back, though each of them is as large as a full-grown rat! They maintain themselves in perfect safety, while the mother climbs about the trees, by twisting their long tails around hers, which is purposely turned forward over her back after the fashion shown in our illustration (fig. 4). Bats, again, undertake what almost seem impossible burdens, for the mother, though she has to obtain all her food when on the wing, refuses to leave her young one, as would seem but natural, in some place of safety, but carries it with her wherever she goes. The little mite clings tightly to the soft fur of the under side of the body (fig. 5). In some cases as many as four baby bats are carried in this way at a time!
| Fig. 1.—Sea-slug, with young. | Fig. 2.—Sea-urchin, with young. |
| Fig. 3.—Australian Bear, with young one. | Fig. 4.—Opossum, with young. |
Fig. 5.—Bat, resting, with young.
The curious Koala, or native 'bear' of Australia, carries her young on her back (fig. 3), and apparently without serious inconvenience, though she has to make her way about the topmost boughs of the giant gum-trees. Finally, we must refer to the kangaroo, which carries its young in a special pouch, too well known to need description here. The point to which we would direct attention is the burden which all these animals are willing to bear for the sake of their young ones.
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
"I was received with joy."
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
V.—SAVED FROM THE MATABELES.
(Continued from page [195].)
I looked at Umkopo in astonishment. What did he mean by that, die? Did he think that by his presence with us we should gain so much in strength that we should now beat off the enemy?
Umkopo laughed again. 'You shall see,' he said'; I am the White Witch; that which I say will be obeyed.'
manner of Umkopo, though his words sounded no better than conceited nonsense.
'Do you mean to go among them?' I asked; 'I warn you, Umkopo, it is a dangerous thing to do. They may kill you.'
'Kill me—these children?' he said, with scorn; 'you shall see.'
He strode straight away, with these words, towards the Matabele hosts.
'Stop, Umkopo,' I cried after him; 'you are unarmed—take a rifle, at least, or a pistol.'
'Give me a pistol,' said he, stopping a moment to think; 'a lion may show his teeth when a hyena yelps, that is no shame.'
I gave him a loaded revolver. 'What do you mean to do or say?' I asked.
'I will say "go away," and they will go,' he laughed; 'I will say "dare not threaten those who are of my race—I am the White Witch."'
'But if they refuse to obey?' I asked.
Umkopo gave me a glance brimful of haughty contempt. 'You speak foolishness,' he said. With which he strode away towards the Matabele fellows.
Well, I watched him with some interest and anxiety, as you will readily believe. The Kaffirs, too, watched him in fear and trembling.
'I have heard of the White Witch,' Dicky muttered. 'The Matabeles are like his children, so men say.'
Umkopo went among the indunas who squatted in front of the regiment and sat down with them. We could see that there was excitement among the black warriors when he was seen and recognised. We could even catch occasional exclamations, when loudly uttered. These mostly consisted of the one word, Umkopo. Men seemed to be going from group to group conveying the news that the White Witch had appeared.
The indunas and their visitor rose to their feet, presently, having, I suppose, concluded their arguments, but one man seemed still to be engaged in heated conversation with Umkopo. Suddenly a shot rang out, and the man fell.
With one accord the Matabele hosts sprang to their feet; they gazed for a moment at Umkopo, who seemed to give some order in raised tones, his arms outstretched. Almost instantly the entire regiment turned their faces and began to depart. First they walked, then ambled, then gradually they formed into lines and trotted in their former rhythmical fashion. In five minutes all were out of sight, Umkopo alone being left upon the field of battle—he and the dead induna.
Umkopo returned slowly towards my waggon; his dignity—'side' would be a more exact description—was indescribable; at any other moment it would have been actually amusing, but at this crisis I had no room for any feeling excepting one of deep gratitude, mingled with amazement. The lad had certainly saved us from immediate destruction—how in the world had he done it?
I met him and we shook hands. 'Umkopo, you are a wonderful fellow,' I said, most sincerely; 'how did you do it?—what did you say?—what is the meaning of it?'
'The meaning?' he repeated. 'The meaning is that I am Umkopo; let him disobey me who dares. There are few of the Matabeles who dare. One there was; I knew him before, the induna Gongula: he was jealous of Umkopo; he dared not once, not twice, only to speak in my face—see where he lies; the rest have gone; they will not return.'
'But why do they obey—what is your power over them?' I asked, in genuine surprise; 'I do not understand.'
'Bah!' he said, 'what matters? You are alive and not dead; that is better than to understand. I am the White Witch—it is enough!'
'No, it is not enough,' said I. 'You have saved our lives, Umkopo; you have saved mine a second time to-day; how shall I repay you?'
'Bah! we are friends, that is enough. Where do you go? To your death, that is certain, unless I know in time.'
'I go to Gadsby's farm—a day's journey north and west,' said I. 'Is the country clear between?'
'It is clear to-day. I know Gadsby's farm. It will be attacked presently, like others. If he has not yet gone when you get up there, tell him not to go until Umkopo comes. I cannot be everywhere. Where I am, they dare not touch the men of my race.'
'Have you now discovered for certain that you are English?' I asked.
'Since we met I have learned many things,' he said. Then, before I knew that he meant to leave us, he was in the river and half-way across.
Before long he disappeared in the jungle, which grew almost to the water's edge on the far side of the river.
We lost no further time, but found a shallow place, crossed the river, and trekked onward towards Gadsby's as quickly as possible. We reached the farm before dusk.
Here we found that the Gadsbys had had warning of the danger, and had conveyed the news to farms to right and left of their own. Within the house were assembled Gadsby and his family, his partner, two young bachelors, Morrison by name, from an adjacent property, twelve miles away, and a second family of children, with their parents, from a farm still further away from Bulawayo. They had thrown themselves into Gadsby's large house for mutual protection.
I was received with joy. My rifles and ammunition would be of the greatest service, for Gadsby and his brave companions fully intended to defend the house, and even had hopes of doing so successfully, until relief should arrive from Bulawayo, which, they were sanguine, would come in good time.
This being the case, an extra man, well armed and a pretty fair shot (spare my blushes) was a distinct acquisition.
I found every man in the place busily engaged, some in cutting down and removing everything within two hundred yards of the house which could serve the Matabeles for cover. Others were busy boarding up the windows, and some Kaffirs were saturating the lower portion of the house with a hose, in order that any attempt to set fire to it might be frustrated.
(Concluded on page [226].)
A BUTTERFLY'S WING.
BROTHER, do tell me,' a little ant said,
'What was it went flying just over my head?
'Twas caught in the sunbeam that pierces the yew;
Its colours were crimson, black, orange and blue.
It looked like a flag that the fairies might fly
If leading an army from here to the sky.
And out of the shadow it came from the lane
To flit through the light into shadow again.
O brother! dear brother! what could it have been?
Such colours, such beauty, I seldom have seen.
Look! there in the distance it flutters once more,
Now right and now left by the summer-house door.'
And like one bewitched he set off at a bound,
Though jungles of grasses grew thickly around.
'Heed not,' cried the other, 'so simple a thing;
'Tis nothing on earth but a butterfly's wing.
They flit through the garden all hours of the day,
They turn to each bud in a purposeless way,
And many a time have they halted to see
What fun could be made of my neighbours and me.
But who cares for them? On their way let them go.
When the summer has passed they have nothing to show,
While one of our efforts more profit will bring
Than ten thousand strokes of a butterfly's wing.
Come! back to our work.'
And without more ado
He dug 'neath the soil where an artichoke grew.
The little ant followed, and though I must say
He worked in a rather preoccupied way,
He owned that to duty 'twas better to cling
Than follow the flight of a butterfly's wing.
'THOSE HORRID BOYS.'
ORA and Nellie were on a visit to their grandfather, and, as Nellie said, they might be having a lovely time if it were not for 'those horrid boys.'
'I wish Grandfather would not ask us all at the same time,' sighed Nellie. 'It quite spoils our fun.'
But Grandfather thought it was a good thing for the cousins to meet, though Tom and Frank were a few years older than Dora and Nellie. The two little girls would have thoroughly enjoyed their yearly visit to Grandfather's, if it had not been for Tom and Frank's unmerciful teasing. They could never play a peaceful game together without the dread of being discovered; but this particular afternoon they had taken their dolls to a new hiding-place, an old loft full of hay.
'Anyway, the boys won't dare to tease us much after what Grandfather said this morning,' Dora remarked.
'No, they would be miserable if they couldn't go to the circus, said Nellie. 'I'm very glad Grandfather heard them. Now he knows what they are like, and Tom will have to be more careful.'
'Doesn't Arabella look lovely? said Dora, who had just dressed her best doll in new clothes.
'Make haste, Nellie, we shall have to go and get ready ourselves very soon.'
Just at that moment the boys' voices were heard in the stable below, and the children stared at each other, dismayed.
'Come on, Frank, let's climb the ladder—I've never been up here before,' and Dora scarcely had time to bury Arabella under a handful of hay before Tom's head appeared.
'Hullo! here are the girls with their silly dolls. Let me have a doll to play with,' and he caught hold of one roughly.
'You had better leave them alone, Tom, if you don't want to get into any more rows,' Frank said, and the little girls begged them to go away.
'This is a jolly place! Come on, Frank, I will bury you in the hay,' and Tom snatched up an armful.
But there was something in the hay he had picked up. Dora gave a loud cry as she saw her beautiful Arabella flung into the air and through the trapdoor opening into the stable below. In her haste to get down and pick up her poor doll, she herself slipped and fell on the hard floor. By the time Nellie and the boys had scrambled down, she was weeping bitterly, not over her own hurts, but over Arabella's smashed face, and she took no notice of Tom when he declared again and again how sorry he was. Of course it had been an accident, but Dora felt too angry and too miserable to forgive him at once.
'Now then, what's all this fuss about? Have you broken that doll, boys?'
It was Grandfather's voice, and he looked very angry as he took in the scene.
No one answered. 'Well, of course,' Grandfather said, 'you boys cannot go to the circus this afternoon, after this. Don't cry over your doll any more, Dora, but run and get ready, and I will buy you a new one.'
But Dora had stopped crying already, and had caught sight of Frank's disappointed face. Now was her moment of revenge; should she take it? She had to decide quickly.
'Please, Grandfather,' she said,'it was an accident. Tom did not mean to do it, and I have quite forgiven him.'
'Oh, in that case, perhaps he may go to the circus,' said Grandfather, relenting; he was much too kind-hearted to wish to leave any one at home.
So they all went to the circus, and had a splendid time. The girls forgot their broken dolls, but Tom did not forget Dora's generosity, and he made up his mind to give up teasing them. Indeed, from that day they were all good friends, and Dora and Nellie agreed, when they went home, that their cousins were very nice boys, after all.
"'Let me have a doll to play with.'"
"The African beauty was greatly taken with Lauder."