STORIES FROM AFRICA.
X.—THE LAST TIME.
ARLY in the September of 1905, a short announcement appeared in the daily papers under the heading of 'German East Africa,' 'Masasi has been destroyed.' There had been for some time past disquieting news of rebellion among the native tribes, and grievous reports of the murder of white men working in the district. To ninety-nine people out of a hundred, Masasi was only another outlandish name of an unknown station. But the hundredth person read the meagre intelligence with a thrill of dismay, asking himself the question, 'Does history repeat itself, or have we gone back three and twenty years?'
Nearly thirty years ago, a party of those released slaves, of whom we spoke in a former story,[3] were brought from Zanzibar and settled at Masasi, some four hundred miles southward, and a hundred and twenty miles from the German port of Lindi. The place is situated upon a high plateau above the river Rovuma, on fertile ground, easy to cultivate, and with grand mountain peaks towering above it. Here the little community grew and nourished, people from the neighbouring country came to be taught, and for six years all went well. Then came a threatening of trouble. Far away, near the shores of Lake Nyasa, dwelt a tribe known as the Magwangwara—Zulus, who, says the story, were once defeated in warfare, and settled there rather than return home to meet death at the hands of their own countrymen. Tidings of the coming of the Europeans had reached this fierce race, to whom war was the business of life, and they had announced their intention of measuring their strength against the white men. They were marching eastward, and had shaken their spears towards Masasi.
Mr. Maples, one of the two Englishmen in charge of the station, started at once, with five of his own men, to meet the invaders, and try to persuade them to peace. On the afternoon of their second day's journey, they discovered, to their dismay, that they had missed the enemy, for they came upon the camping-ground of a large army, and could see their tracks, marking the détour by which they had escaped meeting the little embassy. There was nothing for it but to return as quickly as possible, in the hope of catching them up before they reached Masasi. All that night they hurried along, making what speed they could in the darkness; but when, soon after dawn, they reached the outskirts of their own territory, some four miles from Masasi, a terrible sight met their view—columns of smoke were rising from the place where their dwellings had stood. Clearly the village had been attacked, their friends were dead or captive, and nothing remained but to learn their fate, and in all probability to share it.
Kneeling, in sight of their burning homes, the little party commended themselves to God's keeping, and were starting forward again, when shouts were heard close to them, and they found themselves in the midst of an armed body of the Magwangwara. Only Mr. Maples' presence of mind, and the perfect obedience of his followers, saved them from instant death. At his word of command the little band laid down their guns, and, though thrown to the ground and threatened by the assegais of their enemies, made no attempt at resistance, while Mr. Maples, trusting to the well-known awe of the natives for a white man, remained perfectly calm, fixing his eyes upon the assailants, and explaining by gestures that he and his party intended no violence. After a few moments' consultation, the Magwangwara bade them go into Masasi, but Mr. Maples, realising that this would probably mean death, or at any rate slavery, for his followers, without the hope of saving their friends, decided to strike eastward to Newala, a village some fifty miles away. The chief there was friendly to the white men, and, if any one had escaped from Masasi, it was to Newala that they would probably go.
So, once out of sight of the war party, they started upon a terrible journey through the thick bush, avoiding the beaten track, and every moment expecting a fresh attack by one of the scattered bands of the enemy. The heat was overpowering, the party had no food with them, and, to add to their troubles, Mr. Maples sprained his leg so badly as to make progress after sunset impossible. By morning, however, he was able to go forward, and there was another painful day's journey, still without food, save for a little sour fruit and cassava root, though water was mercifully plentiful. As they drew nearer to Newala, a terrible question began to weigh upon them all—what would they find? Was it possible that Matola, the friendly chief, would be there to receive them? Was it not more than likely that the village would be deserted, the inhabitants escaped to the bush, and neither food nor shelter awaiting the worn-out fugitives? Haunted by these fears they lay down for another night of hunger and uncertainty, eleven miles from Newala, and then, on Sunday morning, pressed on once more. Their hearts sank at finding the huts on the outskirts of the village deserted. Then came a joyful sight, a native carrying fowls, the universal food in Central Africa. He was hailed, and the eager question asked, 'Is Matola here?'
'Yes,' was the ready answer, 'he waited for you. He felt sure some of you would come, since Masasi has been destroyed.'
A good reply, this, to the accusation that the Central African tribes are incapable of gratitude or devotion. Matola was a heathen chief, used all his life to the sudden flights from a stronger foe which are the custom in this land of raids; but the lives of the white men, who came to Africa without hope or gain for love of their dark brothers, had taught him something of a higher law than that of self-preservation. The best he had was at the service of his exhausted guests, and, with a tact and consideration not always found even among Europeans, he insisted on hearing and sifting all the reports brought in by fugitives before they reached the ears of Mr. Maples, whose sprain kept him for some days unable to move.
After all, only seven of the Masasi people had been killed in the first mad onslaught of the Magwangwara. The rest were saved by strict obedience to the order to make no resistance. For twelve days the terrible visitors remained in their camp near the village, while Mr. Maples' colleague, Mr. Porter, exhausted all his bales of cloth, the current coin between Europeans and Africans, in ransoming those of his people who had been seized and carried as slaves to the camp. When at last the war party retreated, they carried with them twenty-nine of the Masasi people. Mr. Porter, having replenished his store of cloth, set off after them, and actually remained a month among the Magwangwara, bargaining for the freedom of the prisoners. Some of the poor creatures were already dead, some had escaped, or had passed to other owners, but Mr. Porter succeeded in ransoming the rest. He must have gone with his life in his hand, since the Magwangwara believed the heart of a white man to be an invaluable charm, and had announced their intention of securing one when starting on their raid. But the quiet tact of the Englishman conquered the savages, and Mr. Porter returned in safety with his ransomed people, bearing the blunted spear of the Magwangwara in token of peace.
Such is the story of the first destruction of Masasi twenty-three years ago. Of the two Englishmen who stood so stoutly by their people through those anxious days, one sleeps in his grave by Lake Nyasa, drowned in the waters of which he wrote with such enthusiastic love. The other, Mr. Porter, was one of the little group of fugitives, who, on a Sunday night in August, 1905, turned their backs, with sore hearts, upon the district, for the agitation was against white men only, and, without them, the natives would be safe from attack.
CRÉBILLON AND THE RAT.
Claude De Crébillon, son of the well-known French poet of that name, and himself a man of letters of some merit, had been sent to the prison of St. Vincent on account of his writings. The first night he spent there he had scarcely fallen asleep when he was roused by feeling something warm and rough in his bed. He took the thing for a kitten, drove it away, and went on sleeping. In the morning he was sorry to have frightened the poor animal, for he was fond of cats, and in the solitude any companion would have been agreeable. He sought in all corners, but could not find anything alive. At noon, he was just beginning to eat his frugal meal, when he perceived an animal sitting on his hind legs and looking steadfastly at him; he thought at first that it was a very small monkey, and rose to have a nearer view of it, for the room was none of the lightest. He held a bit of meat in his hand, and the creature came to meet him; but what was his surprise when he saw that he had to deal with a remarkably large and well-fed rat! Now, rats were detested by him; he could not even bear the sight of them. He would almost have preferred to see a rattlesnake in his room, and he uttered a cry of horror on making the discovery.
The visitor disappeared immediately, but in his place came the jailor, who had been attracted by the exclamation. He laughed at the prisoner, and told him that his predecessor in the cell had tamed the rat when it was young, and that the two fellow-lodgers had become so intimate as to eat continually together. 'I was so interested,' he continued, 'that when the man obtained his liberty, I tried to win the affections of the animal, and you shall see how far I have succeeded.' With these words he seized something on the table and called out, 'Raton! Raton! Come here, my little friend.' Immediately Raton's head was protruded, and as soon as he saw his well-known benefactor, he did not hesitate for a moment to jump upon his hand and to eat what had been offered to him. From this moment Raton was restored to all his former rights and privileges; and Crébillon related afterwards to his friends, that he had tried to obtain the creature from the jailor, and that the latter's refusal had actually cost him tears at his release from prison.
THE SOLDIER OF ANTIGONUS.
A soldier of Antigonus was once ill with a terrible disease, the pain of which robbed him of all joy in life. He had ever been foremost in the fray and the bravest of the brave, for he strove by reckless daring to dull his pain, thinking that he had nothing to fear and nothing to lose.
Antigonus admired this ardour shown in his service, and at last sent for a doctor, whose skill found means to cure the man. But as soon as he was healed, the warrior lived at his ease, and no longer took the lead in the battle, for he desired to live, he said, now that life was no longer a burden, but a joy.
The noblest work is often done by the weakest hands—by those whose courage is redoubled by pain and misfortune.
MY GARDEN.
HAVE a little Garden
Where many flowers are seen;
Bright lilies bend beside the walks
And daisies in the green.
There pansies grow and tulips,
And many a lovely flower;
They blossom in my Garden,
And give me joy each hour.
I have another Garden
That I must tend with care,
And fill with lovely growing things,
Lest weeds should gather there.
May sweetness, kindness, mercy,
And joy be in each part;
To grace this other Garden,
The Garden of my heart.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
X.—THE MARIMBAS OF ZULULAND, GUATEMALA, AND COSTA RICA.
HE Zulus, or more correctly the Amazulus, take the front rank amongst the native tribes of the African continent. Their code of laws, military arrangements, and orderly settlements resemble those of civilised nations at many points.
Their dances are a national feature, and a great company of young warriors performing a solemn war dance is a most impressive sight. One of their chief instruments is the 'Marimba' or 'Tyanbilo,' a form of harmonium. The keys are bars of wood called Intyari, of graduated size. These are suspended by strings from a light wooden frame, either resting on the ground, or hung round the neck of the player. Between every two keys is a wooden bar crossing the centre bar to which the keys are attached. On each key two shells of the fruit known as the Strychnos McKenzie, or Kaffir Orange, are placed as resonators, one large and one small. The use of resonators is to increase and deepen the sound. The Marimba is played with drum-sticks of rubber, and the tone is good and powerful.
Zulu Marimba.
Another form of Marimba is popular amongst the natives of Guatemala, in Central America. Its construction is much that of a rough table, the top being formed of twenty-eight wooden bars or keys, from each of which hangs a hollow piece of wood, varying in size; these take the place of the resonating shells of the Zulu Marimba. The instrument is usually about six and a half feet long, by two and a half wide, and the keys are struck by hammers topped with rubber. Three performers often play together with great skill. This form of Marimba is also met with amongst the natives of Costa Rica.
African instruments are as a rule very noisy, their chief use being to alarm the enemy in war-times. An amusing story is told of Sir Samuel Baker, the explorer. When quartered for a time near the native town of Masinda, where dwelt the King of the Unyori, he was startled one evening, when the air was perfectly still, by the deep tone of a Nogara or native drum. This, ceasing as suddenly as it had begun, was followed by a terrific burst of sound, thousands of human voices yelling like maniacs and endless horns playing their loudest, besides the clashing of everything that could be persuaded to make a noise. Calling for his dragoman, or guide, Sir Samuel inquired what all this meant, and was gravely informed that it was all for his benefit, that he might be thoroughly frightened and quit the neighbourhood. The leader forthwith sent an order to the bandmaster of his regiment to assemble his men and make them play their very loudest, after which the clamour from the town speedily came to an end.
Guatemalan Marimba.
A tribe called the Niam Niam make a drum like a wooden horse, which is beaten on all sides at once, and certainly fulfils the condition of noise. Many tribes use a rattle, or 'Sanje,' which has the merit of simplicity, being merely a gourd filled with pebbles. The negroes of the Soudan play cymbals made of two thin plates of iron, after the plan of saucepan-lids, with handles of leather, whilst the Ashantees have a love for the clanging of brass pots, either banged together or struck with sticks; and some of the Congo tribes use a rude kind of bagpipes.
It must be remembered that the natives have not only human beings and wild beasts to scare, but believe in and dread a vast army of evil spirits, who they think must be kept at a distance and prevented by terrifying noises from exercising their powers.
CURIOUS GRANARIES.
HEN the English farmer has cut his ripe corn, he gathers in the sheaves, and piles them up into neat corn-stacks. After a time he sends for a thrashing machine, with the help of which he is able quickly to separate the corn from the straw. The grain is placed in sacks, and these are put away in a dry barn, until the farmer can sell them to some miller or maltster, who will take the grain away, and make it into flour, horse-corn, or malt. The farmer must take care, however, that his corn does not get wet, for if it does it will turn mouldly and spoil; and he must also see that the rats and mice do not reach it, for if they do he is sure to lose some of his precious harvest.
If the English farmer, who has strong-walled and well-roofed barns, must take watchful care of his corn, the poor savage, who knows no better dwelling than a wooden or mud hut, can scarcely take sufficient care to save his little harvest from destruction almost as soon as it is reaped. He has far more enemies than the English farmer. In a wild, tropical country, rats, mice, and similar grain-eating animals are much more numerous, ants and weevils are terribly destructive, and enemies of the human kind frequently plunder the grain-stores. The tropical rain is heavy and often almost incessant, and the warm nights help on the growth of mildew, when once it has begun. In the tropical parts of Africa it is almost impossible to keep the grain from the harvest for more than a few months, and the natives save nothing from harvest to harvest, but eat it all up, rather than let it be consumed by the ants or spoiled by the rains. And thus, when the harvest fails, they are quickly reduced to starvation.
A Clay Grain Storehouse.
It is interesting to see what clever attempts many savages make to save their little stores of corn from their enemies. The Kaffirs dig deep holes in their cattle enclosures, and plaster them very carefully with clay, which sets hard, and forms a good protection against insects. They leave an opening level with the ground, and when they have filled the hole with corn, this opening is covered over, and plastered up like the sides, and thus the grain is secured, as if it were in a sealed jar.
Grain Huts.
Some tribes of North American Indians used to store their corn, and even their dried meat and pemmican, in similar underground holes, which the French backwoodsmen called caches. The holes were shaped liked a jug six or seven feet deep with a narrow mouth at the top, and this mouth was sealed up when the cache was filled. The corn and meat were packed round the side with prairie-grass, and, when the cache was properly sealed, they were quite safe from the effects of the weather.
It is a very common practice in hot countries to raise the corn-stores high above the ground, out of the way of mice and, to some extent, insects. In many parts of Africa the corn of the harvests is placed in closed baskets or wicker-work frames, and hung from the branches of trees. In some of the hilly districts of India we may see little grain-huts, the shape of bee-hives, which are raised upon posts. The natives of the Madi country, near the head of the Albert Nyanza, in Central Africa, make similar granaries of plastered wicker-work, which are supported upon four posts and have a thatched roof. The same people have also another kind of wicker-work granary, which looks like a huge cigar stuck point-downwards upon the top of a post four feet high. In reality the post is about twenty feet long, and extends through the whole length of the cigar-shaped body. About four feet from the ground a number of long reeds are bound upon the pole, so that they stand out somewhat like the spokes of a wheel. The ends of these reeds are bent upwards towards the pole, as if they were the ribs of a half-closed umbrella turned upside down, and wicker-work is woven in and out of them so as to form a basket. This is filled with corn, and by means of other reeds and wands the basket is extended upwards to within a few feet of the top of the post. When the whole of the basket thus formed is loaded with grain, a little roof or cap of reeds is made round the top of the pole, like the cover of an open umbrella held upright, and this roof is brought down until it meets the basket below, to which it is joined. In this manner the grain is enclosed in a cigar-shaped basket, which is raised a few feet from the ground.
The Nubians make little cylindrical grain-vessels of clay, which they seal up, and place upon the top of tall stones. Many of the tribes of Southern Africa build up clay store-vessels of various shapes, which they raise from the ground by means of posts. One tribe, the Golos, fashions its clay grain-holder in the shape of a drinking-cup. This is poised upon a central post, and kept in its place by means of wooden props. A pointed roof, which may be lifted off like a lid, is placed over it, in order to keep out the rain or any intruder from above.
THE SUGAR MAPLE.
The Sugar Maple belongs to the same family of trees as our common maple and sycamore. It grows in Canada and the northern parts of the United States. Most of the maples contain a large amount of juice, which flows freely when the stem of the tree is cut. In the Sugar Maple this juice is very abundant, and so sweet that the Indians and settlers obtain large quantities of sugar from it.
In the month of March, when the sap begins to ascend in the tree, the sugar-makers build temporary sheds in or near the woods. They first tap the trees by boring a hole, from one to two inches deep, into the stem of each maple. A short tube is inserted into the hole, and the sap of the tree flows through it, and is caught in a pail or trough placed at the foot of the tree. The amount of sap which each tree yields varies considerably, but the average is from two to three gallons each day. It is said that some trees have yielded the enormous amount of twenty gallons in one day, while sometimes, on the other hand, the quantity is not more than a pint. The trees, which grow in small clumps, and thus obtain more light and air, are more profitable as sugar-producers than those which grow in forests. The maple-sap continues to flow from the tree for about six weeks.
From time to time the Indians, or settlers, collect the contents of the various vessels placed against the trees, and empty the juice into large kettles, which hold from fifteen to twenty gallons each. One man can usually attend to two or three hundred trees in this way, if they are not too far apart. The juice in the kettles is boiled over fires until the sugar begins to form into solid crystals. Sometimes milk, or white of eggs, is added to the juice, in order to separate the impurities, which rise to the surface, and are skimmed off with a ladle. The whole operation is very simple and rough, when compared with the great care which is given to the manufacture of sugar from the sugar-cane; the sugar obtained from the maple, though not so pure, is the same in kind as cane-sugar. The juice from the maple must be boiled within about twenty-four hours after it has flowed from the tree. If kept longer than this it begins to ferment, and quickly spoils. A good maple will yield sufficient sap to make about four pounds of sugar every year.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [287].)
The colour was coming again into Estelle's white face, and presently there was a flutter of the eyelids. Then she opened her eyes, and gave a bewildered glance at the friends collected round her. She closed them for a moment, as if weary, but only to open them again and smile as she looked up at the anxious faces.
'Come, this is disgraceful,' said the doctor; 'I did not expect to have you on my hands again so soon.'
Estelle smiled; then, recollection returning, she glanced round with terror in her eyes.
'Jack! Oh, where's Jack?'
He came and knelt at her side, and took her hand protectingly in his own strong fingers.
'I'm here, Missy,' he said, in a voice that brought to her a sense of security and peace. 'You are all right now, and quite safe.'
'You see, Jack,' continued the little girl, in a pleading tone, 'I did have something to be afraid of when you were away. You won't be angry if I can't bear you to go away again, will you?'
'What had you to be afraid of?' asked the doctor, his keen eyes watching her changing face.
'I did not know then,' replied Estelle, putting her free hand on her chest; 'but I felt here that there was something I could not understand, and I did not want Jack to go.'
'What sort of a feeling?' asked the doctor again.
'That something would happen. And you see I was right. Something did happen, and it was only Jack who could have saved me from Thomas.'
'Thomas?' repeated the doctor, in the same quiet tone, while Jack and his mother only kept silent and motionless with difficulty. Their excitement was great, for they were on the verge of discovering who their little foundling was, and sadness had at least as large a share of their hearts as joy. Did it not mean that they would lose her sunny presence with them?
'Yes,' Estelle was saying, as she gazed up in surprise at her questioner, 'Thomas, Aunt Betty's under-gardener. He tried to—— '
Like a flash the truth had broken upon her. She remembered!
With eyes wide open, she stared in awe and amazement at the earnest faces around her. Mrs. Wright's eyes were brimming over. Julien's were full of sorrow and trouble. For him, it meant losing her altogether. Jack only held his little girl's hand more closely, giving no other sign.
'So it has come at last, Missy,' he said, softly.
'Oh, Jack!' cried Estelle, her face flushing and paling in alarming alternations, 'I know now! I am Estelle de Bohun, and I live with my great-aunt, Lady Coke, at the Moat House, because my father, Lord Lynwood is abroad. Oh, Jack! Oh, Goody!'
And she burst into tears.
Long did Jack and his mother sit up that night, discussing with their good friend the doctor what it was their duty to do. Julien had gone home, and was keeping his father and mother up later than usual, while he related to them the events of the evening. M. le Préfet, as head of the police in Tout-Petit, ordered that a search should be begun at once for Lady Coke's late gardener. It was not merely for the sake of punishing him as he deserved, but that some information might be gathered from him which could help to restore the little lady to her family. Julien and his father grew quite excited at the prospect of the search, in which the boy wished earnestly to share. It was all he could do to help the little girl to whom he had grown so strangely attached. Perhaps, in the bottom of his heart, he hoped he might lay claim to some gratitude for such service as it was in his power to give in the search, and that he might yet see his little friend again in consequence. He had never before desired to go to England; it had always been 'perfidious Albion' to him till he met Estelle, but now his views had changed. He longed to see her in her own home, to feel that when she left France it would not mean final separation. He reflected on the chance of his desires being granted somewhat sadly as he mounted the stairs to go to bed; the prospect seemed too remote.
Jack's visit to the house of Fargis, to make inquiries about Thomas, was the result of the consultation he had had with the doctor. Estelle's memory seemed to have returned, and she had been able to answer all the questions put to her, except those regarding the locality of the Moat House. She had driven into Matherton with Lady Coke only once or twice, and as it had become the custom in the family to call it 'the town,' Estelle was not sufficiently familiar with the neighbourhood to have remembered the name. Jack knew the coast, however, and believed he could find out all about the families living in that part. Should he go alone first, and return for the child when he had full information? But Estelle's horror of being left without the security of his presence made the doctor forbid that course. Should he appeal to the British Consul at Nantes?
'Why don't you ask Thomas?' put in Estelle, who had just come into the room as they were talking. 'He knows, for he has been all his life at the Moat House. His mother has a cottage on the property.'
'Listen,' said the doctor, at last; 'the child is not strong, as this fainting fit has proved to us. The expense of a long journey is more than we can meet all at once. So wait a little. By the middle of the month, or a little later, these winds will have blown themselves out. Then you can charter Fargis' smack, and cruise round the coast till you find where this Moat House is. It will be far less costly a way of setting to work than going to England by the regular route, with inns and trains into the bargain when you get there, and no certainty as to where to go.'
If Thomas could not be found, this was certainly the best course to pursue. Nevertheless, Jack did his best to trace the ex-gardener, aided by M. le Préfet and his police. Julien would have been one of the keenest of the searchers, but he was wanted at the Hospice de la Providence. Both Mrs. Wright and Jack thought it was good for Estelle to have a companion in her wanderings on the sea-shore. Their minds were more at rest while Julien was with her, for he was a lad of coolness and resource, and he was alive to the risk of Thomas turning up when least expected.
Julien was only too delighted at the trust placed in him, and meant to fulfil it like a man. Mrs. Wright and Jack—and most of all, Estelle—should see that their confidence in him was not misplaced. He thought long and earnestly over what he should do if Thomas did show himself suddenly on one of their walks. Could he defend Estelle? What was his strength compared to that of the ex-gardener? Still, if he was not caught in a cave, he thought defence was just possible. He decided, however, it was safer not to wander too far from the Hospice de la Providence.
One evening, about a week after the fête, Jack announced that he was going out trawling that night. It was no longer possible to put off his work. Mrs. Wright and Estelle looked up at him with eves full of fear; but, remembering the scene that had taken place when last he had gone, neither of them said a word. Estelle drooped her head, and tears would come in spite of her efforts to keep them back. Her heart sank when Jack appeared in his oilskins, and it was with quivering lips and flushed face that she said good-bye. He smiled encouragingly while he gave his mother directions about securing the outer door as soon as he was gone.
'I have made everything fast inside,' he said, 'and I do not think you need have any fears. I shall be back as early as possible. Now, good-bye, and keep together. Go to sleep, Missy, and be down on the beach when the boats come in.'
'I will go with Julien up to the cliff,' said Estelle, holding Jack's hand very tight in her efforts to keep down her terror at his going. 'All the women will be there to watch for the boats, and I will wave my handkerchief for you.'
'No,' replied Jack, decidedly, 'I won't have you go so far from Mother in my absence. It will be better for you both to remain here. Julien will come and keep you company all day; but I don't expect to be away as long as that.'
Mrs. Wright followed him to the outer door, fastened it securely, and returning, locked and barricaded the inner one. She did not fear attack, but she knew it would give Estelle a greater feeling of safety. Though her eyes wandered now and again round the vast kitchen, Estelle bore up bravely. There certainly appeared to be more dark corners than even Mrs. Wright had ever noticed before. 'But,' murmured the cheery old woman, determined not to be fanciful, 'what did the corners matter, however dark they might be, if they were empty?'
(Continued on page [298].)
"'Good-bye, and keep together!'"
"She waited in breathless silence, a pistol ready in her hand."
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [295].)
Jack was gone. Suddenly Mrs. Wright's heart misgave her. The bookcase! Had Jack thought of that? Her eyes rested upon it for a second, fascinated. She dare not let them linger there for fear Estelle should perceive her doubts. She felt restless, uneasy. She wished she had not reminded Jack about it, and yet she did not now venture to go and see if he had taken any precautions.
'What do you say, dearie, to our going to bed early to-night?' she asked, when the child's chatter about the Moat House and Begbie Hall came to a natural pause. 'It will be more comfortable in our own room, and you can talk to me just the same till you fall asleep.'
Estelle, who had been sitting with her head against Goody's knee, as being a safer place than anywhere else in that great, dark kitchen, sprang up with joy at the proposal. The bedroom was so much smaller and nicer, and had no ugly corners.
It did not take long to fold up Mrs. Wright's knitting, and put it into the huge bag in which it was kept for convenience, nor to chase the balls of wool and wind them up. Mrs. Wright, meantime, lighted the candles, her eyes on the bookcase.
Her heart suddenly stood still. The bookcase, which ran on large casters, covered the entrance to one of the long passages in the Hospice de la Providence. It was heavy and difficult to move, and yet—was it possible that it was moving? She paused, match in hand, and gazed with terrified eyes. The next moment the recollection of the necessity of keeping the child in ignorance of her danger made her brace up her nerves, and, throwing the match away calmly, she spoke in her usual tones.
'Are you ready now, dearie? Come along. You carry my knitting-bag, and I'll bring the candles and put the lamp out.'
Her movements were, perhaps, a trifle quicker than usual, and her voice might have had a little quiver in it, but Estelle was too much excited, and too anxious to get within the shelter of the bedroom, to notice anything amiss. She whirled up the bag, threw it over her shoulder, as she had seen the men do with their nets, and danced off. Following her quickly, Mrs. Wright shut and barricaded the door. More than that. With Estelle's assistance, she drew the chest of drawers across it. The window was too high for danger to threaten from that quarter. With a sigh of relief she sat down, after a glance into one of the drawers. Jack's pistols were there, safe enough, in case they should be wanted. She would load them as soon as the child was asleep. She left the two candles alight.
'Are you not going to bed, too?' asked Estelle, as she opened her sleepy eyes a few minutes later.
'Not just yet, dearie. It is early for me. But you get to sleep as fast as you can.'
She remained perfectly still, holding the little girl's hand. In the deep silence her hearing became acute, but for some time she could not detect the faintest movement. Hope had begun to spring up. Perhaps, after all, the bookcase had proved too heavy. Dared she venture to go to bed? Drawing her hand gently from Estelle's relaxed hold, she rose softly—then stopped. The dreaded sound! The door-handle was turned gently!
With noiseless step, Mrs. Wright went to the chest, of drawers, took out the pistols, and loaded them. If the man at the door had been listening, he might have heard the faint click as she cocked the triggers.
Silence profound reigned for some seconds, and the loud beating of her heart made her fear she had missed some sounds. Then came a slight grating, and the next instant there was a wrench, and the door sprang backwards. But for the two very long bolts, strengthened by the chest of drawers, it must have been broken open. The noise made the sleeping child stir, but happily did not wake her. It was evident that the intruder, finding the door locked, had had recourse to stronger measures, and would stop at nothing which would help him to get at the child. Mrs. Wright knew he was not likely to give up his attempt at the first failure. She waited in breathless silence, a pistol ready in her hand.
Again the effort to spring the door open was made, but the bolts held it fast. Another silence, and then came the sound of cuts being made in the woodwork, as if to take out the panel. But the wood was thick, and old age had hardened it. Any attempt to penetrate it would only mean loss of valuable time.
This second failure depressed Thomas exceedingly. He had had a very hard week. Only the hope of Jack's absence had kept him near the Hospice de la Providence. He had managed to get into the disused portion, where hiding had not been difficult among those gloomy passages and empty chambers. Getting food had not been a light business. It had necessitated a long walk every now and again, as soon as the friendly shadows of night permitted, to a neighbouring village, where he was unknown. He had been obliged to be very careful of his money, too, as he had only what had been paid to him by the circus people. It could not last long, and, what he grudged most of all, his candles and tools had to come out of it. It was essential to the success of his plans that he should discover a way into Jack's abode without attracting attention, and for this he required light.
So cautiously were his discoveries made that even Jack was ignorant of his presence so near him. Thomas could even hear what was said in the vast kitchen if the voices of the speakers were at all raised, and by this means he had learned of Jack's trawling expedition. Had he discovered the opening before, he might have acted differently. The discussion over the plans for finding Estelle's home would have made him aware that he would gain more by helping than by any attempts at kidnapping. He would have seen that it was wiser to make terms with Jack, rather than risk the loss of everything by grasping at too much.
But Thomas's mind was naturally slow. He had not heard the discussion, and the idea of sharing any reward which might be offered for Estelle with anybody else had not even occurred to him. With any prospect of success he would have scouted the idea; but, with no food, no money, and the child so carefully guarded, he had sense enough to perceive that Jack was better as his friend than as his enemy. Now, however, it was too late. Jack was out of the way, and capture the child he must. Once manage that, and he could dictate what terms he pleased.
He made up his mind that Jack could not know where Estelle's home was, for it was not likely that, since the little girl had not been able to tell him all this long time, she could tell him now. Her want of memory gave him time.
He had failed with the door. He must try some other way. Meantime, he would continue to live at the Hospice de la Providence, and pursue his nightly investigations of that rocky coast.
On his return the following morning, Jack was alarmed at what his mother had to tell him. She took care to speak when Estelle was not near, and they agreed to keep a stricter watch. Jack secured the bookcase against a second attempt to move it, and then went to M. le Préfet to see what he advised. The result was that Thomas was hunted from one place of concealment in the caves to another. No hiding in dark corners would have saved him, however, had he not remembered a certain broad ledge of open rock which he had discovered accidentally a few days before. On this he managed to scramble, and remained there, watching his pursuers with a great deal of bitterness and wrath.
(Continued on page [310].)
THE DUKE'S RUSE.
The eccentric Duke of Bridgewater, who owned extensive coal-mines near Manchester, and spent a large fortune in opening them out, and in constructing a canal to carry the coal to Manchester and Liverpool, took great pleasure in watching his men at work. He used to come every morning to the place where they were boring for coal, and stand looking on for hours at a time. He was often there when the bell rang at twelve o'clock, at which hour the men ceased work for their noonday meal and rest. But the men scarcely liked to give up work while the Duke was watching them, and they continued on until he went away. As it was not pleasant to have their dinner-hour deferred day after day in this way, the men tried to avoid working at the boring which the Duke was accustomed to visit, and the Duke's engineer, Brindley, had great difficulty in finding sufficient men for that particular work. Upon inquiry, he discovered the reason of it, and explained matters to the Duke, who took care after that to walk away before the bell rang at noon.
The Duke was a shrewd, observant man, and he did not fail to notice that his workmen ceased working the moment the bell began to strike at twelve o'clock, but they were not so prompt in resuming work at one o'clock. They came leisurely up one by one, some minutes after the clock had struck. When the Duke inquired the reason of this, the men excused themselves by saying that while they heard the clock well enough when it struck twelve, they did not always hear it when it struck only once. The Duke thereupon had the clock made to strike thirteen at one o'clock, so that the men could no longer plead this excuse for their dilatoriness. This clock was still in use not many years ago, and may be even yet striking its thirteen strokes at one o'clock.
LOOKING UP AND LOOKING DOWN.
HE little flower set in the grass,
Where it doth lowly lie,
As one by one the bright hours pass,
Looks upward to the sky.
So must a child's thoughts upward soar,
So must my soul take wings,
And to grow wiser than before
Reach up to lofty things.
The little stars set in the sky,
As night by night they show,
Though shining in their home on high,
Look down to earth below.
So I must stoop to lowly things,
To gentle deeds of love;
E'en though my thoughts soar upon wings,
And climb to Heaven above.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
X.—NURSERY CUSTOMS IN THE FISH-WORLD.
In our last article we drew a contrast between those creatures which thrust their young upon the world at the earliest possible moment, taking care only to lay their eggs in a favourable spot, and leaving them to hatch or be eaten as the case may be, and those which display the most tender care for their offspring at least until they are able to fight for themselves. In the first case, thousands of young have to be brought into the world at one time because of the enormous death-rate which this helplessness brings about; in the second, comparatively few, sometimes only one or two, young ones make up the family.
I propose now to tell you more of this fascinating question; to show you some perfectly amazing instances of the care and love for their young which some of these little mothers and fathers display, and these instances shall be taken from what we call the 'cold-blooded' fishes.
Let us begin with one of the commonest and best-known of our fishes, the stickleback of our ponds and ditches. The male stickleback, as many of you may know, builds a wonderful nest (see fig. 1), in which, when finished, he invites his chosen mate to lay her eggs. As soon as these precious treasures have been entrusted to his care, he makes himself their sole guardian, forcing currents of fresh water through the nest by the violent fanning motion of his breast-fins, and driving away all that come near. Strangely enough, he has to exercise the greatest care to keep out his mate, who would eat every single egg if she could but get the chance! Every now and then he holds an inspection, shakes up the material of the nest, drags out the eggs, and pushes them back into their places again just to make sure that they are safe, and to keep them bathed in clear water. But soon the little fish appear, and then his labours are increased a hundredfold. If they rise more than a certain height above the bottom of the stream, or stray beyond what he regards as a safe limit from the nest, they are immediately seized in his mouth, brought back, and gently puffed or jetted into the nest again. Day and night his watch is kept, till at last they grow too big to be controlled, and are allowed to stray whither they will.
Fig. 1 Three Spined Stickleback
Fig 2 Butter fish
Another of our native fishes, found in the Thames among other places, builds a nest for its young. This is the 'spotted goby' or 'pole-wing.' Here an old shell is made to do duty for a nursery. The shell is turned over so that its hollowed portion forms a roof; the mud from below is scooped away and a tunnel is then made leading away from the chamber so formed. When all is complete, the mother enters and deposits her eggs, and leaves her mate to mount guard over the nest till the young are hatched and make their way out.
In the 'butter-fishes' or 'gunnels' which are found round our coasts, the eggs are rolled into a ball, and jealously nursed by the parents, each in turn coiling its body round the mass, and so protecting it from injury (see fig. 2).
Many of those crafty 'hooligans' of the sea, the skates, are most affectionate as parents. One of the giants of the tribe, the great 'devil-fish,' will defend its young with great ferocity. Its capture is at all times attended with danger, but is especially perilous when it is accompanying its offspring; at such times it has been known to attack and upset a boat!
Fig 3 The Aspredo Cat fish
Fig 4 Paradise fish
In one of the 'cat-fishes'—the Aspredo (fig. 3)—the mother carries the eggs about with her, and this is managed in a very remarkable way. Just at the time she lays her eggs, the skin of the under surface of her body becomes swollen and spongy, and into this she presses her eggs by lying on them. Here, snugly sheltered, they remain till hatched! The curious 'sea-horse' has adopted a yet stranger contrivance, the fins and certain special folds of the skin of the under sides of the body forming a pouch, into which the eggs are placed, remaining till hatched. As soon as this takes place the pouch becomes the nursery of the young ones. But, strange though it may seem, this pouch is developed by the father of the family, who does all the nursing!
Some of the cat-fishes—the Arius, for example—carry the eggs in their capacious throats till they hatch! How the fish manages to prevent the escape of his precious burden through his gills, or to prevent himself from swallowing them, is something of a mystery.
Finally we come, I think, to the oddest of all these devices to ensure the safety and well-being of the young. Thus, certain fishes related to the wonderful Anabas—the perch that climbs trees!—make nests of bubbles, in which the eggs are placed! The Gorami and the beautiful little 'paradise-fish' (fig. 4), for example, built floating nurseries of this kind, the bubble-raft being made by the male. In the case of the paradise-fish these bubbles are blown so that the enclosed eggs are raised above the level of the water, where they remain till hatched! This raft, although it has been seen many times by travellers, is so frail that it cannot be preserved, and has never yet been drawn by an artist, so that we can only show the fish that makes it.
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
"Fast asleep!"
THE POLICEMAN'S JOKE.
It was a bitterly cold night, but Jones, the watchman at the hole which was being dug in the street at Armstrong Square, knew how to take care of himself. 'I do not mean to freeze if I can help it!' he remarked to his friend, the policeman, who was going round the square on his beat.
'Don't make yourself too comfortable, that's all,' said the policeman, in a warning voice, as he saw Jones settle himself snugly in his rough shelter with a big coke fire in front of him and a thick sack over his knees. 'Maybe, if you fall asleep, you will wake up to find that some rascal has made off with all the spades and pickaxes, and then your job will be some one else's.'
'No fear!' said Jones, putting some fresh lumps of coal on to the tripod fire. 'If I should drop off (and I shan't!), I am a very light sleeper; the least step wakes me, and then my dog will let no one come near the place. Oh, I am all right, and as warm as toast!
'That's more than I can say!' said the policeman, for he had no warm shed to protect him from the keen east wind. 'Well, good-night—and good-night, Jack,' he added, stooping to pat the dog, who was Jones's close friend and companion.
'Ah, he knows you!' remarked Jones, as the dog rubbed his head against the policeman's legs; 'but he can be a bit nasty to strangers, Jack can.'
'I dare say he can,' was the policeman's answer as he went off, and disappeared into the darkness.
In an hour's time he was round again, and stood awhile at the corner of the square. The tripod fire was burning as fiercely as ever, and gave light enough to show Jones—fast asleep! Jack, however, was awake, and stood there, with bristling hair, ready to guard his master.
'Good old Jack!' said the policeman, as he patted the dog's head, and Jack yawned, stretched his legs, and lay down again.
'And he calls himself a light sleeper!' said the policeman, looking at the snoring Jones, who leant back with his arms folded, and his eyes shut.
'It would be a bit of a joke to make off with his lantern and ropes,' said the policeman to himself; 'it might teach him not to be so bumptious about his light sleeping.'
The idea was irresistible, for the policeman was young, and loved a joke. 'I'll do it!' he said at last, and, as he spoke, he went towards Jones's shelter. Jack—faithful Jack—looked up suspiciously, but the policeman said, briskly, 'It's all right, Jack; your master knows me'—and Jack lay down again, feeling perhaps that a policeman could do no harm.
The next time the policeman passed the square he roused the still-sleeping Jones. 'Wake up, Jones,' he said; 'the men will be here directly, and they must not find you sleeping.'
'I only just closed my eyes,' said Jones, drowsily. He sat up, however, and the next minute exclaimed loudly: 'Hallo! who has been here? Thieves! my lantern is gone and the coil of new rope! I'm ruined, I tell you! I shall never get another night job!'
'Gone?' said the policeman, feigning astonishment. 'Surely not. You are too light a sleeper for any one to take your things without you knowing it, you know.'
'I'm ruined!' repeated the wretched Jones.
'Here, I will have a look with my bull's-eye,' said the policeman, thinking the joke had gone far enough. 'Why, here's the lantern—oh! and the rope, too—hid under these planks,' he called out, after a minute's search.
'Found?' said Jones, joyfully. 'I am glad! I will never sleep at my post again! Don't you let out a word of this, constable,' he said anxiously.
'Not I,' said the policeman, firmly; and he kept his word, for he did not wish his joke to get to the inspector's ears.
A TURKEY'S COSTLY DIET.
At a dinner given by a wealthy Washington lady, it is said, a turkey, fattened on pearls valued at over two hundred guineas, was served. Some little time before, the hostess lost a valuable brooch and a pair of earrings set with pearls. After a long search, the missing articles were found in the garden, but the pearls had been plucked out. She was convinced that a pet turkey was the culprit, and the bird was killed, but no trace of the gems was found. A chemist, who made an examination, declared that the pearls had been dissolved almost immediately after they had been swallowed. To commemorate the loss a dinner was arranged, and each guest received a photograph of the famous turkey.
THE STORY OF ROCK-SALT.
Salt under ground! It seems a strange thing, at first, to find salt amongst the rocks, deep down in the earth. What does rock-salt tell us? It reveals to us a place where once a sea existed; the water has since flowed away, leaving some salt behind. We know that ordinary salt exposed to the air soon gets damp, and then becomes quite fluid, but rock-salt away from air and sun keeps firm for ages. Rock-salt is found in various layers of the earth's crust. Some of the spaces of underground water are called 'seas,' but in fact, large as they were, they often did not resemble the 'seas' we have now, because they were much shallower. A few were fairly deep, however. Then, again, these ancient seas were sometimes so salt that no animal could live in them, and only a few plants. Such seas, in fact, were mostly 'dead,' and this accounts for the masses of salt deposited along their bottoms. But we find also signs of rough water in the numerous pebbles of the layer where the salt is found amongst hard red gravel and brown quartz.
Germany once had a tolerably deep sea, not very salt, and the bottom surface of it shows coral reefs. There are signs in it of great fishes armed with strong teeth, enabling them to crush the shell-fish upon which they fed. These swarmed below the sea in thousands. North England and the Midlands have the Kemper beds, where the 'seas' were always shallow, and where we can trace the marks of rain-drop filterings and sun-cracks. The rock-salt is often in a layer one hundred feet thick. It is supposed that one part of these seas was separated from another part by a bar of sand, over which the waves toppled only now and then. In the cut-off sea, evaporation went on through the ages, and of course a deposit of salt was formed, while the occasional overflow from outside replaced the water which had evaporated. But really this is not known for certain. It is only clear rock-salt contains the minerals we find in our present sea-water, bromine, iodine, and magnesia.
Generally, this salt is not mixed with fragments of a different substance, but is in columns of rough crystals. Now and then there is found a layer of rock-salt, with one of marl and shells under it, succeeded by rock-salt again, showing that for a time a change had taken place.
Rock-salt sometimes melts a little under the earth, and if that happens, the rocks above it sink, and in that way hollows have been formed.
Upon the land near these shallow salt seas lived some singular animals, unlike those of our earth in the later centuries of its history. There were remarkable reptiles belonging to the frog or Batrachian family. One of the species was the size of a small ox, with peculiar complicated teeth, and feet which left prints on the earth so exactly like the impressions of the human hand, that geologists gave it a Latin name meaning 'the beast with the hand.' Another strange creature was a sort of lizard, with a horny bill, and feet resembling those of the duck; it had somewhat the appearance of a turtle, it is supposed. Then there were some warm-blooded animals about the size of a rat, which had pouches in their cheeks, and preyed upon small insects.
PING-KWE'S DOWNFALL.
It was Ping-Kwe's fondness for a river excursion, combined with the fact of his possessing a very hasty temper, which led to his downfall. It happened in this wise.
One day it chanced that he was in a particularly bad frame of mind; he quarrelled with his wife, he heat his two little yellow-faced bairns, and after doing all that was possible to promote discord in his household, he started off on one of his favourite river trips, instead of going back to his work.
The cool, sweet evening air might perhaps have done something towards chasing Ping-Kwe's evil humour away, but alas! under the canopy of the boat, within which he seated himself, he saw two English ladies, the wife and sister of the British Consul in the district. Now Ping-Kwe hated the English like poison and he thereupon began a tirade against all foreigners, making use of as many English words as he could, for the benefit of the two ladies.
Fortunately, his knowledge of the English language was limited, or Mrs. Armstrong and Miss Heathcote might have been more alarmed than they already were at his storm of abuse.
'What do we want with them here?' he snarled in his native tongue, 'turning the place upside down? If I had my will I would throw them all overboard.'
'Calm yourself, Ping,' said one of his fellow-townsmen, Chang by name, who was sitting near. 'Take my advice and throw something-else overboard.'
Here he laid a restraining hand on the ill-tempered Chinaman's shoulder.
'What do you mean?' was the retort.
'Your bad temper; it will be the ruin of you if you don't.'
Alas! this open rebuke only added fuel to the fire, and Ping-Kwe's fellow-passengers (who were bound for the town of Tsoung, across the water) at length grew thoroughly tired of his company.
'Who is that fellow?' whispered one of the occupants of the boat to another.
'Oh! it is Ping-Kwe,' was the reply, as though that answered everything.
'What! the manager of Kong-Yung's stores in the town yonder?'
'Yes.'
'How comes it that he is here, instead of attending to his work?' went on the questioner.
As there was no satisfactory answer to this query, the stranger, who was none other than Kong-Yung himself, said no more.
He had but lately come into his property, and so was not yet known to all his tenants; but in these few minutes he had learnt enough to know that Ping-Kwe was not the right sort of man to make a good manager.
Ping-Kwe, could he but have known it, would have given a year of his life rather than show himself thus in his worst colours before his wealthy employer. It was not the first time he had neglected his business, but now his sin had found him out.
Perhaps Kong-Yung might have passed over this offence with a caution, for he was not a hard man, but such a display of ill-temper was unpardonable, and so it came to pass that early on the following morning, Ping-Kwe received a curt dismissal from his post.
Nothing he could say or do had any power to alter his employer's decision, and, before a month had elapsed, the hapless man found himself utterly without the means of providing for his wife and family.
Strange to say, it was in his adversity that the best part of his nature came to the fore.
For his wife and children's sake he would have cheerfully starved himself; but alas! hunger and destitution stared them all in the face. Days passed on into weeks, and still the hapless Chinaman was workless.
Never would Ping-Kwe or his patient little wife forget the miseries of one terrible night. Overhead the stars were shining as though breathing hope to the forlorn family, who were now actually without a roof to cover them. The children were crying pitifully for food, and Ping-Kwe, in his despair, began to think that even death itself would be welcome. And the stinging part of it all was that he had brought his troubles upon himself, for Kong-Yung had told him frankly the reason of his dismissal.
It was when matters were at their lowest ebb, that the English ladies, hearing of Ping-Kwe's sad plight, came to his aid.
With their own hands they tended to the necessities of the destitute family, and it was owing to their intervention that Ping-Kwe found employment again under his former master. It was humble work, it is true, but Ping-Kwe was now a humble man.
With mingled shame and gratitude he accepted the kindly aid of the two ladies, and from that time forth never more was he heard to say a word against the English. Their influence by degrees wrought such a change in Ping-Kwe that his best friends would hardly have known him.
As to his diligence in business, there could be no doubt, and Kong-Yung never had reason to regret taking him into his service again. A few months later, he chanced to be once more in the same boat with his fellow-townsman, Chang.
'What has happened to that temper of yours, Ping-Kwe?' asked Ching, with a good-natured smile; 'I have not seen it lately.'
'No,' replied Ping-Kwe, 'I don't suppose you have. As a matter of fact I have taken the advice you gave me some time ago, and have thrown it overboard.'
"'Throw your bad temper overboard.'"
"'I say that he is a French spy!'"
THE TRIALS OF LECKINSKI.
ECKINSKI was a young Polish soldier, who was chosen for a very dangerous mission when he was only eighteen years of age.
At that time Murat held military rule at Madrid. He desired to send important dispatches to Junot, then at Lisbon; but this was a matter of great difficulty, for all the roads to Lisbon were in the possession of Castagnos and his army of Spanish revolutionists. The dreaded guerillas also infested the way.
Murat, in his perplexity, confided in Baron Strogonoff, the Russian Ambassador at Madrid. Russia at this time was not the direct ally of France, but distinctly the friend. Strogonoff—though it was a rash and illegal act—offered help. He proposed that a Polish lancer, dressed in the Russian uniform, should be sent with dispatches from his Court to Admiral Siniavin, then at the port of Lisbon, and that the messenger should at the same time convey verbal messages from Murat to Junot. It was improbable, said the Baron, that the insurgent army of Castagnos would interfere with a messenger of Russia, whose goodwill, to the extent of neutrality, at least, they were desirous to obtain. But this opinion, as we shall see, proved a mistaken one.
Murat was delighted with the plan, and Krasinski, the Polish commander, was immediately applied to for a suitable person. Leckinski volunteered for the task.
Murat, himself a brave man, thought it right to point out to Leckinski the perils of his mission.
The young Pole smiled. 'I owe your Imperial Highness a thousand thanks,' said he, 'for having so greatly honoured me as to entrust me with this duty. It shall be done to the best of my ability.'
Murat then gave him his secret instructions, and, dressed in the Russian uniform, and carrying the written dispatches for the Russian admiral, Leckinski started on his journey.
Just at first all went well, but on the third day Leckinski was surrounded and captured by a Spanish troop. His captors dragged him before their commanding officer, who chanced to be Castagnos himself. Leckinski saw that if he were recognised as an emissary of the French, his doom would be sealed. He therefore instantly determined to feign complete ignorance of the French language, and to speak only Russian or German, languages which he knew thoroughly.
In his determination he was strengthened by the terrible threats which he heard from the Spaniards around him. He recalled, too, the horrible fate of General René, who, a few weeks before, while executing a mission similar to his own, had been cruelly tortured to death. Brave though he was, Leckinski shrank from such a fate as that.
Castagnos, who had been educated at Sorrize, spoke French well. 'Who are you?' he asked in that language.
The prisoner made no answer, according to his plan. One of the staff then interrogated him in German, and his replies were made sometimes in German, sometimes in Russian. A word of French, or even a French accent, would have cost Leckinski his life.
An unfortunate incident increased the ferocity of the Spaniards. An aide-de-camp who felt assured that Leckinski was a French spy, rushed into the room, dragging with him a man attired in brown cloth, and wearing the peasant's high conical hat, adorned with a red feather. The officer, forcing his way through the crowd, placed this man face to face with Leckinski.
'Look!' he said; 'is this fellow a Russian or a German? I say that he is a French spy!'
The peasant gazed steadily at the young Pole. 'Yes!' he exclaimed, 'this is a Frenchman. A few weeks ago I was at Madrid with some cut straw which had been demanded from our village; and it was this man who received my portion of forage, and gave me the receipt.'
This identification was correct. Castagnos indeed may have thought so; but there was a possibility that the peasant was mistaken, and the Spanish commander was more generous and humane than his followers. He saw that the youth was not a Russian, but he was by no means sure that he was a Frenchman—as, in fact, he was not. Leckinski's handsome face and courageous behaviour told in his favour. Castagnos decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; but he had hard work to restrain his savage followers. A hundred threatening voices arose as the General announced his decision, and the word 'traitor' was even applied to himself.
'You desire, then,' said Castagnos, 'to risk a quarrel with Russia?'
'No,' answered his officers; 'but let us at least prove the fellow.'
'So be it.'
Leckinski knew enough Spanish to understand this brief conversation, which put him more than ever on his guard. Out of the chamber he was led, and thrown into a dungeon. When its door closed upon him he had been eighteen hours without food. Nearly fainting, he fell on the wretched bed which occupied a corner of the room. Here he had ample leisure to contemplate his terrible position. At length, however, being young and healthy, he fell into a sound sleep.
(Concluded on page [319].)
THE LADYBIRD AND THE CATERPILLAR.
One bright morning in the spring-time, a green caterpillar, on the bough of a tree, was gazing at a ladybird and seemed bent upon making her acquaintance. However, the ladybird disdained the insect, and flew away among the flowers. Some time after, in the summer, the ladybird was earnestly admiring a beautiful butterfly which was fluttering about near her. She even approached the pretty creature and began a conversation, when the butterfly exclaimed, 'No, no, madam! I do not value compliments from turncoats. You were ashamed of my appearance when I was only a caterpillar; but now that I have risen in the world, doubtless you would be very glad to make my acquaintance.' The butterfly then spread out its light wings and flew away, leaving the ladybird to her own reflections.
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
X.—WILLIAM PITT: BORN 1759, DIED 1806.
N May 28th, 1759, there was born at the pretty little village of Hayes, in Middlesex, a puny babe, who in after years was to be one of the greatest statesmen of his time.
The year of his birth was one of many British successes, both by sea and land; it was the year of the victories of Minden, in Germany, and of Quebec, in America, and of triumphs both in India and Africa, so that Horace Walpole in a letter of that time says, 'One is forced to ask every morning what victory there is, for fear of missing one.'
Pitt was a most precocious child, and was fond of reading stiff books of history and poetry at an age when other children barely knew their letters. Even whilst in the nursery he would declare that 'when he was a man he would speak in the House like his father!'
Lord Chatham, his father (the elder Pitt, as he is often called), was proud of the intelligent little fellow, and took pains to fit him for a Parliamentary career by teaching him elocution, and making him recite every day a passage from Milton or Shakespeare. Lord Chatham seems to have taken more interest in the education of his five children than was usual among parents of his day. We are told by Bishop Tomline that 'he seldom suffered a day to pass without giving instruction of some sort to his children, and seldom without reading a chapter of the Bible with them.'
William was so delicate that he was never sent to school, and at one time it was feared he would not have been reared; but a doctor prescribed liberal doses of port wine, and this 'pleasant medicine,' we hear, pleased the child, and he drank a great deal of it daily. Though at the time it seemed to suit him, yet there is little doubt it planted the seeds of the disease which was to carry him off before middle age.
At fourteen, William's tutors said that he knew more than most lads at eighteen and was quite ready for College, so he was sent to Oxford, where he amazed his tutors by his wisdom and learning. At seventeen he left the University with the degree of M.A., which was, at that time, unwisely given to the sons of peers without any examination.
He then studied for the Bar, and attended the Western Circuit, and at the age of twenty-one he put his foot on the first rung of Parliamentary fame, by becoming Member for Appleby. His success was almost instantaneous, and after his third speech, one of the Opposition remarked to Mr. Fox, who was Pitt's life-long rival, 'Mr. Pitt promises to be one of the first men in Parliament,' to which remark Fox answered generously, 'He is so already, sir!'
Pitt's voice was singularly clear and deep-toned, and he had been well trained as to the use to make of it, but his personal actions were too vehement, and one wag remarked, 'Mr. Fox, in speaking, saws the air with his hands, but Mr. Pitt saws with his whole body.'
At twenty-three Pitt became Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the following year the young man became Prime Minister, the youngest Prime Minister who has ever sat in the House of Commons.
His administration was at first highly successful, but his genius was better fitted for peaceable and domestic government, than for the warlike policy which circumstances thrust upon him.
When in 1792 the French Revolution broke out and a war with France seemed inevitable, and when the power of Buonaparte became alarming to every government, Pitt succeeded in forming a coalition of Austria, Russia, and England, and felt perfectly confident of opposing a barrier to the ambition of 'the Corsican.'
But while the Russian troops were slowly coming up from Poland, Buonaparte swiftly assembled together a huge army, and defeated the Austrians at Ulm. The news of this defeat came to England in a roundabout way in a Dutch newspaper. Pitt received it on a Sunday, when all the public offices were closed. He knew no Dutch himself, and feverishly anxious to learn what had happened, he be-thought himself of Lord Malmesbury, who had been our Minister in Holland, and he took the paper to him to translate.
When Pitt was thus informed of the defeat of our ally, his grief was unbounded, and though a few days later he heard of the victory of Trafalgar, yet this was overshadowed later on by the French victory of Austerlitz, a disappointment which left Pitt a broken man.
His last public speech was at the Lord Mayor's banquet after the battle of Trafalgar, when the crowd, carried away with the victory, took the horses out of Pitt's carriage and drew him along in triumph to the Mansion House.
The Lord Mayor proposed Pitt's health and hailed him as the 'Saviour of Europe,' but Pitt in his answer made use of the following memorable words: 'I thank you for the honour you have done me; but England is not to be saved by a single man. England has saved herself by her exertions, and will, I trust, save Europe by her example.'
Pitt had now but a few more weeks to live. He died on January 23rd, 1806, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day when he first took his seat in Parliament, and his death was undoubtedly hastened by his distress at the state of affairs between France and England.
"The crowd drew him along in triumph."
He was awarded a public funeral, and on one of the monuments erected to his memory it is recorded that 'having for twenty years dispensed the favours of the Crown, yet he ever lived simply and died poor.'
A BRAVE LAD.
It was Saturday afternoon when the boys of Wedderburn School went off as usual to swim their boats on a beautiful lake, only a quarter of a mile away. Fred Langton had a new boat, a regular beauty, which his grandfather had sent to him as a birthday present, and it must be admitted that many admiring eyes were directed to this boat, for it was a larger and better-constructed one than any of the others, and each boy was of course, anxious that his own boat should win the race. But although all the boys admired Fred's boat, and wished that they could have had one as good, still they felt no grudge towards Fred himself, for he was a general favourite in the school, being kind-hearted, unselfish, always willing to lend anything that he had to his companions, and never known to tell tales, or to do a mean action of any kind.
'I tell you,' said Bill Cowan to his own particular chum, Joe Morris, 'that boat of Fred's will beat ours all hollow! I wish I had one as good!'
'Well, suppose it does win,' replied Joe Morris, 'I shall not grudge it to him, for Fred is no sneak; he is out-and-out the jolliest fellow in Wedderburn School.'
'So he is,' said Bill Cowan, 'and no mistake about it. Well, here we are at the lake, and now for some fun.'
On this particular Saturday, however, Fred was destined to distinguish himself in quite another way, and to win the applause not only of his companions, but of the people who were walking up and down the border of the lake, enjoying the sunshine and the refreshing breeze. The little boats were all in full sail, and the schoolboys were shouting with glee at the fun, when quite suddenly a fine fox-terrier took it into his head to pursue the boats and show that he could swim as well as they could. Poor dog! It was quite true that he could swim; but unfortunately he got entangled among weeds, and after floundering about for a little and barking piteously for help, he gradually sank till his body was quite out of sight, only his head and neck being visible to the schoolboys, who looked on in horror, not knowing how they could save the poor animal.
'Oh, I say, I can't stand this!' cried Fred Langton; 'he will be drowned. I must go in and fetch him out!'
'No, no!' cried Bill Cowan; 'the lake is quite deep just at that place.'
'Yes, I know it's deep,' added Joe Morris, 'and, besides, you can't swim, Fred; don't be silly. Who cares for a dog being drowned?'
'I do, for one,' cried Fred, and dashing into the water he waded out to where the poor dog was half-standing, half-lying, among the choking weeds. Yes, the water was deep; but stretching out his arms he contrived to catch hold of the poor animal, and he quickly waded back to shore amid ringing cheers from all the people who had now gathered on the bank to watch the plucky lad. And whose was the dog? Nobody knew; it seemed, indeed, to have no owner and no home. But Fred and his companions carried it back with them to the school, and, after having told their tale, they begged the head master to keep it for himself; and as Dr. Williams could not discover anything about the dog's ownership, he did keep it. So Fred's brave deed not only saved the animal's life, but procured a good home for it as well.
TRUE HAPPINESS.
OW small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which lords or kings can cause or cure;
Still to ourselves, in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find.
These lines were added by Dr. Johnson to Goldsmith's poem, the Traveller, with Goldsmith's consent, and the lesson in them is well worth remembering.
DREAM-TIME.
HE wind against the window blows;
The dustman comes along the street;
The lamps are lit, the darkness grows;
The dreams come in with noiseless feet.
Oh, haste to bed: the dreams await
The children, with their sweetest song.
Don't loiter; you may be too late,
The best of dreams are never long.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [299].)
CHAPTER XVII.
Jack grew uneasy about leaving his home unless he had Estelle with him. Yet he found he could not combine his duties as a fisherman with his care of her. What was to be done? Fargis was quite willing to lend his boat, knowing full well that he would be no loser by the bargain; and both the doctor and M. le Préfet came forward with generous offers of assistance. There seemed nothing to wait for, therefore, but the weather.
April, always an uncertain month, could not be counted on for many fine days, even so far south as Tout-Petit. The sky did not look promising, and the fishermen shook their heads as they glanced at the clouds, and spoke of 'squalls.' Jack and Fargis agreed, though unwillingly that it would be wiser to delay the journey across the Channel till the threatened storm had blown itself out. It would be foolish to run unnecessary risks with their precious charge.
Meantime, Jack's anxiety communicated itself to those about him. They all appeared to realise there was cause for alarm while Thomas was at large, and his place of concealment unknown. Jack made Estelle accompany him wherever he might go in the village, and Mrs. Wright amused all her friends by keeping the pistols always within reach if by any chance Estelle was with her, and Jack absent. Very proud and happy was Julien, too, on being constituted her companion whenever the sailor was forced to go from home. Strict orders were left that he was not to risk any walks out of reach of friends, and Julien showed a praiseworthy obedience to his instructions. He and Estelle were quite happy together on the beach, or running in and out of the Treasure Caves.
One day, in Jack's absence, the two children, weary of games on the sands, had run down to the shore as far as the tide would let them, to watch for the return of the boats. Estelle began telling Julien of her visit to the Mermaid's Cave, and of the wonderful echoes which the sailor's voice had called forth. It had started to rain slightly, and the light fitful wind was capping the waves with froth, but the tide was coming in. Julien, therefore, proposed that they should go to the cave, and he would see if he could rouse the echoes as Jack had done. It would be better than standing in the rain and watching for Jack. No thought of the incoming tide troubled them.
Crouched behind the rocks, unseen by the children, knelt the ex-gardener, Thomas. He listened, with a pleased smile, to the conversation, which showed him his chance had come. The prize he had waited for so patiently was almost his: the little girl was walking into the best trap he could have laid for her. Only a boy was there to defend her. If only Jack remained away, the boy could be got rid of. No more hiding in holes and corners. No more intimate acquaintance with starvation.
Unconscious of any danger, Julien was making Estelle laugh at his witty sallies as he helped her over the rocks on their watery road to the ravine. They sobered down as they entered the high, gloomy caverns, and were glad to get on to the broad daylight of the Cave of the Silver Sand. Julien would have gone no further. The darkness and stillness overawed him, impressing him with a sense of danger and misgiving. But Estelle was greatly excited.
'I know just where Jack keeps some candles,' she exclaimed, eagerly, 'and I always put one or two bits in my pockets. Here they are, and some matches. Do come on to the Mermaid's Cave, Julien! We have managed to get through the Rift before.'
The boy agreed to anything she proposed, but his heart sank within him in a strange, unaccountable manner. Still, he made no remonstrance, and bravely concealed his fears.
Lighting a candle, Estelle scrambled on to a narrow ledge on one side of the Rift, and, with much laughter and fun, she managed, with Julien's help, to creep along without falling off till they reached the Mermaid s Cave. Julien got more wet than he liked, for the pool was deep and the ledge too narrow to help him as it did the much smaller Estelle. He had not time, however, to think of his soaked condition, for Estelle was running about, placing her candles here and there, and calling upon him to admire the beauties of the cave. She insisted on standing exactly where Jack had stood when he sang to her, and the boy, with a laugh, took up his place near her.
'Let us sing just a few notes together,' said Estelle, with some eagerness to join in raising those lovely echoes. 'We can sing the beginning of the—— Julien!'
Her voice suddenly ended in a scream of terror, while, with wide-open eyes, she stared towards the dark entrance to the Rift. Looking to see what had alarmed her, the boy's heart stood still. His instinct had not deceived him. He remembered Jack's caution all too late, and—Jack was away!
Paralysed, he watched Thomas emerge from the Rift, and advance towards them with a smile of satisfaction. In sudden panic Julien tried to think. What was he to do? Escape was impossible. He was but a boy—neither tall nor particularly strong. Thomas, on the other hand, was big and powerful. Any struggle between them could end but in one way. What was he to do? Where should he go for help? How could he leave Estelle even for one moment?
Thomas was approaching with quiet deliberation. There was no need to hurry when his quarry was safe; and this Julien realised all too well. With the instinct of protection, he stepped in front of the little girl with a wild but silent prayer for the return of Jack—of anybody—to protect them.
Clinging to him, trembling with the terror which Thomas always inspired, Estelle also was silent. That scream was the only one she uttered. She would try to be brave and help her boyish defender—at least, not hinder his efforts in her behalf.
'Allez-vous en' ('Go away'), called out Thomas, as he came nearer and nearer and glared at Julien. 'We don't want you. The little lady's right enough with me, who knows her aunts and uncle, and all the little cousins. It's downright audacious how they all try to keep you away from me, my lady. Why, I know more about you than all these Frenchies put together, now don't I?'
But Julien was no coward. He remained firmly in front of Estelle, though he did not understand Thomas's English. The little girl clung to his arm.
Thomas was not to be turned from his purpose, however. 'You come along of me, my lady,' he said, in determined tones, 'and I'll take care of you, and hand you safe to my Lady Coke.'
'Thomas,' said Estelle, desperation giving her the courage she had hitherto lacked, 'I am with kind friends, and I am sure Aunt Betty would like me to stay with them till Jack can take me home. Please go away.'
'Don't you believe it, my lady!' exclaimed the man, with an insolent grin. 'There's nobody here to lay down laws. I do as I thinks right, and I am sure that my Lady Coke will say so too. Now, if you come with me quiet, it will be all the better for everybody. If you don't, why it will be all the worse, for I mean to take you along with me. It's me as will restore you to your sorrowing family. Now, are you coming quietly, or not?'
'No!' said Estelle, her lips quivering, but her head held high.
Julien repeated the word after her more determinedly still. He did not know what was being said, but he meant to support his petite amie in whatever she did. Throwing back his head and squaring his shoulders, he placed himself in an attitude of defence. Thomas, however, put him aside with ease. The boy was no match for him. Lifting Estelle in his arms in spite of her struggles and cries, he began striding across the cave towards the Rift. But though Julien was unable to fight with so big an opponent, he did not lose heart. Thomas found he was not able to dispose of him as comfortably as he had imagined. The sobs of his little friend went to the boy's brave heart. A red flush mounted into his sallow cheeks, and his eyes sparkled with fury at Thomas's action. With a bound like that of an angry tiger, he flung himself upon the ex-gardener, clinging to him with legs and arms in such a manner that Thomas felt as if a snake had hold of him. In vain he tried to shake the boy off. Julien gripped on him with all his might, straining every nerve to throw Thomas down. Hampered by the struggles of Estelle, the man could scarcely keep his feet; he could not get rid of his tormentor.
(Continued on page [314].)
"'Are you coming quietly, or not?'"
"It was Julien he held in his arms."
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [311].)
Just at the critical moment another terror appeared on the scene. The sea, having reached the level of the beach, now entered the caves, and flowed smoothly but swiftly over the flat flooring of rock. In the excitement of conflict neither of the three struggling in the Mermaid's Cave had heard the sweep of the water in the outer caverns. It was not till it was swirling round their feet that they became aware of the danger.
Julien dropped to the ground at the exclamation of Thomas, while Estelle cried out in despair. They knew of no way out of the cave except through the Rift, and that was cut off by the deep water there and in the caves beyond. Dropping the little girl as he realised the danger, Thomas glanced round the cave, still lighted up by Estelle's candle-ends. His quick eye noted the high-water mark, and some projections of rocky wall which it would be quite possible for him to reach, and remain in safety till the tide went down. But what about the children? For Julien he cared nothing, but Estelle was of the utmost importance to him. It would be better to lose his own life than let harm come to her. She represented his gold-mine, without which he had no means of living. She must be saved at all costs, therefore.
'We can't get out of this,' he said, at last, as he turned to the two shivering children who were clinging to each other. Julien's face was raised, his eyes seeking some place above high-water mark to which he could take Estelle.
'I can save the little lady,' continued Thomas, 'but you, young master, must look to yourself. I suppose you were not born near these caves for nothing?'
'I will stay with Julien,' said Estelle, with great resolution. 'If you won't save him, you shall not save me.'
But Thomas was not in a temper to listen. He would not waste time in talk when the little girl was too small to offer any serious resistance. Without another word he seized her in his arms, tore her from the French boy's hold, and running towards the ledge he had noted, lifted her up towards it.
'Catch hold of the rock, my lady,' he urged, holding her as high as he could, 'and I'll help you up.'
Estelle, obeying instinctively, stretched up her hands, but the ledge was beyond her reach. With no intermediate projection to assist her, Thomas saw she could not get up to so great a height. There was nothing for it but to put her down, pull himself up to the ledge, and drag her up after him. Even this he could not do without the aid of Julien. The little girl must be lifted up to meet his outstretched hands. Before he could speak or conciliate Julien, however, the boy had rushed upon him. Another struggle was about to ensue when a stronger wave than usual washed half over them, wetting them to the skin.
'Why don't you help me to save her?' cried Thomas, angrily, pushing the boy from him with violence. 'Do that or save yourself. You will drown the lot of us if you don't show more sense.'
Julien fell into the surge of the water. Estelle screamed, and would have flung herself after him, but Thomas held her fast.
'No, no; none o' that!' he cried. 'Let him get out himself. The water is not deep enough to drown him yet, if he is not carried away by the backwash.'
'Julien! Julien!' screamed Estelle, making frantic efforts to free herself and go to him. 'You must save him, Thomas—you shall!'
But the boy had been swept beyond their reach by the under-current, and for the moment they thought he would indeed be lost. He was drawn into the whirl of waters, and sucked under. Beside herself with grief and terror, Estelle clasped her hands over her eyes that she might not see him drown. She was deaf to Thomas's urgent appeals that she would be quiet and let him save her. Julien was in danger, and it was Thomas's fault. If she could have broken away from that firm grip, she would have jumped into the surging flood after her brave defender.
Meantime, Mrs. Wright, weary with the toils of the day, and feeling comfortable and cosy in her big armchair by the lire, knitted peacefully till, drowsiness overtaking her, she laid back her head and closed her eyes. The wood crackled cheerily in the great chimney, the faint murmur of the sea made the old lady still more sleepy, and in a few minutes she was in dreamland.
And so Jack found her when he came home. The stillness of the whole place showed him the children must be absent, and a vague alarm seized upon him. His fears for Estelle were easily roused. Yet fear or danger seemed very far from that bright, cheerful kitchen. Putting down the armful of things he was carrying, he gazed tenderly at his mother as he warmed his fingers over the genial flames. He could not bear to awaken her, and surely it was not necessary. She would never be sleeping so peacefully unless their little girl were safe. Yet something tugged at his heart, making him stir uneasily. The movement, slight though it was, awoke his mother. She opened her eyes, gazed at him a few moments sleepily, and sat up with a laughing remark about her own laziness.
'Where's Missy?' asked Jack, as soon as he had answered all her questions about his fishing and the luck he had had.
'They were playing on the beach,' she said, putting her cap straight before taking up her knitting. 'M. Julien came to join her in watching for your return. Did you not see them on your way up? If they are not there, they must be in the caves,' she added hastily, seeing her son's face change, and instantly becoming a prey to all sorts of fears. 'They must be there if they are not on the beach,' she repeated, turning pale.
Jack only stared at her, his eyes wild, unable to believe the extent of his mother's trust in so young a boy as Julien Matou. Recovering himself quickly he rushed off without a word to his own room, and presently reappeared with a long rope in his hand.
'What do you think has happened?' cried Mrs. Wright, rising quickly from her chair in her fright at his face and manner.
'The tide!' exclaimed Jack, seizing a pair of grappling irons he had laid upon the bench a few minutes before. 'If they are in the caves there is but one way of saving them—the Treasure Cave. Pray that I may be in time!'
He was gone almost before he had ceased speaking, his light step and long limbs carrying him swiftly down the sandy path, and round the corner of the spur of cliff. The tide had already reached the gorge. It must be well into the caverns then. With firm feet he scrambled along the rocks wherever they could help him, or took to the water when he thought the waves would serve him better. As he drew nearer, he found there was still time to gain the entrance to the outer cave before it was submerged. With the tide in his favour, he managed this with ease. His chief troubles would be with the strong under-tow and numerous currents among the rocks.
Half swimming, half clambering, he made his way to the Cave of the Silver Sand. Here the daylight was in his favour, but the whirl of waters was dangerous and strong. Anybody who did not know the rocks as well as Jack must have been sucked under to his destruction. Clinging to the rocks, he made his way towards the Rift. Awaiting his chance, he swam through this on the crest of a wave, and beheld the feeble light of one remaining candle glimmering in front of him.
With anxious eyes he surveyed the darkness around, and then the objects moving within the radius of that faint spark. Steadying himself against the rocks, he was about to plunge again into the water, in order to reach that point of light, when a heavy body was thrown against him.
Instinctively he grasped it, the surge of the water and the weight of the inanimate form making him almost lose his hold. A few moments more and his burden would have been sucked into the Rift, where his fate would have been sealed indeed. It did not take Jack long to discover it was Julien he held in his arms: Julien senseless, cold, drowning!
Then who was the second figure in that faint circle of light? One must be Estelle. But the other? Jack's heart filled with painful anxiety. Could it be Thomas? If so, what was he doing there? It was exasperating that Julien should require his services just when it was vitally urgent that he should save Estelle. His duty was clear, however. The boy must be placed in a position of safety before he could feel free to attend to the needs of the little girl, whose sole protector he was.
Happily, Estelle had not yet seen the sailor. The rapid rising of the tide, the urgent appeals of Thomas, and the agony of her distress about her playmate, had made her nearly frantic. It was with much difficulty that the ex-gardener managed to pull her up a little higher, out of the immediate wash of the waves. It was all he could do, for the ledge was too far above their heads for him to place her upon it, though he could save himself. He was making up his mind that the child must be sacrificed, that there was no way of saving her, when he became aware of a voice shouting above the thunder of the sea. Estelle's quick ear caught the sound, too, and with a start that nearly threw her off her perilous perch, she cried out in reply——
'Jack! Jack!'
(Continued on page [322].)
PLOUGHING IN SYRIA.
HE life of a farmer in Syria and Palestine is very different from the life of a farmer in England. He does not live in an isolated farmhouse, in the midst of a number of enclosed fields, which he owns or rents, and which he cultivates at his own cost and for his own profit alone. The country is much too unsettled to permit families to dwell alone, and so they cluster in little villages for their common safety and defence. The cultivated lands of the villagers lie outside the village, and the most fertile ground is sometimes a mile or two away from the houses. The villagers are too poor to enclose each a farm for himself, and the farms are simply cultivated plots lying unenclosed in a great waste, which belongs, perhaps, to the Government, or to some great feudal lord.
Because each man is poor and defenceless, the villagers combine to cultivate these plots together, and they divide among themselves the produce which is raised by their labours. The Government, or the lord of the land, is paid with a certain share of all that is grown upon the land, and this share is collected from the villagers by an officer who is appointed for the purpose, or has bought the right to collect these corn-rents for himself. He is often guilty of great extortion, and even cruelty, in taking his share, or his master's share, of the produce.
How these Syrian villagers perform their farm labours in common we shall see best if we watch them ploughing the land, and sowing corn. They go forth in a band from the village, and make their way to the plot which is to be tilled. Every man is armed, for beyond the cultivated land there is a great waste, or desert, over which bands of robbers roam at will, or there are rocky mountains in which they may hide, and set all good government at defiance.
The ploughs used by these Syrian cultivators are little more than a bent wooden stock, having a long bar, by which it may be drawn. The lend of the stock is in shape somewhat like that which is formed by a human foot and leg, the foot being the 'share,' which scratches up the soil. That part which corresponds to the leg is prolonged upwards into a long handle, with the help of which the ploughman guides the plough. The bar by which the plough is drawn is attached to the inner or fore side of the bend, at the ankle, as it were. Two oxen of a small kind are, as a rule, attached to each plough.
With such a light kind of plough as this it is impossible to cut and turn over the soil as an English plough, drawn by two or three powerful horses, would do it. The ground is, in fact merely scratched, and, in order that the scratching may be a little more complete, a number of ploughs follow each other in single file over the ground. As many as from six to twelve, or more, ploughs will thus work together upon one plot, the ploughmen chatting with each other all the time. A sower sprinkles the seed before them, and the ploughs loosen and scatter the soil about it.
Ploughing in Syria.
Where the soil is too rocky for the ploughs to work, men with mattocks break it up. The Syrian plough does not turn over the soil always upon one side, as the English plough does, and so the Eastern ploughman can return along the same line, or close to it, without spoiling the regularity of his furrows.
In exceptionally dry seasons, when the ground is very hard, the English plough cannot be used to good effect. The Syrian plough, however, is worse; for it is so small and ill-planned that it will only do its work when the ground is thoroughly wet and soft. The ploughing has, therefore, to be done in the winter season: not, of course, in that clime a winter of frost and snow, but a time of cold winds and heavy rains, most trying to the poor labourers in the fields. If they had better ploughs they might break up the ground before the winter set in, and leave the ploughed land ready for the sower at the proper season. The Syrian plough, too, only does its work slowly, and the whole set of men working together will plough scarcely more than one-third as much as an English ploughman, with a pair of good horses, would do in the same time.
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
X—THE BIRMINGHAM WATERWORKS
ARD working Birmingham was getting short of water, and it certainly looked as though the time would soon come when there would be none to quench its thirst with. The wells and streams in the countryside had served their purpose splendidly while the city did not demand too much, but as the number of people increased, the number of taps increased too, and water was getting short.
In this unpleasant state of affairs, Mr. Mansergh, a well-known civil engineer, said that he knew where to get the water from. Forty years before, when travelling in South Wales, he had been struck by the suitability of the country for storing water in. The rivers Elan and Claerwen, he said, flowed through valleys which would make splendid natural reservoirs if only they were crossed by the necessary dams. The distance, it was true, would be seventy-three miles from Birmingham, but then it would be all down-hill, and so the water would flow of its own accord. The rivers Elan and Claerwen, in Brecon and Radnor, collect their waters from mountain streams over an area of seventy-one square miles. If preserved in reservoirs, this would supply one hundred and two millions of gallons a day. A certain proportion of this would, of course, be allowed to escape, as it would never do to stop the river Elan altogether. It is an important tributary to the Wye, and the city of Hereford would have had cause for complaint if its water supply had been interfered with.
| Valley before Building the Dam. | A Sluice in the Dam. |
| Building the Pen-y-Gareg Dam. | |
The work was begun in 1894. Just below the point where the two rivers join, preparations were made for building the first dam. A stank, or wall of timber, was first constructed to turn the water of the river aside, and in the channel over which it had flowed, thus rendered dry, excavations were made for the foundations. When the wall had been raised to a height of thirty feet, with two large culverts or openings left in its lower part for the great water-pipes to pass through, the stream was again turned into its old course, through these openings, and the next part of the dam was begun. Thus in three sections the water-wall rose till a height of one hundred and twenty-two feet was reached, stretching six hundred feet at the top, to the sloping walls of the valley. As this dam will have to hold back five hundred acres of water, containing 7800 million gallons of water, its base has been made as wide as its height. The wall tapers to the top and is perpendicular towards the reservoir. It is formed of large blocks of granite called 'plums,' set in strong cement, and weighing many tons each. Over the top, when the reservoir is full, the flood water pours like a small Niagara. If we could launch a boat on the glittering surface of the reservoir, from the top of this dam, we should have to row for four and a half delightful miles, between the overshadowing sides of the valley, before we reached the next principal dam, at a place called Pen-y-gareg—so huge are these cups of water in Birmingham's service. On the way we should pass under the arches of a stone bridge, thirteen feet wide, stretching from side to side of the artificial lake. The archways spring from the top of a submerged dam, forty feet below the surface. And this was built because Birmingham, seventy-three miles away, is six hundred feet above the level of the sea. In constructing the long water-hill from the Welsh mountains down to the famous Warwickshire city, it was deemed necessary that the upper end should be one hundred and seventy feet higher than the lower end. Now at the point where the first dam was erected, the river-bed is only one hundred feet higher than the land on which Birmingham stands. Therefore, the starting point for the water was made farther up the valley at a spot seven hundred and seventy feet above sea-level (thus giving the necessary fall of one hundred and seventy feet), and just below that spot the sunken dam of which we have spoken was built across to hold back enough water when the main bulk had been used.
As our boat glides onward from under the shadow of the arch, we see near the eastern shore a strongly built stone tower. This stands over the mouth of the aqueduct (as the huge pipes are called which convey the water to Birmingham). The water flows into the tower through several large openings on all sides, and its entrance into the aqueduct is controlled by hydraulic machinery.
Bending to our oars again we follow the curves of the lake for about three miles, with the railway running close to the water's edge. It was laid by the engineers to assist them in this great undertaking. Then we come in sight of the Pen-y-gareg wall. This was built in the same manner as the first dam, though slightly different in design. At regular intervals all along the top, we see square openings like windows in an old castle. They are to admit light and air into a narrow passage left in the heart of the dam and stretching from end to end. It is only six and a half feet high and two and a half wide, so that two people, however obliging they might be, would have a difficulty in letting each other pass if they met half-way. But it is not a public passage, being only constructed for the purpose of admitting workmen to the valve tower, which regulates the flow of water into the lower reservoir.
Some mile and a half farther on we come to the third and last dam on the Elan River. It is called the Craig Gôch, and is the tallest of them all, rising one hundred and thirty-five feet from the river-bed. In order to build it a tunnel was driven through the hills on one side to carry the water past, the stream being guided into this tunnel by means of a concrete wall built a short distance from the scene of operations. The dam is built on a curve, the bow being towards the reservoir. It carries on its summit a handsome stone bridge with a public roadway less than ten feet wide between the parapets. To stand on this bridge and watch the flood water flow between its arches, to fall with a roar like thunder on its way to the lower reservoir, is very impressive. It is said that at times the water passes over the crest of the dam in a cascade eighteen to twenty inches deep. Thus the water is held back among the mountains in three huge steps, much as the water in a canal is banked up by the locks. On the river Claerwen three similar dams are being built.
While this work was going forward, another army of engineers was preparing the road to Birmingham. Hills had to be tunnelled through, valleys and rivers crossed by bridges, while syphons were used for passing under small streams and similar obstructions. One of the tunnels was no less than four and a half miles long, and another two and a half. They are, however, only six or seven feet in diameter, just large enough for workmen to enter for the purpose of doing repairs. The pipes for conveying the water are a little more than one yard across, and are capable of delivering twelve and a half million gallons per day. There is room on the road for six such pipes to be laid, so it is considered that Birmingham will not run short of water for at least a hundred years. It need hardly be pointed out that these pipes do not descend at one uniform grade throughout their journey of seventy-three miles, but any irregularity in their rise and fall is of little consequence so long as the end of that irregularity which is nearest Birmingham is at a lower level than the point at which it begins. Thus, for instance, if the pipes are to take a sudden dip to pass under a stream, they should not rise again on the other side to quite the same level. This dip is called a syphon, and in no way retards the natural flow of the water. There are many such 'ups and downs' between Radnor and Warwickshire; so many, indeed, that we might almost look upon the whole aqueduct as a syphon seventy-three miles long. Birmingham is the lower end, and water must flow to the lower level.
On July 22nd, 1904, the King and Queen, at one of the great reservoirs, turned the tap which admitted the water into the aqueduct, and in due course it rippled to the noisy city so many miles away, and Birmingham drank its first glass of crystal water drawn from the three stupendous cups standing among the silent hills of Wales.
We are indebted for our illustrations to Mr. Thomas Barclay, of Birmingham, and to Messrs. Mansergh & Co., Engineers, of London.
THE FOUNTAIN.
LITTLE spring of water rose
Within a shady grot;
It bubbled up all bright and pure,
And freshened that sweet spot.
Clear as a crystal was its wave,
And I was very sure
The waters were so pure and sweet,
Because the fount was pure.
So when from little lips there flow
Words that are kind and good,
And thoughts that are as fresh and sweet
As violets in a wood,
The reason we can understand,
For, oh, we may be sure
The thoughts and words are pure and sweet
Because the fount is pure.
THE TRIALS OF LECKINSKI.
(Concluded from page [306].)
For about two hours Leckinski had slept in his dungeon, when the door was gently opened, and a woman entered very softly, with a hand shading the lamp which she carried. Then the hand was suddenly withdrawn from before the light; the woman touched Leckinski on the shoulder, and said, in French, 'Would you like some supper?'
Leckinski, startled, sat up, with eyes scarcely open. Yet he kept his wits about him. 'What do they want with me?' he said, in German.
This was the first 'proof.' Castagnos wished it to be also the last. 'Give the man something to eat,' said he to his men, 'saddle his horse, and let him go on his way. How, if he were a Frenchman, could he be so thoroughly master of himself?'
But his officers refused to obey. They gave food to Leckinski, but did not saddle his horse, and kept him in the prison until morning. Then he was taken to a place where lay the bodies of ten Frenchman, who had been shot by some peasants. He was threatened with a similar fate. But, although surrounded by snares, listened to by straining ears, watched by keen eyes, the brave fellow let slip not a single suspicious word or gesture. At last, after many hours of this mental torture, he was taken back to his prison, and left alone for a time.
Again Castagnos pleaded for his captive, but his high-handed officers were still dissatisfied.
Leckinski, thankful for solitude, after a spell of uncanny visions, the result of the horrors he had actually seen, again found relief in sleep. Again he was disturbed. 'Get up!' said—in French—the same gentle voice that had spoken to him before. 'Come with me! Your horse is saddled, and you are free.'
'What do they want with me?' said Leckinski in German, as he rubbed his eyes.
Castagnos declared that this 'young Russian,' as he called him, was a noble fellow; but the others still persisted that he was a Frenchman and a spy. After another wretched night, the unhappy prisoner was brought before a sort of tribunal, composed of officers of the General's staff. The four men who conducted him thither uttered on the way horrible threats, but, true to his resolution, Leckinski gave no sign of understanding them. He took, apparently, no notice of anything that was said either in French or in Spanish, and, when he came before his judges, asked for an interpreter.
The examination began. The prisoner was asked what was the object of his journey from Madrid to Lisbon. To this he answered by showing his passport and the dispatches of the Russian Ambassador. These credentials would have been sufficient had it not been for the evidence of the peasant.
'Ask him,' ordered the President of the Court, 'if he loves the Spaniards?'
'Yes,' replied Leckinski, when this question was put to him, 'and I honour their devotion. I wish that our two nations were friends.'
'The prisoner,' said the interpreter, in French, 'declares that he hates and despises us. He regrets that it is not in his power to unite our whole nation into a single man, that he might annihilate us all with one blow.'
As the interpreter spoke, every eye was bent on Leckinski, watching for the effect upon him of this false interpretation, but not the slightest change of expression was visible on his face. He had expected something of this sort, and was firmly resolved not to betray himself.
Castagnos was present, an unwilling witness to this last trial, in which he had refused to take an active part. He now rose, and spoke in the voice of authority. 'The peasant must have been mistaken,' said he. 'Let the young man be instantly set at liberty. We have treated him hardly, but I hope that he will take into consideration the continual danger of our position, which forces us to be suspicious and severe.'
And so at last Leckinski got back his arms and dispatches, and went forth victorious. He reached Lisbon in safety, and fulfilled his commission. Then he would have returned to Madrid, but Junot, full of admiration for his pluck, would not allow him to run such another risk.
"Thomas hurled the stone with all his force."
TENT PEGGING
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [315].)
Estelle's cry was one of joy and relief, and her eyes soon discerned the form of the sailor swimming towards her. Having no desire to encounter Jack under such circumstances, Thomas hesitated no longer in getting out of danger by climbing to the ledge above. The few moments that Estelle would be in peril were not worth considering, as Jack was so near. Thomas's chief feeling was bitterness at this renewed disappointment of his hopes. Still, as long as the child was alive, his chance might come again. So he lay quietly and silently, watching the sailor effect the rescue. There was even some curiosity as to how Jack meant to save her. Rage was in his heart, and as he watched his hand crept out almost against his will and took up a stone lying near. For one mad moment, as the sailor dragged himself up by the rock on which Estelle was, and laid his hand on her, Thomas, forgetting all else, gave way to a mad fit of rage and jealousy. Raising himself slightly on his narrow shelf, he hurled the stone with all his force at the brown head below him. It shot past Jack, barely grazing his head as he stooped to tie the rope round Estelle, and, striking the little girl on the shoulder, glanced off into the water. The shock of the blow would have thrown her off the rock but that Jack's strong arm was round her.
The sailor's heart boiled within him. There was nothing to be done, however, but get the child away as quickly as possible. He guessed that the stone was meant for himself, and it left no doubt in his mind as to who had thrown it. With a wrathful glance upwards, he asked Estelle about the hurt, and showed her how to cling on his back, thus leaving his arms free to carry her into safety.
'Oh, it stings so, Jack,' sobbed Estelle, pressing her shoulder, as if she could hardly bear the pain.
'We must get away as fast as we can, Missie,' said he; 'or we may have another stone at us.'
Jack turned his back, and Estelle put her arms round his neck, with a frightened glance at the ledge.
'Now I'm off,' said Jack; 'hold, on tight.'
Twisting the rope round them both as an additional security, he slipped into the water. It went over their heads, but Estelle's faith in Jack never wavered. After what appeared to her a very long time of buffeting waves and wild waters, she felt herself being drawn upwards.
'There, Missie,' said Jack, cheerfully, though a little breathlessly, as he released her from the rope; 'you are safe now. In another minute we shall be on dry sand.'
Cold, bruised, tired, she felt too confused and faint to speak. A dim idea that her only chance of rescue lay in Jack made her continue to cling to him. He, meanwhile, was securing the end of the rope to a staple driven into the rock during the old smuggling days. The ledge on which he now sat was invisible from the Mermaid's Cave except to expert eyes, owing to its being so near the roof. From this ledge he looked down into that hidden storehouse for smuggled treasure of every description, the 'Treasure Cave.' It gave its name to all the other caves, but its own floor was twenty feet below any of them, and the secret of its existence was still jealously guarded by the few who knew of it.[4]
It was indeed fortunate that Jack was so well acquainted with every nook and crevice in the caves, and had made the discovery of the secret himself. The drop into the Treasure Cave was sheer; nevertheless, after securing the rope, he took the little girl in his arms and slid down with the ease of a sailor. They found themselves in a high cave into which the daylight came but dimly. There appeared to be no entrance except the one by which they had come. There was no getting away, therefore, until the tide went down. Casks, large cases, and other relics of old smuggling days were scattered about; some piled against the walls, others more in the centre, where the soft looseness of the sand testified to the dryness of the cave. These latter looked surprisingly fresh and neat, as if but recently stored there, and presented a great contrast to the sea-stained memorials of ancient days. There seemed to be small room for doubt that the Treasure Cave was not without its uses even yet.
The boy and girl were, however, in no condition to notice anything. Julien, whom Jack had carried to this place of refuge first, had returned to consciousness, and now lay shivering on the sand, with pale face and chattering teeth. Estelle, soaked to the skin, was placed by his side. Jack could attend to both at once in that way, and he proceeded to use vigorous measures to restore their vitality. Diving into a recess between the cases, he produced a couple of brown blankets, no doubt left there by smugglers. Very soon Estelle and Julien found themselves well wrapped up, and the warmth made a glow of returning life flow through their shivering frames.
'The sea-water will not hurt you,' said Jack, reassuringly, as they looked up gratefully at his cheerful face. 'Lie there and keep warm.'
'How long shall we have to remain?' asked Julien, in a forlorn tone.
He was already looking less pale, and his teeth had ceased to chatter.
'A matter of two or three hours. Not more. The tide runs out as fast as it comes in. When you are a bit warmer we'll take a sharp run round the cave. It's a large one, you see, and you will be in a fine glow before we have been round it many times. How is your shoulder, Missie?'
'Oh, it doesn't hurt much now.'
'A good thing for you your clothes were thick,' said Jack, smiling, as she stretched out her arm, to show she could move it quite easily.
'What happened?' asked Julien, startled. 'One would think the brute would have remained satisfied with pushing me into the water. But I will make him repent,' he added, in a threatening tone. 'My father will not let him off easily.'
'He doesn't know any better,' said Estelle, gently.
'Spoken like the kind little Missie you are,' said Jack, with a smile. 'But we must not let him do any more mischief, all the same. He did not mean to hit you with the stone. It is a good thing for me that it did no more than graze my head; and for you, Missie, that it was not a larger one.'
'In fact, Jack,' laughed Estelle, with a soft glance at him, 'we have all something to be thankful for—— '
'And that is that we are all here to tell the tale,' added Julien, rising from the folds of his blanket, and beginning to stamp about. 'Thomas also has to be thankful that we are not for the moment able to hand him over to M. le Préfet. I suppose he will have escaped by the time we get out of this.'
It was just this question which was tormenting the mind of the ex-gardener. Would he be able to get out before Jack? He could not imagine where the sailor had taken the children. The dim light of the candle-ends had died out as Jack swam away with Estelle, and Thomas had not as yet discovered the existence of the Treasure Cave. Only an eye accustomed to look for the faint ray of light thrown upon the roof by the glimmer from the lower cave could have detected where to seek the ledge, which it was necessary to climb in order to reach the Treasure Cave. All he could imagine, therefore, was that Jack had known of some other, and probably wider, place of refuge than that on which he himself had sought an escape from the waves. If this were so, it was more than likely that in the attempt to escape as quickly as the tide permitted, an encounter between him and Jack would take place. The bare suggestion excited Thomas uncomfortably. Over and over again did his mind ponder on the best plan to avoid such a meeting. Should he remain where he was till the sailor and the child had gone? But how would he be able to judge of their departure? It was totally dark, and as Jack must be in as drenched a condition as himself, no matches he might carry about him could be ignited. The escape must be made in the dark.
No, Thomas could run no risks of that sort. He made up his mind that as soon as his ear—trained by a life-long residence on a rocky coast—told him the sea was leaving the Mermaid's Cave, he would descend from his narrow perch, and follow the retreating tide. There would be light enough in the Cave of the Silver Sand. If an encounter must take place before he could get away from the caves, he preferred it should take place in daylight. As soon, therefore, as the lapping of the waves grew faint and died softly away, he felt his way down from the ledge of rock, and round by the walls to the Rift.
Barely had he waded through it when he heard voices behind him. A cold shiver ran down his back at the sound. Jack must be approaching with the children. Julien had been saved, then, for it was the voice of the French boy he heard speaking. The whole party would be upon him soon. With some anxiety, Thomas looked at the sea. Rapidly as it was going down, there was no chance that it would leave the cave in time for him to make his escape without being seen. There were rocks scattered about on all sides, however, which offered him a place of concealment, and he was not slow to avail himself of their shelter. Barely had he thrown himself behind one when Jack and his charges appeared.
'And when do you think it will be?' he heard Estelle saying, as she held Jack's hand, and walked soberly at his side.
'I can't say exactly, Missie,' was the reply. 'Maybe in a week or a fortnight.'
'I can't bear to think of your going,' said Julien, gloomily; 'it has been so happy since you have been here. What shall I do without my companion?'
They were going to take her away, then. Thomas was in despair as he listened. Still, something might be done in a fortnight. He was determined to get another chance of kidnapping Estelle. It would be easy if only he could get rid of Jack. But how was that to be done?
(Continued on page [334].)
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
12.—Acrostic.
| (1) | A Roman article of attire. |
| (2) | A weapon peculiar to the animal kingdom. |
| (3) | A left-handed man who slew a king with a dagger. |
| (4) | One form of the element of which diamonds are made. |
| (5) | To force by pressure. |
| (6) | A geographical division of land. |
| (7) | Rather hard of hearing. |
| (8) | Bad. |
| (9) | To have confidence. |
Initials and finals give the title of a well-known fable.
W. S.
[Answer on page [371].]
Answer to Puzzle on Page [288].
| 11.— | C al M |
| A lm A | |
| T ea R | |
| T ur K | |
| L ut E | |
| E di T |
THE SUN AND THE TRAIN.
George Stephenson and a friend were once looking at a train. Trains in those days were not so common as they are now, and George asked his friend what he thought propelled or drove the train along. His friend answered, 'Probably the arm of some stalwart north-country driver.'
'No,' said George; 'it is the heat and light of the sun which shone millions of years ago, which has been bottled up in the coal all this time, and which is now driving that train.'
CATCHING BIRDS UNDER WATER.
'It is impossible to catch a bird under water,' most people would say. But they would be wrong! Now and then the Leigh fishermen take birds in their nets below the surface of the water. The birds are of a diving species, and they often dive into the nets after the fish. They then get entangled in the nets, and cannot come to the surface for air, and are drowned. Thus it is that the fishermen catch birds as well as fish in their nets.
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
XI.-SOME SIAMESE INSTRUMENTS.
HE kingdom of Siam, though small compared with such huge countries as Hindustan and China, takes up the chief part of the great Malay peninsula. With the exception of Japan, no Eastern country has made such wonderful advancement in civilised improvements as Siam. Telegraphs, tramways, railways, and electric lighting form part of the equipment of this go-ahead kingdom. The army was many years ago modelled on the British system, and trained by European officers, and the King, a man of considerable cultivation, welcomes foreigners as teachers of Western ways.
Bangkok, the capital, is a curiously picturesque city, the architecture being of the most original design, whilst the decoration of the many temples, gilded minarets, roofs of gaily coloured tiles, and quaint pagodas, make quite a feast of colour to European eyes. The native costumes are in keeping with their surroundings, graceful in form and bright in colour. Many of the natives live practically on the water, as for miles above and below the capital, on both sides of the river, floating houses are moored, supported either on rafts or on bundles of bamboos.
Music has always played an important part in the national life, and the present King has greatly encouraged the art. Both men and women all over the country are more or less musical, and a great number play some form of instrument, often joining in concerted music. The Siamese have four kinds of bands, divided, as we divide our orchestras, into brass or stringed bands, each with a certain combination of instruments. Some years ago, at one of the London Exhibitions, the King of Siam sent over players of all the national music of his country, and their concerted performances excited great interest: the way in which they played together showed most careful training.
Ta'khay, or Alligator.
Saw Tai.
Saw Ou.
A very curious instrument is known as the Ta'khay, or Alligator: a glance at its form will readily account for its name. There seems a sort of satire in making one of the most silent of savage monsters a medium for the conveyance of sweet sounds. The Ta'khay is a stringed instrument of considerable power, and in tone is not unlike a violoncello. The three strings pass over eleven frets or wide movable bridges, and the shape of the body is rather like that of a guitar. It is placed on the ground, raised on low feet, and the player squats beside it. The strings are sounded by a plectrum, or plucker, shaped like an ivory tooth, fastened to the fingers, and drawn backwards and forwards so rapidly that it produces an almost continuous sweet dreamy sound.
The other two illustrations are both of fiddles, one bearing the name of the Saw Tai, the other of the Saw Ou. The Saw Tai is the real Siamese violin, and is frequently of most elaborate construction. The upper neck of the one shown in the illustration is of gold, beautifully enamelled, while the lower neck is of ivory, richly carved. The back of the instrument is made of cocoa-nut shell, ornamented with jewels. The membrane stretched on the sounding-board, which gives the effect of a pair of bellows, is made of parchment, and has often, as in this special instrument, a jewelled ornament inserted in one corner. The Saw Tai has three strings of silk cord, which, passing over a bridge on the sounding-board, run up to the neck, being bound tightly to it below the pegs. The player sitting cross-legged on the ground holds the fiddle in a sloping posture, and touches the strings with a curiously curved bow.
The Saw Ou, or Chinese fiddle, used in Siam, is suggestive of a modern croquet mallet, with pegs stuck in the handle, and has only two strings, fastened from the pegs to the head. It is played with a bow which the performer cleverly inserts between the strings.
Helena Heath.
STRANGE NESTING-PLACES.
With the return of spring every year the trees take new life, and begin to bud and put forth their leaves. At the same time the birds also feel, as it were, a throb of new life, and begin to busy themselves with the building of their nests, in which, when the weather is warmer, they will lay their eggs and rear their young ones. At these times they are bolder than usual, and timid birds, which in the winter and autumn seek the most secluded woods and distant fields, often build in gardens quite near to houses or to places where men are at work. The habits of birds when they are building their nests are very interesting, and sometimes rather puzzling.
"A wren built its nest in the pocket."
As a rule they take great care to place their nests where they will be screened from observation and safe from injury; but at times they appear to be utterly reckless, and build in some place where there seems to us to be every probability that the nests will be disturbed. The little wren, for instance, usually builds its nest in some hole in an ivy-covered tree or in a thatch. When it builds in a more open place, it is careful to cover its nest with a dome or roof, leaving a hole in the side for its own passage in and out. It covers its nest on the outer side with green moss or brown leaves, selecting those materials which are similar in colour to the surroundings of the nest. The nest is on this account difficult to see, and the white eggs speckled with red, which are laid in it, are hidden from view by the dome of the nest. Very often, too, the bird has been known to build false nests, or 'dummies,' in order to mislead visitors into thinking that it has been driven away.
But though the wren usually takes all this care to hide its nest and its eggs from observation, it is sometimes just as careless and builds in strange places, where it is almost sure to be noticed. It will boldly make its nest in the hat of a scarecrow, which is intended to frighten birds away. A little while ago, according to the newspapers, one of these birds built its nest and hatched its eggs in the pocket of a child's old waistcoat which had been thrown aside as useless. Other birds often display the same boldness or carelessness. Many years ago a swallow occupied for two years a nest which had been built upon the handles of a pair of garden-shears which leaned against the boards in the interior of an out-house. These were all very unlikely places for nests, not only because they were very different from the kind of situations usually selected, but still more because they were liable to be disturbed at any time. If the farmer had resolved to move his scarecrow, if a rag-man had picked up the waistcoat, or if the gardener had come for the shears, the nest would in each case have been removed or destroyed. And yet there is good reason to believe that the parent birds and their young ones fared just as well in their strange quarters as they would have done in a tree-trunk or a cranny of the walls. The truth is, perhaps, that all thoughtful and kindly people admire the courage, industry, and devotion of birds when they are building their nests and rearing their young, and take every care not to disturb them unnecessarily.
TWO LITTLE DROPS OF RAIN.
HEY fell together from the sky,
Two little drops of rain;
One cheered a blossom like to die,
One fell upon the plain.
One made the thirsty wilderness
A lovely blooming place;
One came a drooping flower to bless,
And give it light and grace.
The flower gave out a fragrance sweet,
That lingered by the way;
The wilderness amid the heat
Seemed sweet and cool that day.
They did the work they had to do,
And, when the day was done,
Two raindrops went back to the blue,
Drawn upwards by the sun.
FAMOUS ROSES.
A few flowers stand at the head of all others as being general favourites; the rose, the lily, the violet have been popular for ages, and to these we may now add, probably, the chrysanthemum. The rose has been called the 'queen of flowers.' It was probably one of the earliest garden plants grown in Eastern lands. Splendid festoons of roses are said to have been one of the sights of the celebrated hanging gardens of Babylon. At the present time roses are largely grown in India to produce the expensive attar of roses, the Damascus kind being chiefly planted; and very often the perfume of large rose gardens may be smelt a long way off.
The old Romans were very fond of roses, and quantities of them were grown in the times of the Emperors, especially near Capua and Præneste. The Emperor Nero is said to have spent ten thousand pounds on roses for one night's supper. The rich nobles carpeted rooms with roses, and piled their petals round the dishes at table. In more modern times, Blanche of Castile instituted the custom of presenting a basket of roses to the French Parliament on May-day, but this has long ceased.
Both in France and Italy, and also in Britain, many new roses have been raised, some nearly black, others of curious shapes. The first yellow rose was brought to England from Turkey by Nicholas Lets, a London merchant; other varieties have come from farther East. Scotch roses have been famous for centuries; they are usually very fragrant, and well guarded by sharp spines.
Roses are still grown for the market in some parts of the South of England, even as near London as Mitcham, in Surrey, a place famous for its fragrant plants, such as lavender and peppermint. Many roses are brought to our island from the flower farms of South France; some come from Holland, a country which supplies us with most of our bulbs.
When we walk about in London City as it is now, we can hardly fancy that it had an abundance of beautiful roses in the olden time. Yet they used to be particularly plentiful on the west side, where the Old Bourne and River of Wells flowed down to the Thames. The gardens of Ely House, of which we have a memory in Hatton Garden, now a street, were so full of roses during Tudor times that the flowers were measured by bushels. During the long and unfortunate Wars of the Roses, the white rose was taken for an emblem by the Yorkists, and the red kind was displayed by the Lancastrians. The Yorkists said that they chose the white because it represented the purity of their cause, and the Lancastrians gloried in their red flower since it told that they were ready to give their heart's blood to obtain the victory. In Shakespeare's Henry VI. there is a scene in the Temple Garden, in which the two parties pick these roses, to show their opposition.
Not only is the rose our national emblem, but it also appears on the collar of St. Patrick's Order, which shows roses and harps joined by knots; and it is one of the adornments of the Order of the Bath. We may discover this flower, too, figured on the crests of several noble families. The oldest rose-tree in the world is said to be one growing on the walls of Hildesheim Cathedral, which is believed to date from the reign of the great Charlemagne.
MURIEL'S FIRST PATIENT.
Muriel clapped her hands and gave a little jump for joy when she saw Aunt Margaret coming up the garden path. Aunt Margaret was a hospital nurse, and Muriel had quite made up her mind to be one as well, when she was old enough. She liked nothing better than to listen to her aunt's stories about her patients, for it was Aunt Margaret's duty to visit the poor people who could not afford to pay for a doctor, and Muriel never tired of hearing about the different families her aunt went to see every day.
She could hardly wait for her aunt to come up to the schoolroom, and wondered impatiently whatever Mother and Aunt Margaret could be talking about downstairs for so long. At last she came, however, and Muriel rushed to meet her.
'Oh, Auntie! may I come with you this morning?' she begged at once. 'I have got a whole holiday, and you did promise you would take me with you some day to see all your poor people.'
But although Aunt Margaret kissed her little niece as warmly as ever, her face did not wear its usual bright smile.
'Why have you got a holiday, Muriel?' she asked. 'It isn't a birthday, is it?'
'Oh, Miss Fane has got a headache,' said Muriel, rather hastily.
'I wonder what brought it on?' said Aunt Margaret looking at Muriel earnestly. Muriel grew very red, and looked down at her shoes, but did not answer.
'Mother has been telling me something very sad,' went on Aunt Margaret, 'She is afraid that Miss Fane's headache was caused by the great trouble she had with a certain little pupil of hers yesterday. What do you think, Muriel?'
'They were such stupid exercises—no one could do such horrid things,' muttered Muriel without looking up.
'Perhaps, if some one tried,' suggested Aunt Margaret, gently, drawing Muriel to sit beside her. 'Now, Muriel, you want to be a nurse some day, don't you?'
Muriel nodded.
'Well, it is not a very good beginning to make people ill, is it? You know if you are going to study the things I had to learn, you will have to do a great many uninteresting things, so that perhaps you had better give up the idea, if you never want to do anything that is not very nice.'
Muriel shook her head. 'But I do want to be a nurse,' she said.
'Suppose I give you a lesson to-day?'
Muriel looked up suddenly, and her eyes sparkled at the thought.
'Please do, Auntie. I will try to do what you want.'
'Mother has asked me to do something for poor Miss Fane, to make her headache better. I want you to do it instead.'
Muriel's smile disappeared suddenly. 'She's—she's so cross, Auntie.'
'Perhaps she has a reason for feeling so,' said Aunt Margaret. 'Still, if you would rather not—'
'Oh, but I will do it,' answered Muriel quickly. 'Only the things I do never please her, and perhaps she would rather not.'
'Suppose you have another try to please her?' said Aunt Margaret. 'I will be the doctor, and I shall leave you in charge, and expect you to obey my orders exactly. What do you do when Mother has a headache?'
'She lets me bathe her forehead with eau-de-Cologne, and I try to keep everything very quiet.'
'That is a good beginning,' said Aunt Margaret. 'Now, Nurse, come and take charge of your patient. I shall look in this evening to see how the invalid is getting on.'
When Muriel stole quietly into her governess's room, the latter frowned a little at the sight of the child who was usually so noisy and tomboyish, but she said nothing when Muriel rather timidly explained her errand. The little nurse carried out the doctor's orders very carefully and thoroughly, and after a time she was delighted to see her patient fast asleep. All day she did her very best to do just what she thought Aunt Margaret would have done, and in the evening Miss Fane felt so much better that she came downstairs for a little while.
It was Muriel who fetched the cosiest armchair for Miss Fane, and who so carefully arranged a pile of soft cushions to make her more comfortable. The governess watched her in surprise, as she remembered the restless, mischief-loving Muriel of lesson hours, and noticed how quietly and gently she arranged everything now. Then the little girl stood timidly by her side, twisting her fingers nervously together behind her back.
'I am sorry I was so tiresome yesterday, Miss Fane,' she said, very quickly, and not looking up. 'I didn't mean to make your head ache, really.'
Miss Fane put her arm round the child, and made room for her among the cushions.
'Of course you didn't, dear,' she said. 'It was a hard exercise, I know, and I was not very patient, but we will have another try to-morrow, and perhaps it will be easier then.'
Muriel nestled closer to her.
'I did it this afternoon,' she confessed shyly. 'I—I didn't try properly yesterday.'
'But you tried to-day? Why, what a lot you have been doing all day! Suppose you tell me how you learnt to be such a splendid little nurse?'
Muriel was only too ready to answer this, and she told Miss Fane all about her longing to be a proper nurse, and of Aunt Margaret's lesson, trying all the time to talk softly and not too much.
But Miss Fane was quite as interested in listening as Muriel was in talking.
'I think the next time Aunt Margaret comes we must have a whole holiday,' she said. 'I think you have earned one to-day. I am sure you are going to be a capital nurse some day, for you have looked after me so splendidly to-day.'
And Aunt Margaret was quite satisfied, too, with the result of Muriel's first lesson.
Muriel's First Patient.
"He swung himself off the ground."