STORIES FROM AFRICA.
XI.—A MIGHTY HUNTER.
UR African picture-gallery would be quite incomplete without a thought of the Dark Continent as the land of great beasts, the home of those kings among the wild creatures who can never be made the servants or the friends of man; the land where the roar of the lion wakes the dark hours, and the elephant and buffalo steal down to drink at the muddy pools. And so our next story must be of one of those mighty hunters of half a century ago who went to Africa for pastime, long before any one dreamt of a Cape to Cairo railway. William Cotton Oswell was a sportsman of the best type, six feet in height, wiry and muscular, a magnificent rider and a dead shot. He spent five years in Africa without a day's illness, was absolutely fearless, and, withal, so gentle and kindly of heart that he won the love of every one, English or African, with whom he came in contact; and he was so modest that his adventures were known only to intimate friends.
'I am sorry for the fine old beasts I shot,' he said, looking back, a grandfather and a quiet English gentleman, to the old wild hunting days; and if, as the chroniclers tell us, William the Conqueror 'loved the high deer as if he were their father,' so his nineteenth-century namesake had a warm corner in his heart for the lion and the buffalo, and the great, clumsy, fierce rhinoceros, against which he matched himself so successfully.
In 1844, Mr. Oswell, who had been sent to South Africa to recruit, after fever contracted in India, started on a hunting expedition with Major Murray as his companion, visiting on the way Dr. Livingstone's settlement at Mabotse, and getting information from him as to the country and the game to be found there. The doctor was a better naturalist than he was a sportsman; he had the keen observation indispensable to the hunter, but never became a good shot. He gave his visitors, however, all the help and information he could, and they passed on into what was, in those days, an almost untrodden land for sportsmen, alive with game of every kind. Mr. Oswell says that a man who was anything of a shot could easily feed a party of six hundred by his own gun. Still, there might be some risk connected with the securing of the dinner, and the hunter might have to ask, like the primitive savage, not only, 'Can I kill it?' but 'Will it kill me?'
On one occasion Mr. Oswell walked unexpectedly into the middle of a herd of buffaloes, who scattered in all directions. Only one patriarch of the herd, who had been lying apart from the rest, stood his ground, and the young Englishman found himself facing the great beast, at a distance of ten yards, with but one barrel of his gun loaded. He gave the contents of this to the buffalo, but did not reach a vital part, and the animal charged him. Mr. Oswell was standing under one of the mimosa-trees which grow plentifully in this part of the country. He seized a branch and swung himself off the ground, drawing, he says, his knees up to his chin, so that the buffalo actually passed beneath him. The feat sounds almost impossible, but Mr. Oswell tells it in the most matter-of-fact fashion, simply adding that he thought it safer than the usually advised method of springing to one side, as the buffalo can swerve sideways in his charge, and gore his enemy in passing.
Another adventure during this expedition certainly tested the hunter's nerve to the uttermost. Mr. Oswell's men informed him one morning that there was no meat in the camp for the dogs who guarded the party at night; so, taking his gun, with but one barrel loaded, he strolled out in search of a supper for his watchmen, feeling sure of securing something without going to any distance, or needing more ammunition. Nor was he disappointed, for, two hundred yards from the camp, he came upon some quagga, and killed one of them. The animal ran a little distance before it dropped, and Mr. Oswell, after marking it down, went back for men to carry the game home. But in this monotonous country, with its stretches of thorny bush and mimosa-trees, nothing is easier than to miss a track, and Mr. Oswell, though nicknamed by the Kaffirs, 'Jlaga,' the watchful or wide-awake, found himself on this occasion at fault. No waggons or encampment came in sight. He tried to retrace his steps and start again, or, by making a circle, to strike his original track, but all in vain. It had been ten in the morning when he left the camp, and at sunset he was still seeking it, without food, unarmed save for his useless, unloaded gun.
The situation would have been ludicrous had it been less serious; but Mr. Oswell, feeling sure that his friends would seek him at nightfall, followed the track of beasts to a pool of water, and determined to wait there until he should hear some sound of them. The fuel about was scanty, but he collected what he could until the short twilight of the tropics darkened into night, and then, with the idea of saving firewood, climbed a tree. But now the cold became intense. The heat of the day had been followed by sharp frost, and the unfortunate sportsman, with no extra covering, became so numb that he decided to descend from his perch and light his fire. He had clambered down to the lowest bough, and was about to drop to the ground, when something stirred below him. A moving body parted the bushes, and he heard at his feet an unmistakable sound, the pant of a questing lion. Had he dropped a moment sooner, he would have fallen right on to the top of the beast. We need hardly say that he returned very swiftly to his upper story, and, crouching there, could hear distinctly two lions, hunting in a circle round about the water, passing and saluting each other, like sentinels on their beat.
It was a trying situation, certainly, to have to sit, clinging with frozen fingers to the branches, only a few feet above the heads of the other 'mighty hunters,' who seemed to have resumed, in the night hours, their rule of the land he had dared to dispute with them.
But the horror of darkness came to an end at last. The moon rose, silvering the pool and showing the wide stretch of bush, and, at the same moment, sounded, still far away, the report of guns, a volley of firing which could only come from his own party. The sound must have been like new life to the chilled, lonely man, nerving him to a desperate effort to join those who were seeking for him. Those guns were as the voices of his friends, and he would sooner risk everything in an attempt to reach them than die of cold within hearing of their summons. He waited until the two lions were, as he judged, at the furthest point of their round, then he dropped noiselessly to the ground. The firing continued at intervals, and he made for it through the bush, running, pausing, listening, with breath held, for the rustle or movement among the grass and undergrowth that might mean sudden death. He says himself that his uncertain course and frequent stoppages probably saved him, since the wild beast distrusts any prey that does not go straight forward, as if expecting counter-manœuvres. It was an hour's journey—a trial, certainly, to the stoutest nerves. But the haven of safety was reached at last. The anxious searchers heard their guns answered by the shout of their lost companion, and the exhausted sportsman found welcome and food and fire awaiting him. As he sat, thawing his numbed fingers by the cheerful blaze, a distant roar sounded among the bushes, the voice of a lion who scents his prey. The Kaffir servants looked at each other and at their master.
'He has found your track, Jlaga,' said one of them.
The race had been a close one indeed; a few minutes' difference, and the story of that night under the African sky would never have come home to England.
Mary H. Debenham.
THEMISTOCLES AND THE GREEK GENERALS.
The Athenian general and statesman, Themistocles, was one of the few Greeks who, when Xerxes, the King of Persia, invaded Greece with a great army and a huge fleet, thought it possible to resist the Great King (that was the title which the king of the Persian Empire bore). He had much difficulty in persuading the generals of the other Greek states to fight at all, or even to await the coming of the enemy; some he bribed, others he bullied, till at length the Persian fleet was totally defeated off the island of Salamis.
After this victory, there were great rejoicings, and it was resolved to give splendid honours to the general who was considered the worthiest, and also to him who came next in glory. The generals therefore voted to see who should be considered first and who second.
For the first place, no one got more than one vote; each general had voted for himself for the first prize! But Themistocles was unanimously declared to have won the second prize, for though no one of them liked to admit that Themistocles was better than himself, they were each certain that he was superior to all the rest. So no one got the first prize, but special honours were paid to Themistocles.
A SILENT REPROOF.
Many years ago a number of persons were travelling by coach northwards towards Paisley. Some of them were Scottish farmers; others, tradesmen or persons of good position in Paisley; and one was a Scotsman of superior appearance, who, judging by his conversation, had travelled a good deal and seen much of his fellow-men. He recounted many interesting experiences as they journeyed along, and they all chatted freely and pleasantly with each other.
The road was a hilly and rough one, and at a lonely spot where it was especially bad, the coach was so severely jolted that one of the axles broke. Fortunately, no one was injured, and when all had alighted from the coach, they began to inspect the damaged axle. The passenger whose conversation had proved so interesting came to their assistance, and examined the axle critically. Presently, he asked the coachman if there were any blacksmith near at hand. There was not a house in sight, and the coachman told him that the forge of the nearest blacksmith was a mile or two away.
'Help me to carry the broken parts to the smith,' said the other, 'and I will see that they are properly mended.'
So they carried the broken axle across the moors to the blacksmith's shop, but they found that the blacksmith was not at home. Nothing daunted, the passenger who had undertaken to see the axle repaired lighted the blacksmith's fire, set the bellows to work, and, with the help of one of his fellow-passengers, mended the axle himself. They carried it back to the coach, fixed it in its place, put on the wheels, and the coach started off again upon its journey.
But now the passengers, instead of being grateful for the fortunate help which had been given them, began to hold aloof from the man who had mended the axle, and they had little to say to him. From his conversation they had taken him to be a gentleman, but he had shown them now that he was nothing but a common blacksmith. So for the rest of the journey they neglected him, and he sat lost in his own thoughts.
"They began to examine the damaged axle."
When the travellers reached the end of the stage they separated, and each went his own way. On the following morning one of them had business with the Earl of Eglinton at Eglinton Castle. He reached the castle in good time, and after being announced, was shown into a room where the Earl was seated at breakfast. But judge of his surprise when he found that his fellow-traveller of the previous day, the very man who had mended the broken axle of the coach, was sitting at breakfast with the Earl. He was not, then, a blacksmith, after all! No; he was John Rennie, the constructor of the Waterloo, Southward, and London Bridges, the Plymouth Breakwater, and the London Docks; in fact, the greatest engineer of his time, and a man honoured by all who knew him. He had learnt his trade thoroughly, from the very bottom, and was not above making use of it in the humblest way—even as a blacksmith.
"The kitten at once began lapping."
EVA'S KITTEN.
Breakfast was over, Father had started for the City, and now was the time for Pussy's breakfast.
Eva brought the saucer to her mother, and when it was filled with milk, Eva put it carefully on the floor. The kitten rushed up to it, and at once began lapping.
'Isn't she clever, Mother?' asked Eva, as she seated herself on her own footstool, and watched the dainty way in which the kitten licked up every drop of milk that fell on her fur. 'She knows how to keep herself so clean and tidy.'
Mrs. Poison was reading a letter which had just come by the post, but she looked up as Eva spoke, and said half-absently, for she was thinking more of her letter than the kitten, 'Yes, very clever! Listen, Eva, my letter is from Mrs. James: she wants us both to drive over to her this afternoon and have tea.'
'Oh, I shall like that,' said Eva, shaking out her long auburn hair like a cloud, as she joyfully nodded her head. 'I shall like to see Jessie again. Is she quite well now?'
'No, dear, she is not; her mother says she seems as if she could not shake off the effects of the whooping-cough.'
'Oh! and I had it at the same time, and I am quite well,' said Eva, in astonishment.
'Poor Jessie! she is a delicate little thing,' said Mrs. Polson. 'You must see what you can do to cheer her up, Eva.'
'Yes, Mother,' said Eva, thoughtfully.
When Eva and her mother arrived at Mrs. James's house, no Jessie was in the drawing-room to welcome them, and Mrs. James had to explain the reason.
'Poor Jessie, she is terribly upset,' she said, 'for only an hour ago her little cat was found dead in the garden. We are afraid it was poisoned. Jessie is fretting about it, and she is shy of showing herself with her red eyes, so she ran away to the nursery.'
'May I go to her?' asked Eva.
'Yes, dear, do,' answered Mrs. James; 'she will perhaps forget the poor cat in a game of play.'
Eva ran upstairs to the nursery, and did her best to comfort Jessie, but the poor child was languid and fretful, and could hardly put away the thought of her lost pet.
'It was such a dear little cat, and quite black all over,' she told Eva. 'There was not a white hair in it. I shall never see a quite black kitten again. Nurse says they are very rare; oh! I wish I had it back!' Again Jessie burst out crying, for she was worn out with grief, and hardly knew how to stop.
Eva was really sorry for Jessie, who, though two or three years older than herself, looked so small and frail, and throwing her arms around her, she whispered, 'Don't cry any more, Jessie! You shall have my kitten for your very own; it is quite black, too, and you will soon love it very much. I will ask Mother to let the groom bring it you to-night.'
'Oh, Eva! will you really? But it is a shame to take your kitten,' said Jessie, stopping her sobs, and looking up at Eva. 'You love it too; I know you do, Eva.'
'Yes, I do,' said Eva, slowly, 'but I want to give it you because you are ill, and cannot run about out of doors as I can, and this kitten will be your friend; and now you must stop crying.'
The black kitten was taken to its new home that same evening, and Jessie was so pleased to have a kitten once more that she went off cheerfully to bed, much to her mother's relief.
Eva felt the parting from her pet, but there is a feeling in giving up for others that is a happiness in itself, and that happiness was Eva's.
THE STRING OF PEARLS.
Y mother has a string of pearls,
So pure and fine and white:
She lets me take it in my hands,
And hold it to the light.
My mother says that like that chain
My life should ever be,
Each day a pearl to stand apart
In flawless purity.
THE NEW ZEALAND GLOW-WORM.
Everybody has not seen one, but we all have read about the Glow-worm, the remarkable insect which has the power of exhibiting a bright light in the dusk of evening. In England we have two species of insects that are called by this name, which properly belongs only to a kind of wingless beetle, found along the hedgerows and moist banks during the summer. The other insect which shares the name is also known as the electric centipede; it is seen about gardens or fields, and has the peculiarity of leaving upon the path it has trodden a shining track.
In New Zealand there is a very curious glow-worm. The first idea about this insect was that it turned into a kind of beetle; afterwards it proved to be the larva or grub of a fly. Its light is seemingly given it to attract small insects which are its food, and these are secured by means of a web. This web is placed in a niche amongst rocks or trees, and has a central thread, from which run smaller threads to the sides of the opening. Upon several of the lower threads there are usually a number of globules that resemble tiny silver beads, but what is the use of these is uncertain. Upon the middle thread the grub sits; if startled, it glides away into a hole it has for a hiding-place. The light comes from the hinder part of the body, and the grub can display or darken this as it chooses. On damp, warm nights it is brightest, and it is not visible when the weather is cold, nor, of course, during the day. Having reached its full size, the grub becomes a chrysalis, being fastened firmly to its web. A faint light comes from the chrysalis now and then. When the fly comes out, that also has a faint light, only half as bright as that of the grub; what it feeds upon is unknown.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [323].)
CHAPTER XVIII.
Mrs. Wright had been waiting in great anxiety for the return of Jack. Twenty times over she went to the end of the sandy path to see if the tide was going out, and returned in an anxious state of mind to make preparations for the drenched party. She reproached herself bitterly for carelessness. How could she have trusted so entirely to Julien? She ought to have known he was ignorant of the tides, if not of the caves. Her anxiety was almost more than she could bear by the time the tide had left the gorge. Then she stood on the beach to watch, and it was with a cry of delight that she saw the three coming towards her.
They were all glad of the hot meal which smoked upon the table in readiness for their return, and sat down in very cheerful spirits, in spite of their damp condition. But it was not so pleasant to be hurried off immediately afterwards to bed and warm blankets. Julien, who had not shown much appetite, and still looked pale and shivery, refused to go to bed. Jack would have compelled him, but the boy begged to be allowed to go home, as he felt ill. It really seemed the best thing to do; so, wrapping him up in a big coat, Jack took him to the Préfet's house, and handed him over to his mother's care, not forgetting to say a few words in praise of the courage the boy had shown.
'Now, Jack,' said Mrs. Wright, as he entered the warm kitchen on his return, 'if you want to do something to please me, my son, you will just go and take your wet things off, and turn in for a bit. I will bring you some hot cocoa in a minute.'
Jack laughed; then, stooping, he took his mother into his great arms, kissed her, and went.
The day of Estelle's departure was drawing near. The boat had been prepared, and Fargis had been amiable enough to offer to go with them, taking his usual crew. He realised that his trouble would be paid for, and probably handsomely paid for, into the bargain. The weather was in favour of the crossing, so Estelle and Jack had come for a last walk on the cliff before that sad day came. To Mrs. Wright and her son the loss of the child was a deep sorrow; to Estelle, though she was going home to her beloved Aunt Betty, to the kindest of uncles and aunts, to her most loving cousins, it was a wrench. She loved those dear ones at home deeply, truly. But she loved Goody and her dear, kind Jack. What should she do when she could not see them? Tears came into her eyes, and made the boats and the sea dim. She longed to ask Jack for one thing before she went away. Went away! Oh, why must there be these partings?
Meantime, Jack grieved over the loss of his 'little Missie.' He was sad, and would be sadder when the long winter evenings came, and he missed her at every turn; but there were other anxieties. He must face that English world again from which he had fled in the long years of the past. For Estelle's sake, and because it was his duty, he must take her back to her English home, and he was debating, painfully, bravely, what that journey would mean to him. What would it mean to his mother? She was the dearest and best tie he had in the world. For his sake she had made sacrifices to which few mothers would have consented, had borne hardships few would have faced so nobly. Had he any right, after all she had done for him, to expose her to any chance of evils which this return to England might bring upon him, and, through him, on her?
Estelle, looking up, saw the grief and perplexity in his face, and her heart smote her for her own selfish thoughts. She did not understand how he suffered, but she felt she must comfort him.
'Jack,' she said, swallowing down her tears, and speaking in as steady a voice as she could muster—dear Jack, you have been so good and kind to me! So good, I can't express it! Do let me do something for you. I know you have a secret, and I am afraid it is that, even more than my going, which is making you so miserable. I don't want to pry into it, dear Jack, but remember that my father is a rich man, and he is powerful, too. If you won't mind telling him about it, I know—I am quite, quite sure—he will do anything in his power for you. Think what you have done for me! And he loves me—he has only me now.'
Jack sat silent for some moments, his head on his arms, which were crossed upon his knees.
'Missie,' he said at last, raising his face, 'nobody can help me. I want no help such as your father, or any other rich, powerful man can give. I know you mean it kindly, little girl, but there are some things in which a man must stand and fall alone. Alone?' he added bitterly; 'yes, but he doesn't suffer alone! He drags his dearest and best down with him, let his remorse be what it may.'
'Remorse? Does that mean the man is sorry? Are you sorry for something you have done? Oh, Jack, if you are sorry, Aunt Betty told me once that was all that was wanted. Everybody forgives any one who is sorry.'
'I am not so very sure of that, Missie; but, in this case, there is no question of forgiveness. There is no one to ask it of, for one thing; and if there were, there are some things which can never be forgiven or forgotten.'
'Are there?' murmured Estelle, a little bewildered.
'How should you know—an innocent child like you?' returned Jack, shrinking into himself as if at some terrible recollection.
There was a long pause, while both sat thinking.
'Listen,' went on Estelle, at last. 'I will tell you a story. It is quite true, for I know the man. He is the son of our head gardener. He is a cross old man, and he is often not very nice to us children. But Aunt Betty wanted to make us more patient with him; so she told us what sorrows he had had. They have made him rather grumpy, but his son is very different. The story is all about a great wrong done to that son, and how he forgave it.'
She related the history of Dick Feet almost in the words in which her aunt had told it to the children on the lawn that August afternoon. Jack, listening but carelessly at first, gradually found an interest in it which touched him keenly, but he would not have interrupted the child for worlds. Not a word would he lose. It was so strangely like a story he knew only too well!
'And the grand part was,' wound up the little girl, her earnest eyes on Jack's anxious face, 'the grand part was that he never mentioned the name of the man who did it—not even his father and mother know who it was. He begged them not to mention it if he had by any chance let it out in his illness. But he never had. No one in all the whole world knows but Dick himself.'
'Was his name Dick, too?' muttered Jack to himself.
'Yes,' answered Estelle, who had heard the low murmur, 'his name is Richard Peet.'
'What?' cried Jack, almost starting to his feet in his excitement. 'Is Dick Peet alive?'
(Continued on page [342].)
"'What! Is Dick Peet alive?'"
"My partner being the lamp-post!"
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By Harold Ericson.
VII.-AT THE ICE-HILLS.
OES Bobby think he is the only one who can tell stories connected with snow and ice?' said Denison, one evening; 'I, too, have been in high latitudes. Have you ever enjoyed the experience of going down the ice-hills at St. Petersburg, Bobby?'
'Rather,' replied Bobby, gazing into the fire. He smiled as he gazed; the recollection seemed to be pleasant. 'I am still giddy when I think of it,' he ended.
'Well, perhaps Vandeleur has not tried it. It's a kind of artificial tobogganing, you know; they build up a wooden erection with a flight of stairs behind, a platform at the top, and a steep slope covered with slabs of ice going down from it, and leading straight into a level road of ice some eight feet in width and a quarter of a mile in length; at the end is a similar erection pointing back in the opposite direction, the two ice runs or roads being side by side, and each ending at the foot of the stairs leading to the other, so that after a fellow has flashed down the first hill upon the little iron sledge, comfortably cushioned, and darted like lightning to the end of the first run, he only has to have his sledge carried up to the top of the second hill by the servants employed for the purpose, and start upon the return journey, and so ad infinitum. One learns how to do it after a bit, and I suppose there is no more delicious sensation on earth than that rush down and skim along the level—when once you have learned the art; but, my goodness! one's feelings at the first attempt—eh, Bobby?'
Bobby burst into laughter.
'It is like trying to be an amateur catherine-wheel,' he remarked; 'and you see plenty of sparks!'
Ralph continued: I was asked to an 'ice-hill party' while I was in St. Petersburg some years ago. I have always wondered, since, whether the rascally British residents out there give their ice-hill parties only when there is a beginner about; certainly the poor wretch must be one of the main attractions; there was another visitor besides myself, I remember, that night, and I really don't think I ever laughed quite so much in my life as I did when he made his first few descents. We were quits, of course, for my antics were just as ridiculous to him. At these parties there are generally a few skilful exponents, who show off fancy ways of going down, and so easy does the thing appear when demonstrated by them, that the beginner is not greatly alarmed by the prospect before him.
The platform at the top of the hill is roofed and walled round, and has room for seats for spectators. There is something hot for them to drink, and I should say that when there are beginners about, these spectators must spend a remarkably pleasant evening, for the hot drinks and the exercise of laughing over the misfortunes of innocent strangers serve excellently to keep the cold out, and the scene is really extremely pretty. The 'runs' are outlined by rows of Chinese lanterns hung upon slender posts; they must not be too thick because of the limbs of the beginners, which are likely to make very intimate acquaintance with them, and even beginners must be treated with a certain amount of consideration. There are a few snow-covered trees showing like ghosts, here and there, in the semi-darkness, and all the snow which has fallen during the season upon the ice-runs is swept to either side, and left in a continuous heap or bank all along. This, too, is an arrangement made to let down the beginner easily.
They took me, with my fellow-victim, to the top of the hill, and placed us in seats upon the platform; they spoke bracingly and gave us good advice; they described the delight of the experience before us—the fascination of flying through the air, bird-like; some one said it was 'the very poetry of motion'; no one mentioned that there was much prose to be gone through before one could hope to become one of the poets of motion.
'Let's see how it's done,' said my fellow-victim, a man called Watson, 'and then I will have a shot.'
I congratulated myself that Watson intended to try the thing before me, but I congratulated myself too soon. The skilled exponent, selected to deceive us by demonstrating how easily and safely the descent might be made, now took his little sledge and placed it upon the large square ice-slab at the top of the hill. He lay down upon it, on his waistcoat, his head stretching a little way in front, his legs a long way behind. Upon his hands were huge leather fingerless gloves, for purposes of steering, 'You touch the ice gently on the side towards which you want to go,' he explained. 'Now, watch—there is no difficulty, and you cannot hurt yourself.'
He allowed himself to slip over the edge. Straight as an arrow his little sledge darted down the slope; no bird could have flown quicker or straighter; he reached the level ice-run and fled meteor-like along it; almost before one realised that he had well started upon his course, he had reached the end of it. In two minutes he was on his return journey; down the second hill he flashed, in a moment he was at our side—it was wonderful!
One or two other exponents went through the same performance; there was no suggestion of danger or of possible disaster; one simply flew upon the wings of the wind—that was the impression given by these skilled deceivers.
'I'll toss you, Denison, who goes first,' said Watson.
We tossed, and, of course, I lost. I always do on these occasions.
'Your shot first, then,' said Watson, and I prepared myself for execution. The fact that every one of the thirty guests present now quickly crowded round the ice-slab, which was, as it were, the perch from which one sprang off into space, struck me as grimly suggestive.
'What happens if one hits a lantern-post?' I asked.
'Oh, they come down,' I was told. 'They can't hurt you; they are very slender and only stuck lightly in the snow.'
'Steer very gently,' said some one; 'it's best to touch the ice as little as possible.'
'Keep your head, that's the chief thing,' said another adviser.
'You have got your ticket, haven't you?' remarked a humorist. 'Don't give it up till you reach the end of the journey.'
Then they put me straight and tipped me over, and for about ten yards I travelled, by favour of a good start, without incident. The sensation of tipping over the edge was indescribable; I don't know exactly what my heart did, but it was evidently highly surprised and disgusted, and probably thought I had insanely jumped over a cliff; I think it stopped beating; I felt, for a moment, sick and giddy; I shut my eyes for that instant.
'Steer to the right!' a deep voice roared from the top of the hill.
Instinctively I obeyed. Instantly my sledge, as though animated by the desire to look over the wooden parapet which ran, a couple of feet high, along the slope, jogged and jumped, then turned round, and, with the small amount of intelligence left in my brain, I became aware that I was whizzing along backwards. I tried to think of instructions received, but utterly failed; I endeavoured to keep cool. Where was I? I banged against something, and the sledge twisted round again; it did its best to run along sideways for awhile, like a crab; it butted me against a tree and got itself straight again; then it seemed to take the bit in its teeth, and, as if determining to get rid of me somehow, steered a bee-line for a Chinese-lantern post at a distance of thirty yards. I plunged my hand down, determined to defeat its malicious design, and instantly the little vehicle began to whizz round and round like a fire-work at the Crystal Palace. This was the beginning of the end; the next moment something 'took me in the waistcoat,' and I found myself waltzing in a sitting posture on the ice, my partner being the lamp-post, the lantern attached to it swinging wildly. Where was the sledge? The sound of hoarse laughter from the top of the hill was in my ears; the waltz ended in darkness and silence; where was I?
It was only a deep bank of snow, of course, and I was soon in the air once more. I did not know where to look for my sledge—I did not try. I did not, at the moment, feel well enough disposed towards it to care what had become of it. Some one fetched it.
I was received at the top of the hill with kind and encouraging words, intended, of course, to hearten me to provide a second entertainment. This I did, presently, but first I was resolved to be even with Watson.
'Your turn, old chap,' I said.
Watson looked at me with an expression of despair which was pathetic.
'I wish I knew what mistake you made,' he murmured, weakly. 'Did you hurt yourself?'
'Not in the least; it's a lovely sensation, to some extent' I said. My bones were aching all over, but I was determined to be even with Watson, who had not yet done his share of the entertaining.
Watson gave a glance at the stairs, as though he contemplated a bolt; if he had attempted to escape, I should have done my best to prevent him. Perhaps he read my thoughts in my face; he sighed. Presently the poor wretch was straightened out and started.... It really was very funny, and I no longer wondered at the heartless mirth of the onlookers. A pea on a drumhead is a restful object in comparison with Watson on that ice-hill. His sledge seemed determined from the first moment to rid itself of the unfortunate man clinging to it; it went everywhere and sampled every obstacle, and it shot him eventually, as it had shot me, into a snowheap, with one Chinese lantern twisted by its strings round his neck, and another, held by the post, in his hand. Watson did not know how they got there.
Watson and I solemnly shook hands; we were the gladiators of the occasion, and sympathised with one another. Three or four times did we suffer for the delight of the crowd; after that we began to become uninteresting to them, partly because we had carried away all the Chinese lanterns, and partly because we had begun to learn the art.
MORNING.
ULLO!' the Blackbird carolled.
'Hullo!' the Woods replied,
'The sun that set in the West last night
Comes up on the other side.'
'Wake! wake!' the Starling chattered,
'For the hand of rising day
Has gripped one edge of the blanket night
And is rolling it all away.'
'Up! up!' the Robin whistled,
'For the Lady Dawn, so bright,
Has come to the broad, dark face of earth,
And is washing it all with light.'
'Out! out!' sang the joyous chorus:
'With a hand of magic care,
She's been to the nooks and corners dark
And scrubbed out the shadows there.'
And then upon snowy pillows
There glittered the blinking sun,
And a thousand thousand eyes awoke
To another day begun.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
XI.—NURSERIES IN THE BIRD-WORLD.
Fig. 1.—Peregrine Falcon, and young ones.
Our survey of Nature's babies so far has been a fairly extensive one, and many readers of Chatterbox have shown that they were impressed with the fact that in every case these have come into the world in a form quite unlike that of their parents. And they have probably also noticed that where this unlikeness was most striking, there, as a general rule, these young had to shift for themselves from the moment they were able to move. Though the majority of these young creatures are to be found in or around the coasts of Great Britain, many are difficult to obtain, and only in a very few cases have we met with any display of care on the part of the parents for their helpless children.
Fig. 2.—Ringed Plover, and young ones.
The unlikeness to the parents is most marked, as we have said, where the young are cast upon the world to look after themselves, often as microscopic creatures. The reason of this is because they have come from eggs which were so tiny that they could not contain enough food to support the growing body within until it had assumed its final shape. In consequence, the little creature had to start life in some more simple form, capable of feeding on the tiniest particles of food. This early development is unavoidable in cases where a single family may number some hundreds or thousands of individuals. But when only a few young ones make up a family, you will notice they are more or less jealously guarded by the parents, and they, furthermore, come into the world more nearly in the shape they are finally to assume.
Many of you, I hope, when you grow up, will be tempted to try and follow out these strange life-histories for yourselves. In this article I propose to describe some of the more interesting forms of young to be met with among the birds, because here, at any rate, you will be able to follow up the facts at once; and a very fascinating pursuit you will find it.
Birds, as every one knows, lay eggs, which, after a time, produce chicks, some of which, like ducks and chickens, for example, can run about and pick up food within an hour or two of their escape from the shell; but for a long time they are most carefully tended by their fond parents, who will brave many dangers in their defence. Now, the difference between the young chicken, or the young duck, and their parents is not very great, and this is because the egg from which they came contained a large supply of food, so that all the building up of the body could be carried on inside the shell. This food is represented by the yolk of the egg, of which there was an enormous store. That this is so you can see for yourselves, if you break an egg into a cup. The little spot in the top of the yolk represents the germ of life that is to form the chick; the rest of the yolk is to be used by that germ as food.
Fig. 3 Skylark, and young ones.
As you doubtless know, however, some young birds, like young rooks and sparrows, thrushes and skylarks, when they leave the egg, are perfectly bare, blind, and helpless, and have to be fed and brooded by their mothers for a long time. Other young birds, like young owls, falcons (fig. 1), and hawks, also leave the egg blind and helpless, but their bodies are covered with long woolly down. Until quite recently no one could say why these differences should be, but at last we are beginning to see a way out of the puzzle. There seems to be no doubt that once upon a time the young of all birds left the shell in a fully active state, and clothed in down; further, we know that these early birds were reared in nurseries amid the tree-tops, and climbed about the branches by means of their legs and beaks, aided by claws in their wings, till at last their feathers grew and replaced the down, and they were able to fly. In course of time some birds took to building their nests on the ground, perhaps because so many young perished every year by falling from the trees. On the ground this danger was overcome. But, among those which chose to stay in the trees, a change was introduced. They took to laying smaller eggs, containing less food; in consequence, the young were hatched before they had reached such a forward state of development as their cousins on the ground; and though this meant far more work for the parents, who had to feed their helpless and blind little ones, the change proved beneficial, because, being helpless, they remained quietly in the nest till their feathers grew, and then they were in no danger of falling, for they saved themselves by flight. These two devices proved so successful that they are followed still—probably always will be. The fact that many young birds which are quite helpless are now reared in nurseries on the ground, as in the case of young skylarks (fig. 3), is a fact of interest; for it shows that the parents have chosen this nesting site comparatively recently, and are of course unable to lay large eggs, which shall produce active young, like young chickens, at will. They have acquired the habit, so to speak, of laying small eggs, and cannot alter it by changing their nesting-place.
Most young birds which leave the eggs in a forward condition have the down which clothes them curiously striped. This is a device which enables the young bird to resemble the grass and herbage with which it is surrounded, and so escape the eye of prowling birds and beasts of prey. The dark stripes at a little distance look like shadows between stems of plants, while the lighter stripes represent streaks of light passing through foliage. When young birds live in the open, as on shingly beaches, then their down is mottled. How perfectly this harmonises with the surrounding stones only those who have tried to find young terns (fig. 4), or young ringed plover (fig. 2), for example, can tell. But this question of young birds is a big one, and must be taken up again on some future occasion.
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
DR. JOHNSON'S BAD MANNERS.
When Dr. Johnson visited Scotland, he was taken, on his arrival at St. Andrews, to see the ruins of the castle there. He was sorry to find the grand old building, like many he had already visited, in ruins, and in his disappointment he was very rude and overbearing to those who were guiding him. One of the guides ventured to ask him if he had been disappointed in his visit to Scotland.
'Sir,' replied the doctor, 'I came to see savage men and savage manners, and I have not been disappointed.'
'Yes,' replied the Scotchman, 'and we came to meet a man without manners of any kind, and we have not been disappointed.'
OLD SARUM.
'Can you tell me the way to Old Sarum?' said a tourist, who was roaming over Salisbury Plain, to a country yokel he came across.
'What!' answered the rustic, 'old Sarah! she be dead last year!' Being somewhat deaf, he thought the stranger was asking after a cottager, who had been well known in that part. The site of this old city was not easily to be found on Salisbury Plain. Where the ancient Sarum once stood, grew a field of oats, and the rougher ground was pasture-land, dotted over with remnants of walls and heaps of rubbish. Sarum was a city of the tribe called the Bilgæ; it existed before the Romans visited England; it stood in a high and dry part of the large Wiltshire plain, and the Romans seized it as a capital military position.
Many of those curious remains or tombs are near. They have had the name of 'barrow' given to them, and in them are discovered, besides bones, old weapons, jewels, pottery, and other objects. At no great distance is the Druids' temple of Stonehenge, and the still more remarkable one of Abury, of which but fragments are left, though it must have been far grander than Stonehenge. The Saxon King, Egbert, lived chiefly at Old Sarum, as did several other kings, and in 960 Edgar held a national council in the city, to consider the best means of expelling the Danes. William the Conqueror, in 1086, summoned to Sarum, prelates, nobles, and knights from all parts of England, to discuss new laws. William Rufus also held a council here. It was in the reign of Henry I. that Sarum began to decline. The Empress Maud gave handsome gifts to the cathedral and clergy, but the bishop offended the king, and there were frequent quarrels between the clergy and the garrison, so that after about 1220, the inhabitants began to forsake the place, by degrees, and to build houses at New Sarum, the modern Salisbury.
The old city was very strongly fortified. Around it was a deep moat or ditch; beyond this, two ramparts; on the higher and inner rampart stood a wall of flint, chalk, and stone, about twelve feet thick, with battlements. Only one entrance to the city existed, on the east side. On the top of the hill, in the centre, was the castle or citadel. From this, the streets branched off to the walls, Sarum being divided into two parts, north and south, marked by gates and towers; there were also ten more towers at equal distances, and alongside the walls ran a circular street, which went round the whole city. On the north-west side stood the cathedral and the bishop's palace. Altogether, Old Sarum was one of the strongest cities England ever had.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [335].)
Jack's face was ashy pale, but his eyes burnt as if with some hidden fire. Estelle was half frightened; yet some inkling of the truth began to dawn faintly on her. She shrank back; but the thought that had come to her seemed so impossible that she conquered her terror.
'Yes,' she said, softly, looking up into Jack's face, 'and his greatest wish, the very greatest he has on earth, is—what do you think? To hear that the man who injured him has not been made a bad man by what he had done. He wants him to repent, and he wants him to know that he has forgiven him. Dick was afraid that the man might think he had killed him, and that the thought might make him desperate.'
'The man seems to have done harm enough,' cried Jack, in a stony voice, turning away, and walking down the steps towards the edge of the cliff.
'But Dick has forgiven it all, indeed he has, Jack,' she urged.
But Jack did not appear to hear. He stood with his back to her, gazing out to sea. Suddenly he turned and came hack, seating himself at her side. His face was very white, but his expression was resolute.
'Missie,' he said, looking full at her, but speaking in a very low voice, 'I am afraid I am going to give you a great shock. You have told me the story of Dick Peet; I will tell you the story of the man who injured him.'
'Oh, Jack! dear Jack, it is not you! Do say it is not you!' cried Estelle, tears in her eyes.
'I wish I could!' returned Jack, with a heavy sigh, his head clasped in his hands. But, looking up again, he went on: 'Though what you have told me—that Dick is alive—is a great relief to my mind, after thinking all these years that I had killed him, still I can never forgive myself the frightful outburst of temper that made me do it, nor the bitter consequences—not only to my dear mother, but to poor Dick himself and his family. Unhappily, we cannot undo the past, though we would gladly give our lives to do it.'
Again Jack's head went down on his hands, and he groaned.
'Dear Jack,' whispered Estelle, putting her hand on his arm to show something of what she felt for him, 'I wish I could recollect all that Aunt Betty said; it would comfort you, I know. But I do remember this: she said we must not let our faults conquer us, for small beginnings made great endings. Perhaps you did not take care of the little things when you were young, and so it ended in that terrible rage. But, dear, dear Jack, ever since that dreadful day, you must have been trying to conquer, or you would never be the good, kind Jack you are now. Why, I have never seen you out of temper the whole time I have been here. I can't see that you have any faults now.'
Jack smiled grimly, but the smile ended in a sigh.
'It is your kind heart that makes you think that, Missie. I have faults enough and to spare, but I hope all this trouble has made a better man of me. For one thing, it has shown me to what lengths my temper would go. I was indeed brought up with a round turn! I nearly went out of my mind. But for my mother I should have gone to the bad straight away. Though it very nearly did for her, too, she kept up for my sake, and brought me round in time. I ought to have given myself up to justice, but I could not make up my mind to bring disgrace upon her publicly; so, right or wrong, I did not do it. We fled from England, and at Cherbourg I fell in with some of the Tout-Petit fishing fleet, and threw in my lot with them. That's how we came here. It will be good news indeed to my dear mother that the result of my rage was not so bad as it might have been, though it has been bad enough.'
'Dick has forgiven that,' repeated Estelle, earnestly. 'He has indeed, and no one but you, and he, and I know anything about it.'
'Are you sure, Missie? It seems too wonderful to believe! If I thought so—why, I would go and see him when I take you home. It would please him, you say; and—and—well, I would like to ask—— '
'For what, Jack?'
'I would like to hear him say himself that he forgives—— '
He hid his face in his hands and groaned. Ruined for life, but not dead. Frightfully, hopelessly injured, but generous, forgiving! He could understand that Dick—the young handsome Dick of his recollection—had prayed for his destroyer, and—thank God—had not prayed in vain. It was, indeed, a deeply repentant, broken-hearted man who sat there in the spring sunshine with bowed head, and bitter sorrow for a deed which could not be undone.
As Estelle looked at Jack's figure, and saw the shudder which now and again passed over him, her pity was perhaps greater for this sufferer than it was for poor Dick. Her eyes were blinded with tears.
'Jack,' she said, when she could command her voice, 'dear kind Jack, you never refuse me anything. Don't say "no" to what I am going to ask you now.'
A murmur was the only reply.
'What I want you to do will not make you more miserable, Jack, and it will be a great kindness to poor Dick. Give him the pleasure of knowing what a good fellow you are now, and how miserable and sorry you are. He does forgive, you know, and he is so anxious about you, though he cannot speak properly, and tell you as he would if he were well.'
'You are sure he would wish it?'
'I am certain.'
'Missie,' he said, raising his despairing face, 'look at the position I am in. You are but a child, but your kind heart can understand as few older persons seem to do. If I go to see Dick Peet, I am proclaiming my sin to the world; and who is the sufferer?—my mother! I deserve no mercy, and for my own sake I would not spare myself one grain of shame or misery, for it was a black deed, brutally done in a frenzy of envy. But Mother—ah! Missie, you don't know what a mother she has been to me. She has sacrificed her whole life, and does not think it a sacrifice!'
'But if Dick can and does forgive, Jack,' said Estelle, 'would not Goody be glad that you have it from his own lips? Would she not feel you were better, more the real kind Jack she loves, if you asked for that forgiveness, though Dick does give it so freely? Oh, Jack, here is your chance of making amends; here is your chance of telling Dick how grieved your are.'
There was a long silence.
'I'll do it,' said Jack, rousing himself. 'I'll speak to my mother to-night.'
He started up and walked to the cliff, and stood close to the edge, as if he wanted to get as far away from the earth as possible.
Estelle buried her face in her hands, and longed for Aunt Betty, for Goody, for anybody wiser and older than herself. How long she sat, her mind full of hopes and prayers, she did not know. Suddenly she became conscious of some movement near. Looking up, startled, she saw Thomas creeping up to Jack. Jack's back was towards him, and one push would have sent him off the edge of the cliff, into the depths below. She screamed in her terror. Jack turned and faced his enemy.
Thomas did not retreat. He was too desperate. His hopes were dead, and his sole chance was in destroying the man who stood in his path. He flung himself upon Jack, with a confused notion that if he could not hurl him over the cliff, they might both go over together. At any rate, Jack should not get that profit out of the Earl's daughter to which he thought he himself had the sole right. He fought in wild despair, striking out, clinging to Jack's arms and legs, and throwing his weight on him in the mad effort to bear him down, or force him over the precipice. Jack could not understand his insane fury, and tried at first simply to overpower him, in order to hear what he was about, and ask him questions. But Thomas had no intention of being questioned. He wanted to get rid of this man once and for all. If Estelle had not screamed, he would have done it, too. He would pay her out for that, he thought, if he could be the winner in this struggle.
To his dismay, however, he found he was getting decidedly the worst of it. Jack was a giant in strength as well as in height. Finding the man would not listen to reason, he put out his strength, and Thomas soon found himself spinning along the ground at breakneck speed, considerably the worse for the handling he had received. Stunned and bruised, he lay like a log where he fell, and Jack let him lie, after a glance to see he was not much hurt.
Taking Estelle's hand, Jack led her towards the village, but the little girl, upset and shaken as she was by the fierce struggle she had witnessed, looked back once or twice at the prostrate Thomas. Jack appeared excited and angry, but did not speak all the way home.
(Continued on page [346].)
"He flung himself upon Jack."
Good-bye to Tout-Petit.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [343].)
CHAPTER XIX.
'Good-bye, dear!' said Mrs. Wright, with tears in her eyes, as Estelle clung to her in a last embrace. 'Perhaps you will come back some day, and see us again.'
'Indeed, dear Goody, I will. You have been good to me! I shall love to think of you and Jack, and everything here, often and often—and of all the kind people I have met. I cannot thank you enough for all you have done. I have been so happy. I shall never forget it.'
'I hope your friends will think you looking bonnie, dear,' went on Mrs. Wright. 'If they had seen you when Jack brought you here, they would not believe it was the same little missie at all. Now, don't be ill on the voyage, and spoil all the credit due to me.'
Mrs. Wright tried to speak in a lively tone, but the effort ended in tears. The child had been hers so long that the parting was almost as painful as if she were really losing one of her own dear ones. Estelle clung to her, wishing she could persuade her dear Goody to come home with her, that Aunt Betty might see her and thank her properly. But this was too much to expect. Goody was sure she would sever survive the voyage. Jack also was averse to the idea. He did not want to have two helpless people on his hands, he said, laughingly.
Mrs. Wright accompanied them down to the harbour, and, as they rowed out to the ship, Estelle watched her standing there till distance and tears blotted out the sight.
The wind was fair abaft, and they made good way. Estelle began gradually to like the smooth motion. Her spirits came back as she felt that every knot brought her nearer home and Aunt Betty. Jack had done his best to make her comfortable, but the smack was not a large vessel, and its accommodation was necessarily limited. Nevertheless, all that could be done to make her voyage a pleasant one was done by Jack, Fargis, and the crew. She had the cabin all to herself, and a chair was always ready for her on deck when she chose to occupy it. Usually, however, she preferred to sit near where-ever Jack was, and to talk to him. She would build castles in the air of what would happen when her father returned, and she could tell him all her wishes. He would be quite sure to do all she desired; he never refused any reasonable request, and all her requests were reasonable. Jack smiled. He let her ramble on in her dreams of how they were to meet again, and how he must have a boat of his own, and a comfortable home in England for dear Goody to live in.
Then the talk would revert to other and sadder matters. These were never mentioned except when they were quite alone, which could not be often. Once or twice, however, they did get such a quiet hour when the night-watches had been set, and it was Jack's turn on duty. Estelle would not go to bed; she preferred to come on deck to talk to him. How often afterwards did she look back upon those nights! Fine, clear moonlight; the sky full of stars, stretched like a dark curtain over them; all around the equally dark water, through which they cut with almost uncanny smoothness; the silence about them broken only by the soft lapping of the waves, and the occasional creak of the spars, or the flap of the sails.
Fargis, who had some knowledge of the coast, made for Tyre-cum-Widcombe, where, he declared, all the information required could be obtained. And so it proved. Jack, leaving Estelle on board, went to the biggest inn in the place. There he had his questions answered, with the additional assurance that he could have any carriage he liked to take the little lady home. The Earl himself was now staying at the Moat House.
As soon as it became generally known that little Lady Estelle de Bohun had been found, and was at that moment aboard the French smack in the harbour, a crowd began rapidly to get together on the little quay. The cheering, the pressing forward to get a glimpse of her, astonished the French crew quite as much as it did Estelle. Neither she nor they had any idea of her importance. They listened with keen interest as Jack translated to them what he had been told of the lost child, and how Lord Lynwood had routed the whole country upside down in his determination not to leave a stone unturned to find her. Jack became a hero to all who knew how he had saved the child; and there were a few who, pressing up to Fargis, made out the story of the rescue from his broken English.
Time, however, was of importance. Jack wanted, if possible, to get back to the boat before nightfall. Fargis would wait for him, in any case, but the matter had best be got over at once. His approaching interview with Dick Peet weighed upon his mind; other details connected with it must be settled—some decision arrived at. He was glad, therefore, when the carriage came round, and he and Estelle drove away from the amiable, but inquisitive, crowd.
As they passed through the deep lanes, and over the wide common, where the gorse was in full bloom, then under the trees of the wood, Estelle's thoughts were with Aunt Betty, whom she was to see so soon; or with Dick, and the wonderful surprise she was bringing him. Now and then she took a furtive glance at Jack, and wished the happiness of the one did not mean the unhappiness of the other.
On reaching the Bridge House, she begged that they might get out there, instead of driving up to the house. Without a word Jack sprang down, and, lifting her out, paid and dismissed the carriage. Estelle had run forward as he was doing this, but now returned to his side, saying—
'Shall it be first or last, Jack?'
Standing quite still a moment, his eyes on the blue sky and the fleecy clouds, he braced himself for an interview which must be full of pain. He looked very pale, but there was a set expression about his mouth and jaw which spoke volumes.
'As you please, Missie. Though there is no last that I know of.'
Gazing at him earnestly, she wondered of what he was thinking, and how she could soften this first meeting. Her first impulse was to run straight to dear Aunt Betty and her father. But she felt it her duty to see Dick while the interview had the chance of being quite a private one; it would be more difficult to secure secrecy if the fact of her return were known. She was sure Aunt Betty would say that whatever the sacrifice was to her, she ought to make it.
'Dick is quite alone,' she said, at last. 'I don't know when we shall find him so again. Isn't it better not to put it off?'
Without a moment's hesitation, Jack turned and followed her, though he could not have spoken to save his life. Fortunately, they reached the gate and went up to the Bridge House porch unperceived. Sitting in his armchair, as usual, was Dick, resting after his morning's outing in a wheel-chair. Comfortably happy and half asleep he looked, as Estelle put her hand upon his, saying—
'Dick!' in her soft voice.
Startled and bewildered, he gazed at her for some moments before recognition came into his eyes; then a bright smile spread over his face, and he grasped the little hand near his.
(Continued on page [358].)
A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
XI. THE GREEN MAN.
There are always people in every age who delight in notoriety, and will do anything to get themselves talked about; and there was a man of this sort, at Brighton, in the year 1806.
His craze was to be always dressed in green, and large crowds would assemble every day, outside his house, to see him drive off in his green gig, with a green whip, and a servant in green livery beside him.
The gentleman himself was invariably dressed in green pantaloons, and a green waistcoat, frock, and cravat. A green silk handkerchief stuck out of his pocket, and a large watch, with green seals, was fastened by a green chain to the green buttons of his waistcoat.
His food too was only green fruit and vegetables, and his house was entirely furnished in green.
Such fads and fancies are not unknown in our own day. At one time 'Browning' teas were held in a peculiar way. The guests would assemble and find the table laid with a brown, unbleached table-cloth; brown bread and butter and chocolate cakes were the chief diet, and every guest was expected to wear a brown costume. During the meal selections from Browning's poems were read by one of the company, and in this way they thought they honoured their favourite poet!
PLANTS WITH SIGNS.
In the olden time people did not study botany very deeply, being too busy with other matters, and they had neither books nor pictures about plants. But they talked of plants more than we perhaps think they did, and had a good many ideas concerning them, showing that they kept their eyes open to observe Nature. One of the facts noticed many centuries ago was that some plants have curious marks on flower, leaf, stem or root. Indeed, some persons supposed that all plants had signs by which you could tell their use for physic, food, or whatever else it might be.
Several plants were thought to be like the human body, such as the mandrake and the ginseng; and these, it was said, must also be good for man. Again, amongst the orchis tribes, foreign specimens of which are often so valuable, we find very singular marks and shapes. England has a man orchis and a lady orchis, but neither of them really suits the name, for their flowers have rather the appearance of a winged insect.
It is worth noting that not only the common people believed in the signs or marks to be discovered upon plants, but learned men also supposed that there was something told by many of these marks at least, if not by all of them. Certainly the general look of several poisonous kinds tells us to beware of them, such as the wild bryony, for instance, and the nightshades.
We have, too, a few instances where it does seem, even if it is only an accident, that a plant has a value which agrees with a mark or sign. Several of the old poets praise the eyebright, or euphrasia, which has a black pupil-like spot on the corolla; therefore, it was thought by our ancestors to make a good eye-lotion. At the present time, it has been proved that a medicine made from this plant will strengthen weak eyes. The flower of an English plant called the self-heal has rather the shape of a bill-hook; it is of a pretty colour, and was believed to cure wounds; and it really does act in this way to some extent. Some of our gardens have specimens of the Solomon's seal, a kind of lily. When the root is cut across, curious marks show, a little like a seal, and so it is called after the wisest of kings. People used the root as a remedy for wounds and hurts. Nowadays, again, looking at a walnut, we might not see a likeness to the human head; yet in the olden time men did, the inside having a resemblance to the skull, and the kernel representing the brain. Hence, walnuts were thought good for complaints of the head. Similarly, as the cones of a species of pine-tree had the shape of teeth, it followed that they would ease the toothache.
Shaking being one of the notable effects of that troublesome complaint, the ague, as a safeguard the quaking grass was dried and kept in the house; the aspen, too, by its constant trembling, was thought to be another remedy of value. The broad, showy flowers of the moon-daisy, suggesting pictures of the full moon, had an imaginary value, for it was used to cure the complaints which the moon was said to cause. A horseshoe being held a token of good fortune, a vetch with pods of that shape was believed to have many curious properties. Bleeding could be stopped by the herb Robert, a wild geranium of our hedges, its power being shown by the beautiful red of its young and fading leaves. One of the strangest ideas people had was about fern-seed; it is very tiny, almost invisible, and so they believed those who got a particular sort of it, could make themselves invisible when they wished!
CLOTHED IN 'CHATTERBOX.'
A reader of Chatterbox has devised an original suit of clothing, shown in the illustration. It is made entirely of sheets of Chatterbox, gummed together and fitted to the body like an ordinary cloth suit. The sheets on the front of the coat are all coloured plates, so that the suit looked much brighter than our every-day wear.
A "Chatterbox" Costume.
This strange apparel was made by Mr. H. H. Neal, of Leatherhead, and it has caused much amusement and interest. At a 'costume race' held at some athletic sports, the suit took the special prize for the best costume.
THE TIMID MOUSE.
A mouse was kept in such distress by its fear of a cat, that a magician, taking pity on it, turned it into a cat. Immediately it began to suffer from fear of a dog; so the magician turned it into a dog. Then it began to suffer from fear of a tiger, and the magician, in disgust, said, 'Be a mouse again. As you have only the heart of a mouse, it is impossible to help you by giving you the body of a noble animal.'
It is hopeless to try to accomplish anything without pluck.
THE UNION JACK.
Fig. 1.—First Union Jack.
What is the very first thing we talk of doing when we hear that the King is coming to pay a visit in our neighbourhood? I fancy I can hear every boy and girl answer at once, 'Why, hang out all our flags, of course!' But how many of us know anything about the most famous of all these flags—the Union Jack?
Fig. 2.—English Flag of St. George.
In the first place, it is called 'Union' because it is really three flags united in one; and 'Jack' after King James (Jacques) who ordered the first Union Jack (fig. 1) to be made, to stop the quarrels between the English and Scotch over their flags of St. George (fig. 2) and St. Andrew (fig. 3), each country naturally wanting its own flag to occupy the first place. In this flag, the red St. George, with a narrow border of white, to show the colour of its field, is placed over the white St. Andrew, which keeps its own blue field.
Fig. 5.—Our Union Jack of To-day.
Fig. 4.—Irish Flag of St. Patrick.
Fig. 3.—Scotch Flag of St. Andrew.
But when Ireland was united to England in 1801, we had to ask our Heralds' Office to design a fresh flag, to include the Irish national flag of St. Patrick (fig. 4).
This they managed very neatly by taking away from each quarter of the 'Jack' one half of the white St. Andrew's Cross, and in its place putting the red St. Patrick with a narrow white border, to show the colour of the field (fig. 5).
You will notice that St. Andrew's cross is arranged so as to come above St. Patrick's in the two quarters of the flag next to the flag-staff. If the flag be hung in any other way it becomes a signal of danger and distress; so let us always be careful to have our 'Jack' hung properly.
'MR. HAROLD.'
No one who had seen John Green sitting on a mile-stone opposite to the huge iron gates which opened into the Manor-house drive would have thought that it was a bitterly cold evening in December. His hands were in his pockets, and he was wrapped in thought, and he did not notice the cold.
He had been to town to try and collect a few small sums which were owing to his mother, but with little success. Things had not gone well with Mrs. Green and her son since Mr. Green's death, six months before. Mr. Green had had a long and expensive illness, and all his savings and most of his furniture had had to go in medicine and doctor's bills. He had been a carpenter, earning good wages, and Mrs. Green was very anxious to live in the same cottage, as there was a big garden, which she thought she and her son ought to be able to cultivate profitably. But, unfortunately, the apple crop failed that autumn, their rent was in arrears, and Mr. Tucker, the land agent, whom John had just met in the town, had told him that they must either pay in a week or go. There were plenty of people who would willingly have lent them the necessary money, but Mrs. Green declined to borrow under any circumstances whatever.
'If the Squire really knew what was happening on his estate,' said the boy, bitterly, to himself, 'I don't believe he would let old Tucker go on as he does. It's a shame to live up in a great house like that, and never take the trouble to find out how his agent is treating people. I'd go to him myself, but they say he always speaks to Tucker if any tenants do that, and Tucker turns them out at once. At any rate, there's one more week in which to raise three pounds—and a lot of chance there is of finding it,' and the boy laughed aloud bitterly.
'Well, there does not appear to be much to laugh at to-night,' said a voice at his elbow, and turning round Jack saw that a man, apparently a tramp, in even shabbier clothes than his own, had come up noiselessly over the snow. 'Also,' continued the new-comer, 'it would be possible to find a warmer and more comfortable seat than that mile-stone.'
'I was waiting opposite the gates, trying to make up my mind whether I would go in or not,' answered the boy, 'and I was laughing because I did not think it would make any real difference whether I went in or stayed outside.'
'That depends, I suppose, on what you want there! If I might ask, what is it?'
'I want the Squire to give my mother a little time to get together her rent; but since Mr. Harold ran away, ten years ago to-day, the Squire has never been the same man. That nearly broke his heart, and now he takes no interest in anything; he has turned us all over to an agent, who does just what he likes with us.'
'Then Mr. Harold was—— '
'His son. My father said he would have run away too if he had been Mr. Harold, though the Squire wasn't as bad in those days.'
'And who was your father?'
'Peter Green, the carpenter.'
'Well, Peter Green's son,' said the stranger, with a queer laugh, 'if you will go in and see the Squire, and come out and tell me in what sort of temper he is, I will give you my last shilling,' and he spun a coin in the air. 'You must go in by the front door, and I will wait for you in the drive.'
'Right you are,' said the boy, jumping off the mile-stone. 'I'll risk it for a shilling.'
Side by side they tramped up the snowy drive till they saw the light shining through the glass in the front door. Then the tramp drew aside, and John went boldly up the steps. The clang of the bell had scarcely died away before the door was opened by an elderly butler.
'Can I see the Squire?' asked John, in as brave a voice as he could muster.
'Show him in at once, Williams; show him in at once,' called out an impatient voice at the back of the hall.
The butler stepped back. 'I don't think, sir,' he said, 'that this is the gentleman you are expecting.'
'How do you know what gentleman I am expecting? 'Show him in at once, I tell you.'
'You'd better come straight in,' said the butler, shrugging his shoulders. He led the way across the hall, and ushered John into a comfortably furnished library. An old gentleman was sitting by the fire, enveloped in rugs. He leant forward and peered into John's face. Then he fell back wearily into his cushions. 'Dear, dear! another disappointment,' he groaned. 'Take him away, Williams.'
But John, having penetrated into the lion's den, did not mean to be dismissed so easily.
'Please, sir,' he began, hurriedly, 'I want to know whether you will give my mother a little longer to pay her rent. We have had a very hard time. Mr. Tucker is going to turn us out.'
'You must go and see Mr. Tucker about that,' answered the old man, indifferently. 'I leave all such matters to him; or, stay,' he added, 'I am expecting Mr. Harold to-night. You can come in and see him about it next week if you like.'
Then John remembered that he had heard that on the anniversary of his son's departure the old man always expected him to return, and he understood why he had been shown in so hurriedly.
'But, please, sir,' he pleaded, 'won't you write me a line for Mr. Tucker, in case Mr. Harold missed the train or anything?'
The old man put up his hands feebly. 'Take him away, Williams,' he said, querulously.' I can't be worried, or I shall be too tired to speak to Mr. Harold when he comes. Do whatever you think Mr. Harold would like.'
John followed the butler out of the room, and half an hour later he went down the steps triumphantly. In his pocket was a paper which the butler had written out and persuaded the Squire to sign, stating that Mrs. Green was on no account to be turned out of her cottage without Mr. Harold's express orders. He found the tramp waiting for him, and told his story joyfully, declining to accept the proffered shilling in return.
The tramp listened attentively, and drew himself together at the end. 'I think I will risk it,' he said, huskily. Then he turned to John: 'Look here, young man, you will find it to your advantage to say nothing about to-night, whatever news you may hear in the village to-morrow. See?'
'You aren't going to hurt the Squire?' asked John, anxiously.
'I hope not, but you will probably understand to-morrow,' and the shabby figure strode away up the drive.
The next day the villagers were electrified by the news that Mr. Harold had returned at last.
That is many years ago now, and John Green, the head-gardener at the Manor-house, sometimes wonders, as he watches the care with which the present Squire selects an orchid for his button-hole, whether the tramp who spoke to him on that snowy December night was not the figure of a dream.
IN HARVARD MUSEUM.
The American University of Harvard contains in its Museum one of the greatest artistic marvels of the world. This curiosity consists of hundreds of specimens of flowers and plants, all made in glass, and so true to nature, both in form and colouring, that the flowers seem as if they had just been gathered. Even the tiny hairs which appear on the stems of certain plants are faithfully reproduced on these glass imitations.
These glass plants are made by two Germans, a father and his son, and so jealously do they guard the secret of the manufacture that it is possible the knowledge may die with them.
A THOUGHTLESS DAISY.
IS very cold,' a Daisy said
Upon a meadow green,
'Dark, gloomy clouds are overhead,
Without a ray between.
These angry gusts of bitter wind
(So unexpected too)
Are really more than I can bear—
They chill me through and through.'
Just then his discontented eye
Looked sorrowfully up,
And chanced across the path to spy
A golden Buttercup.
Its petals flinched before the wind,
The stalk was roughly bent,
And yet the Daisy could not hear
One word of discontent.
And then this foolish Daisy cried:
'It's plain enough to spy,
Most blossoms in this meadow wide
Are better off than I!
They do not mind the shadows dark,
Nor feel the bitter wind;
If I could be a buttercup,
I really shouldn't mind.'
Now, like this Daisy in the grass
Some people I have known,
Who, while their daily troubles pass
Do nothing else but moan,
And think that those who bravely bear
The chilling wind and rain
Can feel no sorrow in their hearts
Because they don't complain.
JOCK'S COLLIE.
A True Story.
Travellers over the great trans-continental railways of the United States and Canada gaze with awe and wonder at the grandeur of Nature in the wild canyons and rugged peaks of the Rocky Mountains. In many places the railway tunnels through overhanging rocks, or winds round narrow shelves above gloomy precipices.
The railway companies take the greatest precautions for the safety of their trains in the mountain sections. Besides the usual working gangs, there are special track-walkers, and 'safety switch-openers,' who lead solitary lives in the great hills.
Spring thaws and showers loosen the frost-bound soil, trickling snow-rills grow into gullying torrents, and the jar of a passing train sets in motion a loose boulder, which, with ever-increasing speed, at last hurls itself upon the track. Even the echoes of the locomotive whistle will in some states of the atmosphere bring disaster. Tiny snow crystals are jarred by the sound-waves; these start on a downward career, gathering volume and speed until a mighty avalanche has been developed.
In one of these mountain canyons lives a Scotch track-walker and his only companion, a beautiful and intelligent collie dog, who always accompanies his master on the inspection rounds.
It was in the late afternoon of a strenuous day in May, when Jock and Collie arrived weary and hungry at the 'shack' (hut) door. Everything was satisfactory in the canyon, the section gang had gone down the track, and with a sigh of content Jock set about preparing his evening meal. Collie, with his head between his paws, watched the proceedings. Suddenly he assumed an alert, listening attitude, then he set off at a great rate up the track.
When supper was ready Jock whistled for his companion, and on looking out was surprised to find him gone; but from the narrowing walls of the gorge came the sound of his furious barking. Jock whistled again and again, but the dog did not come. Perfectly convinced that something was wrong, he seized his rifle and hurried off, expecting to find that Collie had cornered some wild animal, or that some animal had cornered him! Round the curve he hurried, and what he saw almost paralysed him.
A great boulder, weighing many hundredweight, lay across the track, and on top of it, wild with excitement, was Collie.
On the little flat near the 'shack' was the switch at which the Pacific and Atlantic Expresses—the trains going East and West—crossed. They were due almost at once. He was alone, time was short, and upon his action depended the safety of many lives. He could not go both ways at once with his warning; but down the western track beyond the switch he sped with explosive 'torpedoes,' or detonating signals. Then he hurried back again past the dog (still on his signal station), and far to the east, round the long curve, with his red flags of danger.
The express from the Pacific, warned by the torpedoes, steamed slowly, very slowly, to the switch, then came to a standstill.
The train crew ran down to the hut, which was thick with smoke from burnt 'flap-jacks' and frizzled bacon, but found no sign of Jock or Collie. Round the curve they ran, and there, still on the boulder, was Collie, barking, as the brakeman expressed it, 'to beat the band.'
The others continued the pursuit of Jock, while the brakeman tried to coax the dog down. But Collie was there for a purpose, and not until Jock returned would he leave his post. His master's smiling face and hearty voice gave assurance that all was well, and then Collie fairly hurled himself upon Jock, licked his face and gave frantic yelps of delight.
An extempore breakdown gang cleared the track, and the great trains thundered away to Atlantic and Pacific—saved by a dog!
"There, still on the boulder, was Collie, barking."
"The third time he collapsed, and was pulled back."
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By Harold Ericson.
VIII.—THE MAN AT THE WHEEL.
'Have either of you fellows ever been in the middle of a fire at sea?' asked Vandeleur one evening, when informed that it was his turn to spin a yarn for the benefit of the rest. 'If not, I advise you to keep as far away from such a thing as you can. My own experience is only, so to speak, on a small scale; that is, I was only, at the time, upon a short journey across a lake in a small Japanese steamer—a voyage of about sixty miles—but I can assure you I was never more frightened in my life. One feels so utterly helpless when apparently at the mercy of the most pitiless of the elements, far from shore, and—for all one can see—confronted by the necessity to choose one of two kinds of death, if one is more terrible than the other—drowning or burning.
'Am I right in believing that you succeeded in cheating both the fire and the water, perhaps out of deference to the hangman?' asked Bobby, 'or am I speaking to a somewhat solid ghost?'
'Escaped, I believe.' replied Vandeleur, 'in order that I might try to teach manners to a certain ruffian of the name of Robert Oakfield.'
With the words, Vandeleur fell suddenly upon Bobby, and quickly upsetting him, rubbed his nose in the soft moss. There was a short, sharp struggle, and Vandeleur returned to his seat.
'I have not yet succeeded in my object,' continued Vandeleur, 'but I hope for the best.'
We had gone about half-way to our destination—town called Shukisama, on the other side of the lake—when it was suddenly discovered that our little steamer, the Toki Maru, was on fire. With very little warning, flames sprang up from the hold—no one ever discovered how the fire began—and almost in an instant the half of the steamer which lay aft of the hold became unapproachable on account of the dense volumes of black smoke which flew in clouds over it, driven by the head-wind against which the little steamer was making its way.
The captain quickly ordered every passenger forward into the bows of the vessel, out of the reach of the heat and suffocating smoke. The crew then attempted, with hose and pump, to keep the fire in hand; but already, it appeared, the flames had obtained the mastery, and their attempts came too late. The cargo, I believe, was tow, or some other oily substance difficult to extinguish once the fire had secured a firm hold upon it. Moreover, the smoke and heat were such that it was impossible for the workers to approach near enough to concentrate their efforts where they would be most likely to succeed.
The passengers huddled together in the bows of the little steamer and watched the efforts of the crew. It was obvious that these efforts had failed.
'Have we time to reach Shukisama?' men and women asked one another; 'it is twenty miles, or more—nearly two hours—shall we do it?' The captain, when anxiously asked as to this, replied: 'We hope so; who can tell? Much depends on the man at the wheel.'
The man at the wheel! Not one of us selfish people in safety and comfort—speaking comparatively—in the bows, had thought of the poor fellow back there in the stern, sticking bravely to his post in spite of the dense, hot smoke which must be enveloping him in its suffocating fumes.
'He cannot last long, captain,' said some one, 'in that atmosphere; he will be suffocated, or he will give up and jump into the sea. What will happen if there is no one to steer the ship?'
'She will go round and round,' replied the captain, laughing grimly, 'while we are roasted or drowned. At present he is sticking to his post, and we are travelling in our course. You may be thankful, all of you, that we have a brave man, young Hayashi, at the wheel. He was only married last week, and his wife is at Shukisama; you may be sure he will do his best to get home.'
'A man may be ever so much in love,' said a passenger, 'but he cannot breathe fire and smoke for air: it must be pretty hot where he is, and it will soon be hotter!'
A cry went up for volunteers to relieve the man at the wheel. Several came forward—they are brave as lions, these Japanese. One was selected as the first to make an effort to pass through the smoke and flame to the stern of the vessel. A line was made fast to the good fellow's waist, for, he had said, in case he should collapse in the dense smoke, he would rather be hauled back in any position, than left there!
Three times the brave man rushed into the mass of hot, poisonous vapour, and twice he returned staggering and choking. The third time he entirely collapsed, and was pulled back. His jacket was on fire and he was unconscious. A second man instantly volunteered; he had a new suggestion to make.
'I will slip over the side of the ship, and you can pay out line gradually until I have reached a spot where I think I can climb up. When I pull, you must slack out the line.'
'Mind the screw. Don't get sucked back too far astern,' said the captain; 'be careful.'
The man jumped into the water, and was carried instantly astern; he tugged, and line was paid out. Soon it became evident, by the tension of the line, that he had clung on to the vessel's side; probably he was climbing laboriously upward—his plan was going to succeed.
But the line suddenly sprang outwards; he had jumped into the sea again; a few minutes, and he was hauled back, out of breath and exhausted.
'I couldn't climb it,' he said, 'it's too steep and slippery. I nearly got sucked into the screw. The flames are not near the wheel yet, but the smoke is flying right over it in dense, black volumes. How young Hayashi is standing it, I don't know.'
But the steamer was standing straight as a line upon her course; it was obvious that the good fellow's nerve still held out, his eyes were not yet dimmed with the smoke and heat—good, brave Hayashi!
Some one proposed that the passengers should approach in a body as far aft as the fire permitted, and then shout together words of praise and encouragement. This was done. Some thirty men and women stood together nearly amidships and shouted in time to the beat of a conductor: 'Hayashi—Banzai—brave Hayashi—you shall have glory and reward—Banzai!' Some said they heard a voice reply 'Banzai,' some heard nothing. Other attempts were made to relieve the plucky fellow at the wheel. His lungs and breathing apparatus, a doctor present declared, must be made of cast iron; since he had stood the poisonous fumes so long, he might perhaps last out; people would see the burning vessel from Shukisama before long, and help would come.
But the flames began to gather strength; the after portion of the steamer seemed now to be a kind of seething cauldron of fire. The heat grew intense, even up at our end; what must it be for poor Hayashi, with the wind carrying it at close quarters into his face? Would he actually stand at the wheel, devoted fellow, until the flames caught him and burned his hands as they gripped the spokes, and scorched his eyeballs so that they could see the course no longer? There was no knowing what these marvellous Japanese could not do in the way of pluck and fortitude!
On went the little vessel upon her way; Hayashi could not possibly have steered a better course, said the captain. He had not once deviated by a hair's breadth.
But every moment the heat grew more and more; women wept and hugged their children to them. Another half-hour, and—unless help arrived—every passenger must swim for it. In spite of the headwind, the fire was encroaching forward as well as aft.
Another five minutes of acute suspense was passed. Personally, after a brief prayer, I spent the time in deciding which woman I would try to save when it came to swimming. I had already made my selection, when suddenly a voice called out from the rigging, 'Banzai! they have seen us—a steamer comes!'
Then the heat and the danger were forgotten in the excitement of watching the oncoming steamer. When two vessels, both going at full speed, are meeting one another, the intervening distance is soon covered. Suffice to tell, the succour arrived in time, and every passenger was taken off in safety.
Meanwhile a boat had been sent round the stern, with orders to shout to Hayashi to jump clear of the ship and allow himself to be picked up. The boat returned almost immediately; no one, the crew said, replied to their shouts. Presently the steamer separated from her burning sister and dropped back; then it was seen that the flames now swept the entire stern of the ill-omened Toki Maru. The wheel still stood, but no one was at it, nor could any human form be discerned on deck or in rigging.
Sadly we steamed homewards. We were saved, indeed, every one of us, but he to whom all were indebted for their lives, the young hero, Hayashi, the best and bravest of them all, had fallen a victim. Probably he had sprung, scorched and maddened with pain, into the sea, and had gone down like a stone.
But you will scarcely believe it, while groups of us still stood upon the quay at Shukisama discussing the tragedy, and wondering who would break the sad news to the wife at Hayashi's home, a small boat hove in sight, coming in from the lake; in it sat a man rowing, and some one said, 'That is like the Toki Maru's boat which we thought burned.' Another said, 'What if it should be Hayashi in it?' Well, it was Hayashi. He arrived, grinning and well, though black with smoke and fire and half suffocated.
As the largest subscriber (Vandeleur ended), I was asked to present to Madam Hayashi the testimonial which the passengers united to offer to our brave 'man at the wheel.' He could not be made to see that he had deserved it, however.
'It got too hot at last,' he said with a laugh, 'and I cut down the boat and dropped overboard. 'The wheel? Oh, I lashed it so that it couldn't turn. Yes, I choked very much, but that is nothing!'
'I should like to meet a few more of Hayashi's kind before I die,' said Vandeleur, after a pause—'good, simple, humble chap; the very stuff heroes should be made of.'
A HELPING HAND.
A cabman, who had for some time been in the habit of drinking too much, signed the pledge at the request of a friend, but soon afterwards broke it. Conscience-stricken and ashamed, he tried to keep out of the way of his friend; but the friend was not to be put off. One day he found the poor, miserable man, and taking hold of his hand he said:
'John, when the road is slippery and your horse falls down, what do you do with him?'
'I help him up again,' replied John.
'Well, I have come to do the same,' said his friend. 'The road was slippery, I know, John, and you fell; but there is my hand to help you up again.'
The cabman's heart was touched. He said: 'God bless you, sir; you will never have cause to regret this. By His help I will never fall again.'
And to this day he has kept his word.
AN EASTERN PUZZLE.
An old Persian died, leaving seventeen camels to be divided among his three sons in the following proportions: the eldest to have half, the second a third, and the youngest a ninth. Of course, camels cannot be divided into fractions, so, in despair, the brothers submitted their difference to a very wise old dervish.
'Nothing easier!' said the wise Ali. 'I will divide them for you.'
How did he do it?
H. B. Score.
[Answer on page [371].]
WELL REPAID.
A man who often travelled with large sums of money in his care was persuaded by his friends to carry a pistol as a safeguard.
On one of his journeys be was stopped by a tramp, and, loth to use his weapon, for he was a Friend, he resorted to stratagem, and gave up his money at once. Said he to the tramp: 'I must not be thought to have given up my master's cash without a struggle.' So, taking off his coat and hat, he said, 'Take a shot at that, friend;' and the robber complied.
"Give me back my money!"
'Fire away again,' said the Friend. The thief did so. 'Again,' said the other.
'I can't,' said the robber; 'I have no more shot.'
'Then,' said the other, producing his own pistol, 'give me back my money, or I will shoot you myself.'
An Arab Bakery.
HOW THE ARABS BAKE THEIR BREAD.
The wandering Arabs subsist almost entirely upon bread, wild herbs, and milk. It is rather strange that they should eat so much bread, because they never remain sufficiently long in one place to sow wheat and reap the harvest from it. They are compelled to buy all their corn from the people who live in towns, and have cultivated fields. When these townsmen and villagers have gathered in their harvests, the Arabs of the desert draw near their habitations, and send messengers to buy up corn for the tribe, and perhaps also to sell the 'flocks' of wool which they have shorn from their sheep.
Having obtained their supplies of corn, the Arabs return to the deserts or the open pasture-lands. They always carry with them little hand-mills, and when bread is to be made, it is the women's duty to grind the corn. The hand-mills are two stones, the shape of large, thick cakes, one of which lies upon the top of the other. The stones are about eighteen inches in diameter, and there is a hole through the centre of the upper one. A wooden peg, which is stuck upright in a small hole in the lower stone, projects into the larger hole of the stone above, and serves to keep it in its proper place. A smaller peg, inserted near the edge of the upper stone, forms a handle by means of which the whole stone may be turned round upon the top of the lower stone, and in this way the faces of the stones are made to grind against each other. The Arab woman places the mill upon a cloth spread upon the ground, and taking a few handfuls of corn she pours them into the hole in the centre of the upper stone, and begins to turn the mill. The grain falls through the hole, and passes between the two stones, where it is ground into flour, which flows out all round the mill, and is caught in the cloth.
When sufficient flour has been ground, the woman gathers it together, places it in a wooden bowl, adds a little water, and kneads it. No yeast is put to it, and the dough is of that kind which we call unleavened. It does not 'rise,' or swell, after it is kneaded, and the bread is not full of little holes, as our yeast-made bread is.
The dough is made into round balls, each of which is then rolled out into a thin cake. The oven is nothing but an iron plate, slightly raised in the centre, which is placed over a fire. The cakes are laid upon this plate, and are baked in a few minutes.
This is the manner of baking bread which is adopted by those tribes which are always moving from place to place. There are other tribes which change their encampment at longer intervals, and are often in one place for several weeks. Many of these bake their bread in a different way. They make an oven in the ground by digging a hole about three feet deep, making it wide at the bottom and narrow at the top, and they plaster the inside with mud. Having done this, they light a fire in the hole, and when it is thoroughly heated, they press small but thick cakes of dough against the sides, and hold them there for a few minutes until they are baked. These cakes, like those baked on the iron plate, are eaten hot.
SANTA CLAUS.
WHILE ago the silent house
Re-echoed with their voices sweet—
The music that their laughter made,
The patter of their little feet.
Outside, the wintry winds blew shrill,
And all around the snow lay white;
But little cared they for the storm,
For 'Santa Claus will come to-night.'
We heard them running to and fro,
So eager in their merry glee
To hang their stockings, limp and long,
Where 'he' will be most sure to see.
Such wondrous fairy-tales they weave,
Such pictures of those far-off shores
From whence each Christmas-tide there comes
Their unknown friend, and all his stores.
Now they are all in Slumberland,
And Mother comes, with noiseless tread,
For one last kiss; the shaded light
Gleams softly o'er each curly head.
A rustle, and a murmur low;
Half-opened are the dreaming eyes.
'Hush! hush! it's only Mother, dear!'
''Tis Santa Claus!' the sleeper sighs.
To-morrow, when the dawning light
Breaks through the wintry eastern skies,
What joy will greet the morning bright,
What happy hearts and sweet surprise!
And we, whose childhood long since fled,
Would fain entreat old Time to pause,
To give us back our childish faith,
And simple trust in Santa Claus.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [347].)
Shocked beyond measure at the change in the fine, handsome Dick Peet he remembered years ago, Jack looked at him. His heart died within him. He had not, thank Heaven, killed his friend; but, alas! how little short of that was the mischief he had done! Could Dick ever forgive him? Even if he should, Jack could never forgive himself. Never should he forget his first sight of the changed, ruined Dick, nor that it was his hand which had wrought the change and ruin.
Estelle's touch roused him. 'Jack, dear Jack, come and speak to him. He is ready to forgive. See, he is waiting to do so. Be very gentle, and speak low. He will understand then.'
Jack's face was ashen, and his stalwart frame trembled as he approached the chair in which the invalid reclined. Dick's eyes shone with some of their old intelligence when he saw his former enemy, and his hands were held out in eager welcome. It almost seemed as if he looked upon Jack, not as an enemy to be pardoned, but as an old comrade with whom there had been a grievous misunderstanding.
'I wonder if he remembers there is anything to forgive?' thought Estelle, as she watched him.
Jack took the hands held out to him. He could barely mutter the word—'Forgive!'
'As I hope to be forgiven!' came in clear, steady tones, such as Dick had not been known to utter since his misfortune. There was a long silence. Estelle's eyes were full of tears. Jack, his head raised, was looking at Dick. But Dick's face was radiant with a joy that was not of this earth. His great desire had been granted. He was lying back, still clasping the hand of his enemy, but with his eyes on the blue sky he could see above the trees. Presently, as no one moved, he looked again at Jack, murmuring in his usual half-inarticulate way, but with a smile which meant a great deal to the sailor, 'My friend!'
'To the end of my life, if you will let me!' answered Jack, fervently. 'Thank Heaven you are alive! But that you can treat me so, receive me as a friend, after—— '
'Have waited—hoped—thankful!'
'What can I do for you? Let me do something!'
'You have come! All—clear—now!'
He began to look so faint that Estelle said hastily: 'We will come and see you again, Dick. You must rest now.'
'Come—again!' repeated Dick, his eyes appealing to Jack.
'I will,' replied Jack, getting up to go into the cottage.
'How do you do, Mrs. Peet?' said Estelle, as Dick's mother appeared. 'Poor Dick is quite startled and faint at the sight of us.'
'Lady Estelle!' she exclaimed, lifting her hands in amazement. 'Wherever did you come from? No wonder Dick is startled! Why, you might knock me down with a feather! And how bonnie you look! Not at all the worse for all you've been so long away.'
'I am coming to tell you all about it, but I must first go and see Aunt Betty.'
'Well, it will do her good to see you. It is a sight for old eyes to see your sweet face again, Missie!' Then, glancing at Jack, 'Is that the man who has taken care of you, and brought you home?'
'Yes, Mrs. Peet, it is; and you shall hear some day how good and kind he and his mother have been to me. But I have not time now, and you had better see how poor Dick is.'
Jack had wandered down to the gate in a stunned frame of mind, and here Estelle joined him, to beg him to walk up to the house with her.
'No, no, Missie, I could not—not after what has happened. I couldn't have people thanking me, and all that. I should feel a brute!'
Estelle looked distressed, but Jack went on, his hand on the gate:
'You see the business is not over yet. I must tell Dick's father. Where do you think I can find him?'
'Must you tell him to-day—just to-day?'
'It is best got over at once.'
'Then come up with me and find him, and we can see Aunt Betty at the same time.'
The gate at which they were standing was some dozen yards or so from the road, and, as Estelle spoke, some one rode round the bend and came towards them.
'Father!' cried Estelle, springing towards him, her face radiant, and forgetting everything in the joy of seeing him.
'My little girl!' he cried, springing from his horse.
He clasped her in his arms with a force which at any other time would have startled the child. Neither could speak, for at such an hour speech fails. Who shall describe the meeting? After nearly a year the lost had been found! A year which had laid its mark on all their lives, but which, now that it had passed, seemed to Lord Lynwood as 'a dream when one awaketh.' His child back in his arms, looking well and strong as ever, with every evidence of having been well cared for, her sweet eyes looking up into his!—is it wonderful that for some moments he could think of no one else, look at nothing but the face of his only child?
Jack remained quite still lest he should disturb them, his eyes on the distant hills; he would not, even unnoticed, intrude on their meeting. It was enough that he had seen a light—radiant, beautiful—break over his 'Little Missie's' face before he turned away.
There was a swift question and answer after the silence, and then Lord Lynwood, recovering himself, spoke.
'How can I thank you, my good fellow?' he said, holding out his hand to Jack.
'No thanks required, thank you, sir' returned the sailor, gravely; 'but if you'd be so kind as to tell me where I can find Mr. Peet, the gardener?'
It sounded so very commonplace that Lord Lynwood gave a laugh.
'Do you think he will be more grateful than we are?'
'I want no gratitude, sir,' replied Jack, gruffly; 'it is not for that I want him. If you wish to thank anybody, sir, it is my mother, who has nursed the little Missie through a terrible time.'
'Father,' said Estelle, who could scarcely speak even yet, and was clinging to her father's hand, as his arm rested round her shoulders, 'this is the dearest fellow that ever lived, and I have been cruel to forget him while I was so happy. But for him—— '
'Come now, Missie,' broke in Jack, turning red and pale alternately. His changing colour reminded Estelle that this day, so full of joy to her, must be one of acute pain to him.
'I know why he wants Peet,' she said, a shadow crossing her face. She was puzzled as to her duty in the matter.
'Do not stop my daughter,' said Lord Lynwood; 'I want to hear all that her kind and good friends have done for her. You must come up to the house and let my aunt, Lady Coke, see you. You will be bringing back new life to her with the restoration of my little girl. We should like, also, to ask you,' he continued, in a courteous tone, 'how it is that you have not been able to bring back the child before this?'
'I lost my memory, Father,' cried Estelle. 'I was always trying to remember my name, and who I was, but I could not. Then I had a dream—the night when Jack would go out to sea, that kept coming back to me, but still I could not put a name to anybody. Suddenly I saw Thomas, and dreadful things happened, from all of which Jack saved me; and then it all came to me, and I told Jack who I was, and where I lived. Then he brought me back at once.'
Lord Lynwood pressed her to him, and looked down with dim eyes at the sweet little face.
'Wright,' he said, 'I am not going to take a refusal, I must hear all about it. There is so much to ask! My child lost, and nobody knows how it happened, or what followed after you found her! We made all possible search, but no trace of her could we come across, and we had given up all hopes of ever seeing her again. You cannot now go away and leave all our questions unanswered. We will go to Lady Coke, who will like to add her thanks to mine for—— '
'Sir,' returned Jack, becoming very white, but looking determined, 'if that is your wish, then it is my duty to tell you what sort of a man I am before I can accept thanks or go to your house.'
'Jack! Jack!' pleaded Estelle, springing to his side and clasping his hand in both her own.
But he took no notice; perhaps her handclasp only strengthened his resolve.
'Do you see that poor fellow there,' he continued, pointing to Dick, over whom Mrs. Peet was leaning, administering some cordial. 'Do you see that poor wreck of a man? I did that!'
He turned away.
There was silence. Lord Lynwood stood dumbfounded. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Estelle, looking from one to the other, exclaimed, 'Father, don't look at him like that. He is so miserable; so very, very miserable, and oh, so sorry! And, Father, Dick has forgiven him, and calls him his "friend." What can any one say when Dick forgives?'
'Nothing,' answered her father. 'Wright, my poor fellow, they say the greater the sinner, the greater the saint; so there is your chance for you. As for myself, I owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never repay. So don't expect me to cast stones. Ah, you ask for Peet? Do you wish to make your confession to him?'
'It is my duty, sir.'
Lord Lynwood was silent a moment, but Estelle exclaimed, in anxious tones, 'Dear Father, this need not be told to everybody, need it? Only to you and Aunt Betty, and Peet? Why is poor Jack to have—— '
'Certainly not,' returned Lord Lynwood, looking up. 'Wright, come with me to Peet. He is a gruff sort of chap, but true blue at bottom. He will take it hard at first, so I had better prepare you.'
(Continued on page [367].)
"He could barely mutter the word—'Forgive!'"
"Colonel Smith emptied the glass."