STORIES FROM AFRICA.
XII.—DARKNESS AND DAWN.
O one can rightly understand the African races without knowing something of the terror of witchcraft, magic, and ill-luck which hangs like a cloud over their lives. Differing from each other in many ways, the African tribes are alike in this, that their religion is one of fear, dread of unseen powers that work against man's peace and well-being unless propitiated by gifts, or defied by charms; and the result of this belief is to put unlimited power into the hands of those who profess to have intercourse with the spirit-world, and to foresee, or even to influence, the future of their neighbours. Therefore the European who comes to teach, to civilise, or to govern, finds his mightiest opponent in the witch-doctor, or medicine-man, who knows a little more than his neighbours, and makes capital out of their ignorance.
Some seventy years ago a party of these witch-doctors, who were making an excellent living among the Kaffirs by professing to make rain and find witches to order, met their match for once in the English Governor of the newly annexed province known as 'Queen Adelaide,' the genial and energetic officer of Peninsular fame, Colonel—afterwards Sir Harry—Smith.[5] The English 'father,' as he was styled by the Kaffirs, had acquired an extraordinary influence, by dint of much practical common sense and knowledge of humanity, a rigid military discipline, and last, not least, a stick with a very large knob at the end. Not that he ever used this stick to correct offenders, but it was always present on state occasions, and was reverenced as a sort of magic wand by the natives, for the words spoken by the 'father,' when he took that stick in his hand, were as the laws of the Medes and Persians. 'I shall wait for two hours before I touch my stick,' he said to a trembling, cringing chief, who had tried to stir up rebellion against the English rule. 'I must be quite cool; Englishmen are generous, but they must be just.'
It was a very anxious two hours that the chief spent, waiting for the touch upon the magic wand, and when he was summoned to the presence of the 'father,' and solemnly forgiven, he was cured of treasonable practices once and for all.
Colonel Smith started a vigorous campaign against rain-making and witch-finding, the latter being a practice not altogether unknown in England, where, three hundred years ago, it was not difficult to get rid of an obnoxious neighbour by a charge of witchcraft.
A poor man, robbed of his cattle and cruelly burnt by a chief who was rich enough to pay the witch-doctor, came to the 'father' to declare his innocence, and beg for redress. The knobbed stick, of course, came into action, and from behind it the judgment went forth that the chief should at once restore all the cattle taken from the injured man, with ten extra in compensation for his sufferings, and another ten as a fine to the English Government. East and west the news of the judgment was carried, in native fashion, the watchman on each of the low hills taking up and passing on the news of the 'father's' decision; so that, when the chief took no notice of the order, his evil conduct was known far and wide. Down came the cavalry upon the obstinate chief's territory; his cattle were driven off, and a receipt for them handed to him, that the whole affair might be thoroughly business-like and judicial. The astonished Kaffir had no resource but to cast himself humbly before the 'father' and the knobbed stick; and he became thenceforward the Governor's faithful friend and adherent.
The rain-makers were dealt with after another fashion. The Governor gathered a party of the most famous professors, and, in the presence of their clients and admirers, asked if they could really make rain as they declared. The wizards evidently felt that a bad quarter of an hour was coming. They hesitated; then, looking at the expectant faces of the people, who had doubtless paid many an ox for a shower, or the promise of one, they answered, as stoutly as they dared, that they possessed such power. The Englishman went on to exhibit various articles of English manufacture—his knife, his hat, his boots, and so on—asking, 'Can you make this?' And, as they all agreed in denying, he kindly explained how such things were made, without magic, in his country. Then, suddenly holding up a glass of water, he inquired—
'Is this like the water you cause to come?
'Yes,' agreed the chief doctor, cautiously.
'Very good.' Colonel Smith emptied the glass, and said amicably to the Kaffirs, 'Now, fill it again; put your rain into this glass.'
The rain-makers sought in vain for escape.
'Put more rain into the glass,' demanded the 'father,' sternly.
'We cannot,' faltered the baffled magicians, knowing their reputation gone for ever, while the Governor, addressing the people, announced that since none but God, the Great Spirit, could really make rain, any one who professed to do so henceforward would be promptly 'eaten up'—that is to say, deprived of his property by the 'father's' orders. He had the sagacity, however, to make his peace with the discomfited professors by sending for them afterwards, and providing each with some cattle and a little 'stock-in-trade,' as he calls it, to start them on a more honest way of life.
And if the African's dread of witchcraft makes him ruthless to the accused, he is equally pitiless in his terror of what he calls 'ill-luck.' An 'unlucky' child may, he believes, bring misfortune upon a whole village, and if mother-love triumphs sometimes over fear, and the little one grows out of babyhood without any neighbour knowing that it has cut its top teeth first, or is in some other way marked for misfortune, the secret may none the less leak out some day. And then the poor little bringer of 'bad luck' will quietly disappear, or will sicken and die of poison, administered by some terrified neighbour.
Two or three years ago, a frightened young mother brought her little one to a teacher in East Africa. The poor, precocious baby had been born with one tooth, and it showed some love and courage in the mother that she had come for help to the white friend who taught that it was wicked to kill babies for fear of bad luck. She could never hide it, she declared; the neighbours knew it already. Could the English 'Bibi' save the child?
The English 'Bibi' determined to test the faith of one of her Christian girls, a young wife who had no children of her own. She sent for her and asked the question, 'Rose, would you like a baby to take care of?'
Rose's beaming face was sufficient answer.
'But, Rose, it is a kigego (unlucky) baby.'
Rose met the information with disdain. 'I am a Christian; I am not afraid of a kigego.'
'But you must ask your husband first.'
The wife, in East Africa, is generally the more powerful influence in the house, and Rose would probably have been prepared to carry off the infant there and then. However, her husband proved to be quite of the same mind; and under the watchful care of the devoted foster-parents the poor little kigego will have every chance of bringing happiness into the house.
One more story of the triumph of light over darkness.
Under the banks of a river in West Africa there waited, some years ago, two or three canoes, concealed by the overhanging trees. A great man of the place was dead, and, according to the native custom, a little girl must be thrown alive into the river to drown. The few Christians had protested in vain against the murder, and, finding they could not prevent the deed, waited now in the shadow of the bank to save the child, if they could. They watched the poor little terrified creature flung into deep water, struggling and sinking. But, mercifully for her, one of the customs is to fasten a dozen or so of fowls about the neck of the victim, and the frightened birds, by their fluttering and flapping, kept her head above water until she drifted within reach of the rescuers. The little one was saved, and taken away from the neighbourhood, where her life would never have been secure.
And so, little by little, the sun rises upon the Dark Continent. One by one the old evil customs pass away. The Moorish galleys no longer hold the seas in dread; the slave caravan no longer leaves its terrible track of bleaching bones from Central Africa to the coast. Benin and Omdurman, and other 'cruel habitations,' have been thrown open and broken down. Wise heads have thought and planned, brave blood has been shed, noble lives laid down for the good of Africa, and, by slow degrees, the shadows are fleeing before the dawn.
THE FAIRIES' NIGHT.
HE foxgloves are the sentinels
That guard the fairies' sleep,
When twilight comes, and to their beds
The wee elves softly creep.
And each wild rose a cradle is
To lull them to repose,
While over them, so pink and white,
The petals tightly close.
They all night long serenely sleep,
Until the peep of day;
And then the roses open wide
To send the elves away.
THE COW-WAGGON.
During a recent visit at a Western ranch, we saw what was to us an entirely novel vehicle, a 'cow-waggon'—an immense canvas-covered van drawn by four horses. We also enjoyed the experience of a drive in one, lurching over the plain like a yacht in a rough sea.
The cow-waggon is fitted with all the necessary camping outfit used by the cow-boys on a 'round-up,' or cattle-herding expedition. Every bit of space is used, and in its ample canvas cavern are packed the beds, provisions, cooking utensils, tent canvas, and the odds-and-ends of the 'outfit.'
The back of the cow-waggon comes down and turns out on supports, making a shelf-table; behind the movable back are a cupboard and the cook's store-lockers, always well stocked, for the 'punchers' (men who brand the cattle) are men of mighty appetite. Meals served on the prairie by the cow-waggon cook are splendid. They consist of coffee and beans, bacon and beef, dried fruit and delicious rolls. The rolls and other 'sour-dough' dainties are baked in a Dutch oven. The term 'sour-dough' is another Western word. It was first used to denote the light bread baked by the cow-waggon cook, though the bread is usually excellent. A later use of 'sour-dough' is as a title for newly arrived miners in the Arctic goldfields of the Klondyke.
When the camping-ground is reached, a wide canvas is stretched over the cow-waggon; this spreads out on all sides, and is a shade 'in a weary land' for the tired puncher.
Cattle are on the move at sunrise, and it behoves the cow-boy to be also on the alert. The sun, coming up over the great stretches of plain, gives a similar impression to that of a sunrise at sea. If the round-up is in Alberta, the grass is fragrant with wild flowers, especially the dwarf-rose, and the morning air is melodious with bird-songs.
The 'puncher' comes out from his blankets and scans the hundreds of cattle dotted here and there in the shadow of the foot-hills. Presently an animal stretches out its hind legs and comes clumsily to its feet; others follow, and the herds are soon busily cropping the dew-laden grass. The puncher looks at his rope and his horse, sniffs the aroma of coffee, and promptly answers to the call of 'Grub.' There is a flourish of tin plates and cups, and of iron-handled knives and forks, and a rapid disappearance of the 'chuck.' Then to horse and the duties of the day.
A Cow Waggon Encamped and on the March.
The 'outfit' is packed. The cook hitches up the horses and starts for the next camping-ground. The cow-boys pursue their business of 'cutting out;' cattle, with tails valiantly erect, snorting defiance, rush by the 'cow-waggon,' which, unmoved amid this mimic war, goes lurching over the plain.
Like many other institutions of the West, the cow-waggon will, in a few years, be a thing of the past. Wire fences, and the enclosure of the pasturelands, are getting rid of the need for it.
"'I will come with you at once.'"
THE BROKEN PROMISE.
'I suppose that is always the way with a fellow's mother. Fuss and bother—I'm tied to her apron-strings. Opening his paper he looked at him over the top of it, with a rather grave expression.
'Don't you think it is silly, Uncle?'
'What's it all about?' asked Uncle James.
'Why, I just happened to be a bit late home, after the match. Saunders wanted me to see his rabbits, and it made me a little late; at least, it was really a lot late. There were some other fellows there, and I came away before most of them.'
'Well?'
'Well, now there is no end of a bother, because I sort of promised I would be home early to tea. The girls had got some friends coming, and wanted me to show off the magic-lantern. When I came in, Mother was crying, and the servant out looking for me. It's too silly! I'm not a baby!'
And Roger plunged his spoon afresh into his egg, as if he expected to find in it a remedy for his grievance.
'Jones minor says his mother is just the same; but the two Rhodeses, who live with an aunt, can do just as they like.'
Uncle James laid down his paper, and looked steadily at the fire.
'My mother was just the same,' he said.
'What, Granny?' exclaimed Roger. 'But she is so jolly. When I go to stay, I do what I like.'
'Did you ever hear, Roger,' asked Uncle James, 'about my sister Phyllis?'
'Who died when she was a little girl? Oh, yes, I have heard a little, of course. Tell me some more, please, Uncle.'
Uncle James's kind face was a little clouded.
'Can he be vexed?' wondered thoughtless Roger. 'Or else—oh, yes—it's because she died that he doesn't like talking about her.' He said aloud, 'Never mind, Uncle, if it makes you feel bad.'
'She was very dear to me,' Uncle James said. 'Yet I scarcely ever speak of her; you will understand why, when I have finished what I am going to tell you. There were three of us,' he began, 'your mother, myself, and our little Phyllis. She was the youngest, and was nine at the time. We lived in a small house in this town, for our parents were not rich.'
Roger nodded. 'Mother showed me that house. It's smaller than this, a good deal.'
'Your mother, who was my mother's right hand, had been sent to a boarding-school at a distance, and I was left, in a way, in charge of my mother and young sister, my father being abroad with his regiment. You may be sure I felt proud of myself when I went round at night, bolting the doors and windows, and putting out the lights. And I generally ran home as quick as I could from the day-school I went to. Phyllis would be at the door, with her little pale face beaming, and brimming over with questions about my games and successes.
'Well, one Saturday afternoon, I was to play for the school in a football match; I was a good runner, and strong for my size, though I was quite a little chap. I remember being very much annoyed with my mother for saying I had better not play, as I had had a cold. I had caught it from Phyllis, we thought; but, as I was a robust lad, it was soon thrown off. But my sister—she was always delicate—still had a cough, and seemed dull and had headache. Of course I laughed at my mother's fears, took my football jersey from before the fire—she had washed it, and was just as particular about airing as your mother is—fussy, you would say—and off I went, in high spirits.
'"I won't be late," I called from the door.
'"No, be quick home, there's my dear boy," my mother said; and Phyllis, who was lying on the sofa, looked up for a minute with, "Play up, Jim. Mind you win the match."
'But mother followed me to the door.
'"Jim," she said, speaking low, "I don't feel easy about Phyllis. She is feverish to-day. I think you had better call and ask Dr. Harris to come."
'"Oh, Mother," I said, "she will be all right! My cold was just as bad while it lasted. You shouldn't fret about nothing." I had got into the way of giving her a good deal of advice.
'"I wish I could think so," she said, anxiously; "but, anyway, Jim, just run in on your way to the ground, and tell him. Then he will come before he starts on his round."
'"All right," I replied, with a hasty kiss, and off I went.
'In the next street I fell in with another fellow, who was in a great hurry.
'"I say, old chap, we shall be late," he panted, as we dashed into a short cut for the playing-field.
'I wish, Roger, that I could comfort myself by saying that I forgot my mother's request. But as I turned that corner I saw the doctor's house, and thought of it at once. "But, then," I said to myself, "she is only fussing. Phyllis will be all right in the morning, and I dare say the doctor has gone out. It will do just as well after the game."
'For the rest of the afternoon's pleasure, I never gave a second's thought to my mother and sister.'
'There,' said Roger, triumphantly, 'you were just as bad as I, weren't you? And how did the match go on? Did you win?'
'Roger, from that day to this, I have never tried to remember how that game ended. At the end, two of the fellows who lived the other side of the town asked me home to tea with the rest of the team. I felt it hard to be the only one who was out of everything, so I went. I felt a little uncomfortable, and called at the doctor's, just to satisfy my mother, and he came into the hall to speak to me.
'"Anything wrong, my boy? Not Phyllis, I hope?" he said. Phyllis was a pet of his. He attended her pretty often.
'"Just a cold, sir," I said, easily; "nothing serious. Mother's fidgeting, and says she is feverish, and all that. You might call round some time."
'"I will come with you at once," said Dr. Harris, and he took his hat off the peg. I thought he was glad of my company, and gave him a vivid account of the match on the way.
'When we reached our street the hall was dark, and there was no light in the little front sitting-room. But the bedroom overhead was lighted, and the blind was pushed back as we reached the door. The next thing I saw was my mother's face. Shall I ever forget it?'
'Don't tell it, Uncle,' said Roger. 'I can guess.'
'She had been waiting for the doctor. It never occurred to her that I would neglect her message. They let me see my sister for a few minutes, before she died. A few hours, the doctor said, might have saved her life. There! that's all!'
Uncle James blew his nose vigorously, and went back to his paper; but Roger bent his head over his plate. At this point his mother came in. The boy jumped up impetuously.
'Mother dear, I am awfully sorry I broke my promise, I will never do it again, if I can help it—never, so long as I live!'
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [359].)
They walked up the avenue, with Estelle between them, and Lord Lynwood received some answers to his many questions. He thought it was more of a help to talk about things which took Jack's mind off his trouble, than to dwell on it, and unnerve him for the interview. He wished also to show that he had the greatest respect for a man who could go manfully through the ordeal to which poor Jack had pledged himself. At the end of the avenue, just before it widened into the broad sweep in front of the Moat House, was an opening in the thick laurel and rhododendron shrubbery, which, as they passed it, enabled Estelle to see that Aunt Betty—the dear Aunt Betty she was so longing to see—was on the lawn, cutting roses. Without a word, she broke away from her companions and flew across the lawn.
'Wright,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood, hastily following; 'my aunt has been seriously ill with anxiety about my little girl, and we are afraid of a sudden shock for her. Come, we may be wanted.'
Estelle, unconscious of all but that Aunt Betty was there, was calling out in glad tones which made the little old lady turn hastily.
Fortunately, joy does not often kill. Though faint and unable to stand the first excitement, Aunt Betty recovered herself more quickly than Lord Lynwood could have expected. Jack thought he had never seen anybody quite like Aunt Betty—he had not known that any such existed. He had made up his mind to tell the truth about himself to Estelle's aunt, but now that he saw her he did not feel the shrinking he had anticipated. 'She would understand,' was the way he expressed it.
Lord Lynwood, fearful of over-excitement for her, insisted on Lady Coke going into the house with Estelle. She consented, after making Jack promise to come and relate to her all the wonderful things which had happened in those long months of Estelle's absence.
'Auntie,' said Estelle, as she sat on a low stool—low enough to let her look up into the face of her aunt, lying on her sofa—'if I have a lot to tell you, you must have a great deal to tell me; and, chiefly, why it is you look like that. Are you ill?'
'I have been, with grief and anxiety about you, Estelle. But I shall get quite strong now you are at home again. I don't know how to be grateful enough to the good God Who has guarded you from harm all this long time, and to the kind people who have been such friends in need.'
'And have taught me such a lot of things, Auntie. You must meet Goody some day, and then you will know what a dear she is, and how good she is. She has been such a mother to me! And Auntie,' she continued, with some hesitation, 'Jack is going to tell you something by-and-by, something which has made him dreadfully miserable. And if you are grateful to him and to his mother for all they have done for me, you can repay some of it by helping him in his trouble. Father says it is not necessary for everybody to know; only ourselves, and those whom Jack has bound himself to tell.'
Thus Estelle prepared the way for the confession which took place that evening. By dint of great persuasion, Lord Lynwood made Jack put off speaking to Peet till the next day. He was to sleep at Moat House that night, and in the morning the explanation with Peet would take place.
Aunt Betty was greatly touched by the story. Jack related the finding of Estelle, her dangerous illness, and the opinion of the doctor with regard to her memory, which had been fully justified. He made light of the rescue in the cave, the truth and full details of which Estelle told later on. Lady Coke listened with a heart full of thankfulness for the mercies which had shielded her child. So it came to pass that Jack, resolute in his idea of duty, found a very tender, sympathetic listener to his own sad history.
'Your mother must be a good woman, Jack,' she said.
'She has been the saving of me,' he answered. 'Hers has been the purest, the most unselfish love in the world.'
'Yes,' said Aunt Betty, with moist eyes; 'and because her love was capable of so much, you have been led to look beyond, to that greater Love which encircles us every day and hour. Your mother is a grand woman, Jack!'
'Indeed, she is,' replied the sailor. 'It is amazing that such a man as I should have been so blessed! It forces one to believe in the forgiveness of sins, if those I have injured can so forgive and forget.'
It was getting late, and, as Lady Coke looked tired, Jack got up to go. He was to meet Lord Lynwood next morning, and walk down with him to the Bridge House about the time Peet returned for his breakfast.
As he left the room, Lady Coke said to her nephew, 'I like that sailor. His has been a great repentance; as great as Dick's forgiveness has been noble.'
Meantime Estelle, in her own room once more, was thinking how strange it seemed to be in a house with windows and curtains, with Nurse and Mademoiselle making much of her, and all her own pictures and treasures about. She was very tired, however, and had scarcely time to murmur, 'I shall see my cousins to-morrow,' before she fell asleep.
An hour or two later Lady Coke and Lord Lynwood were gazing, with thankful hearts, at their sleeping child, while Jack was kneeling at the window of his room, praying in deepest grief for pardon and for Dick.
(Continued on page [370].)
"'We may be wanted,' exclaimed Lord Lynwood."
"Estelle was among them!"
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [367].)
CHAPTER XX.
True to his appointment, Jack met Lord Lynwood on the lawn next morning, and together they walked to the Bridge House in silence. Though Jack was anxious to see Dick once more, he had to brace himself for what he knew would be a trial to both. In one sense, the worst was over. In the knowledge that Dick was alive, and had forgiven him, he had gained what nothing could take away—peace of mind. But, on the other hand, he could not but feel sorrow and self-reproach for the grief and loss he had brought upon Dick's parents. He realised that they also had much to forgive. It seemed, indeed, almost worse to face them than to look at patient, suffering Dick. He had been so ready to pardon; would they be as willing? Jack knew instinctively how his question would be answered when he saw Peet coming towards them across the drawbridge.
'We wish to speak to you, Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, quietly.
'I know what ye want to say, my Lord,' returned Peet, gloomily, and taking care not to glance towards Jack. 'My Lady had me up this morning and told me.'
'In injuring your son I have injured you, Mr. Peet,' said Jack, coming forward, and speaking in an earnest voice. 'I do not know how to ask your forgiveness; but, if your son could express himself, he would tell you how deeply my sin has been repented, and what years of misery it has brought on my mother and me. Unhappily, I cannot undo the deed; neither can I give you back the lost years—— '
'You can do nothing, and I want nothing, thank you,' replied Peet, without looking up.
'Your son has forgiven all he has suffered,' began the Earl.
'Beg pardon, my Lord,' returned Peet, drawing himself up; 'but I'm making no complaint. I have not said a word for or against him. If my son likes to forgive him, he can do as he chooses—his acts are no rule for my wife nor me.'
'So you have spoken to your wife?' said the Earl, in a tone of regret, as Jack moved away.
'I know my Lady was against it, but my wife has been a good wife to me, and I never keep things from her.'
'And what did you wife say?'
'Well, my Lord,' replied Peet, with a little less confidence in his tone, yet with the stubborn look still in his face, 'she was upset, of course, and cried a bit, as women mostly do. But when Dick, who has not spoke for this many a year, looks up, and says he, "Mother, don't bear malice—for my sake forgive him;" why, she gave in at once. I am sure that it was from sheer astonishment at Dick's speaking so clear. She didn't think of forgiving no more than myself. Mothers are like that—mighty queer sometimes just when you least expect it.'
'Peet,' said Lord Lynwood, signing to Jack to leave them, 'I think your wife is quite right. She is acting the nobler part. You have suffered terribly; we are fully aware of that, and we have felt for you and done all we could for you. Surely you would not wish to give Lady Coke pain by refusing the very first request she asks you? Think how nearly we lost her last summer, and remember it is owing to the great care and kindness of Jack Wright and his mother that she is spared the grief of having lost the child entrusted to her keeping. You know this responsibility is what weighed most on her mind, and Jack has brought her great comfort by restoring the child. He is broken-hearted for the injury he has done you and your family, and he begs your forgiveness. Why is it impossible for you to give it? If not for your own sake, or because it is the right thing to do, then because there is one who has asked you who has been the best of friends to you through all your troubles.'
Peet looked down, red and surly. It was a hard fight for one of his stubborn character to acknowledge he was in the wrong, or to listen to arguments to which his better nature responded. Seeing that he did not reply, Lord Lynwood left him without further efforts to convince him. Peet gazed after him with lowering brow; then turned and went to his work.
Estelle was up early that morning, and after a delighted survey of all her surroundings and treasures, rushed to her aunt just as the gong sounded. Would Auntie beg a whole holiday for her cousins—just for once? How could Aunt Betty refuse this first request? It did not require much coaxing to make her promise to go directly after breakfast to Begbie Hall with Estelle and her father. She even declared she would fearlessly invade the premises sacred to Miss Leigh and learning.
Little suspecting the delight in store for him, Georgie had come down in a bad temper that morning, and he was venting it on his lesson books, and on Miss Leigh.
'What is the matter with you, Georgie?' asked the long-suffering governess at last. 'Did you get out of bed the wrong side? Nothing seems to be right this morning.'
'I always get out of bed the same side every day,' replied Georgie, firmly, placing his books in a heap as near the edge of the table as he could. 'It's not the bed; it's Alan.'
'What has Alan done?'
But Georgie's answer was drowned in the crash of his books which scattered in every direction, some of them without their covers.
'Now, Georgie!' cried Miss Leigh, exasperated.
'I believe you did it on purpose!' exclaimed Alan, who was anxious to finish his work, and found the noise disturbing.
Marjorie was about to pour oil upon the troubled waters by picking the books up when the door of the schoolroom was burst open and Estelle was among them! Miss Leigh and the three children could scarcely believe it was the 'real live' Estelle they saw, and a great gasp of amazement sounded through the room. But when they perceived Aunt Betty herself standing at the door, and behind her their father, mother, and uncle, all smiling at them, there was a general cry of delight.
Everybody spoke, but nobody listened. They all danced and raced round Estelle till the uproar became so great that their elders, including Miss Leigh, fled. Then Estelle, as soon as she could persuade them to listen, told them how Jack had saved her and brought her home; how Mrs. Wright, her dear Goody, had nursed her through her bad illness; in what a comfortable, pretty cave-house she had lived, and how even the biggest storm that ever blew, and they had had many such storms, could not shake its walls. Then there were the Treasure Caves, and Estelle made their faces quite pale as she related her adventures in them, and how Jack had saved her from drowning. She told them of the dream also, and how she could not remember their names, and how suddenly it all came back to her. This led to a stampede in search of the hero, Jack, who, after much racing about in all directions, was found at the door of the ruined summer-house. Lord Lynwood and Colonel De Bohun were with him, and it was evident that they were talking of how the accident happened. The children insisted on shaking hands with the Giant of the Treasure Caves, as Marjorie called him, and on thanking him for bringing back their dear Estelle.
'Why, you are a real giant!' cried Georgie, much impressed by Jack's height. 'I never saw a giant before.'
They all laughed, but Georgie was right, for Jack was a good deal taller than Lord Lynwood, who was six feet three inches, and yet looked dwarfed by the sailor. They all admired him so much that they would not leave him.
(Concluded on page [382].)
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
13.—Little Charades—Triads.
| A.— | 1. Bereft of father and mother. |
| 2. The period of time during which a person or thing exists, or has existed. | |
| A home for those who have no other. | |
| B.— | 1. A collection of printed sheets. |
| 2. A small creeping animal without feet. | |
| A devourer of that which is written, | |
| C.— | 1. The edge, or brink, of a fountain or river. |
| 2. A hardened mass of earthy matter. | |
| A mineral substance. | |
| D.— | 1. A rodent of the genus lepus. |
| 2. A hollow sounding body of metal. | |
| A flower of the campanula kind. | |
| E.— | 1. An emblem of innocence. |
| 2. An extremity. | |
| A peculiar joint. | |
| F.— | 1. An uncertain quantity. |
| 2. The organized material of an animal. | |
| A person unknown, or uncertain. |
[Answers on page [395].]
C. J. B.
Answer To Puzzle on Page [322].
| 2.— | T og A |
| H or N | |
| E hu D | |
| S oo T | |
| P us H | |
| I sl E | |
| D ea F | |
| E vi L | |
| R el Y |
A HORSE'S REVENGE.
Founded on Fact.
A certain King of Syria had a horse of which he was very fond, and which in turn was devoted to its master. The King used to ride this horse out to battle, but at last was defeated and killed in the fight. His enemy, rejoicing in his victory, seized the King's horse and mounted it. The horse seemed to know what had happened, and who was on his back, for he began to show the greatest fury. After trying for some time to throw his new rider off, he suddenly dashed off up a steep cliff; and when he reached the top, he leapt wildly down the sheer precipice, with the man still on his back. The rider had no time to save himself, and both he and the horse were dashed to pieces. Thus the King was avenged by the faithful steed to which he had been so kind.
Answer to 'An Eastern Puzzle' on page [355].
The old dervish divided the seventeen camels into the desired proportions by adding one of his own to the number, thus making it eighteen. The eldest brother then took his half—nine; the second his third—six; the third his ninth—two, making seventeen in all, and giving back the one camel over to its owner, the wise dervish.
PEEPS INTO NATURE'S NURSERIES.
XII.—ONE OF NATURE'S FAILURES.
We have now come to the last chapter of our series, and herein I propose to bring to your notice some curious facts which 'point a moral and adorn a tale' that should not be lost sight of.
Strange though it be, there are many creatures, among what we sometimes call the 'lower order of creation,' which give promise of great things during the earlier period of their lives, but later degenerate out of all recognition.
Let us take one or two of the more remarkable instances. Many of you, when at the seaside, must have found, clinging to rocks and shells, peculiar, tough, leathery and somewhat bottle-shaped bodies, popularly known as 'sea-squirts,' from their habit of squirting out water when touched. But how many of you have any idea that these same 'squirts' really belong to the great division of vertebrates or backboned animals? Yet such is the case, though not even scientific men were aware of this until the facts which I am about to relate were discovered.
But before I proceed, I might add that while some of these sea-squirts lead solitary lives, fast anchored to the rock or sea-weed, others form colonies, while yet others, and more distantly related forms, are transparent and swim, sometimes in countless millions, at the surface of the sea, covering an area of several miles. Some of the stationary forms make coats for themselves of sand, others build them houses to live in. While most are dull-coloured, some are, on the contrary, very brilliant. Their range in size is no less varied, some being almost microscopic, while others attain a length of as much as four feet.
But though so different in their adult stages, they all begin life as vertebrated or backboned animals, though in some this stage is more perfect than in others.
As you will see in the illustration (figs. 1 and 2) of one of these youngsters, the resemblance to the tadpole of the frog is most striking, and in some of the points wherein the sea-squirt differs from the tadpole, it represents a yet earlier structural stage which frogs have long since passed through, and no longer repeat in the course of their growth. Take the case of the eye, for example; this in the young sea-squirt lies embedded in the brain, and is only dimly able to perceive light received through the transparent head; but the eye of all the backboned animals is really an outgrowth of the brain which has forced its way to the surface; here we see it in its primitive or original condition. The mouth in the young sea-squirt, again, opens on the top of the head instead of in the front, which is here modified to form a sucker. But the gills, by which this little creature breathes, expel the water by which they are bathed through a single hole at the side of the head, as in the frog tadpole; while in the possession of a brain, a spinal cord, and a soft backbone, both sea-squirt and tadpole agree.
Thus, then, the captor of one of these baby sea-squirts though he knew nothing of the peculiar after-history of the creature, would yet be sure that he had here a very young or 'larval' stage of one of the backboned animals. But he would be surprised indeed, as he watched the career of this little creature, to find it grow daily more sluggish, and at last fix itself by the sucker at the front of its head, and there remain as if in 'the sulks.' From this time onwards the change for the worse grows rapidly. This creature, as if indifferent to the great possibilities before it, or caring nothing for the good name of its race, speedily degenerates. As it will use none of the good gifts of Nature, one by one she takes them away—eye and brain are the first to go; then the tail begins to grow less and less (you can see the last remnants of a tail in fig. 3), and finally there is neither head nor tail, power of sight, nor power of motion; all that remains is an irregular-looking leathery lump, which scarcely seems to be alive (fig. 4). It feeds by drawing water through a hole at its upper end into a great throat pierced by gill-slits (shown in fig. 5, which represents a sea-squirt with the outside wall cut away); the water passes out through the slits into a big chamber. From this chamber the water escapes by another hole (marked 'discharge' in fig. 5) to the outer world again; meanwhile, the food, consisting of microscopic animals, has been caught by a moving rope of slime running along the back of the throat, and so into the stomach. But what a fall! Think of it—a career full of promise, the equal of that of vertebrate animals, ending in an ignominious surrender of its birthright, and a drop to the level of the humble oyster!
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
"'Some one is lost in the snow, and Lassie knows it.'"
THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN.
It was a bitter evening in mid-winter, the fire burned cheerily on the hearth, the great logs crackling and flaring up the wide chimney of a comfortable cottage home in one of the wildest parts of the Inverness-shire highlands. It was a shepherd's hut, and, as the storm continued the owner of the cottage rose and looked out of the window over the desolate expanse of moorland.
'Is it snowing still?' asked his wife, from her snug corner by the fire.
'Thick and fast,' replied he. 'Heaven help any poor creature on the moor to-night. Many a one has been frozen to death hereabouts before now.'
Presently, however, it ceased snowing, and, through a rift in the clouds, a star appeared, while at the same moment a whining and scratching noise was heard at the door. The shepherd opened it and whistled to his dog, but, inviting as the ruddy glow must have been to her doggish heart, 'Lassie' would not enter. Standing just on the threshold she whined once more, looking up in her master's face with dumb entreaty, then running off a few steps and looking back as though inviting him to follow.
The shepherd watched her curiously. 'All the sheep are in their folds,' he said, 'and Lassie knows that as well as I do, but something is amiss with the creature to-night. What is it, Lassie?'
But the intelligent creature only whined again and moved still further away from the door.
'Give me my plaid, good wife,' said the shepherd, now fully persuaded that serious work lay before him. 'Give me my plaid, and warm your blankets, and you may as well brew a kettle of tea. Some one is lost in the snow, and Lassie knows it.'
As soon as the dog saw that her master was really following, she sprang forward with a joyous bark, then, settling down into a swinging trot, she led the way straight across the loneliest part of the bleak moor. It was a walk both difficult and dangerous, but the experienced shepherd followed steadily after his guide until, having come to a certain spot by no means differing in appearance from the rest of the dismal landscape, she suddenly stopped and began to dig wildly in the snow with her paws. The shepherd stooped down and pushed aside the dog, who was now quite contented to stand aside and watch, while her master took the case in hand. Very soon he extricated from the snow what seemed to be a mere bundle of clothing, but which, on closer inspection, proved to be the rigid form of a little old woman, poorly clad and quite insensible. It was only the work of a few minutes for the stalwart shepherd to lift her into his arms as gently and tenderly as though she had been an infant, and to carry her away to his warm and sheltered cottage, where his kindly wife had everything in readiness for the succour of the half-frozen old woman.
But long hours passed ere complete consciousness returned, and the poor wayfarer was able to tell her simple story. She was an Englishwoman from Liverpool—a widow with one only son, the dearest and best of sons. He was a soldier stationed at Fort George, but he had been ordered out to India, and she had felt that she could not let him go without once more looking on the dear face. Accordingly she had gathered together all her available means and had reached Glasgow by train. But in that city her difficulties began, her money was all spent, but the mother's love still burned brightly in her heart. She resolved to proceed on foot, and had actually accomplished her design so far, when, being overtaken by the sudden snowstorm, and having wandered from the road, she would certainly have perished but for the sagacity of the shepherd's dog.
How great was the delight of the poor old woman we may easily imagine, when she was told that she was actually within three miles of Fort George, and when the shepherd promised to go there in the morning and beg leave for her son to visit her at the cottage. But, alas! when morning dawned it became very evident that her strength had been too severely taxed; she was quite prostrate, and only half conscious of her surroundings. In these circumstances her kind host lost no time in starting on his humane errand, and, in the afternoon, mother and son met once more, but for the last time. The old woman had barely strength to whisper his name, but the look in her eyes was enough to show that she had her heart's desire, and that she could die in peace. A few days afterwards the little old woman was quietly laid to rest in the churchyard of the Highland village, and the good son was on his way to the Far East, carrying with him the memory of a mother's love.
THE SENSIBLE HARE.
A Fable.
Once upon a time, the beasts in a certain wood built a theatre in which plays were to be performed by the cleverest of the animals, for the amusement and instruction of the rest. Nearly all the animals took an interest in the scheme, and promised to support it, except the hare. When asked by Reynard the Fox, who had been appointed manager, why he did not favour the idea, the hare replied: 'There is quite enough amusement in my own family, and is it likely that I am going to leave them all in the evening to find what is already provided for me at home?' The fox for once in his life was taken at a disadvantage, and did not know what to say.
There are plenty of pleasures at home if we know how to look for them.
CLOUD PICTURES.
MONG the grass I love to lie,
And watch the fleecy clouds pass by:
For many pictures there I see,
So clear although so far from me.
Sometimes across the blue there floats
A stately fleet of white-sailed boats;
On shining mountains' rugged crests
The grey-winged cloud-birds seek their nests.
And o'er the sunset's radiant bar,
Lone fairy lands most surely are,
With ruby isles in lakes of gold,
Where towers in crimson light unfold.
The black clouds gather from afar,
As mighty armies march to war,
And when they meet in thunder-crash,
I see their spears of lightning flash.
For ever changing, to and fro,
Blown by the careless wind they go;
No wonder the cloud pictures there
Are always fresh, and always fair.
A HASTY JUDGMENT.
'What is the new step-mother like?' asked Walter Howard. He was cycling from the station with his friend, Jack Trehane, having just arrived to spend a few days of the summer holidays.
'No good,' was the short but expressive answer.
'I remember you thought her rather a good sort before your father married her,' Walter remarked.
'You never know what people are really like until you live in the same house with them,' said Jack, gloomily.
'Hard lines, when you had such decent holidays with your father alone. How is it she is not nice to you now, when she used to be so jolly?'
'Oh, she isn't exactly nasty,' Jack explained, 'only I do so hate her mean, saving little ways.'
Walter's face fell. It would be a nuisance if he had to waste some of his precious holidays in a place where there was not even enough 'grub!'
However, the food proved to be excellent, so Walter felt that it must be in some other way that the stinginess would be evident.
'It is such a lovely day,' said Mrs. Trehane the next morning at breakfast. 'What do you say to an expedition to Pengwithen Cove?'
The boys were delighted with the idea and ran off to get ready, so that they did not see Mrs. Trehane set to work busily to cut sandwiches.
'What is that hamper thing you are carrying?' asked Jack of his father as they were starting.
'Our lunch, Jack; and, knowing who packed it, I can promise we shall not do badly.'
'But you always used to give us lunch at the hotel, Father,' Jack said.
'Ah, but we have learnt a trick worth two of that, have we not, my dear?' and Mr. Trehane smiled at his wife.
'It is so much jollier to have our lunch close to the sea,' she said, 'instead of in a stuffy room.'
'And who is going to carry that horrid, great basket, I should like to know?' muttered Jack, as he rode on ahead with Walter. 'That is one of the mean dodges I told you about. She thinks it will save the expense of a lunch at the hotel.'
The white-crested waves were rolling in over the blue waters of the bay as the Trehanes and Walter followed the cliff path towards the Cove for which they were bound. Jack loitered behind the others, for it was his turn to carry the lunch. Presently a cry from him made them look round, and what should they see but the precious picnic-basket rolling down the sloping turf which edged the cliff! As they watched, it went over with a loud report of bursting lemonade bottles, and the contents were dashed into fragments on the rocks beneath.
'How could you be so careless, Jack?' his father said in tones of vexation; but as he never dreamed it was anything but an accident, he did not say much.
They were obliged to return to the hotel for a meal, and Walter shrewdly suspected this was the result Jack had worked for.
However, the lunch was not a success. A crowd of excursionists had swept nearly everything in the shape of food before them, and left very little for any one who came after.
'Oh, dear,' sighed Mrs. Trehane, 'when I think of the nice ham sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, the lovely meat patties and raspberry puffs, which are now floating away to sea, I do feel sad!'
'What an idiot you have been!' whispered Walter to Jack, and the latter was inclined to believe his friend spoke truly.
When Mr. Trehane pulled out some money in order to pay the bill, his wife gave another sigh.
'This is worse than the cold mutton, is it not?' he asked, laughing.
Then she laughed too and held up a warning finger.
'Hush!' she whispered, 'you must not let out my secret.'
'I think we must share it with Jack,' said Mr. Trehane. 'It will make him more careful in future when we trust him with our luncheon-basket.'
He had noticed his son's scornful look when the settlement of the bill was mentioned, and had partly guessed what was in his mind.
'I wanted it to be a surprise,' Mrs. Trehane said; 'but now you have revealed half the secret, perhaps it is as well to confess the whole.'
'Well, Jack,' his father said, 'you know you have been bothering me for a new watch, but I told you I could not manage such a piece of extravagance now, and you would have to wait another year.'
'My old one is no more use than a turnip,' Jack broke in.
'All the more pity that part of the new one went over the cliff with the lunch,' remarked his father.
'What do you mean?' asked Jack in bewilderment.
Mr. Trehane looked at his wife.
'It was your plan; you had better explain it,' he said.
'You see, Jack,' she began, 'it seemed rather hard you should not have a new watch when you wanted one so badly, so I told Father I was quite sure I could save money in many little ways without robbing us of any real comforts. One of my plans was to take a luncheon-basket when we had picnics or expeditions, and to have a first-rate meal of delicious home-made dainties instead of a second-rate lunch for which we should have to pay more. Now, Jack, do you approve of my little scheme?'
Jack was almost speechless with shame and confusion, and the twinkle in Walter's eye made him even hotter.
'I think you are awfully good,' he stammered, 'but I don't deserve that watch, and I shan't have it now I was such a silly donkey as to throw the basket over the cliff.'
'Oh, yes, you will, Jack,' said his step-mother, though she did look a little astonished at the confession that it was a deliberate act instead of an accident. 'There will be plenty of money saved by the end of the holidays, if you will be careful not to lose any more baskets.'
Jack never forgot this lesson, and the beautiful new watch he carried back to school with him was a constant reminder that hasty judgments too often prove unjust.
"The precious picnic-basket rolling down the turf!"
"'Father, is that my present?'"
A GENTLE DONKEY.
I.
O sit down, Master Harry, and allow me to put your shoes on!'
'Well, try like this, Mary. I will pretend to be a stork, and stand on one leg.'
'Really, you are a tiresome boy to-night,' said poor Mary with a sigh of despair, 'and you know that Nannie is waiting for me to get Baby's bath ready. Poor Master Harry,' she continued after a pause, during which that young gentleman had been trying, unsuccessfully, to balance himself on one leg, 'I don't believe I shall have time now to tell you that interesting secret.'
'Interesting secret, Mary?' asked the boy in an eager voice. 'Oh, Mary, I will be quite good if you will tell it to me.'
Harry loved a secret. So many of the nice things in his life had been sprung upon him in this form that the very word 'secret' was to his youthful mind a promise of coming happiness.
'Let me guess,' he pleaded in answer to her nod, and for at least two minutes, during which time Mary put on and buttoned the shoes, there was silence.
'Is it about my birthday?'
'Yes,' said Mary, taking advantage of the unusual peace to give a few additional touches to her young master's smart sailor suit. This over, she drew his curly head down and whispered in a deep, slow voice, that sent a shiver through Harry's little body, 'As to-morrow is your birthday, your father and mother are going to give you a present that has four legs! Now run away downstairs; for I heard the motor going round to the stables, and your father must be home again!'
At this moment Harry's quick ears heard a footstep upon the stairs—a footstep that he loved with all his heart—and with a cry of delight he disappeared through the nursery doorway, and down the broad staircase.
'Well, old man! What do you mean by not coming to meet me?' and the father picked up his little son and kissed him affectionately.
'I never heard you come, Father. Did you remember to "toot, toot" on the motor?'
'No, I didn't. That little imp, Paddy, rushed out at the hall door, barking at the motor, and I was so busy wondering what he would look like squashed quite flat that I forgot all about toot, toot. But run and ask Nannie to put on your coat, for I am going to take you out to the stables. Remember to ask very politely,' he called after the receding figure in a warning voice.
'Please put on my coat, Nannie,' gasped Harry, bursting into the nursery like a whirlwind; and as she buttoned it across his wriggling little body, he put his arms round her neck and whispered, 'I expect I am going to see the present with the four legs! Oh, I wonder if it will be a wheelbarrow!'
A few minutes later Major Raeburn, with his son on his back, was standing outside the stables, calling, 'Simmons, Simmons!'
'Yes, sir,' answered a smart young groom, who hurried out of the stables at the sound of his master's voice.
'Here we are, Simmons. I have brought Master Harry to see his new present. What do you think of it?'
But at this moment a pair of restless feet kicked vigorously against the Major's sides to remind him that the future owner of the mysterious present was impatient; so bending his head he stepped into the stable.
For a second there was silence, while the child peered into corners.
'Well, old man,' said his father, 'see nothing?'
'No,' he murmured in a disappointed voice; but just at that moment, a pair of long ears appeared. 'Father,' he gasped, 'I see a donkey! Is that my present?'
'Yes, that is your present from Father and Mother, and as to-morrow is your birthday you must take Mary a drive on the Common. There is a jolly little governess car, also, that will just hold Nannie and Mary and you and Baby, but it is too late to go to the coach-house to-night. Looks a nice little animal, doesn't he, Simmons? I should think that Mary could drive him all right. She says that she always drove a donkey in her last situation!'
'Oh, yes, sir, she will be all right. He is a pretty donkey, and not a scrap of vice about him, I should say.'
'And what are you going to say to Father for giving you such a nice present?' said Major Raeburn as he retraced his steps.
'Oh, thank you very much, Father,' murmured the boy, laying his golden head against his father's, and clasping him tightly round the neck with his strong little arms; 'and now be a kicking horse back to the house.'
Later on Mother had a full description of the donkey's appearance, followed by an exhibition of how Harry would ride him. This he demonstrated by means of a drawing-room chair and the hearth-brush: and if there were moments when Mother had fears for the fate of her chair, neither by word nor look did she show it, though when Mary's voice from the door was heard saying, 'It's your bed-time, Master Harry,' the expression on her face was distinctly one of relief.
(Continued on page [390].)
FINDING FAULT WITH NATURE.
A certain lady was in the habit of spending her leisure time in making flowers and fruits of wax and other material. In time she became very clever at the work, but her friends always found fault with everything that she made. One day she passed round a large apple, and said that she thought she had been very successful this time. Her friends, as usual, were not pleased with it. One found fault with the shape, another with the colour, and every one had something to say against it. After the apple had been passed round, and had come into her hands again, she ate it without saying anything. Her friends had been finding fault with a real apple.
MADE BEAUTIFUL.
SAW a little beam of light
Strike on a coloured glass;
And lo! it showed more fair and bright
As it away did pass.
It caught the radiance and the glow
Of that illumined scene,
And did more fair and lovely show
Than it before had been.
I saw a little thought of love
Enter a childish heart,
That heart to kindness it did move,
And filled up every part;
And when I saw that thought again,
Oh, it was sweet indeed,
For it was changed to glory then,
And showed in kindly deed.
THE BRAVE COUNTESS.
A German lady, belonging to a house which had formerly been renowned for its heroism, and which had even given an emperor to the German empire, once got the better of the terrible Duke of Alva. When Charles V. of Spain, in the year 1547, came through Thuringia upon a march to Franconia and Suabia, this lady, the Dowager Countess Katharina of Schwarzburg, got a letter of protection from him, to the effect that none of her subjects should suffer any harm from the Spanish troops. On the other hand, she bound herself to provide bread and other provisions for fair payment, and to send them to the Saal bridge for the Spanish troops, which were to pass over it.
Although there was a great need for haste, the Germans adopted the precaution of taking down the bridge and erecting it at a greater distance from the town, which, being so near, might have led their rough guests into temptation. At the same time, the inhabitants of the villages which lay on the soldiers' march were allowed to shelter their most valued possessions in the castle.
In the meantime the Spanish general approached, accompanied by Duke Henry of Brunswick and his two sons, and, sending a messenger in advance, they invited themselves to breakfast with the Countess of Schwarzburg. Such a request, under such circumstances, could not very well be refused. They would be given what the house contained, they might come and be as considerate as possible, was the reply. At the same time it was not forgotten to mention the letter of protection, and the Spanish general was asked to bear it strictly in mind.
A friendly reception and a well-spread table awaited the Duke of Alva at the castle. He was obliged to confess that the Thuringian ladies knew how to keep a good kitchen and to maintain the honour of the house. Yet scarcely had they sat down, when a servant called the Countess out of the hall. She was informed that the Spanish soldiers not far off had used force and had driven away the peasants' cows.
Katharina was a mother to her people, and what befell the poorest of her subjects concerned herself. Irritated to the uttermost by this breach of faith, yet keeping her presence of mind, she commanded all her servants to arm themselves in swiftness and silence, and to bar the castle gates. She herself went back to the table at which the visitors were still sitting. Here she complained in the most touching way of what had been reported to her and of the manner in which the Emperor's word had been kept. They replied to her with laughter that it was only a custom of war, and that on a marching through of soldiers such little accidents were not to be prevented.
'We will see about it,' she answered in anger; 'my poor subjects must have their own returned to them, or'—raising her voice—'Princes for oxen!'
With this clear declaration she left the room, which in a few moments was filled with armed men, who, sword in hand, planted themselves behind the chairs of the princes, and with much respectfulness served the breakfast.
At the entrance of this warlike troop the Duke of Alva changed colour; cut off from the army by a superior number of sturdy men, it only remained for him to be patient and to make the best terms he could with the offended lady. Henry of Brunswick recovered himself the first, and broke out into ringing laughter. He took the wise course of turning the whole occurrence into a jest, and highly praised the Countess for the care and the resolute courage she had shown. He asked the Germans to keep calm, and took upon himself to persuade the Duke of Alva to do everything that was reasonable. He did persuade the Duke of Alva so effectively, that upon the spot he sent an order to the army to deliver up without delay the stolen cattle to their owners. As soon as the Countess was certain that restitution had been made, she thanked her guests, who then very courteously took their leave.
The Duke of Alva had met his match in the brave Countess, and had been forced by her to keep to the letter of protection given her by the King; but he ought to have had sufficient chivalry to have not required such a lesson about keeping his King's promise.
Many Chatterbox readers, as they grow older, will probably read in their histories of the terrible Duke of Alva, and will perceive more fully what a brave woman this Countess must have been. Without doubt it was through such incidents as these that Countess Katharina von Schwarzburg came by her name of 'The Heroic.'
THE MUSIC OF THE NATIONS.
XII.—MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS OF NATIVE AMERICAN TRIBES.
The Indians of America, especially those of North America, show a much higher mental development than is common in savage nations.
Fig. 1.—Indian Conjuror's Drum.
Fig. 2.—Indian Conjuror's Rattle.
Fig. 3. Indian Grain Rattle.
This is shown in many tribes by a communal system of government, loyalty to their Sachems, or chiefs, their skill in embroidering leather articles with dyed quills and grasses, and not least in their production of stringed musical instruments. Instruments of concussion and percussion, like drums and cymbals, and also wind instruments of shell or horn, and rude forms of bagpipes, are inventions of most savage races; but the production of even the most elementary form of stringed instrument is a distinct advance, showing an understanding, however faint, of the use of vibration in developing and strengthening an original note.
The Apache Indians have a small fiddle with one string, and the Yakutata of Alaska have also a form of violin. The Nachee Indians of the Mississippi regions have a sacred instrument of great antiquity. It is of wood, about five feet high by one foot wide, and is held between the feet, resting alongside the chin of the performer. The strings are made of the sinews of a large buffalo, and it is played by a bow, held by two men, one at each end. Probably we might be inclined to think it more noisy than musical, but happily in music, as in most other things, tastes differ.
In Central Africa an instrument is made of the shell of the armadillo, or of the turtle, having strings stretched across it. It is suggestive of the primitive lyres of antiquity, in which a tortoise-shell was used as a sounding-board.
Among nearly all Indian tribes, conjurors or 'medicine-men' are held in high repute, and some weird instruments of theirs are met with. The drum in the illustration (fig. 1), with the queer animal on its head, is a conjuror's drum in use among the Sioux and the Dakotas on religious occasions. It has two heads, gaily coloured with vermilion, and is adorned with one of more figures of animals or birds, probably the family 'totem,' or crest. These drums are quite small, only measuring ten inches across by three deep, they are carried by a handle and are supposed to act as talismans.
The peculiar rattle (fig. 2), showing a face made of raw hide, and profusely ornamented with feathers, is also used by medicine-men, who prepare the instrument secretly with mysterious rites. In length it is about twenty inches.
The long narrow box attached to a pole (fig. 3) is also used by the Sioux and the Dakotas. It is usually decorated with feathers, sometimes very long. The construction is primitive, consisting merely of grain put into a box and shaken with more or less violence.
Helena Heath.
THE LEOPARD'S LOOKING-GLASS.
An old leopard came out of his den, and wandered for miles through the forest. As his lithe, spotted body glided amongst the tropical undergrowth, other creatures slunk out of his path, and he found nothing on which to prey. Hunger and restlessness drove the animal on, however, till a new and strange object made him pause to see what it was that stood in his way. The queer thing, made of wood, like the trees, had something bright within it; something that was never seen on the trunk of any tree.
The leopard drew nearer, and found himself, for the first time in his life, face to face with a looking-glass. He looked in, and saw what seemed to him the eyes of another leopard gazing into his own. Curiosity, alarm, and anger, by turns, possessed him. What did the strange beast mean by gazing at him so? He raised his heavy paw, and gave a crushing blow upon the glass.
"What did the strange beast mean by gazing at him?"
Down fell the trap—for trap it was—and the sharp spikes, heavily weighted, did their work. But though the trap was a terrible one, the leopard had in his life done greater harm than he suffered, and the forest was well rid of such a dangerous and cruel animal.
SPIDER RUNNERS.
If I had to undergo one of those transformations we read about in fairy tales, and were to be turned into a spider, I should very much wish to be one of the wandering spiders, and not a web-maker. Both in houses and out of doors, things go badly with spiders' webs and their occupiers; they are constantly disturbed, and if they get away alive, their work has to be done over again. But a spider that does not make a web is usually suffered to go on his way undisturbed; sometimes, indeed, the hunting spiders are scarcely recognised as spiders, and pass for some other kind of insect.
The hunting spiders, however, do resemble the spinners. They are mostly, perhaps, rather more slim in the body, and are furnished with eight legs, sharp jaws and a poison fang, being able also to spin threads, should they need to do so. Our British hunters are nearly all small. Some of them do not run after their prey; they lurk beside a little pebble, or in the folds of a leaf or flower.
The running spider, called the tarantula, is not very common in Europe, though it is found in some parts of Italy; it is sometimes known to bite people, and an old but false belief held that the poison forced them to keep on dancing till quite worn out. Not long ago, some persons allowed themselves to be bitten by it, but the only effect was painful swelling. In tropical countries, however, this spider grows to a great size, and can cause great pain by its bite. The tarantula is of the wolf-spider family, whose habit is to chase their prey, not lie in ambush.
We have many British wolf-spiders: one for instance—he has no English name—is Lycosa amentata. This is a species that is found in numbers about heaps of stones by the wayside, or upon chalky banks. When alarmed, these spiders seem to vanish like magic. They also do a good deal of hunting upon low-growing, large-leaved plants. It is amusing to watch one standing on the edge of a leaf, whence it makes a dash at some flying insect that alights. Frequently it misses, but, when successful, it carries off the prey, bigger perhaps than itself, to a safe retreat. During autumn, the female spider bears about with her the egg-bag of yellow or whitish silk, in which the little spiders are hatched. They are much paler than the old spiders, and remain with their mother till they have attained to some size. They manage to live through the winter, and are fully grown in May. Amongst the wolf-spiders generally, we find a difference between the movements of the males and females. If hard pressed, the females escape by a succession of short runs, but the males can manage to jump from leaf to leaf with much agility.
Several of the hunting spiders are equal to flying, or at least manage to be wafted along by the breeze, when they want to take a trip. The silk these throw out is occasionally called 'gossamer;' it is slight, and not unlike the true gossamer, made by web-spinners of various sorts, which we usually notice in autumn, covering bushes and grassy spaces. The family to which the airy spiders belong is notable, because it contains those species which have a likeness to crabs in form, having short broad bodies, feeble front legs, and long, powerful hind legs. They run easily forwards, backwards, or sideways, and are mostly pale, with dark markings. Generally, such spiders follow their prey, since they are good runners, but a few have the habit of living in ambush, ready to spring upon insects that come near.
Very common in gardens are the Saltici. Most people have seen one species in particular, which is grey, the back and legs being barred with white. This spider leaps upon its prey, and you may notice that it always has a thread attached to some object. Probably it is a precaution against slipping, in case the jump is a failure.
Some small, black, very agile spiders, which are found about our rooms, and also out-of-doors, are evidently hunters; people call them money-spiders, for it is supposed to be lucky should one of them crawl over you, or come towards you. There is a spider popularly known as daddy-long-legs, though this name is shared by other insects; it has a narrow body, and long pale legs, with dark knee-joints. It is often noticed roving about, for some reason or other; yet the species is a web-maker; its web is usually in a dark corner.
A GIFT TO SIR THOMAS MORE.
Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor, and one of England's worthiest sons, was one of the most upright of judges, at a time when so much could not be said of every one. It is recorded of him, that on one occasion a person who wished to move him to take a favourable view of her cause, sent him a present of a pair of gloves, in which forty pieces of gold were wrapped up. Sir Thomas accepted the gloves, but returned the gold, saying that he did not like his gloves to have any lining.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Concluded from page [371].)
The children did not notice that Estelle had slipped away. She had caught a glimpse of Peet at his work, looking gloomier and more surly than ever.
'Peet,' she said, running up to him with a sunny smile and a hand held out, 'how are you? Dick is looking better, I think, and Mrs. Peet was as nice and as well as ever. She gave me such a welcome yesterday, and said she was so glad to see me. It is lovely to see you all again.'
'Welcome back, Miss,' returned Peet, taking the little hand shyly. 'I am not one to talk, but I am right glad to set eyes on you.'
'Thank you, Peet. But there is one thing that I do not feel happy about, and that is dear Aunt Betty. How different she seems—not half so strong as she used to be!'
'No, Miss, she is not. She has been ill with losing you. We did miss you sore, Miss.'
'It's nice of you to say so. But is it not wonderful that Jack should have picked me up when I fell into the sea? It was high tide, you know, and I was swept out so far I should have been drowned but for him. He took me home, and both he and his mother were so good to me.'
She told him the story which she had already related once that morning, dwelling especially on Jack's gallant rescue.
'Oh, Peet, he is such a good fellow,' she went on, 'so kind to every one, and so good to his mother! As to her, she is just the best mother possible. Peet, do you know Jack—have you spoken to him?'
She was anxious to know if Jack had had his interview; from Peet's manner she feared he had not, or that something was wrong.
'Why should I speak to him?' asked the gardener, in his most forbidding tones.
'Because Dick has,' she ventured, scarcely knowing how to say more in Peet's surly mood.
'Dick and I are two different persons, Miss.'
'Yes,' said Estelle, softly, 'Dick is a—is very near Heaven, Aunt Betty says. Peet, I think it is worse for the man who has done the wrong.'
'Do you, Miss? Well, I can't see it. It's not my way of thinking, anyhow.'
'It would be,' said Estelle, taking her courage in both hands, 'if you believed in forgiveness at all. Auntie told us what a hard time you had with Dick's illness,' continued Estelle, as Peet's face had not relented, 'but you are all right now. Jack has had a hard time too, because he was so dreadfully sorry for the wrong he had done. But it is not all right with him, and he says it never will be, because he cannot undo the harm.'
'No, he can't,' replied Peet, grimly.
'Well,' said Estelle, with a sigh, 'I am glad he has Dick's forgiveness, and that Dick called him his friend. Jack felt that more than anything. He said it was like coals of fire on his head.'
Seeing Peet made no attempt to reply, but continued his work as if the subject were ended, Estelle sighed again, and went slowly back to join the others, who were crossing the lawn with Jack, on their way to the Bridge House, where he was to say good-bye to Dick.
'Oh, Jack,' cried Georgie, 'Estelle says you sing so beautifully! Will you sing to Dick? He loves music, and some day I shall buy him a barrel-organ to play to him always.'
Jack shook his head. 'He won't care to hear me, Master George.'
But Georgie was so sure Dick would care, that he ran on ahead of the party to ask him. As the rest came up, Mrs. Peet was at the door to receive them. She looked into Jack's face and held out her hand.
'For his sake!' she said, motioning with her head towards her son. 'I can't go against his wishes.'
Grasping her hand in his big palms, Jack could only murmur gratefully, 'Thank you.' The next moment he had been seized upon by Georgie, and dragged to Dick's chair to sing. Turning very red, he said he did not know if he could trust his voice. Mrs. Peet, however, urging her son's fondness for music, begged him to give them something. Against such an appeal Jack could make no resistance. He sang as he had never sung before. Dick's eyes never left his face, and when Jack rose to go, Dick shook his hands with a world of feeling and pardon in eyes and clasp.
There had been one listener unseen by all, who stood with bowed head, leaning heavily on the gate of the porch. Perhaps it was Aunt Betty's gentle pleadings which had fallen like the 'gentle rain from heaven' upon his hard temper, preparing the ground for Estelle's soft words on behalf of Jack. Perhaps it was that his own better nature had asserted itself when all outside arguments had failed, and made him see how 'to err is human, to forgive divine.' Peet waited there in front of his house; and when Jack's voice came to him through the half-closed door in the concluding words of the last song, he understood dimly, in his own fashion, that no one could have sung in that way who had not known what real suffering was.
As Jack came out of the little garden, Peet stood in front of him, grim and determined, though there were wrinkles about his eyes. They showed how severe the pain and struggle were. Holding out his hand, he muttered gruffly, 'He is pretty near a saint, he is,' nodding towards the house, 'and I would not like to be shut out from where he goes. So we will just let bygones be bygones. There's my hand on it, if you will take it in the same spirit.'
Jack grasped the proffered hand with a mighty grip. His heart was full.
'Let it be how you please,' he said, in eager gratitude, 'so long as you do forgive me. I am more thankful than I am able to say for the kindness and forgiveness which have been shown me. But do not think that I shall ever forget the past, or cease to feel the most bitter sorrow for what I have done.'
Peet returned the pressure of his hand with a little more warmth, and Estelle thought his face was softer.
There was no time for more words. The children rushed out to pursue Jack. Mrs. Peet, even with Estelle's assistance, could no longer restrain them.
Jack must say good-bye to Aunt Betty, and have a word with the Earl. As they all walked up the Park together, the sailor told them that Lord Lynwood had asked him to persuade Mrs. Wright to come to Tyre-cum-Widcombe. He would give her a little cottage, a pretty garden, and would see that she wanted for nothing all her life. Jack himself was offered a permanent berth on Lord Lynwood's own yacht. A shout of delight greeted this announcement. Estelle was full of joy.
'We shall see you and dear Goody very often,' she cried, with sparkling eyes. 'Oh, won't we make you both happy!'
The other children echoed her delight.
'I have a great plan,' went on Estelle, dancing along gleefully, 'and I know it will simply send everybody wild with joy.'
'What is it?' asked Alan, eagerly. 'As long as it does not take you away, I don't mind.'
'I think I can persuade Father to take us all in his yacht, and we will bring Goody here ourselves.'
This proposal did indeed send the children wild. Not a word could Jack get in edgewise for several minutes.
'You are sure she will come?' asked Estelle.
'I think she will,' said Jack, smiling. 'She will never be happy away from our little Missie.'
"'Have you spoken to Jack?'"
The End.
"I struck furiously at the brute."
ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE.
By Harold Ericson.
IX.—A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE.
H, yes,' said Bobbie Oakfield, a night or two after Vandeleur's story of the plucky Japanese sailor; 'that young Hayashi was a smart fellow, and as brave as they make them; but as you have blown the Japanese trumpet, I think it is only fair I should blow a Russian one, if only to show that the Russians can be, in an emergency, as brave as the Japs themselves, which is the same as saying as brave as any man on this earth, not excepting an Englishman of the true kind!'
Well, I was in Russia—I have been many times, as you know, getting a little big or other game-shooting from my relations there. On this occasion there were reports up from my cousin's 'shoot' of wolves having been seen about; it was a cold season, and that is the kind of season in which the sportsman gets a good chance of adding a wolf-skin or two to his collection, for they become more accessible—tamer perhaps, certainly bolder—when it is cold. It is not a matter of choice with the poor creatures, but of stern necessity; they must come nearer to the villages, because food is difficult to obtain elsewhere. My cousin could not respond to Michael the keeper's invitation to come down and make a battue for the wolves. 'You can go by yourself if you like,' he said to me; 'Michael will make you comfortable, and if there are any wolves he will show them to you. Don't miss them, if he brings you within range, for that is an unpardonable crime in Michael's eyes, and he would never forgive you!'
Well, I went down to Dubrofda, prepared to stay for a week. I found that Michael was away, trying to secure a family of elk, which he had followed for several days. The under-keeper, Gavril, was there, however, and under his auspices I hoped to find sport, though he informed me sadly, on my arrival, that he had not seen wolves for several days. 'They came into the village after straying dogs one night,' he said, 'and pulled down a sheep of old Ivan Trusof's. Ivan fired his old blunderbuss at them, and the noise seems to have scared them away. To-morrow I will try after them, and if that fails we must see whether a squeal-pig will attract them.'
'A squeal-pig?' I repeated, laughingly; 'what in the world is that?'
Gavril glanced at me in some displeasure. 'It is a common way of hunting the wolves,' he said. 'Perhaps the method is not known in England.'
I explained that the last English wolf was killed many years ago. Then Gavril described the process which he had called the squeal-pig method of wolf-hunting.
'You get a very young pig,' he said, 'and put it into a sack. Now, no pig likes being put into a sack, and when a pig does not like a thing he squeals as though he were being killed. The sportsmen drive slowly through the wood by night, and all the while the pig is making a terrible din—a din that can be heard a mile or two away. If there is one thing in the world that a wolf prefers above another, as a delicacy, it is pork. Every wolf in the forest hears the yelling of the pig, and comes to see what is the matter, and whether there is a chance of any pork for supper. Sometimes the beasts become so excited that they will come quite close to the sledge in which the pig is squealing in its bag. Then comes the chance of the man with the gun.'
'Good,' said I, 'that sounds all right; we will try it to-morrow night. Is there a pig to be had?'
'Anton's sow has a litter a month or two old. I will buy one—a rouble will purchase it.'
Gavril procured the pig, and brought it safely housed in a small sack. It was squealing when he brought it, and I may say, without exaggeration, that so long as that pig and I were together, it never ceased for more than a second to give vent to its feeling of disgust and anger at the treatment to which it was subjected.
'I chose it for its voice,' said Gavril, grinning; 'the wolves prefer loud music; they come miles to hear it!'
Then we settled ourselves in the extremely comfortable village sledge which Gavril had brought with him, and started for our midnight drive.
That drive was delicious. The moonlight, the ghostly pines, the cold crisp air, the gleaming snow everywhere, the delightful motion, all added to the delight of it; the horrible noise made by our little friend in the sack was the only thing that broke the peace.
I dozed at intervals, and perhaps Gavril dozed also. At any rate, he gave me no warning of what was coming, and the sudden shock of it, I have reason to believe, surprised him as much as myself. I was fast asleep at the moment, and the entire situation burst upon me with absolute suddenness. I was conscious of a sudden violent jolt, the sledge overturned—or half upset, and righted itself, and I found myself rolling in the snow, together with the sack and the little squealing pig, which yelled lustily—more lustily than ever—in protest at being pitched out.
What had happened was this. First one wolf, then another had appeared on either side, among the trees, and Gavril was just putting out his hand to awake me, when a third wolf darted suddenly at the pony's hind leg; the frightened little animal swerved, the sledge brought up violently against a pine-tree, and out rolled the pig and I; Gavril and the gun remained in the sledge, which righted itself and went on swiftly as the pony bounded forward in fear. I sprang to my feet and looked after the sledge—it was out of sight in an instant.
At the same moment I became aware that half a dozen or more great grey creatures sat and stood within a few yards of me, looking, with the moon behind them, like dark spectres in a dream. Was I dreaming, I wondered, or was I really standing in mid-forest, the centre of interest to a company of hungry and therefore dangerous wolves? The pig answered the question conclusively enough. He suddenly yelled his loudest, using his very highest note. Then a remarkable thing happened. A wolf, maddened I suppose, by hunger, and unable to resist the temptation of sampling the owner of so vigorous a voice, suddenly sprang upon the sack. In an instant the wretched little creature imprisoned within it was torn into a hundred pieces and swallowed, sack and all. The savoury morsel whetted their appetites I suppose, for several of the brutes began to steal around, watching for an opportunity to spring upon me. I yelled and waved my arms and kicked my feet; the wolves withdrew a little way; I danced wildly, and yelled again, but they withdrew no further. The situation was obviously very serious.
Then I backed towards a tree, for I did not relish the idea of being surrounded. The moment that I moved a step further from them, each wolf advanced three, growling, showing his teeth, snarling. I caught sight of a piece of wood lying near the road; I picked it up, a wolf sprang forward to dispute possession, and I banged at him and missed; every wolf within sight—I should think there were two dozen by now, two or three of them quite close to me—showed his teeth and snarled again.
I backed for the tree, and had almost reached it when a gaunt beast sprang at me, and actually tore a piece out of the sleeve of my coat. I struck furiously at the brute, and I think broke its leg; he went limping and yelping amongst his companions, and they instantly tore him to pieces. The smell of his blood excited them, and several came leaping and snarling at me; I shouted and struck at them, but they would not retreat; they stood and growled, and licked their lips. How was it going to end, I began to wonder.
Several times a wolf or two wolves attacked me, and I beat them off, but I grew weary, and, what was more disastrous, my nerves began to fail. I realised that I could not keep up this nerve-destroying fight for ever, and Gavril had evidently not dared to return to my assistance.... Suddenly, when on the verge of collapse, I heard a shout in the distance. I replied with all my strength.
'All right,' called Gavril, 'I am coming; but it is difficult.'
It did not matter now, though Gavril seemed to spend an hour in covering the few hundred yards which lay between us, and I fought desperately on with renewed spirit. Then at length I caught sight of him in the moonlight, coming towards me; he seemed to limp; he stopped, and a shot rang out. Instantly the wolves disappeared as if by magic.
Gavril drew near. 'Here, take the gun, Excellency,' he said. 'I am hurt, I must sit.'
I just had time to take the gun out of his hands when Gavril stumbled and fell with a groan. 'Oh, my leg!' he muttered, and with the words he fainted.
The poor fellow's ankle was broken. It had been broken at the first jolt, when I fell out, but he had been unable to free himself from the sledge until, a quarter of a mile away, he had succeeded in pulling up the frightened horse and getting out.
Then he had deliberately walked back the whole way, with his broken ankle causing him agonies at each moment, straight into the midst of a dangerous wolf-pack, in order to bring me the gun and save my life.
'Without, for a moment, wishing to disparage the Japanese,' Bobby ended, 'I think you will agree with me that it would be unfair not to accord the Russians equal honour for pluck and devotion to duty—this particular Russian, at any rate, and I know of many others equally brave.'
'Carried nem. con.,' said Vandeleur.
As for Dennison, his contribution to the discussion was a loud and prolonged snore.
WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY.
A True Story.
Not long ago there lived a nobleman who was noted for his extreme obstinacy and his determination to have his own way. He had arranged one morning to meet a friend of his at a country station. When he got to the station, his friend had not come.
After he had waited some time the train came in; and just then he caught sight of his friend's carriage driving along at a gallop in the distance. He knew that it would take some five minutes for it to get to the station, and the train was due to start in one minute. So he went to the station-master, and explained to him that his friend was very anxious to catch the train: he asked him if he would be so kind as to stop it till the carriage arrived. The station-master, however, refused to do so, saying that the train was already late.
'We will see about that,' retorted the other; and he actually went and sat down between the rails right in front of the engine.
The station-master dared not let the train start, and though he begged the nobleman to get up, the latter refused to move until his friend arrived. While they were arguing the carriage drove up, and his friend got his ticket; and then at last the obstinate old gentleman left his dangerous position, and they went off in the train together. The trick had been successful, though it was a very dangerous and foolish one.
HEART'S-EASE.
'By waters still in sweet spring-time'
HERE is a little simple flower,
Heart's-ease by name—I know not why;
And yet, perchance, it has the power
To cause a tear or calm a sigh.
And if a dear one sends to me
The tiny flower, I'll prize it well;
For in the token I should see
The wish the flower was meant to tell.
And still its faded leaves I'd keep,
Although they had no scent to please;
Ah, better still! they seem to speak
A message, praying my heart's-ease.
By waters still in sweet spring-time
It lifts its sweet, mild gaze to me,
While on my ears faint falls the chime
Of evening bells across the lea.
"Mr. Merry, with Tabby in his arms, was just leaving the house."
TABBY'S GHOST.
All at once the matter was settled. Dr. Whitehead had given his orders—Mother must have change of air at once, and they were all going to Clifton for two months. The house was to be shut up, and in Edith's heart the question arose, 'What shall we do with Tabby?' Tabby was a pleasant, gentle cat, her especial property. 'Mother,' she said, 'might we not take Tabby with us? I could pay her railway fare with the half-crown Aunt Dora gave me. I should like it so much!'
'No, dear, it is quite impossible to do so,' replied her mother; 'but perhaps Mr. Merry, the milkman, would keep her for you; she would get plenty of milk, and you know she is a good mouser. Mr. Merry would be pleased with that; I have heard him say that his barn is over-run with mice.'
'Oh, there he is!' cried Edith; 'I will run and ask him at once.'
Very soon she returned, smiling and happy. 'Mother,' she said, 'I have given Mr. Merry my half-crown, and he says he will call to-morrow and take Tabby home with him, and keep her as long as we please.'
'And so you have no money now,' cried Evelyn; 'why, you will not be able to buy anything at Clifton.'
'Never mind, Edie,' said little Ina, kindly, 'I will give you a shilling out of my money; but I do think it was very unkind of Mr. Merry to take all that you had; don't you think so, Mother?'
But Mother would not tell her thoughts; she only smiled to herself and said, 'Run away, darlings, and pack up your dolls' clothes, and remember you must take nothing except what can be put into the dolls' trunk.' And away the children ran to look after this important matter.
Next day the cab was at the door. Mother had taken her seat, Jane had locked the hall door, and Mr. Merry, with Tabby in his arms, was just leaving the house, when, with an angry 'fuff,' and a desperate spring, she leaped to the ground and disappeared in a moment among the trees at the side of the house. What was to be done?
Edith was ready to cry, but Mr. Merry comforted her by promising to return in the afternoon, when, no doubt, Tabby would be at the door, hungry enough. He would give her a saucer of milk, and, while she was lapping it, he would secure her and take her away. Edith was greatly relieved; she thanked him warmly, and, in the excitement of railway travel, Tabby was almost forgotten.
What a delightful place Clifton was! Such toy-shops, such Zoological Gardens with real lions and tigers! Could children ever weary of such a place? Certainly neither Edith nor her two sisters; and so it was with a feeling of disappointment that they saw the travelling boxes once more pulled out, and faithful Jane begin to pack again. Mother was much better, however—that was one great comfort, and, as she was longing to be home again at the Grove, the children were fain to be content. As they drew near Ventnor, the three girls began talking of home and Tabby. 'Do you think that Mr. Merry will be willing to give her back to me, Mother?' said Edith, anxiously. 'She is such a darling, perhaps he may want to keep her!'
'Don't be afraid, dear,' said her mother, smiling; 'I dare say he has a cat of his own, and will be quite glad to send Tabby back.'
'Oh, Edie!' cried Evelyn, 'here we are; there are the chimneys of the Grove. Mother, may we not run home and not wait for the cab?'
'Very well, dears, run away; Jane will go with you.'
And away the little girls ran. They had just opened the gate and entered the avenue, when they saw some object approaching them. It seemed to be the ghost of Tabby! Staggering weakly down the avenue to meet them, her ribs sticking out, her fur torn off her in patches, her eyes dim, her voice quite gone, and her tail almost bare of fur, came poor dear Tabby, feebly trying to welcome her little mistress home.
Edith burst into tears as she lifted the poor cat into her lap, while kind-hearted Jane ran to the nearest cottage and returned with some warm milk. Oh, how greedily it was lapped up, and with what hungry eyes she looked for more! Jane had to warn the children lest in their compassion they should give her too much food at once, which would have been very hurtful to an animal so starved as the poor cat had been. Mr. Merry had only fulfilled one half of the agreement; he had taken the half-crown, but he had not taken the cat; and great was the anger of the children at his treachery and cruelty.
The next day, when he brought the milk as usual, they all ran down to scold him. But he was a man of composed manner and few words; he listened in silence, then he grinned at the sight of poor pussy's tail which Edith showed him, and, taking up his milk-cans, he departed, saying, 'Her should just have coom when I were willing to take her. Her deserves all she have got!'
'And, Mother,' said Ina, as she told the story, 'just think! he has kept poor Edie's half-crown. What a wicked man he must be!'
THE FORCE OF LABOUR.
The mere drudgery undergone by some men in carrying on their undertakings has been something extraordinary; but it has been drudgery which they regarded as the price of success. Addison amassed as much as three folios of manuscript materials before he began writing. Newton wrote his Chronology fifteen times over before he was satisfied with it; and Gibbon wrote out his Memoir nine times. Hale studied for many years at the rate of sixteen hours a day, and when wearied with the study of the law, he would recreate himself with philosophy and the study of mathematics. Hume wrote thirteen hours a day while preparing his History of England. Montesquieu, speaking of one part of his writings, said to a friend, 'You will read it in a few hours; but I assure you that it has cost me so much labour that it has whitened my hair.'
From Smiles's 'Self-Help'.
A GENTLE DONKEY.
(Continued from page [378].)
II.
The next day, just before the donkey-cart was expected round, Major Raeburn ran up to the nursery.
'I should drive down that quiet road towards the Mill, Mary; and don't allow Master Harry to irritate Tim with a whip, or any nonsense of that sort. Do you hear?' he continued, turning round to that young gentleman, who, seated in baby's chair, was pretending to be a motor. 'Promise that you will be a good boy.'
'All right, Father, but you had better get out of the way now, or you will be run over by my motor. People that get in front of motors always get killed.'
Here he uttered a piercing yell, at which six-months-old Baby crowed and kicked to show how much she enjoyed the game.
'That's just the engine exploded,' he explained, 'and Mary, you must come and see if the driver is killed.'
At this point in his game the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel outside; with a bound Harry was on the seat of Nannie's chair at the window.
'It's Tim, it's Tim!' he cried, and picking up his little sailor cap, he tore downstairs to inspect his new present.
'Good morning, Master Harry,' said Simmons, as Harry danced out upon the drive; 'are you going to give Tim a piece of sugar?'
'May I?' he called out to his mother, who was looking through the rugs in an old oak chest for one that would be suitable for the size of the donkey-cart.
'Yes, dear, certainly. Ah, there you are, Mollie,' she continued to her sister-in-law, who had been roused from her book in the drawing-room by the sound of the voices. 'Are you sure that you care to go? I am afraid that you will be dreadfully cramped in that small cart. If I were in your place, I should keep the door open and hang my legs out.'
'Keep your mind quite easy about me,' answered Aunt Mollie, laughing. 'If the worst comes to the worst, I can always get out and run behind! Where is our driver? In the cart? I never saw you come out, Mary. Now then, Harry, tumble in, opposite to Mary. Aunt Mollie is going to be the footman and sit at the door.'
Mary chirruped to the donkey, Harry waved his cap, and as Simmons shut the door of the cart with a sharp bang, Tim tossed his head in the air with a 'don't I look nice?' expression in his large soft eyes, and trotted away down the broad tree-lined avenue.
All went well at first, and Mary was delighted.
'Donkeys can be so nasty,' she said, 'but this one is a perfect little dear, Miss.'
At this moment Tim saw something very interesting in the hedge, and turned across the road to examine it.
'Oh, you naughty donkey,' exclaimed the girl, 'I can't allow you to do that,' and she gave the rein a sharp pull to bring him into the road again.
Tim, however, took not the slightest notice, but continued his examination.
'We really must get him to move,' murmured Aunt Mollie, anxiously, 'for we are right across the road, so that nothing can pass us.'
Meanwhile poor Mary was using every effort to get him away from the hedge.
'Don't you be nervous, Miss,' said the girl cheerfully; 'nothing ever comes along this road, for it only leads to the Mill Farm.'
Mary's words were greeted by a loud 'Hullo!' from the driver of a baker's van that was coming along the road behind them at a sharp pace.
'Oh, dear! oh, dear!' murmured Mary, 'it's Crawford the baker! What will he think when he sees that I am beaten by a little donkey? Can you drive, Miss? Perhaps you could make him go.'
Miss Raeburn shook her head ruefully. She was a Londoner, and her knowledge of animals was extremely limited.
'What shall we do?' she said nervously, and mentally she drew an awful picture in which the baker's weary-looking horse became a spirited charger, dashed into the donkey-cart, and trampled the whole party to death.
In vain did Mary, now desperate, bring the whip across Tim's fat, well-groomed sides; he merely shook his long ears, whisked his tail angrily against the shafts, and resumed his investigation in the hedge.
'Let me see if I can help you,' called the young baker at last. 'Donkeys are artful little things; but perhaps if I get him round again, he will follow my van; that is to say, if I can pass in this narrow road.' As he spoke he took Tim firmly by the head.
For a second or two the donkey tossed his head in a vain endeavour to free himself; then he gave the baker one of his gentlest glances and stepped round into the road.
'Oh, thank you so much,' said Aunt Mollie, as the baker carefully drove his van past the little cart; but poor Mary only hung her head. She had been beaten by a little donkey!
'Perhaps he will follow if I give him a lead,' suggested the obliging young man; 'but if I were in your place, I would take him home by another road. Coop, coop, coop!' he called to the donkey, in a sing-song voice as he drove away, and Tim, who seemed to understand his language, galloped after the van as fast as he could put his four little feet to the ground.
There was a slight difference of opinion between Mary and Tim when the former, taking the baker's advice, turned down a narrow road to the right.
Tim wished to follow the van, and for a few anxious moments, Mary was afraid that he would be victorious.
'This is a very exciting drive,' said Harry in an awe-struck voice, as the donkey turned the corner so sharply that for an instant they all expected to find themselves lying in the ditch.
'Very!' answered his aunt.
She had her eyes on the donkey, and her hand on the door of the cart, which was open, and ready to be used as an 'emergency exit.'
'Oh!' she gasped nervously, as Tim showed a strong desire to climb the steep bank by the side of the road, 'I don't think I agree with you, Mary, that this donkey is a "perfect dear!"'
'He is a deceitful little brute,' said Mary angrily, 'and he will never be safe for the children.'
No sooner did Tim turn in at the Lodge gates than he became the same sweet, docile little creature that had trotted out, and as Mrs. Raeburn watched him come down the avenue she gave a sigh of relief.
'We were in luck to get such a treasure,' she thought, 'and I feel certain that no one could guess he had come straight from a greengrocer's cart; he looks such a little gentleman.'
(Continued on page [398].)
"All went well at first."
"'It's Captain Halliard!'"
A MODERN WIZARD.
'Come along, Gussie, quick! Here! in by the garden-door.'
'Oh! what is it, Jack?'
'S—sh! Can't you make less noise? Just like a girl!'
Grumbling and muttering, he stole into the schoolroom—deserted now at three o'clock in the afternoon—followed on tip-toe by his younger sister, Augusta.
She eyed his movements eagerly, as he let down the Venetian shutters, drew together the heavy serge curtains, and poked up the sleepy fire till little tongues of red light darted mysteriously about the room. Then he thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out something!
Gussie retreated into a corner, and clasped her hands together.
'Not a mouse, Jack? Oh! I can't bear them—please, please——!'
'Are you nine, or are you two, Gussie?' asked Master Twelve-year-old.
He put a dirty, yellowish mass on the table. Gussie approached it anxiously. It might have been anything in that ghostly light—but, at least, it did not move.
'Wax!' announced Jack, triumphantly.
'Nasty, dirty stuff!' sniffed Gussie.
'Oh, very well! If you're going to talk like that, you can go away,' said her brother, turning his back on her.
'No, no, Jack! I want to see what you are going to do with it. Please let me stay!'
'Then lock the door, and don't make a row over it.'
The boy was bending over the fire, and moulding the messy lump between his fingers as he spoke.
'What is all that stuff for?' pleaded Gussie, anxiously.
'It isn't stuff, I tell you. It's wax. Can't you see what I am doing?'
'It's so dark!' expostulated the child, peeping over his shoulder. Then she gave a cry of delight.
'Why, Jack you are making—I know!—a little man! It's just like the idol Uncle Joe brought Lilian from Burmah. Is it an idol, really? I thought it was naughty to make idols.'
The boy held the little figure up, and surveyed it with pride.
'Of course it's a man! What should I want to make an idol for?'
'What do you want to make a man for?' wondered Gussie.
'Half a minute, and I will tell you. I must paint the thing now, and I can't see properly. Get a candle, and I will light up.'
He drew a small match-box from his pocket, and lit the candle with excited fingers.
'Blue trousers,' he murmured, dabbing on streaks of paint—'bother! a blue coat too. So dull! If only he was a soldier, now!'
'Oh, won't you tell me what it is for?' asked once more his sorely tried sister, her patience nearly at breaking point.
'You are such a ninny. You would go and tell.'
'No, I won't! I promise, Jack.'
'Lots of gold buttons,' continued that exasperating boy, splodging them about in great abundance; 'and black eyebrows, and a red nose. Like a Pirate King, you know. Dare say he is a pirate in disguise, if only one knew. It's Captain Halliard, Gussie!'
'Is he as ugly as that?' asked the little sister; 'he doesn't look so in his photograph.'
'You can't tell from photographs,' said Jack—adding, 'I expect he is a good deal uglier! He must be, or he wouldn't want to take Lilian away.'
'I thought he was going to marry her. I'm to be a bridesmaid, you know, and wear a white frock, with—— '
'That's all you girls care about!' said Jack, with contempt. 'Did you think he would bring her back here afterwards?'
'Of course. Where else should she go?'
'I dare say they would not tell a kid like you,' he answered loftily. 'They have taken a house at Southsea—miles away from here. Now do you see why I have made this figure?'
'No-o-o!' she said, half crying.
'Oh, do dry up, Gussie, or I won't tell you anything! Don't you remember in the history lesson this morning, Miss Gower told us that when people hated one another, ages ago, they got wizards to make wax images of their enemies, and let them melt slowly away, and as they melted, the other fellow began to get thin and ill—and went on getting thinner and iller, till—— '
'Till he died!' shrieked Gussie. 'Oh, Jack, you won't do that?'
The boy blew out the candle, and placed the figure opposite the fire, just inside the fender.
'We shall see!' he said mysteriously. 'I shall do it very slowly, a little bit each day, and watch the effect on Captain Halliard. He's coming here this evening, you know. Of course, Lilian will never want to marry a man who gets thinner and iller every day; but if that's not enough, and he still wants to carry off my sister, I'll just—— '
'Children! children! open the door, quick! The hall is full of smoke.'
The girlish tones were emphasised by most undoubtedly manly thumps. Jack hesitated, but Gussie flew to turn the key.
Lilian Phillips rushed in, followed closely by a tall stranger. The draught from the open door located the origin of the smoke only too easily. The schoolroom curtains burst into flames!
Gussie ran up to her elder sister. Jack, the bold, the self-reliant, was momentarily paralysed.
It was the stranger who jumped on the sofa, and tore those curtains down—crushing them with his hands—- stamping on them till the flames were extinguished, finally emerging from the smoking curtain with singed hair and beard, and shaking his scorched fingers, but otherwise calm and unruffled.
'Hullo, young man! Are you responsible for all this? What had you been up to? Guy Fawkes' Day is long past. All right, Lilian, don't bother about me. I'm not hurt—though I'm afraid as much cannot be said for the curtains.
'Oh, George, what should we have done without you? What a mercy it was you caught the afternoon train. What were you two children doing?' gasped Lilian, almost in one breath.
'Gussie wasn't doing anything!' asserted Jack, stoutly. 'I had lit a candle. I don't see how that could have set the curtains on fire, though,' he added, gazing open-eyed at the stranger called 'George,' and trying to get between him and the fender.
'What did you do with the match?' demanded George, curtly.
'Chucked it away!' came the reply, with equal brevity.
The grown-ups exchanged significant glances.
'Why did you lock yourselves up here?' asked Lilian, laying gentle hands on her small brother's shoulders, and turning him round on the hearthrug to face her.
It was seldom that Jack resisted Lilian, and he did not do so now, though he wriggled, and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder.
'I—I——,' he began hesitatingly, when a loud laugh from George interrupted him.
'By Jove! here's a funny little image, Lilian! A sailor too, by all that's curious! Not me, eh?' he roared good-temperedly, as he fished the blue-bedaubed figure out of the fender, and, holding it at arm's length, surveyed it by the now cheerful blaze of the fire.
Jack wriggled himself free from his elder sister's grasp, and faced round.
'Are you Captain Halliard?'
'Certainly, young man.'
'Then I'm sorry I made that.'
'Why! it is I, then? What should you be sorry for?' he asked, bewildered; 'it's not at all bad, for a young 'un—bar likeness, I hope! Never mind, though, if you don't want to tell me,' he added, good-naturedly, sorry for the boy's evident embarrassment.
But Jack continued: 'It is you—and I made it of wax, so that it should melt, and you should get ill, and—— '
'Oh! you wicked boy!' exclaimed Lilian, aghast; 'what harm had George done you?'
'He wanted to take you away,' explained Jack sullenly, 'and I don't want him to. But I tell you I am sorry now about the image.'
'Why?' demanded Captain Halliard.
'You are a brave man. You pulled those curtains down. I couldn't have done that! I don't care if you do marry my sister now.'
'Hooray!' shouted Gussie, capering wildly about; 'and now you'll let me be a bridesmaid, won't you, Jack? I didn't—oh, I didn't want that nasty wax image to melt all away!'
And so Jack learnt that magic is not only silly, but wrong, and found that Captain Halliard was after all not so terrible as to need a wizard to drive him away.
PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.
Answers To Puzzles on Page [371].
| 13.— | (A.) | Orphan-age. |
| (B.) | Book-worm. | |
| (C.) | Brim-stone. | |
| (D.) | Hare-bell. | |
| (E.) | Dove-tail. | |
| (F.) | Some-body. |
AVERAGE.
In old French, 'aver' meant a horse. So it did in old Scotch, which still has not a few French words in its dialect. Burns, in his 'Dream,' speaks of a horse as a 'noble aiver.'
In old times in Europe, a tenant was bound to do certain carting of grain or turf for the lord of the manor. In the yearly account this was set down as aver-age, or, as we might say, horse-age. The tenant had to strike a balance between his rent and his horse-work done, and this just proportion came to be known afterwards as average.
Average is a very difficult word to define. One day an Inspector asked a class what it meant. A little girl eagerly answered, 'What a hen lays eggs on.'
The Inspector was greatly surprised, but knowing that the child must have some reason for her answer, he asked her what made her think so, when she at once pointed to a sentence in her reading-book which said that 'a hen lays four or five eggs a week on an average.' The little girl evidently thought that an average was a mat or something of the kind, on which the hen deposited her eggs.
GAS-LIGHT INSECT-HUNTING.
Why should insects rush eagerly to an artificial light when they do not attempt to fly towards the moon, however brilliantly she may shine on a summer evening? We cannot tell, nor why some moths are indifferent to lamps which make their brethren excited, often to their peril. By searching gas-lamps, the entomologist can obtain specimens of moths that would otherwise be difficult to find. Lamps, of course, are most productive when their place is along a country road, but even in towns they have their winged visitors after dark.
Dull or cold nights will bring few insects to the lamps, and those would usually be not worth catching. Earwigs appear—a proof that they can fly as well as crawl, and as they are insects of rather a shy habit, it is surprising to find that they are fascinated by a light. Gnats are abundant, and sundry flies often lie in little heaps at the bottom of the lamp; sometimes the number of gnats is thus greatly reduced in a stinging season, when thousands of persons are attacked by these insects. Beetles occasionally come, and spiders also, not drawn by the light, but knowing that they will get prey at the lamps. Away from any town, bats are frequently amongst the evening visitors on the look-out to secure part of the arriving insects, especially those having plump bodies.
Many of the moths, to the disappointment of the collector, have their wings singed or damaged. Others enter the lamp and avoid the flame, settling down quietly upon the glass, and others again stop outside upon the glass or the ironwork. During the twilight the slim moths, or Geometers, arrive, with now and then a large moth; towards ten o'clock the Noctuas, or stout-bodied moths, begin to appear.
NIGHT AND DAY.
HE Night is like a Fairy Prince,
So good, and strong, and great:
His jewels are the stars; they deck
His purple robe of state.
His dinted shield, the silver moon,
Gleams brightly on his breast;
See, how he comes so silently,
And moves towards the West!
The Day a fairy maiden is,
With flower-garlands gay,
And as the Night approaches her,
She blushing hastes away.
But he, undaunted, still pursues
Because he loves her best:
Then lo! he clasps her to his heart,
Far in the crimson West.
THE ROSEMONT GROTTO AND THE PETCHABURG CAVERNS.
BOUT three hundred miles from the coast of Madagascar, and over one hundred from the Mauritius, lies the beautiful island to which its French owners have given the name of Réunion. It was formerly known as 'Ile de Bourbon,' out of compliment to the family name of the French monarchs, but at the time of the Revolution the island was renamed, and became Réunion. It is of small size, only thirty-five miles long by twenty-eight broad; but it contains a range of fine mountains, some as much as ten thousand feet high. These mountains are of volcanic origin, and one peak, 'Polon de Fournaise' by name, is one of the most active volcanoes in the world. Below another, known as the Pic Bory, is a remarkable cavern, though it only measures sixty yards long by twenty high. Its chief feature is the curious method of its construction.
In its active days, the Pic Bory had a way of tossing high into the air huge spouts of boiling lava, which rushed with great force down the mountain-side, overwhelming everything which came in the way. Now, just as gunpowder rammed into a cannon drives heavy balls immense distances, so this lava is driven out of the craters by gases which are imprisoned below the crust of the earth. When these succeed in getting free, flames, cinders, and red-hot lava rush out, great explosions are heard for many miles, and clouds of fiery gas escape into the air. Sometimes, however, the lava is too densely packed for all the gas to escape, and some of it remains imprisoned, and is carried down the mountain beneath the boiling mass; but although it cannot get free, its energy finds vent by driving its roof of lava upwards, and so a high mound occurs in the channel of the lava, and when in course of years the gas does find a way out, a hollow cavern remains inside. The Grotto of Rosemont is one of the finest-known instances of these gas-formed caverns, and, hence its fame. Other volcanic grottoes are also found in Réunion, two of them very fine, and many similar great hollows are found near volcanoes in other lands, notably beneath the peak of Mount Etna in Sicily.
In the kingdom of Siam, about two days' journey by boat from the capital city of Bangkok, rises a fine group of mountains, and on the highest of these has been built a royal palace. The mountains are of volcanic origin, and the palace actually stands on an extinct crater, which would be very inconvenient if the slumbering fires below suddenly awakened.
In the neighbourhood of the range are the fine caverns of Petchaburg, some of the largest existing instances of volcanic grottoes. Two are especially grand, as the lava in cooling has twisted and twirled about in marvellous fashion, making most wonderful effects.
The moisture coming from the roof has decorated the caverns with splendid stalactites and stalagmites, whilst, like many other volcanic rocks, the walls are of brilliant and harmonious colours.
The king and his people are justly proud of their caverns, and have taken great pains that they shall be made accessible to visitors, the ground having been levelled and staircases placed in many directions. The largest and most beautiful cave has been turned into a temple, and all along the sides are rows of figures. One of these is of colossal size, and richly gilded, representing a sleeping Buddha.
THE KING OF PERSIA.
NCE upon a time a certain King of Persia went out hunting with all his court. The chase that day happened to be long, and the king became very thirsty. But no fountain or river could be found near the spot on the plain where they rested for a short interval. At last one of the courtiers spied a large garden not far off. It was filled with trees bearing lemons, oranges, and grapes. His followers begged the monarch to partake of the good things in the garden.
'Heaven forbid that I should eat anything thereof,' said the king, 'for if I permitted myself to gather but an orange from it, my officers and courtiers would not leave a single fruit in the entire garden.'
The higher in life a person is, the more careful he should be, for all his faults are copied by those beneath him.
"'This is a present which your uncle has sent you.'"
JESS.
A Dog Story.
'Now, Lottie and Carrie,' said Mrs. Sefton, coming out into the garden just as the daylight was beginning to fade, 'it is time to be indoors; bring your things and come in.'
'Oh, Mother!' cried both the little girls, 'we are just in the middle of our game; do please let us stay a little longer.'
But their mother shook her head. 'I can't possibly do that,' she answered. 'You will never be at school in time to-morrow unless you are in bed by eight o'clock. Don't stop to talk about it, but come, like good children.'
Then Carrie took up the dolls which were lying on the grass, while Lottie loaded herself with the little basket-chair and the three-legged stool, and in a very short time the two sisters were in the snug white beds.
'Good-night,' said Mother, as she kissed them both. 'You have been good girls to-day, and in the morning I shall have something nice to tell you.'
'Tell us to-night, please—tell us to-night,' they pleaded. But Mother was not to be moved, and the thought of what that something nice might be kept Lottie and Carrie awake till the darkness had really come on.
But though they were late in going to sleep, you may be sure they were awake early in the morning. They helped each other to dress, and were downstairs reminding Mother of her promise long before they were expected.
'I shall know now how to make you get up in good time,' Mrs. Sefton said, laughing; 'but come along, it is not only something to tell, but something to show you.'
She led them to the tool-house at the bottom of the garden, and there, tied to a nail in the wall, was a pretty little black-and-tan dog—a terrier.
'This is a present which your uncle has sent you,' Mrs. Sefton said. 'You are to have it for your very own—its name is Jess. Stand up, Jess, and show your mistresses how you can beg.'
Jess stood up on her hind legs, and crossed her paws in such a funny way that Lottie danced about with delight. Carrie was timid and hung back; she did not like to say so, but she was really rather afraid of the new pet. This was silly, but Carrie was only a little girl; in a short time, when she saw how good and gentle Jess really was, she too forgot her fears.
Lottie and Carrie went to school together. Now that they had Jess they were always glad when school hours were over, and they could run home to play. Jess was as pleased to see them back as the children were to come, and all through the summer they learned to be better and better friends with the little terrier.
But after the summer holidays Lottie went away for a while, to visit some friends, and Carrie was left to go to school by herself. She was very lonely and dull without her sister. When one is only six years old, a fortnight seems such a long time, and at last Carrie settled that she could not go to school another day without Lottie.
Then she did a very foolish thing. After she was sent to school, she turned back and hid herself in the tool-house at the bottom of the garden. She had heard her mother say at breakfast that she was going out for the forenoon, and Carrie thought that she would just wait till there was no one at home, and then come out from her hiding-place and play.
Mrs. Sefton had a long walk to take, and as soon as possible she put on her bonnet, and then, thinking that her little girl was safe at school, she locked up the house, and started on her errand, leaving Jess to run about the garden and take care of things.
Carrie heard her mother close the front door, and then she came out from the tool-house. She had thought that it would be very nice to stay at home and play, but she soon began to feel lonely and frightened, and to wish that she had not deceived her mother.
'Oh, Jess!' she said to the little dog, 'I wish I had been good and gone to school!'
Jess looked up at Carrie, and wagged her tail, but she could do nothing more to comfort her little mistress.
Carrie walked up and down, feeling ready to cry.
'I never shall be able to stay here all by myself till Mother comes back,' she thought. 'I will try and get over the wall.'
Now, the garden wall was high, and just as Carrie, by a great effort, had managed to reach the top, her foot slipped, and she fell heavily down on to the mould.
She was so much hurt that she fainted away, and then it was the dog's turn to be distressed. Jess walked round and round the little fallen girl, and, finding that she could do nothing to help, she set up a piteous bark, and barked so long and so loudly that she drew the attention of the neighbours.
'Whatever is that dog of the Seftons' barking at?' one woman inquired of her husband; and Mr. Curtis, who was a shoemaker, and worked at home, stopped a moment to listen.
'I don't like the sound,' he said, presently. 'It's as though there was something the matter, and Mrs. Sefton is out, for I saw her go past the window.'
'Perhaps it would be best for you to go and see,' his wife said, and though he could ill spare the time, kind-hearted Mr. Curtis put down the boot which he was mending, and ran down the lane till he reached the garden wall.
Then he soon saw what was the matter. There was Jess with her paws on Carrie's frock, while Carrie was lying quite white and still.
The shoemaker carried the poor child to his own cottage, while his wife went to look for Mrs. Sefton.
Carrie proved to be badly hurt; she had to lie in bed a good while, and you may be sure that her mother and Lottie, and all her friends, were very grieved and anxious about her.
But every one praised good, faithful Jess, who had brought help to her little mistress; and when Lottie came back, and Carrie got quite well, as I am glad to say she did at last, Jess was a greater pet than ever.
A GENTLE DONKEY.
(Continued from page [391].)
III.
'You know, Mollie,' said Mrs. Raeburn to her sister-in-law next morning as she looked through the letters, which had just come in, 'I cannot believe that Tim is so wicked as you and Mary both say. I ran out to the stables before breakfast, and the dear, sweet thing rubbed his nose against my sleeve, and then tried to find my pocket. He evidently expected sugar, for he looked up at me as much as to say, "Now then, where's that sugar?" You see, dear,' (here she lowered her voice to a whisper and looked cautiously round) 'although Mary is a splendid maid for the nursery, she may be no good as a "whip," and so I have made up my mind to go in the cart myself this morning. Luckily, Cook has made some soup for poor old Mrs. Woods, and I shall get Mary to drive me there when she takes Harry out.'
'What does Simmons think of this new treasure?' asked Aunt Mollie.
'Oh! Simmons is ridiculous. He agrees with Mary, and says that yesterday it took three men to hold him while he was being harnessed. I never heard anything so absurd! I thought that we might go round to the stables about eleven and see for ourselves. Why!'—looking at her watch—'it is almost eleven now. Come along, Mollie, or we shall miss the fun,' and picking up the tail of her long skirt, young Mrs. Raeburn disappeared through the French window.
As the two girls neared the yard, loud voices were heard and the clattering noise of the donkey's feet upon the cobble stones made it evident that the harnessing had began.
'Well! how is Tim behaving himself to-day?' called out Mrs. Raeburn.
Instantly three flushed, angry faces looked up, and three fingers touched three perspiring foreheads respectfully.
'Well, ma'am!' answered Simmons, sulkily, 'I never came across such a little brute. Just look at that,' he continued, as Tim made a sudden plunge for the duck-pond, and in spite of the frantic efforts of the two strong boys who were holding his head on either side, he nearly succeeded in joining the ducks which were swimming here and there on its smooth surface.
'Now then, now then,' murmured Mrs. Raeburn, in a soft, cooing voice, as she walked in front of the donkey, and began to rub his nose; but he tossed his head angrily to one side, and showed her a set of large, strong teeth in such a suggestive manner that she discreetly stepped back.
'Take care of his heels, M'm,' said one of the boys, in an anxious voice, as she laid her hand on Tim's back, and she had just time to move away when back went his ears, and up went his hind feet.
Clatter, clatter, clatter went those evil little heels against the cart, till Mrs. Raeburn thought that by the time he had finished, the pretty little cart would be fit for little else than match-wood. Suddenly he stopped, turned gently round with a surprised look in his soft eyes, as much as to say, 'I wonder what you are all here for?' and from that moment he gave no more trouble.
Apparently this tantrum was at an end, and as he stood placidly whisking his long tail over his pretty back, Mrs. Raeburn mentally began to make apologies for him. Doubtless the men had teased him, and naturally the poor dear little thing had tried to take his revenge.
'No,' she said, in answer to a murmured question from Simmons, 'you need not take him round. We can just start right away from here. You have the soup, Mary, and the whip?'
'Oh! do let me hold the whip, Mother,' pleaded the shrill voice of her son, and Mother weakly consented.
'Tim is a darling, isn't he, Mother?' said the small voice, as they drove past some cottages; 'but I expect he could be naughty. I wonder what he would do if I gave him just a teeny, weeny touch with the whip! Would you like to see?' The voice had a pleading note in it, and the blue eyes looked very wistful.
'Oh, no, old man! That would be very unkind. Mother does not punish you when you are quite a good boy, does she?'
'No—o,' doubtfully. 'Mother, if the whip was to touch him quite by accident, don't you wonder what he would do? Just put your head down till I whisper something. Perhaps,' in a low voice, 'he would buck-jump. Wouldn't that be lovely?'
But Mother, who had already witnessed Tim's acrobatic performance in the stable yard, did not take advantage of the offer.
'Lovely day,' she called out brightly, to an old woman who was sitting outside her cottage door. 'How are you feeling? I must come—— ' but the sentence remained unfinished, for at this point the donkey gave a violent lurch forward, then, putting his head down, commenced to kick just as hard as ever he could.
In vain did Mrs. Raeburn try to put a stop to it; neither voice nor whip made the slightest impression upon him. He seemed to consider it in the light of an exercise, which, to be of any permanent good, must be continued for a certain length of time. He finished by backing hard into the small wooden gate which led into the old woman's trim, old-fashioned garden. There was a splintering, crackling noise, and Mary jumped out of the little cart to examine the amount of damage done to the gate. Tim turned slowly round with quite a vexed look in his eyes, scrutinised the gate also, then looked at Mary with a reproachful look, as if trying to lay the blame on her innocent shoulders.
'I am sorry,' murmured Mrs. Raeburn to the old woman, who had hobbled down to the gate. 'Yes! he is a naughty donkey! I can't think what made him kick just now. Now, don't you worry about your pretty little gate; Major Raeburn will have it repaired at once.'
'What can have made him kick just now, Mary?' she said, as they drove away; but Mary, instead of answering, turned and stared fixedly at Harry.
As the stare, apparently, had not the desired result, she took hold of the whip, still firmly clasped between Harry's fat little hands. 'Now then, Master Harry, what did you do to Tim just now?'
'Well, Mary,' in his most innocent tone of voice, 'I just touched Tim's back very, very gently with it; just like this, Mother,' and the young rascal raised the whip to give a demonstration.
Now, unfortunately for the occupants of the cart, Tim saw the whip; he took advantage of the opportunity, and shied right into the shallow ditch.
Away rolled the bowl of beef-tea from between Mary's hands, and the soup which had been so carefully prepared for Mrs. Wood trickled down her white skirt in brown streams, and formed small pools upon the vacant seat facing her.
'Give me the whip at once, Harry,' said Mrs. Raeburn angrily. 'You are a very disobedient little boy. Now poor old Mrs. Wood won't have any dinner. Well, Mary,' with a sigh of resignation, 'as we have no soup, we might drive on to the Common for a blow.'
(Continued on page [402].)
"He finished by backing hard into the small wooden gate."
"The motor came to a standstill."