THE DUCK-BILLED PLATYPUS.
The Duck-Billed Platypus.
So far as we know at present, the platypus duck-mole, or water-mole, is the strangest of all animals. Its home is in Australia, but, owing to the progress of civilisation, it appears likely to die out before long, for many of its haunts have been disturbed by the advancing white man.
When the first specimens reached England, dried, the creature puzzled the naturalists, who were almost inclined to think it was not genuine. The animal is about twenty inches long, covered with thick soft fur, which is brown on the back, and white below. The curious muzzle is lengthened and flattened, much resembling the beak of a duck; its edges are hard, and at the back part of the mouth are four teeth. But it cannot grasp anything very firmly with the bill, which shows that its food must be of a soft nature. The feet of the platypus are five-toed and webbed, being, like the rest of the body, suited for an aquatic life. Another singular fact is that the animal has a spur on each hind leg. This spur is connected with a gland, which resembles those of serpents, and may contain poison. Certainly it appears as if this spur is a sort of weapon, though the animal is of peaceful habits.
Before sleeping, the platypus curls round to keep itself warm, and brings the flattened tail over the back. It is very particular about the fur, which is kept smooth and clean by means of the beak, and is also brushed with the feet. Much of the animal's time is passed in diving and swimming, the food being mostly water insects, or such as are to be found on the banks of streams. The platypus is an excellent digger, and forms deep burrows or tunnels, the opening being hidden by the herbage of the bank. At the bottom there is generally a nest, carefully lined by the animal with grass and leaves. There the young ones are brought up by the parents.
J. R. S. C.
A MERMAID'S SONG.
ALY woe, waly woe,
My song is of a mermaid, O!
A tearful little mermaid, who
Dwells deep below the ocean blue,
Sighing many a sad heigho,
And singing songs of 'waly.'
Waly woe, waly woe,
She was not always weeping, 0!
Until she sadly fell in love
With one who sailed the seas above
While she was sporting down below.
Not singing songs of 'waly.'
Waly woe, waly woe,
He was a handsome Prince, and O!
She watched him when the stars were seen
A-twinkling blue and gold and green,
And other pretty colours—so
Began her songs of 'waly.'
Waly woe, waly woe,
Lack-a-day, a-deary O!
For blighted love. But 'tis a fault
To make the sea so very salt
With bitter tears that still do flow
While she is singing 'waly.'
Reed Moorhouse.
CHINESE PHYSIC.
The Chinese are a clever people, very clever indeed, and in some things they must be acknowledged to show more wisdom than the nations of the West; but they are decidedly peculiar in their way of treating the sick. Progress is not the rule with the Chinese, and, while medical art or skill is quite different now in England from what it was, the Chinese have made hardly any improvement. Matters come rather hard on the Chinese doctors, for we are told that sometimes they are punished if a patient dies, or when he does not seem to be getting better. This certainly is unfair to a doctor, for he cannot cure everything. With accidents, of course, much may depend upon how the doctor acts, and it is generally agreed that the Chinese are bad surgeons, so that in an emergency it would be better to trust to nature than be treated by a Chinese doctor, if other help was not to be had. We cannot wonder, therefore, that some of them refuse to visit sick people, if it is likely there will be danger in the case. Chinese books tell us that their system of medicine is exceedingly old, in fact, nearly as old as the monarchy, and it is attributed to a husbandman, whose name was Shin-nung. He studied what plants were the best food for the body, and what would cure it when 'out of sorts.' By him, or by some one soon after him, a list was prepared of the different complaints, and the proper medicine for each, with the dose to be given, so that any one can start upon being a doctor if he follows the instruction given. But should he try giving medicine on a plan of his own, he is likely to get into trouble.
The fees are mostly small, and the large cities have what we call dispensaries, where the poor are treated free. Still, there are a great many doctors in China; some are settled in one place, but hosts of them travel about, offering to the people quack physic. Boluses or large pills are favourite medicines, so big that sometimes persons are nearly choked in swallowing them. Much of the liquid medicine given is thick, and most nauseous to take; but usually the Chinese drink their potions without any sign of disgust. There are, however, various aromatics and perfumes prescribed, which the patients do not have to swallow; they have only to sniff them, or inhale their vapour. Dried and powdered bones of many animals are taken as physic; thus, the bones of a tiger are believed to give strength and courage. An elephant's tusk will furnish medicine for several complaints. Of the vegetables used, none is more highly esteemed than the ginseng root.
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [174].)
At length, worn out and with a violent headache, Estelle tried to collect her senses. Something must be done. No one could help her. If she was ever to get out of this terrible passage, it must be by her own exertions. There must be a way—yes surely! The hole in the cliff suddenly occurred to her and almost at the same instant she thought of the two men in the cellar. Her spirits revived as she remembered that there was an entrance to the ruin through her aunt's cellars. Once there, she could bang on the door till she was heard.
Springing up with renewed hope, she proceeded to grope her way in what she fancied might be the proper direction. She had lost her bearings, she feared, when she was knocked down, but it would not be difficult to find them again. The fallen mass was, as far as she could recollect, behind her, and she had only to go ahead to make her way to the cellar. If only she could be sure she was in the right passage! Alas! a few steps brought her up against a barrier, which no efforts at feeling or climbing seemed able to pass. A wall of earth met her everywhere.
A great terror seized her. Had the crash completely blocked the passage on all sides? Was she a prisoner without hope of escape? Trembling so that she could scarcely walk, she called the dog to her, and, holding him by the collar, began to feel all round the walls of her prison. Bootles, not approving of this plan, pulled vigorously in an opposite direction, and, obeying his lead, she was relieved to find herself able to get along fairly well, without many falls over stones or mounds. The first horror of her position passed away.
Releasing the dog, she struggled bravely on, imagining every moment she would come up against some door.
'We shall get there soon,' she cried cheerfully to Bootles, who was trotting at her side, uttering an occasional whine.
He gave a bark on being addressed, and sprang up to her, but it appeared to her he was uneasy. Had she made a mistake? It was no great distance to the cellars; but she had been toiling along for an immense time, and was getting very tired after her numerous falls and bruises. The terror she had felt at first began to creep over her again, but she would not let herself give way to it. Struggling blindly on in the total darkness, she was suddenly startled by the sound of running water. Very soon she was floundering in a stream which bubbled round her feet, while all about her was a sound of faint trickling. Moreover, she had not gone on many steps before another fall sent her headlong into a pool, from which she scrambled to her feet soaking wet. With a terrified cry, she sought in vain for the friendly wall, but could not find it. Chilled to the bone, shivering, and hopelessly bewildered, she dared not move another step for fear of unknown consequences. Every breath was now a sob, as wearied, aching all over, terrified, she stood still, afraid to stir.
'Bootles! Bootles!' she cried, stooping to feel if he were anywhere near.
Instead of a caress, or even a whine, she heard his feet pattering about for some seconds, as if he were sniffing out their position. A moment later, a thud showed he had either jumped or fallen down somewhere. Fearing he had deserted her, and that she was now absolutely alone, her self-control gave way. She began to scream with all her might. He did not return, nor was there any answer to her cries. Instead, the air seemed full of loud shouts, which gradually died away as she ceased to scream. Listening to them, her excited state made her imagine they were the mocking chorus of invisible creatures, who were flocking round her. Oh, if she could only move! If she could dare to run away!
'Bootles! Bootles!' she cried, her voice broken by sobs; 'where are you? Oh, do come back!'
' ... come back!' echoed the voices.
' ... come back!' repeated the fainter chorus behind.
It was plainly of no use to call. The dog had vanished. The voices only mocked her. She was very tired, too, and her throat ached so that her voice was hoarse and almost gone. She felt she must either move on or sit down; standing any longer was impossible. Her knees were trembling, but she felt her steps carefully as she moved forward a few paces, with the hope of coming upon a piece of dry ground. Suddenly she found herself turning round a corner; before her lay a passage which sloped steeply down to a faint light, sparkling far below her. Half wild with hope and terror, she ran still further, the rocks opening out as she went.
Into her dazzled eyes came the great crimson blaze of the setting sun, making a fiery path on the waters. She was going at full speed down the sharp incline, terror lending wings to her feet. Before she realised her danger, she was at the opening in the cliff, and, unable to stop herself, had fallen into the sea. A faint scream, a splash, and the waves closed over her.
The tide, still high, covered the lower rocks: the strong current carried her over them out to sea within a very few minutes, though, alas! not without serious injury from jagged points against which she was whirled in her passage.
Cruising about, waiting for some sign of the two men whom they had orders to bring off, the French sailors were not far from the bay. Among them was the smartest of their crew, an Englishman, whose keen sight very little ever escaped. Just as the signal for their return was flown, his attention was caught by something being swept past the boat by the strong current. In spite of much opposition he insisted on looking more closely at the object, and seized it with a boat-hook just as it was again sinking out of sight. To the amazement of the crew, the bundle proved to be a little girl, whom Jack took into his strong arms, and would have carried ashore had he been allowed his own way. But this was a point beyond even his power to enforce. For one thing they were sure the child was dead, the little face looked so wan. Secondly, if they were caught by the English gunboat it would mean heavy fines, and the men had no notion of throwing away good money in that manner.
Jack had, therefore, to do the best he could for his little waif, and take her back with him to the ship. He did not know who she was, nor whence she came, and as she needed immediate attention, it was perhaps as well he did so.
(Continued on page [186].)
"He seized the object just as it was again sinking."
"A strange face was bending over her."
THE GIANT OF THE TREASURE CAVES.
(Continued from page [183].)
CHAPTER XI.
'Asleep still? Is there any hope, Mother?'
'Sh! The doctor thinks she will wake about four o'clock, and I am on the watch to give nourishment as soon as she can take it.'
'I asked the doctor what he thought, and he says, if the poor little thing comes to herself and speaks collectedly, why, there's every hope of her getting on fair and bright. But it all depends on that.'
'I am that anxious I don't know what to expect, and I don't care to look one way or the other. But we must not be talking so close to her, or she will be waking before her time. You stir up the fire, Jack, and just see that the soup isn't too warm for her to drink, and I will watch here quiet a bit. It will be hard to lose her after such long weeks of nursing.'
Jack went away to do as he was bid, in the silent manner of one experienced in sick nursing; as well as in many another work to which the 'handy man' is so often called during a life spent at sea. Mrs. Wright, seating herself on a chair close to the little bed, took up her work, and soon nothing was heard in the room but the click of the rapid knitting-needles.
Jack, having put the soup where it would keep just warm, slipped out of the room, letting the curtain at its entrance fall behind him. The sun was touching the white bedclothes with a lingering ray. Passing softly away, it left the room in shade which felt pleasant after the hot day.
The sick child moved. Just a faint motion of the head, a trembling of the eyelids, and a sigh. Mrs. Wright stopped her work to look. Estelle stirred again, slightly.
How long she had slept she did not know. She felt warm and comfortable, but not in the least inclined to get up. It seemed to be morning, too, for the light appeared quite bright. How weak she was! It was an effort to open her eyes. Not even to save her life could she have raised herself. Somebody came to her and put something in her mouth with a spoon, but she was too tired to see who it was; so, without trying to think, she dropped asleep once more.
When she awoke again she felt stronger, and, hearing a movement, opened her eyes. A strange face was bending over her; a sweet face, though old, wrinkled, and weather-beaten. Estelle stared at it in amazement. A poor woman, evidently, but clean and tidy in her coarse blue serge dress and white apron. A black lace cap almost concealed her grey hair, and in her hands was a great bundle of knitting. Seeing the child was awake she hastily put this down, and brought some broth from a little saucepan over the fire.
'Now, my dearie, you just swallow this,' she said, 'and we shall have you about in no time.'
So gently and cheerily did she speak that Estelle smiled, and made an effort to lift her head to take the soup, which smelt most delicious.
'We have not come to that yet, my dear,' said the old woman, smiling. 'But it will come! it will come! You will be running about as blithe and strong as ever, please God, in a week or two. But there's no hurry. Lie still and rest now. You'll get up all the better for it.'
Putting her arm round the child, she held the cup to her lips with the skill born of long practice in nursing.
'What! every drop?' she cried, as she arranged Estelle comfortably on her pillows. 'That's something like, and better than you have done for a very long time. Do you know that? If you go on as well as this, we shall have you up in no time.'
'Where am I?' whispered the child; then wondered at the faint, far-away sound of her own voice.
'With those who will care for you till you are well again,' returned the old woman, smiling encouragingly, and smoothing the closely cropped head tenderly.
All Estelle's lovely curly locks had been cut off. Her thin face looked thinner than ever.
'Have I been ill?'
'Indeed you have. But you're getting better every day. Now, you must not talk any more. Try to sleep.'
When Estelle next awoke it seemed to be night. A candle, shaded by an open book, was burning in one corner of a low room, a fire of logs smouldered on the hearthstone, and in the light they gave she could see the woman asleep in an old-fashioned armchair, which had head-rests on each side of its upright back. She looked very tired, Estelle thought. There were deep shadows on her face, and the flickering firelight gave it a very sad expression. Estelle wondered why she did not go to bed instead of sitting up in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes wandered from the woman, round the room. She could not imagine where she was. Never in her life had she seen such a room. It was very low, the black ceiling making it appear even lower than it actually was. The window was merely a square hole, without curtain or blind. The furniture was scanty—indeed, she could see nothing but a cupboard and a table with a basin and jug on it. The walls were black and grey, like rock, and a thick curtain hung over what might be the door.
Staring at this curtain in puzzled astonishment, Estelle saw it move and sway. A man entered the room with the noiseless tread of a sailor. He was so very tall, with shoulders so broad, that he seemed to till the little room; his head almost touched the ceiling. A neatly trimmed sailor's beard of dark hair gave him a fierce aspect, but he did not appear to be really fierce, for he bent very tenderly over the sleeping woman without rousing her. Estelle watched him with great curiosity. What did he want there? To her dismay, he soon turned round, and, approaching the bed, looked down at her. Seeing she was awake, he put his finger to his lips for silence; then slipping away in the same noiseless fashion, he quickly brought her some warm milk, which he gave her most deftly.
'Poor Mother's quite worn out,' he whispered. 'We will let her have her sleep out. Do you want anything more? Shall I move you?'
Estelle smiled, but shook her head. She thought he would leave the room when he found there was no more to be done, but he lay down at full length before the fire, after putting on an extra log or two. Once more silence reigned, and Estelle fell asleep.
But though she was able to rouse herself a little now and then, she lay for the greater part of the day in a dreamy state, often dropping asleep, and having to be coaxed to take the necessary nourishment. Very white and frail she looked, as if it would not take much of a puff to blow her away. Nevertheless, each day brought an increase of appetite and strength, and each day she grew fonder of her careful, tender nurse, as well as of Mrs. Wright's giant son. As Estelle grew stronger, she began to notice how the two loved each other with no ordinary love. 'Her Jack' was everything to his mother; yet Estelle, listening in the dreamy, half-conscious way produced by extreme weakness, was sure she heard a sigh sometimes when Mrs. Wright was speaking of him. Jack's manner, too, often made Estelle think he had hurt his mother in some way, and was trying his best to make up to her for it by love and devotion.
(Continued on page [198].)
MARVELS OF MAN'S MAKING.
VI.-PLYMOUTH BREAKWATER.
HROUGH Mr. John Rennie, the builder of London Bridge, was the chief designer and engineer of the Plymouth Breakwater, the waves of the English Channel gave him great assistance; and unlike other workmen, they asked for no pay. We shall see presently how they worked. In 1806, the Lords of the Admiralty made up their minds, for good and all, that something must be done to make the splendid harbour of Plymouth Sound a safer place of refuge in case of storm. Mr. John Rennie and another engineer, named Whidbey, were asked to go to Plymouth and look at the Sound, and then say what they thought should be done.
The authorities took five years to make up their minds. But Rennie persistently called attention to the map of Plymouth Sound.
'If you build a long stone pier out from either shore so as to break the force of the waves,' said he, 'you will interfere with the free flow of the currents from the river-mouths, and cause them to drop the sand and soil, which they are ever carrying out to sea, until the harbour-mouth is choked by them. The harbour has been formed into its present shape by the free actions of current and tide, and if these be altered by artificial means, the shape and safety will be destroyed.' Then he went on to explain that the proper thing to do was to build a wall in the Sound itself, without letting it touch the land at either end. The tides, thus only slightly confined between the shores and wall-ends (but allowed to run in their old accustomed channels), would keep their channels free. The Lords of the Admiralty thought it all over, and on the 22nd June, 1811, issued an order for the work to begin.
Then no more time was lost. Down to Plymouth went the engineer and his staff again. They searched for a quarry to dig the stone from, and found it at Oreston, in the north-east corner of the Sound. In March, 1812, crowbar and gunpowder began to be busy there. Meanwhile, on the water of the Sound, two and a half miles south of Plymouth Town, a number of buoys were moored in two parallel lines, extending over a distance of one thousand two hundred yards, east and west. They marked the place where the great barrier was to be built, and their anchors partly lay on a reef of dangerous, submerged rocks, and partly in deep water. By the time they were safely fixed, the first shiploads of stone were ready. But ten of the ships were not like other ships. All along the deck and all down the middle of the lower part of the vessel, ran lines of rails, and on these were small trucks each carrying one large stone. The stones varied in weight from half a ton to ten tons and more. They were rough-hewn from the quarry, for as Rennie was going to let the sea build the wall, it was better that the stones should be irregular in shape. Each ship, being loaded, sailed to the line of the buoys, and, safely moored to one of them, proceeded to unload. This was done by wheeling the trucks, one after another, to an opening in the stern, where the truck was tilted on one end and the huge stone toppled into the water. The process of unloading took each ship about three-quarters of an hour. There were forty-five other ships, each capable of carrying some fifty tons of small stones and rubble. These latter cargoes were shot into the water in much the manner that ordinary ballast is unloaded.
The first large stone, marking the beginning of Plymouth Breakwater, went gurgling to the bottom of the Sound on August 12th, 1812, amid the flutter of flags and the booming of cannon. It was the Prince Regent's birthday, and Lord Keith, commander of the Channel Fleet, came to witness the beginning of the great task. The stone fell on a spot called the Shovel Rock, near the centre of the lines of buoys, and was very soon covered by rubble from the next ship. Then the procession was kept up with such diligence that by the end of the following March, the top of the pile peeped above the water at low tide—forty-three thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine tons had been dropped! Bit by bit this point of new land grew longer and longer, until it became possible for workmen to disembark upon it, and when a storm broke in March, 1814, a number of ships were glad to seek its shelter, among them being the famous warship, Queen Charlotte. So satisfactory was the protection it even then afforded, that the engineers decided to raise it higher than was originally intended, not stopping until two feet above high water was reached; thus rendering the water between it and Plymouth calm enough for small vessels.
When making his survey, Rennie had come to the conclusion that the slope of his great bank of stones, where it faced the open sea, should be at an angle of five feet to one. That is, in climbing from the bed of the sea, it should rise one foot in every length of five. But others did not agree with him, and the slope was made three feet to one, until the waves themselves took up the argument, and proved that John Rennie was right. In 1817, they broke over the bank in such a storm that large quantities of stone on the seaward side were swept over the top, and littered down the opposite side. When the gale was over, examination proved that the sea-slope was five to one. Yet for seven years more this curious dispute was kept up, and not until 1824, when Rennie had been dead for three years, did the sea at last have its way, and convince those in authority that it (and Rennie) knew what the proper slope should be. On November 23rd, 1824, so fierce was the storm that it hurled several thousands of tons of ponderous stones from one side of the Breakwater to the other. That was the final word, and the Breakwater stands to-day as the sea ordered it.
Plymouth Breakwater.
When this huge pile of loose stones and rubble more than a mile long, rising from a broad base at the bottom of the sea, had been formed into a close mass by the action of the waves, a coating of masonry was laid over them. At either end, east and west, the great wall bends slightly for a short distance northward, and is finished in a circular platform of solid masonry. At the west end stands a handsome lighthouse; at the east, a beacon, and between these and the shore are the two entrances to the harbour—one a quarter of a mile wide, and the other three-quarters. The width of the wall at the top is forty-five feet, but at the bottom it is three hundred and sixty feet, and weighs nearly four million tons. Surely it would be a boisterous sea that would carry this away. Its total cost was about one million five hundred thousand pounds, and it was finished in 1848.
Before the lighthouse was built, it became necessary to warn vessels of the position of the new sea-wall, and for more than twenty years a lightship burned a signal there. This was the state of affairs when that terrible storm of 1824 swept up the Sound, and among the wrecks it caused was one of an unusual character. A small vessel, laden with cork, was nearing the mouth of the Sound, when she was suddenly struck by a violent gust of wind and turned completely over. The captain, a boy, and two passengers were the only ones below at the time, and these, finding the water rushing in, sought refuge in the ship's coal-hole, which, owing to the reversed position of the hull, was now above them instead of below. In total darkness, and lapped by the encroaching water, they floated thus for six hours. In the early morning they struck against the west point of the Breakwater, heeled over it and drifted toward the lightship. Those on board the latter, little thinking that the wreck had life on it, pushed the hull away with poles, and, caught by the tide, it soon drifted from sight. Three hours later it appeared again. The return tide had washed it back, and a little later a larger wave than usual carried it on to the rough stones of the unfinished Breakwater, where it held fast. The water receded, and the four unhappy voyagers crept out on to the rocks, to be rescued half an hour later by a pilot boat. Such was one of the unexpected services rendered by the Breakwater at Plymouth; but its expected benefits, worthily accomplished, have been too numerous to record.
John Lea
"The weight of the two birds had the desired effect."
UNION IS STRENGTH.
A True Anecdote.
A water-hen, seeing a pheasant feed out of one of those mechanical boxes which open when the bird stands on the rail in front of the box, went and stood in the same place, as soon as the pheasant quitted it. Finding that its weight was not sufficient to raise the lid of the box, it kept jumping upon the rail to try to open it. It could net succeed in lifting the lid sufficiently high, and so the clever bird went away, and returned with another bird of its own species. The weight of the two had the desired effect, and they both enjoyed the reward of their sagacity.