[to be continued.]
[CHATS ABOUT PHILATELY.]
BY J. J. CASEY.
V.
CEYLON.
In 1857, the first postage stamp was issued in Ceylon. The design was the head of Victoria, to the left, in a circular medallion, printed in lilac, and was of the value of one halfpenny. This solitary stamp was soon after followed by a more extensive series, consisting of the following values and colors: 1d., blue; 2d., green; 4d., red; 5d., red-brown; 6d., brown-violet; 8d., maroon; 9d., brown-violet; 10d., vermilion; 1s., lilac-blue; 1s. 9d., green; 2s., blue. The general design was the head of Victoria; to the left, on an oval disk, the frame-work varying in some of the values.
These stamps were all unperforated, that is, not separated by little round holes, and except the ½d., were printed on paper having a star as a water-mark in the paper, a star being on each stamp in the sheet.
In 1861, perforation of the sheets was introduced, and we find all the values named above, except the ½d. and the 1s. 9d., perforated, with no change in the color. In 1863, the ½d., 6d., 9d., and 1s., printed without water-mark, were perforated. In 1864, all the values thus far enumerated, excepting the 1s. 9d., were printed on paper with water-mark CC and crown—Crown Colony. In 1867, the 2d. was printed in yellow, the 5d. in green, and the 10d. in orange, and a 3d. of new design, printed in rose, was introduced. In 1869, the 1d. stamp appeared in a new dress.
In 1872, the rupee became the sole standard of value, with decimal subdivisions. The rupee was divided into 100 cents, the cent of Ceylon being nearly equal to one-half cent of our money. In conformity with this change of currency, an entirely new issue of stamps took place. The general design was as formerly, the frame-work of each stamp differing in details. The values and colors are: 2c., bistre; 4c., gray-blue; 8c., yellow; 16c., lilac; 24c., green; 36c., blue; 48c., rose; 96c., gray-green. Later, the series was supplemented by three additional values—34c., 64c., and 2r. 50c.
For official purposes some of the values had the word "Service" printed upon them. The values so utilized were 1d., 2d., 3d., 6d., 8d., 1s., and 2s.
In 1861, a series of stamped envelopes of exquisite design was put in circulation. The colors corresponded to the colors of the adhesives, and were of the following values: 1d., 2d., 4d., 5d., 6d., 8d., 9d., 1s., 1s. 9d., 2s. These envelopes were afterward suppressed, and a single value, four cents, issued. Another change was made in the design of this value, which now corresponds to the old 5d.
Postal cards were introduced in 1872, value 2c., in lilac, and lately Postal Union cards of the value of 6c. and 8c. were placed in use. There have also been several series of fiscal stamps, ranging in value as high as 1000 rupees.
Ceylon is an island in the Indian Ocean, separated on the northwest from continental India by the Gulf of Manaar. It is 271 miles long from north to south, and in its greatest width 137 miles. In 1505, the Portuguese adventurer Almeida landed at Colombo, the present capital, and found the island divided into several kingdoms. In 1517, the first Portuguese settlement was effected, and gradually the whole western coast was in possession of Portugal. The fanatical zeal and remorseless cruelty of the Portuguese led to their downfall, when, after several attempts, the Dutch finally succeeded in driving the Portuguese from the country.
The first intercourse of the English with Ceylon took place in 1763. On the breaking out of war between Great Britain and Holland, an English force was sent to Ceylon, and in 1796 succeeded in gaining possession of the coasts. The interior was still ruled over by the native Kings; but in 1815 the last of them, a tyrant of the worst type, was captured, and subsequently died in exile, ending with him a long line of sovereigns, whose pedigree can be traced through upward of two thousand years. About the same time, by treaty, the whole island came into possession of the English.
The language of about seventy per cent. of the people is Cingalese, and of the remaining people, save the Europeans, the language is Tamil. The stamp-collector, who has the two-cent postal card, will find the English inscriptions on the card in both these languages.
NO USE CRYING OVER SPILLED MILK.
[THE LITTLE DOG-CATCHER.]
BY MARY D. BRINE.
Jamie was thinking. Well, what of that? Boys often think, don't they? No, indeed, that's just what they don't do; at least Jamie couldn't remember when he had seated himself deliberately to make a business of thinking before this occasion. And now he sat with a puzzled face, and a line between his eyes, so deep in thought that neither the coaxing fore-paws of Nep the dog nor the sound of clinking marbles could arouse him. The question with Jamie was just this: Should he continue to hide Neppie from the eye of man, and thus be happy in the secret knowledge that at last he owned a pet of his very own, who came and went at his bidding, and gave him love for love, or should he take him to the dog pound and earn his thirty cents as well as the others who rejoiced in the title of "dog-catcher"?
"I want that thirty cents, that's one thing sure and certain," thought Jamie, "an' if I don't get it by luggin' Neppie to the pound, I won't get it anyway, and that's just another certain sure thing. I sha'n't get rich waitin' fur Aunt Betty to give me a cent now and then; and there's Tom Blake got his pockets full half the time. But when a fellow cares for a dorg, he kinder hates to go back on 'im. And Nep cares for me, too, and he wouldn't think I'd be such a mean chap. Now if Aunt Betty didn't hate dorgs so bad, I'd ask her to let me keep 'im fair an' square, and then I shouldn't have to be 'fraid he'd bark every minute, and let folks know I was hiding 'im here under this old box, tied, poor old feller, so he can't move hardly. There comes Jack Jones. Wish he'd keep away, and let a feller think a moment in peace."
Along came Jack, jingling some money in his hand. "Hello, Jim, whose dorg yer got?"
Jamie passed his arm caressingly about the dog's neck, and replied, "Mine, of course; who d'yer think, Jack Jones?"
"Ain't yer goin' to take him to the pound? See here," displaying three silver tens in his soiled palm to Jamie's envious brown eyes. "Got 'em at the pound just now for catching a dorg. Goin' to the circus to-night. Big show, I tell yer. Can't yer come along?"
Jamie's eyes began to widen and grow shiny. The circus? Oh, wouldn't he like to go! But Aunt Betty only kept a little store, and had hard work to keep herself and chubby-faced little nephew in bread and butter, and as for giving him money to go to the circus, why, Jamie knew he might as well hope to catch stars. So he only shook his head, and Jack passed on with the parting advice, "Better sell that dorg, and earn thirty cents, and come along."
Again Jamie plunged deeply into thought, forgetting to pet and fondle his four-footed companion according to his usual custom during these stolen visits.
About ten days before our introduction to the little boy, a lady living in one of the handsome houses out on one of the avenues, where each house has its own garden, and where there is always a sweet suggestion of real country, happened to look out of her window one morning, and exclaimed, anxiously: "There is that dog again, Bridget. What shall we do to get rid of him? He'll be sure to bite Nellie some day, and it is a shame the dog-catchers don't come out here."
Then she went in haste down to the front gate, and Bridget followed with the gardener's rake and hoe, with which to "shoo" the intruder away. Although he was frightened, yet Mr. Dog did not seem inclined to leave the fence a little further down; and no wonder, for there was little Miss Nellie, the three-year-old baby, sticking her wee fat hand through the railing, and smilingly feeding the four-footed tramp with the cake mamma had just given her. Poor, hungry, strange dog! no friends, no home: no wonder it was hard for him to leave the only friend he had found in his vagrant life.
But despite Nellie's cry, "Me love doggie," the rake and hoe did valiant duty, and the intruder was driven away.
Just then Master Jamie came whistling along, returning from an errand for Aunt Betty.
"Here, boy," called the lady, "I'll give you ten cents if you'll only catch that horrid dog, and take him to the pound, or anywhere away from here. They'll give you thirty cents if you take him to the pound. He doesn't seem to belong to anybody, so you can earn your money, if you like, quickly."
Without much trouble, Jamie secured the dog, and lifted him in his arms, glad of the chance for making the promised sum. But before he had gone very far he found the dog so gentle and inclined to be so playful that he began to think it would be nice if he could only keep him all the time. It seemed such a pity that a nice dog like that should go to the pound. Jamie's warm little heart rebelled against anything so dreadful, and by the time he had reached his own street his mind was fully made up; and so the new pet had been hidden all this time, while Jamie had paid him many a stolen visit in his secluded home.
But at last it seemed impossible to keep the secret any longer from Aunt Betty, and this is why we found Jamie thinking so intently, and troubling himself with a question to him very serious.
For some moments after Jack had left him, Jamie thought over the matter, hesitating between the pound and Aunt Betty in regard to his favorite, until at last the dog, which Jamie had named Nep, reminded his master of his presence by poking his cold nose as far into Jamie's neck as possible, and laying his fore-paws gently upon his arm. The boy could not resist that, and in a moment he had squeezed Neppie's breath almost out of his body, and exclaimed, "I'll just keep you, you darling; you shall stay with me." Then bravely he walked into Aunt Betty's store, with the dog close at his heels, and made a full confession.
The old lady looked unusually prim and severe just at that moment, owing to an unprofitable customer, who had only littered the counter, and left no pennies behind. So it happened that Jamie had come at the wrong time with his request; but he didn't know it, you see, and he plunged into the business at once, and stammered through to the end, while Aunt Betty looked over her spectacles, and eyed him and the trembling dog severely.
"Keep that creetur? No, sir; not a bit of any such thing. Get him away from here this very instant. The idee—a dog in my shop! Massy sakes alive! Shoo, sir! shoo! Go out, dog, this minute."
An emphatic shake of her foot convinced poor Nep that the old lady was not the friend Jamie had been; and Jamie himself, with a sorrowful face, took his abused treasure back to the old box.
"I'll have to take yer to the pound to-morrer, old fellow," he whispered in Nep's ear, and went back to the store.
That night it rained hard, and the wind blew a gale; and little Jamie, remembering his captive pet, thought he would plead once more with Aunt Betty for the dog.
"Just this one night, auntie, please let him come in out of the wet, and to-morrow I'll take him to the pound, and give you the thirty cents."
Now Aunt Betty's heart wasn't all ice, by any means, and she did pity the poor animal out in the storm. So she finally consented that for this one time he could sleep inside, and she hoped never to see him again.
Then Nep was called in, and told to lie under the table; and as Jamie soon after lighted his little lamp and went to bed, the old lady closed her shop window, and sat down to read the paper. Before she knew it, her tired eyes had closed, and she was in the land of Nod.
It was only a few moments, however, before she felt something tugging violently at her dress, and the sound of barking greeted her ears as she opened her eyes. The lamp had burned low down, but by its dull glow she discovered that it was the dog that had awakened her, and that he was then doing his best to squeeze his body between the floor and a low-seated lounge near the fire-place. Then Aunt Betty saw a slender tongue of flame and smoke creep from under the sofa, and knowing that she had put one or two old papers behind there the day before, she sprang up with a cry to Jamie, and drawing the sofa out, placed her foot upon the blazing papers.
Then the terrified Jamie remembered that after he had lighted his lamp he had tossed the still burning match into the empty grate, as he supposed, but instead of that it must have fallen behind the sofa, with the result as above. It had taken some time for the flame to fairly burn; but Aunt Betty and Jamie would have fared badly, I'm afraid, if it had not been for the faithfulness and watchfulness of the good little dog that had aroused Aunt Betty's ire so greatly only that afternoon. It was very careless of Jamie, and a lesson to him, but it brought one good result for him, after all, for Nep didn't go to the pound the next day, nor any day, in fact. And as Aunt Betty said the other morning, while feeding Jamie's pet with her own hands, "For all she couldn't abide dogs and sich, yet there was sich things as being onreasonable, and that she never would be, not if she knew it."
[THE LITTLE GIRL AND THE BIRD.]
BY ELIZABETH A. DAVIS.
"It's going to rain, you dear little bird:
Fly into your house; don't stop for a word."
"Yes, I saw a black cloud as I sat on the tree,
But I care not for rain—I have feathers, you see."
"You have feathers, I know, but your little pink feet
Will be numb with the cold when the cruel rains beat."
"Oh no; I shall tuck them up snugly and warm,
Close under my body, all safe from the storm."
"But the branches will rock, and the dark night will come:
Oh, do, little bird, fly away to your home!"
"Never fear, pretty one, as I rock I shall sing,
And how soundly I'll sleep with my head 'neath my wing!"
"Oh, birdie, dear birdie, I'd like much to know
How you're always so happy, blow high or blow low."
"Don't you know we've a Father who cares for me?
And that is the reason I'm happy and free."
[PENELOPE.]
BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.
Chapter I.
"Well, miss, how can I serve you?"
Mr. Searle, the grocer of Nunsford, spoke rather sharply, bending over his counter in the twilight, and looking half contemptuously upon his customer.
She was a tall girl of fifteen, rather old-looking for her years, but with a face so evidently designed by Nature for blooming color, dimples, and good-humor, that its lines of care and want were peculiarly painful.
"Well, miss," repeated the grocer, as his customer hesitated.
"I should like a few things, Mr. Searle," said the young girl, speaking in a decidedly un-English although sweet, clear voice, "but I must tell you first it will have to be on credit—for just a little longer. I am sure we shall soon be able to pay you."
Mr. Searle's face was puckered into doubtful lines by this request. "Well, it's three weeks now," he said, slowly. "It's not usual, miss—"
"I know—I know," said the girl, eagerly, and looking at him with such a strained, wistful expression that Searle's heart melted. "I know, and I shall very soon have something—"
"Well, then, we'll let it go," said Searle, with real good-humor; and he busied himself supplying his customer's modest wants—half a pound of tea, a pound of sugar, some dried herrings, and a few candles.
"There," he said, placing the parcels in her hands. "I hope your mother is better, miss," he added, kindly.
The girl's eyes were full of sudden tears. "A little, thank you, Mr. Searle," she said; and then, holding her small parcels carefully, she hurried away, disappearing in the wintry dusk, while Mr. Searle called out to his wife:
"That's the American young lady again. Hanged if I can understand it. They're high-born, I'm sure; but wot's keeping them starving here in Nunsford is wot I can't tell."
"And you've give more credit?" said the sharp voice of his wife, as that lady's thin figure appeared in the doorway of the shop parlor. "Well, Searle, you are easy took in."
"Never mind, Sairey," answered Searle. "I couldn't look at that child's white face, and let her go 'ungry."
Mrs. Searle slammed the parlor door expressively, while her husband turned to watch the arrival of some more distinguished customers.
Meanwhile the American girl was hurrying on in the wintry twilight down the High Street of the quaint old town, where the lamps were just beginning to be lighted, and where many people, hastening homeward with that expectant look that seems to mean a cheerful fireside and cozy supper, made the young girl think sadly of her own desolation. Nora Mayne had a stout little heart: she was accustomed to trying to feel brave, to forcing herself to think cheerfully both of the present and the future, but I am afraid that just then it seemed rather hard work. She and her mother were almost at the end of their resources, friendless and alone in a strange English town.
As she went along, slackening her pace a little as she passed the dear old Abbey Church, Nora thought over the last year, deciding in her own mind that it had been a great mistake to try their fortunes in England. Just a year before, Mr. Mayne's death left his widow and child with a few hundred dollars, and almost no friends, in a Connecticut village. Mr. Mayne had been a visionary man. Nora remembered brief periods of luxury, followed by want and loneliness. Her life had been a wandering one, for Mr. Mayne rarely staid long in any one place; and the girl was early accustomed to leading a lonely life among her books, not caring to make friends she might leave on the morrow. At her father's death Nora and her mother had come to England, hoping to find employment among some of the widow's early friends. Mrs. Mayne's girlhood had been spent in England—a bright, luxurious period, of which Nora never tired of hearing; but death, and the long silence of years, had scattered all traces of that happy past. The associations of twenty years before seemed to have vanished as though the whole story had been a dream. Months passed in London and in the little town of Nunsford, which Mrs. Mayne remembered in that happy "long ago," and now mother and daughter were living from week to week, no longer hopeful, only waiting for some chance to take them home again. Meanwhile illness had been added to their trials; Nora had the new misery of seeing her mother suffer while she vainly searched for some employment. Day after day she returned to their humble lodging tired and disappointed; yet even on this evening, feeling it so difficult to face the future with any hope, there lurked somewhere in the dim corner of her heart a confidence in "to-morrow."
Nora only allowed herself to linger a moment by the old church. It was her favorite haunt; the gray walls, the bit of cloister, the solemn pathway with its tombs and archway of leafless trees—how she loved it all! It was so like the pictures she had seen of England—so peaceful, when her heart was full of anxieties, so bright on the winter mornings, with sunshine among the fir-trees and the ivied door outside, and a flood of light from the old stained-glass windows within! Nora had learned to know every nook and corner near the old abbey; and how great was her delight the day she found a short-cut from the High Street, past the grayest wall, the end of the grammar school with its quaint bit of thatched roof, and around by the beautiful brick-walled Deanery garden.
That Deanery garden was another source of comfort to little Nora. She fancied all manner of stories connected with it. She knew that once the house had been a monastery, and, later, a famous manor, and now it looked as if it might contain any romance, however picturesque or poetic.
It was a beautiful old house, with many turrets and gabled ends. It stood in the midst of a garden that even in winter-time seemed to have a bloom of its own. There are many winter flowers in Devonshire. These colored the Deanery garden faintly, and filled the girl's heart with pleasure as she caught glimpses of them on her lonely walks. Sometimes the garden gate stood open; often in passing, Nora saw the Dean's daughters with their governess going in or out. Once as she stood in the morning sunshine that fell warmly on the brick wall, Nora had seen an invalid lady carried out to a Bath-chair, followed by a tall servant in livery and a pretty, slim young girl. The lady had a beautiful face framed in white hair; she flashed a look on Nora in her shabby gown standing in the cruel sunlight—a wistful, pathetic little figure, with something worth remembering in her eager eyes. The young lady at her side was drawing on a long glove, and Nora saw the sparkle of her pretty rings. In spite of the lady's wan face, it all suggested comfort, and prosperity,' sunshine, warmth; the green things of life seemed to little Nora to be shut in, and to come out of that quaint old garden. She stood still, fancying herself unseen, as the lady was placed in the Bath-chair, her young companion arranging her fur wraps comfortably.
"Thanks, dear," the lady said, in a sweet low voice. Then she glanced back at some one within the Deanery garden. "Penelope is with me," she said, smiling.
"That is her name, then," thought the little watcher, sighing, as the Bath-chair was wheeled away. "And what a lovely face! what a sweet way she had with the poor lady! Oh, but it is easy to take care of sick people who have plenty of money!" cried the poor child to herself, thinking of her mother in need at home.
But Nora never saw "Penelope" again. She watched often, wondering if the pretty young figure would not appear in the garden or out of the old wall door. Gradually she began to think of her as a "story-book" girl—some one to build up a romance about, while her own life was dragging on with such bitter anxieties.
Nora's destination was not very far from the Deanery. It was an old-fashioned Berlin wool shop, the upper floors of which were let in lodgings. She passed the shop window quickly, and entering by a side door, hurried up the old oak staircases to a room on the top floor. A fire was burning low, faintly illuminating the dreary room, with its stiff furniture and inartistic decoration. Mrs. Mayne was pillowed in an easy-chair before the fire.
"Here I am, mamma," said Nora, cheerfully; "and now you shall have a good cup of tea."
Mrs. Mayne answered with a faint smile; but it pleased her to watch her daughter's lithe figure moving quickly about, as she stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, made the tea, and wheeled a little table into the glow. Nora's languid looks were always reserved for the moments she was by herself. She kept up a cheerful flow of conversation while the kettle boiled, and she prepared a second cup of tea, and toasted a fresh round of bread to tempt her mother's appetite.
A sharp little knock sounded on the door.
"That is Mrs. Bruce," exclaimed Nora, bending over her mother's chair, as the door opened on the fat, good-humored-looking figure of their landlady.
MRS. BRUCE ASKS A FAVOR.—Drawn by E. A. Abbey.
"I beg your pardon, 'm," said Mrs. Bruce, standing still, with folded arms, "but could miss do me a favor?"
"Certainly," exclaimed Nora.
"Then would you mind stopping harf an hour in the shop for me? I must go hout, and there ain't a soul to leave in it. There won't be a many coming in at this hour. If you'll come down with me, I'll give you a hidea of some of the prices, though most of the things is marked."
Nora eagerly assented, and leaving the candle and a book near her mother, she followed Mrs. Bruce down the staircases to the Berlin wool shop, which was comfortably warmed and lighted. A broad window full of gay wares fronted the street. Within were the usual contents of such a shop—Berlin wools, fancy-work, patterns, and the like. Nothing out of the common, but for Nora Mayne the shop always possessed a curious fascination.