WHAT ONE POOR LITTLE FROG FOUND OUT.
A very young frog—very young indeed, scarcely out of tails (that is to say, out of tadpolehood)—with a very great ambition and ordinary ability, set out one morning with the purpose of seeing the world, and by night-fall bringing back something to astonish the pool. "For," said he to himself, "I am such a close observer, that I shall be sure to observe and bring back correct reports of many strange things passed by in stupid indifference by these commonplace old speckle-backs, who, no doubt, neglect daily golden opportunities for storing their minds with useful information, but who see nothing and know nothing but worms, ants, beetles, and other insects and small animals to put in their ample stomachs."
So saying, he leaped away gayly, but with eyes open and on the sharp look-out, almost at the very start. "For," said he, "the most common things possess a new interest when shown in a new light by the hand of genius, and the ordinary things of one locality become objects of curiosity in another where they are not found. Thus I could astonish vain man, could I speak his jargon, with accounts of many things familiar to my sight by daily contact in the bottom of the pool, but which seldom or never meet his eyes."
So he journeyed on, well pleased with himself and what he thought his life's mission, carefully eying every object in his way, lest some one of interest should escape his notice. At length a great thistle came within his gaze. "There," said he, "is something worth investigating." After looking at it attentively at a little distance, that he might fix all its points in his mind, he approached for a closer study. Said he, "I must not forget to ascertain if this strange plant—for plant it undoubtedly is—has any peculiar odor; for that is very important." Thus saying, he thrust his inquisitive nose against the prickers, which brought him to the conclusion that he had carried the investigation quite far enough; and storing this experience away in his memory for future use, he went on his way, a little wiser, but no happier, for it does not add to happiness to have our conceit pricked out, as it were, by sharp experience.
Now a half-brick partly buried in the mud caught his curious eye. "That's a singular rock," said he. "What a remarkable color it has! so regular, too, in its form; it has also a peculiar texture"—as he put his hand-like forepaw upon it.
Just at this moment he thought he heard something behind him, and turning to see what, his terrified eye caught the dread form of an idle, barefooted boy, also in search of adventure, though not for the instruction of others, or even himself, as was the little frog's grand motive, but merely for the amusement of the moment.
Young as his frogship was, he knew well enough what boys were, and made off for his life with all possible speed.
It would, perhaps, have been wiser if he had remained perfectly quiet, as in all probability the careless boy would not have observed him; but as the boy seemed bearing right down upon him, the sight was too dreadful for his nerves, and he sprang forward with desperate leaps, which, of course, attracted the urchin's attention, and with a shout of delight he bounded off in pursuit. Hastily clutching the "curious rock"—half-brick—he aimed to give the frog's head an external application of this object of interest, and, I must say, with almost fatal precision. With great nicety of calculation, he threw the brick where he felt the frog would be when the brick got there. His estimate was uncomfortably close, the little frog thought, as the brick just grazed his protruding eye. He winked, dodged back, and started in another direction with wild leaps.
As the boy went for the rolling brick for another throw the frog hid himself in a tuft of clover, and though terribly nervous when the urchin came very near his hiding-place—at length actually kicked the bunch of clover in his search for him—he summoned all his fortitude, and remained perfectly quiet, knowing that to be his only safety.
Soon, to his unspeakable relief, the cruel boy gave it up, and went whistling on his careless way in search of other adventures.
The thoroughly frightened frog prudently waited, nor ventured out until the boy had quite vanished in the distance. While he still lay in his hiding-place a curious creature wriggled past, in beautiful sheeny coat that glistened in the sunlight, and quite delighted him. He made no motion, however, though he did not much fear this harmless-looking creature; still, as the supple thing constantly darted out a double tongue, he felt it more prudent to observe in silence.
When this creature had also gone quite out of sight, he again moved on his journey, it must be confessed, with less self-confidence and more caution.
But a little while of safe travelling was, however, enough to cause the two sentiments to change places again—prudence lessened, and confidence grew: and this would have cost him his life had it not been his good fortune to be on the land side of a beautiful white crane, which he very much admired, as he stood fixedly gazing into the waters of a sluggish stream. He hopped very near, in his ignorant delight, wondering what the magnificent creature was, and what could be his reflections as he fixed his gaze so intently in the amber water. "Something grand, no doubt!" He did not feel called upon to address him, however, which was lucky again, since this "splendid bird" was looking for just such fellows as he, but never suspected one of being so near him in the field.
At length our leaping student of nature tired even of his admiration of this beautiful bird, and leaped on his journey again in search of other objects of scientific interest, one of which he soon found in the person of another curious bird, also with long legs, and not very unlike in form the one he had just seen, though not near so beautiful.
His general color was a dull brown, varied and mottled with several shades of the same, from light yellowish to dark spots, and in parts, such as the crest, back of the neck, etc., deepening to a jetty black. His neck, though, did not appear long, like that of the white bird, but his head seemed as near the body as a chicken's; when some noise or motion in the water, however, attracted his attention, it shot out like a telescope, as long in proportion as the other's, though the comparison of the telescope was not froggie's. He knew nothing of such a thing; the figure suggested to his mind was a snail's eye.
He also bestowed some admiration upon this fellow, and passed on, still unconscious that he was in dangerous proximity to a mortal foe.
Now as he ascended quite a little hillock, high enough for him to overlook the fields, he was surprised to see that the very stream upon the margin of which the two strange birds had stood was the one near which was his native pool; in fact, upon this stream the inhabitants of his pond depended for fresh supplies of water to replenish the waste by evaporation, when it occasionally overflowed its banks in times of freshets.
He knew the locality by a great rock, which he knew to be near his pond, and found, too, with some satisfaction, that he was much nearer home than he would have thought from the distance travelled. He had taken a circuitous route, as did the stream, before reaching the great rock. Using this stone as a landmark, he saw that a straight line to it would be comparatively a short-cut back again.
This discovery was not unpleasant either, for not only his journey, but his researches as well, began to grow wearisome. Now as he remembered the events of the day, his adventures, and the strange sights he had seen, and the discoveries he had made, his heart swelled with pride when he thought what astonishment it would create when he brought them all back, as it were, to the banks of the pool.
Settling this comfortably in his mind, he glanced about again, as a traveller takes a farewell look at a strange land he is about leaving. But now he made the additional discovery that a grove just before him was the "forest," as he believed it, he had seen many times in the distance while sitting on the banks of the pool.
Gazing into its dark recesses, he became suddenly aware of two great yellow-rimmed eyes peering out of its sombre depths. Cold chills ran over him. His thirst for knowledge, which his mother, in her croaking way, called idle curiosity, got the better of his fears, however, as he became satisfied that he himself was not the object of those eyes' attention, if indeed anything in particular was, and he began again his usual wise speculations. "What an eye!" said he. "I remember once, while lying at the bottom of the pool, to have seen the full moon rising, while a round leaf upon the brink intervening, darkened the centre, leaving a yellowish rim; that eye reminds me of it. To whom or what can it belong, I wonder? Let me see: surrounded by feathers?—yes, feathers! Well, feathers are only worn by birds, therefore the owner of that eye must be a bird, that's clear; and that's pretty good logic, too, I flatter myself."
He was right; the owner of the eye was a bird—an owl; and scarcely had he "flattered" himself, when he became conscious that now he was the object of attention by those terrible eyes. Losing no time, he turned toward the rock, made several desperate leaps in quick succession before he felt the shadow of the great wings, though he heard no sound, for the flight of owls is as noiseless almost as that of thistle-down.
Fortunately, again (he was a lucky frog), it was a sunny afternoon, and the light rather strong for the owls' eyes (by this time another had joined her mate); so, dodging here and there, he managed to elude them, always making toward home, however, followed blindly by the owls. Nor was this all: the tall birds, attracted by the commotion, seeing him dodging through the grass, joined in the pursuit. The snake he had seen also made bold to follow with wide-open jaws to devour him, and creatures of every kind—ducks, more cranes, even a pelican—came from all quarters, and pursued him to the very brink of the pool.
So numerous were they, indeed, that they obstructed each other's way. Meantime the little frog was making the best use of the time, lessening the distance at every bound. But even a race for life must have an end, either in disaster to the pursued or disappointment to the pursuers, and just at the moment when the wide-open beak of the admired white crane was about to close upon him, with all the other eager open jaws close following, our adventurous student splashed into the waters of the pond.
As he settled, exhausted, in the soft mud at the bottom of the pond, stirring up a cloud, as it were, his little brothers and sisters, still in the polliwig state, wriggled around him with anxious inquiry, and staid old croakers, in coats of green and brown, and mottled trousers, looked with amazement from him to the bank, where still lingered the excited throng of his hungry pursuers.
Not a word to the many questions asked could he reply, but stared out from his muddy security in dazed speechlessness upon the horrid throng of snapping beaks and jaws he had just escaped. He experienced a feeling of pleasure upon seeing a disappointed owl pick up a disappointed snake, and wing his noiseless way back toward the copse, followed by his mate. Then the disappointed crane fastened upon another snake, and arose like a white cloud, with his squirming victim in his strong beak. After considerable quacking, snapping, and hissing, one after another of his ferocious foes rose upon the wing, and went his way; the bank was cleared, peace and quiet reigned again.
Our traveller was again asked for an account of his adventures. When he came to speak of the "strange plant," a laugh from under the yellow vest of "Old Spots" greeted his ear. And "Old Spots" (they called him "Spots" on account of his strongly mottled green coat) curtly observed that a little sharp experience seemed to simplify matters much, and a prick in the nose to help an inquiring mind to a speedy conclusion. "But," said he, more seriously, "a closer scrutiny would hardly have failed to reveal to the eye so important a feature as prickers on a thistle, without the necessity of thrusting them into one's very nose."
The story of the boy and the brick was allowed to pass without remark from the older inhabitants of the pool, probably because the little frog, in this instance, had managed the case as well as any one could have done.
When he spoke of the tall bird in plumage of shining white, the comment was, "The white crane! one of the deadliest foes of our race!" The brown bird, he was informed, was the bittern, commonly called "stake-driver," "fly-up-the-creek," etc., also a mortal foe.
When he made rather careless mention of the glistening snake, the old frogs shuddered as they informed him that of all their enemies this was most to be dreaded, because of its stealthy way of creeping upon its victim unawares through the grass, fastening its fangs upon him, and sometimes taking hours to swallow its prey, which all the while remained alive, in painful and agonized certainty of his slow-approaching death.
The owls, they said, were less to be dreaded than any of his pursuers; they were not particularly fond of frogs, would as soon have a snake, and much preferred mice.
In short, every bird, reptile, and object of peculiar interest, as well as localities, with all their characteristics, seemed so familiar to these recently despised "old croakers," that the little frog hardly knew whether to be most astonished or humiliated at the discovery of this unboasted knowledge in the possession of his elders, and could but admit to himself that it was the only discovery of any importance he had made through the day, since all the others, it seemed, were no discoveries at all.
[A FOOLISH RABBIT.]
BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK.
A meditative rabbit once
Within a brake sat thinking
Why he and all his timid kind
Are always sadly winking.
He told his story to a wren,
There in the fragrant grasses.
The wren replied, "Your eyes are weak;
Pray try a pair of glasses."
The rabbit smiled, and took the hint,
And early in the morning
The wren observed a dainty pair
His pleasant face adorning.
To show the animals the change,
He went into a clearing;
But when they saw the wild effect,
They all set up a jeering.
His reasoning was long and loud
And eloquent. Thereafter
The animals with one accord
Fell down and rolled with laughter.
And now he ever hides from view
Within the woodland passes,
And winks the more for having tried
To wear a pair of glasses.
[LOUIS XVII. IN THE TEMPLE PRISON.]
On the 29th of March, 1785, was born at the palace of Versailles, near Paris, the most unfortunate of children. Louis Charles was the second son of Louis XVI., King of France, and Marie Antoinette, his Queen, and the royal infant seemed destined to know in life only the greatest luxury and ease. He grew up a fair, graceful boy, his hair light, and falling in curls upon his shoulders, his eyes blue, his form and features regular, and he very soon began to show a quick, sensitive, intelligent mind. When he was about four years old his elder brother died, leaving him a little dog named Moufflet. He left him, too, heir to the throne of France, the Dauphin, as the eldest son of the French Kings was called, and Louis Charles was to be master of all the wide dominions of his ancestors. He was marked by a strong love for his parents, and particularly his mother, the graceful Marie Antoinette. The royal family consisted of the King and Queen, the King's sister, Madame Élisabeth, and two children—the Princess Marie Thérèse, who was some years older than Louis, and the Dauphin. They seemed very happy together in the splendid palace at Versailles. Louis cultivated a small plot of ground, or a garden, where he raised flowers, and presented them to his mother. Every morning, in their season, the child would bring a bouquet to the fair Queen, who fully returned his tender love. His aunt, Madame Élisabeth, was always kind and good, and his sister, the Princess, watched over him with affectionate care.
But suddenly the whole family were overwhelmed by a succession of misfortunes. The French Revolution began; the foreign kings invaded France; and the French people looked upon their own royal rulers with suspicion, and even hatred, because they thought they had called in the foreign armies. Marie Antoinette was the most unpopular of all. Paris was filled with terrible disorders. One day a great crowd of savage men and women came out to the palace of Versailles, and insisted that the King and his family should come to Paris. He was obliged to yield. The great coach was ordered, the whole royal family were led almost as captives to the city, and were lodged in the midst of the enraged people, in the palace of the Tuileries. At first they were not badly treated. Louis had brought his dog Moufflet with him, and was even allowed to cultivate a small garden, where he still raised flowers, and gave them to his sad, terrified mother. Dreadful scenes and massacres now took place in Paris. Louis was shown by his mother to the people, wearing a red bonnet and the tricolor; but every moment seemed to increase their danger. At last the King (June, 1791) resolved to make his escape out of France; and one night Louis was called up, half asleep, and dressed in disguise as a little girl. The poor child was too young to understand his danger; and when his sister asked him what he thought they were going to do, said it must be "to act a comedy." They opened a gate in the palace, went down into the silent street at midnight, wandered in the darkness over the Pont Royal, at last found the carriage prepared for them, and escaped from the city. Had they made haste they might have reached the frontier and safety; but they were overtaken, seized, and brought back to Paris the prisoners of a savage mob.
THE ROYAL PRISONERS IN THE TEMPLE.
Soon after, amidst scenes of massacre and horror, they were all taken to the Temple (an ancient prison), and shut up in a tower. Here they remained many months, exposed to the most terrible insults, scantily fed, and looking for death every moment. But the King employed his time in teaching his son Louis to read Racine and Corneille, and endeavoring to prepare him for a useful life. At last he was himself taken out, tried before a revolutionary tribunal, sentenced to die (January, 1793), and his head was cut off. Next, Marie Antoinette was taken away from her family to a solitary prison, and at last was brought to the guillotine. Her hair had turned white, and her face was rigid with suffering. But as she mounted the scaffold she showed no sign of fear. Madame Élisabeth, the most innocent and amiable of her race, was also executed.
The young Prince, now King of France by descent, was left alone, shut up in his prison at the Temple, and guarded by the horrible men who had tormented his mother and father. It was the custom of these wretches to terrify their prisoners by threats, insults, and every malicious art. Louis Charles was placed under the care of the infamous Simon, a monster of cruelty. He was left entirely alone. No kind friend came to soften the sorrows of his lot. Night and day passed over him in his miserable cell without a joy or hope. His mind had become prematurely active amidst his sorrows; he knew, no doubt, the fate of his parents and relations. Simon endeavored to teach him to hate his mother, and the young Prince would never afterward speak to his horrible jailer. He would rather be alone in the darkest night in the fearful cell than see the countenance of his foe. For a long time before his death he remained utterly silent, refusing to speak, and living in dumb misery. The Reign of Terror prevailed in Paris; Robespierre and his murderers filled it with horror, and the Dauphin was left to perish in his solitary cell. He was now nearly ten years old, but he still preserved his strange silence, and seemed like a dumb and idiotic child.
Next Robespierre perished, and Louis might have been better treated. But his long confinement and the filth and horrors of his prison had brought on a severe illness. He wasted away. Dr. Desault, a famous physician, was sent to attend him, but died a short time afterward. Louis, it is said, still remained silent and speechless. He died on the 8th of June, 1795, in his solitary cell, alone, without a friend.
Such was the sad doom of Louis XVII., King of France. The annals of the poor offer no fate so miserable as that of this descendant of the proudest and most powerful of European monarchs. By some writers it is asserted that Louis escaped from his imprisonment, that a child deaf and dumb was substituted for him, and that the King, or Dauphin, died in obscurity in some part of Europe or America. But the legend is improbable, and Louis XVII. sleeps, no doubt, in the cemetery where he was laid at Paris.
[BEATA'S LOCKET.]
BY LILLIAS C. DAVIDSON.
Twenty-one pearls!—no, twenty-two; thirteen in the B, and nine in the V of the monogram, besides the six little nails with heads of real diamonds! Beata had never seen such a locket, no, not even in a shop window, and to have had it for her very own for four whole days, and not be able so much as to wear it!
It had come on Christmas-day—come in a little case all packed with cotton-wool, and lined with silver paper—a case which Beata's fingers could hardly open, they shook so with excitement and eagerness; and it came all the way from Germany and her German godmother, Madame Von Thausandmal.
"A beautiful locket, certainly, my dear," said Mrs. Vyner, Beata's mamma, in confidence, to Beata's papa, when locket and case, and Beata—rosy and joyful and proud—had all vanished with a rush out of mamma's pretty blue morning-room. "But so utterly unsuitable to a child! What can Helga von Thausandmal have been thinking of to send her such a thing? Of course it was exceedingly kind of her, but I'm afraid it will turn Beata's head, and it won't be the least use to her for years to come."
"Why not, eh?" asked the Squire, who was deep in the morning paper, and perhaps wasn't attending as he might have been. "I thought it pretty enough."
"It's lovely; that's just it. It's too bad to tantalize her with a thing she can't wear, and no properly brought up little girls wear such jewelry; even if they did, I should not let Beata do anything so silly and improper. No; it must be put away for her till she is eighteen, and 'comes out.' Poor child! I won't take it away for a week or two; it would be cruel; but go it must. Why couldn't Helga have sent her some books, or a doll, or anything sensible?"
But of all this Beata heard not a word, and her cup of bliss seemed as if it would run over. Such a locket! as grand as a grown-up young lady's, and for her very own! She had shown it at least three times over to every servant in the house, down to Elizabeth Jane, the kitchen-maid, who had won Beata's genuine respect by her "Law, miss, if it ain't fit for a duchess at the very least!" and she only sighed to think her governess had gone home for the holidays, and could not see it for a whole fortnight.
But now a little shadow, like a small cloud, had come over the sunshine. What was the good of a locket, and such a locket as Beata's, if other people didn't see and admire? And how could they see it, if it were not worn? And what chance had she to wear it?
To be sure, the house was full of visitors, who had come the very day after Christmas, and Rex and she went down to dessert every night, and into the drawing-room for half an hour afterward; but somehow Beata never quite ventured to suggest "Locket," as nurse dressed her in her well-worn little frock of black velvet, and tied her plain red silk sash; indeed, she rather fancied she could see nurse's face if she did; and as to wearing it to church on Sunday—well, even Beata's little head could dimly understand somehow that God's house wasn't the place for finery and display; and so—
"But now, to-day, there is a chance," she thought, with a gasp which was half exultation and half pure fright at her own daring; for Rex and she were going skating.
Down in the park at Dene Hall there is a beautiful little lake, where the wild fowl swim in summer, and where Beata and Rex were wont to paddle about in a flat-bottomed boat, a "tub," Rex called it. But now the water was covered with firm smooth ice, and the ladies and gentlemen staying at the Hall had gone down there to skate, and Cousin Cecil had promised to look after the children if they might come too; and Beata was tempted.
Rex was shouting from the hall. Without another pause the locket was out of its case, slipped on a ribbon, and the ribbon tied round Beata's neck. Was it dread of Rex's scorn or of mamma's observation that made Beata slip it under her little fur boa as she ran down the old oaken stairs?
"Rex, you've no overcoat," she said, as they hurried together through the snow, which lay like a soft white blanket over garden and park. That hidden locket filled her mind so full that she must speak about it, and she artfully began to talk about dress, to work the conversation round to that beloved topic. But all in vain.
"Overcoat!" echoed Rex, in high disdain, swinging Beata's dainty little skates and his own together. "Who wants an overcoat? The Spartans never wore 'em."
"But then you're not a Spartan."
"Wish I was." Rex was beginning ancient history, and had a Grecian craze just now. "Never mind, I mean to harden just as if I was;" but he couldn't help a shiver all the same.
Beata tried again. "Doesn't the snow look like pearls, Rex?"
"Can't say I see it. Oh, you're thinking about that swell locket of yours. Now in Sparta they never allowed them to wear bosh like that."
"Then Sparta was a stupid place," began Beata, hotly; but they came round the corner by the lake, and the sight there put everything else out of both their minds.
Such a pretty sight! Ice as smooth and clear as sweeping could make it; white banks of snow gleaming like a wreath about it; crowds of gayly dressed ladies and knickerbockered gentlemen skimming about, or being pushed in chairs; the ring of a hundred skates keeping time to the band that was playing in the rustic boat-house; and another crowd of people, but not gayly dressed, standing and looking on at it all.
"What a rabble!" said Beata. "These aren't only village people and servants; some of them look like gypsies. Look at that woman in the red shawl—she's a tramp."
But here, skating down to them with a pretty grace, her sweet face glowing above her warm furs, came Cousin Cecil, and just behind her the fair mustache of Captain Strangways, the children's firm friend; and after that there could be nothing but delight.
To skate between Cousin Cecil and Captain Strangways, holding a hand of each, seemed to Beata the summit of human felicity. Rex, still Spartan even in his pleasures, preferred to stagger about alone. Beata forgot to try and pretend she was grown up.
All at once she remembered, with a shock of remorse, that Captain Strangways had never seen the wonderful locket. What an omission! Her hand went up under her fur boa to bring that neglected ornament into its proper position; then stopped short. The thin little bit of blue ribbon dangled aimless there, to be sure, but there was no locket.
I don't think Beata will ever forget that moment, if she lives to be an old woman. Her face looked almost gray as she turned it up speechlessly to Cousin Cecil's wondering gaze.
"My locket! oh, my locket!" she managed to gasp.
"Your locket, dear? Why, what's the matter? Oh, Beata, you don't mean to say you wore it?"
"Oh yes, I did, I did; and now it's gone."
Cousin Cecil looked very grave indeed. "Oh, Beata!" was all she said, but it was worse than any words almost.
"Oh, do let's find it; do look—do, do!"
"We'll look; but as to finding it—" But Cousin Cecil broke off short. There was a scream from the other end of the lake, where the village boys and girls had made a slide—a shrill, sharp cry—and a little tiny boy, such a ragged, wretched mite, lay flat upon the hard cold ice. Captain Strangways started to go, but Cecil was there first. She was down upon her knees, and had the wee dirty face on her arm, before he could reach her side, for he was heavier and slower than she. She looked up with a serious face as he bent down to her.
"Poor little mite! I am afraid he's hurt. He was too small to slide. I must get him home this minute. Where does he live?"
"Please, miss, down to Bill Green's; they're a-lodgin'. Please, miss, they're tramps; that was his ma that's just gone, her in the red shawl there," rose in a hubbub of voices.
"Oh, poor wee man! I'll take him home."
"Pray, Miss Vyner, let me," said Captain Strangways, struggling with his skates.
"Oh no, please don't: I'd rather. It's only a step. He isn't heavy. No, please. If you'll take the children home for me, I won't be long."
"But you must not go alone, and it's almost dusk."
"Jim shall go with me," and she beckoned to a stable-boy in the crowd. "Indeed, Captain Strangways, I would much rather you did not come, really;" and reluctantly he stooped and unfastened her skates, and stood watching her as she passed quickly down toward the village, with Jim in attendance, and the little child in her arms.
"It's all right, really," said Rex, trying to cut a double S, and failing signally. "Don't you know Cousin Cecil is doctor to half the village?"
"And oh!" said a tearful voice, "could you help me to look for my locket?"
"By all means," said the kind young soldier, and they set to work with a will, but without success; no locket was to be seen.
"I'll tell you what, Beata," said Rex, as the fading light warned them to join the group starting homeward, "it's no go. We'll tell Adams, and get him to set the gardeners and stablemen to work early in the morning, but you can't see your own nose now. I believe the woman in the red shawl boned it. Don't cry; you know the Spartans—"
But there was a sob as they turned away, and even Captain Strangways's comforting hand-clasp could not quite console poor Beata.
Everybody was having afternoon tea when they reached home. The great square hall, with its polished walls and rafters, was all aglow with the light from the great wood fire on the old stone hearth. There was a pleasant clatter of tea-spoons, and a most appetizing aroma of hot tea and muffins, and a great deal of chattering and soft laughter from the ladies in their low easy-chairs, and the gentlemen who were handing tea-cups. Captain Strangways secured a very big carved chair on the outside of the circle, and the children nestled down close to him on the tiger-skin rug. It was only the holiday-time that gained them this distinguished honor of taking tea down stairs, instead of in the school-room. But Beata did not feel grown up at all; she was far too busy mourning over the lost locket, and thinking of the confession that would have to be made to mamma by-and-by. Rex was very silent too, but he was busy with the muffins. I don't know whether they had muffins in Sparta, but on that subject he said not a word.
The laughter and the tea-drinking went on, but no Cousin Cecil appeared. Captain Strangways had twice gone over to look out at the deepening darkness, and each time he came back looking graver, when all at once the great hall door opened softly, there was a sudden rush of cold air, and in came Cecil, very gently and quietly.
Captain Strangways was on his feet, had unfastened her fur cloak, placed her in the big chair, and brought her a cup of tea, before Rex had swallowed the mouthful of muffin upon which he was engaged. When his speech returned to him, however, he asked, with un-Spartanlike eagerness,
"Well, and how's the little chap?"
"Better now, dear, but he was really hurt." Then, leaning forward, "Look here, Beata," she said, very seriously, and dropped something into her lap.
Beata started up with a little cry, "My locket! oh, my locket!"
"Then I do believe that old red shawl stole it, after all. Has she gone to prison?"
"Oh, hush, Rex! Listen, children: what sort of a home do you think I took that poor little man to? Nothing but the shed behind Green's smithy; no fire, no bed but straw, no food. He had cut his head, but I soon bound that up, and then—oh, how can I tell you?—his mother, that poor pale creature in the red shawl, came up to me, just as I was coming away, and with tears and sobs she gave me this. She said she saw it fall, and picked it up in hopes of a reward, and then—and then she thought of the food it would buy for her miserable little starving babies (there were two more in the shed), and oh, children, she meant to keep it!"
There was a moment's silence.
"Then why—why did she give it to you?" said a somewhat husky voice: perhaps the hardening process had given Rex cold.
"She said, when I brought the little boy home, she couldn't do it. She said—and I believe it is true—that it is the first time in her life she took what wasn't hers, and it was only the starving babies, and the sight of the glittering locket, that tempted her. Oh, Beata dear, don't you see now what it is to wear things that may put temptation in other people's way?"
Something as bright as the diamond nails glistened on the locket on Beata's lap.
"I'll tell mamma every bit about it," she murmured, with drooping head, "and ask her to take it away, and never let me even see it till I'm grown up."
"Yes; and, Beata"—and Cousin Cecil's voice sank so low that no one else could hear—"when you say, 'Lead us not into temptation,' to-night, ask to be kept from ever tempting anybody else, and think of poor little Tom's mother, won't you?"
"But, I say, cousin"—Rex was a little husky still—"are they all starving and shivering down there now?"
"Oh no; Mrs. Green has taken them in for the night, and Jim has just gone back with some hot soup and other things for them, and to-morrow we must settle more. I'm sure Uncle George will help."
"And Beata's and my pocket-money—at least what's left after Christmas and all those chocolates we bought the other day. Now, Beata, I hope you'll give up wearing lockets and tomfoolery like that. In Sparta—"
"Have another muffin, Rex, my boy?" said Captain Strangways; and Rex's valuable items of information respecting that classic land were lost to the general public—at least as far as that occasion was concerned.
[GUESS.]
If all the wealth on earth could be
To one man given, still would not he
Be rich as I. O'er land and sea
I scatter gold. I fill the air
With precious specks. Ay! everywhere
I of my treasure give a share,
And yet have countless stores to spare.