BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.
61. Which of the Psalms gives us a short history of Joseph?
62. Where does St. Paul enumerate the several appearances of Christ after His resurrection?
62. What restriction did Moses lay upon the Israelites with regard to their election of a king, on their settling in the land of Canaan?
64. Where are we assured that the Almighty is not ashamed to be called the God of those who have had faith in Him?
65. What women does St. Paul mention by name in his enumeration of people remarkable for faith?
66. Where is it said that drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags?
67. Where are we told that those who go into great passions shall suffer punishment?
68. Which of the Apostles speak of Jesus as the Shepherd of His people?
69. Which of the three Apostles who witnessed the Transfiguration afterwards refers to it in his writings?
70. Where do we find it said that every word of God is pure?
71. "Then shall come to pass that saying that is written, 'Death is swallowed up in victory.'" (1 Cor. xv. 54.) From which of the prophets does St. Paul quote these words?
72. What king of a heathen nation did God call His shepherd?
ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (49-60.—See p. 308).
49. The Wise Men (St. Matt. ii. 1, 2).
50. In Eccles. vii. 19, ix. 13-18; Prov. xxi. 22.
51. Only St. Luke (St. Luke xxiii. 7).
52. Solomon (Prov. xviii. 21).
53. St. James (James iii. 2, 5).
54. The Epistle of St. James iv. 4.
55. In Rev. v. 9, 10.
56. In Prov. xxi. 23, xiii. 3.
57. On his rebuking Elymas the Sorcerer at Paphos (Acts xiii. 8-11).
58. At Gibeon (2 Chron. i. 3-6).
59. Of blue (Exod. xxviii. 36, 37).
60. It is shown in the words, "It is finished" (St. John xix. 30).
LITTLE BAB AND THE STORY-BOOK.
By the Author of "Clare Linton's Friend," "Mr. Burke's Nieces," &c.
Who is this little girl, I wonder, comfortably seated, and with a great book before her, on which she looks with delight? Her hair is tidily brushed, and her nice white collar hangs over the edge of her dress. She is a sweet, pretty little girl, I think, and yet if I tell you the story of her day, and what had happened before she got that book, you will see that she is not so happy after all. Just hear what she was doing two or three hours before.
She stood at the window with a little white nose flattened against the glass, and two big sorrowful, indignant eyes staring out at them, as the merry party left the house. There was Uncle Jem, whom she did love, and whom she felt might have said a kind word for her; and Aunt Anastasia, who was that sort of a person that no one since she was born had ever thought of diminishing the five syllables by the use of any shorter name given in playfulness or love. No one, till that moment at least, had ever thought of calling her anything but Anastasia; but at that moment naughty Bab, with her little flattened nose and big mournful eyes, broke the spell by calling out, "Anasta-sia, indeed! Aunt Nasty, I think!"
Then there was her Cousin Robert, whom poor Bab honestly believed to be a much naughtier boy than she was a girl, and yet who generally managed to keep out of scrapes; and Selina, demure and well-mannered, but whom Bab's unruly, affectionate little heart had never been able to love; she was followed by Miss Strictham, the governess. And then there was Mr. Beresford, the kind, good-natured friend who was staying in the house; and Bab, just for a minute, felt that she would rather have died than that he should know she was in disgrace.
"holding her dress up" ([p. 344]).
She watched them all go off under the bright blue sky, and then she turned round, and with her back to the window, faced the rather dingy, dull-looking schoolroom, and burst into a loud roar.
For Bab was only seven years old, and had not yet lost the first intensity of crying with which power every baby is born. She roared for two or three minutes, plenty of tears coming with the roar, after which she felt a good deal better.
"I'm such a little thing to be punished," she said to herself. "I don't think they ought to punish such a little thing as I am. I must be young when people live to be as old as grandpapa, with wrinkles over every scrap of his face, till it looks just like no face at all, only wrinkles."
Then Bab examined her little round, rosy, pleasant face in a mirror over the fireplace.
"Not a single wrinkle," said she. "I must be very young; but if they punish me this way, I shall get wrinkles. I'm sure I shall, because I'm so miserable!"
I am afraid poor Bab often deserved to be punished. She was idle at her lessons and extremely saucy, and she was a quaint little thing, so that sometimes she seemed to be impertinent when she really did not intend it, though I must own that at other times she did intend it as much as any other young lady seven years old possibly could. On the present occasion, when her governess scolded her for her idleness, she said she had not been idle, but had been making a charade; and then she began dancing about the schoolroom, and jumping on tables and chairs, and all the time shouting loudly, "Selina, guess—this is the charade—guess, Selina, guess! My first is what nobody should be, my second is what everybody should eat, and my whole is—oh,—Strict-ham, Strict-ham. Why don't you guess, Selina? Oh, why don't you?"
Miss Strictham marched her off in dire disgrace. The picnickers would be absent four hours, and during that time Bab was not to quit the schoolroom. Maria, the housemaid, would bring her dinner, and nurse would look in on her now and then, but she was not to have the younger children with her. She was to be a solitary prisoner in solitary confinement, and she was on her parole. Her aunt made her promise not to leave the room, and having done so, was content, for, as she said to Uncle Jem in rather a complaining way, "It is a very odd thing that Bab never tells a falsehood or breaks her promise. Robert and Selina both do sometimes, and yet they are so much better children. Isn't it odd?"
Having enjoyed a good roar, and feeling wonderfully refreshed thereby—for Bab was too proud to have shed a tear in Aunt Anastasia's and Miss Strictham's presence—the poor little thing got hold of her lesson-books and prepared to learn a French verb, some questions and answers in English history, and to do a sum in compound addition, and write a copy.
"As if it mattered to such a little thing as I am whether King John was a good man or a bad one, or what sort of a thing Magna Charta was!" said she, reproachfully, to her book; "as if it mattered to anybody, indeed, when it was such an extremely long time ago! Eleven hundred and ninety-nine he came to the throne; and who'd care if he had never been born or never come to the throne? And we're not barons, and we've not got Magna Charta; and it's all nothing at all, but a great pity it ever happened, for if it hadn't happened, poor little children living hundreds and hundreds of years afterwards would not be troubled about it. I call it rubbish!" and with the word rubbish she tossed the little book up, and down it came with a broken back.
Bab picked it up and held it with one corner. When she saw the melancholy scrambling way in which the cover and the pages hung, she went off into irresistible shouts of laughter—for Bab's laugh was as loud and as hearty as her cry. Then she did her sums and wrote her copy, and after that Maria brought in her dinner.
Bab clapped her hands for joy when she saw what the tray contained, and then she began her dinner.
But now the lessons were over, the dinner was finished, and what was poor little Bab to do for the rest of the time?
She went round the room, casting out first her right hand and then her left, touching thus in turn everything in the apartment, but there was nothing more interesting than a pen-wiper, a schoolroom inkstand, or a grammar, so she called out "No, no, no" to everything, and then all of a sudden down came her hand on a big book with scarlet and white binding, and she gave a loud scream, a pirouet, and then said "Yes!"
Yes; I should think so. Why, it was Mr. Beresford's fairy book—the beautiful book he was showing them last night.
Then she seized on the precious book, brought it over with quite a struggle to the school desk, opened it there, and with elbows on table and cheeks on hands, gave herself over to perfect enjoyment. And so it was that we saw Miss Bab when our story began, sitting before the great book enjoying herself.
Such beautiful, lovely pictures went round every page, with a little verse set down right in the middle of the pictures. Fairies gorgeously coloured, all twining together or mixing themselves up with butterflies till you scarcely knew which was which, and not one bit of white paper to be seen through or mid the brilliant creatures—actually a wide border of fairies and butterflies, and nothing else, and the verse in the middle was also in illuminated letters.
In her eagerness, hanging over the book to read it, Bab happened to lean on the end of a pen standing up in art inkstand. She was too much interested to know what it was, but it came spluttering out, and a little speck of ink splashed on the white paper beyond the border.
"Oh, oh!" cried excited Bab; "is it not like some little bad fairy running along to hurt them?"
It was very hot, and Bab's eyes shut after she had said that, and when she opened them again she forgot the bad fairy, she was so shocked to see the splash of ink on the paper. And then she felt the sun warmer and warmer, and she shut her eyes once more.
"Look again," said a very little voice, but very sweet, oh, so sweet!
So she did look again. She saw all the beautiful painted fairies and butterflies had risen up alive from the page, and were dancing and gliding round and round it, never passing off the border to the outside or the inside. It was a lovely sight to see, and little Bab laughed and clapped her hands. Then a very grand and proud-looking fairy slipped out of the dance, and stationed herself in front, where she could take a good look at Bab.
"Little girl, why did you do that?" said the fairy, severely.
"Oh, what, please?" Bab was a brave child, but she did feel a little shaky and nohow just then.
"Brought the bad fairy Blackamè to creep in among us and eat up our butterflies."
And had Bab really the power to bring a fairy Blackamè over there when she thought it was only a splash of ink? And she looked with a sort of terror on the bad fairy Blackamè when she thought she had brought her, and could not send her away.
"Oh, fairy, fairy!" she cried, "do forgive me. But can that wretched little black splashy thing—for you really can't call it a splash—eat your butterflies when there are so many of you to fight for them, and they've got heaps and heaps of wings to fly away with?"
"But how can we manage that?" replied the fairy, sharply, "when we are too timid to fight and the butterflies are too brave to fly away."
"Well, that is inconvenient," sighed Bab; "but don't you think, since the butterflies are so brave—how I do like them for being so brave!—don't you think they might fight a little?"
"Butterflies fight!" screamed the fairy. "Were butterflies ever seen to fight since the first butterfly? What will you say next? I think you are a very disagreeable little girl. First you bring down Blackamè, and then you want to set all our dear pretty butterflies fighting."
"It was you who said they were so brave," murmured Bab, half penitent and half injured.
"And pray, is there any reason why I should not be permitted to say that butterflies are brave?" asked the fairy, with a sort of deadly politeness.
"And so much as I used to long to see a fairy!" sighed Bab to herself; "and now I really wish she would go away.
"What are you prepared to do about Blackamè?—tell me," demanded the fairy, suddenly.
She made Bab jump, but Bab did not mind that; she was a straightforward child, and liked to go direct at a thing. She reflected, and then she faced the difficulty she had got into bravely, and replied in a grave, resolute way, "Anything you wish."
The fairy looked at her. "Why couldn't you say so before?" she said, very sharply. "It would have saved all this trouble."
Again Bab felt that it was not fair—she thought the fairy was unfairer even than Selina; but she was a fairy, and besides that, Bab had brought Blackamè down upon them; so she said instantly, not meekly and humbly; for that was not her way—but in a resolute, hearty manner, that gave one confidence to see—"Just tell me, and I'll do it."
"I'll tell you," said the fairy quite good-naturedly, "and you'll do it. That's quite fair. Well now, the thing to do is this: go out in the evening with a long pole, and knock up high into the branches of the trees, and glance up and down, holding your dress out, and singing:—
'I'm the girl that brought him in, Blackamè! What a rout! Little birds that cannot sin. Drive the wretched fellow out, Blackamè;'
And then you'll see——" but what she was to see Bab never knew; something touched her, and then rushed with headlong sound through the window. The fairy was gone, and, stranger still, the bright beautiful book, with its butterflies and fairies, was gone too.
She looked lazily round her, and, to her surprise, saw Selina standing at the other end of the table.
"Why are you home so early?"
"Home so early! It's half-past five, if you please. Why, you lazy little thing, you've been asleep all the time!"
Bab looked at the clock on the mantel-piece, and saw it was a quarter to six. How quickly the time passes when you are with fairies! She knew she had not been asleep, because she knew she had had the visit from the fairy, and she was so anxious to know what would happen next. About seven o'clock she thought she might go out with a long pole to the tree; and she supposed the fairies had put the book somewhere, till the birds should come and drive Blackamè out of it, and she hoped very much Mr. Beresford would not miss his beautiful book till then, when it would be clear from the black splotch which she now knew was not Blackamè.
"Where is Robert?" asked Miss Selina. "He dashed out of the carriage and through here, and he must have gone out by the window. And you must have been asleep, or you would have heard him."
Bab remembered the sound of the rush through the window, and she saw now a spill of ink just by the place where the book had been. But Robert could not have been there, because she was talking to the fairy at the very time, and she must have noticed him, and felt him greatly in the way.
When it was past seven o'clock, Bab slipped away, and took Mr. Beresford's alpenstock out of the stand in the hall, and beat about the branches of the elms and horse-chestnuts, and danced and sang, holding her dress up, and did everything exactly as the fairy had told her to do, and as you will see her doing in the picture.
But she had not been dancing and singing (Bab often recalled the scene, when she was older, with pleasure) more than about twenty minutes before Aunt Anastasia put her head out of the window, and told her to come in.
It was much pleasanter to be dancing for the fairies up and down, with outstretched frock, than to go into the house and find Blackamè still on the page, and have to confess she brought him there, and be in disgrace for it.
Mr. Beresford held out a kind hand to her, and drew her to his side.
The book, when Mr. Beresford took it in his hands, naturally opened at the page where it had been lying open that morning so long, and there were all the fairies and butterflies lying flat and beautiful, and the verses in the middle of the page. But there, instead of Blackamè, were five or six Blackamès perhaps, intertwining together like the fairies and the butterflies, but bearing to mortal eyes nothing but the appearance of a thick smudge of ink.
"Oh, I didn't do that!" cried poor little Bab, and burst into tears.
"Who did, then?" inquired Mr. Beresford, quickly.
"Why, I saw Robert with the book in the hall soon after we came home," cried Selina, on impulse.
"Did you do it, Robert?" asked Mr. Beresford.
"Why does she say she didn't do it, and begin to blubber?" cried Robert, politely designating Bab over his shoulder. "Wasn't she left at home? Who could do it but she?"
"Because I saw you do it," replied Mr. Beresford, and Robert's white face became scarlet—the mean little fellow as he stood there before them, who had committed a fault, and then tried to lay the blame on a girl. "Bab was lying back in her chair fast asleep, and with bright smiles on her face, that showed that she was having happy dreams, when in you ran, jumped over desk, book, and all; threw a little of the ink across the page by a kick with your foot, then looking with dismay at your work, tucked the book under your arm, and jumped through the window with it."
Robert blubbered at this. "I wanted to take the ink out."
"You have been a very bad boy," said his father. "You deserve a flogging, and shall have it. I am very much grieved about your book, Beresford."
Robert almost screamed.
"I think more of his laying the fault on this little girl," replied Mr. Beresford, his hand among Bab's curls, "than of the book."
Bab sidled up to him. He sat at the table looking so kindly at her, and she stood by him, her elbow on it, and with her pretty modest eyes fixed on him. "But it doesn't seem quite as if he did that, does it?" she asked; "he took the book away to make it well. If he had left it with me, everybody would have believed I did it, and he knew that quite well."
a helping hand. ([p. 345]).
"No, he had not laid a plot, but at the moment he put the blame on you."
"That was because he is such a coward. Pray, he couldn't help it; he was too frightened. You were too frightened, weren't you, Robert? You are such a coward!" Bab said plainly.
Robert, still crying, she made his excuses.
"And I am very sorry. I'd quite forgotten; but I did it too."
Mr. Beresford smiled.
"Did what, little Bab?"
"Ah, perhaps you'll be angry, and I shall be so very sorry; but I must tell. I did it too."
She sidled up a little nearer, and looked gently at him.
"Did what too?"
"I spurted a little—leetle ink by a spluttering pen, and it was a bad fairy called Blackamè; and another fairy was just telling me how to set it right, when Robert must have rushed in and did it all; but if I hadn't put the book on the desk near the ink, nothing would have happened, and Robert would be happy. Oh, please, Uncle Jem, don't flog Robert."
"Very well; you are a good little thing, Bab. Go to bed this moment, sir; perhaps I may let you off, as your cousin is so kind."
Robert left the room, and his father followed to at least give him a good scolding. Bab was left alone with Mr. Beresford. She stood near him, with a wistful expression about both her face and her figure.
"Will it spoil the book? And it has all happened because I was naughty and couldn't be taken. I think they had better take me next time, Mr. Beresford, whatever I've done;" and a humorous look sparkled into Bab's eyes.
"And the fairies came and talked to you? But do you know it was not really a fairy, Bab? You were fast asleep, for I saw you myself; you must have been dreaming."
"Oh dear! And was not it a fairy? then it was just a common dance I had under the tree. But do you know I'm not quite sorry, for she was not half as nice as fairies are; and that was not really a Blackamè, was it? Well, I'm sorry I could call up a bad fairy, only I do wish I had really been dancing for birds."
"I wish you were not so often in disgrace, little Bab."
"So do I; but I don't think I shall be next year. Father and mother are coming home then from the Mauritius, and I shall be an own little girl again."
Mr. Beresford kissed Bab affectionately when she said that, but Bab did not know why he kissed her.
A HELPING HAND.
F
rank's road to school leads over ways
Where yet no trains approach,
And past the Yellow Dragon Inn,
Where stops the Dirleton coach:
Here the old horses, Duke and Ned,
Are daily watered, changed, and fed.
Frank knows them well, and one hot day,
As whistling home he sped,
He saw the patched old feeding-bag
That hung at Neddy's head
Fell too far down—Ned vainly tried
To reach the yellow corn inside.
No one was near—Ned tossed his head,
And strove, but still in vain,
Hungry as any horse might be,
To seize the tempting grain;
Frank checked his headlong homeward course,
And then approached the wearied horse.
With quick light hands he raised the bag,
And made the strappings tight;
Ned hid his nose among the corn,
And softly neighed delight.
For Frank it was sufficient prize
To read his thanks in Ned's bright eyes.
Robert Richardson.
SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.
By Henry Frith.
IV.—THE CONTINENTAL MAIL AND "TIDAL" TRAINS.
W
e have to travel in two important trains now, and within twenty-four hours will make two trips, the one by night, the other by day. Hitherto, we have been standing with our drivers in full daylight, looking at the pleasant country, and thinking of many historical events as we pass. Now we have to mount our engine at night, and go all the way to Dover without stopping.
We will start from Cannon Street this time, at ten minutes past eight p.m. We could go at a quarter to eight or ten o'clock in the morning, but it will be quite a new experience for us to travel on an engine by night, and return from Folkestone, on another occasion, by daylight and see the country as we fly along. Now let us start.
What a short train! Yes, it is, but then the Charing Cross portion with the West-end passengers has not yet arrived. Before it comes in we shall draw out to the bridge and back down upon the newly-arrived carriages. Then the train will be complete, and we shall start punctually as possible with "Her Majesty's Mails." Oh, what bags and sacks and vans full of letters have been, and are being, thrown into the mail-train! How roughly our poor little letters seem to be treated; tumbled out on the ground, tossed into the carriage which seems already full, and then hurriedly untied and sorted, by quick-fingered clerks, into the various pigeon-holes, and tied up in the local bags, to be dropped, perhaps, as the train flies past the various stations.
But the engine is waiting. We must turn away from the well-lighted sorting-van, bright even in the gleam of the electric light, which illuminates the great echoing station with its winking glare. On a platform just outside are numerous arms and signals—one arm is lowered; then another. The Charing-Cross portion of the mail is in now. It is thirteen minutes past eight p.m.—no doubt the "official" time for starting—and with a shriek we pass from the brilliant station to the darkness of the river.
The Thames flows sullenly down in the lamplight, swirling under the piers of the railway, and shimmering under the lights of London Bridge as we curve round above Tooley Street; but we do not stop at London Bridge Station on this occasion. We peep through the glasses in the weatherboard and see such a number of red and green signals, that it reminds us of the Crystal Palace devices in lamps, and even as we look some turn green (is it with envy at our speed?) or red (is it with anger at our passing on without saying good-night?) but our engine-driver, who never moves his head or speaks to us, looks in front—we are nearly in darkness now—and we look about us.
We feel warm about the feet and knees—the wind whistles around our waist. We stand near the fireman, looking through his glass, and near a hand-lamp, which shines on a water-gauge glass to tell the driver when the boiler needs replenishing. We rush past Bermondsey all lighted up, and we see in the distance blazing chimneys, down Deptford way, and red lights on the Brighton Railway rushing at us in the air, and white and green lights of engines rushing at us on the rails. We overtake and pass a train whose passengers look nice and warm, and one little boy is flattening his nose against the window, to see us pass, and no doubt thinks his train a very slow one, and his engine-driver a "muff," for being beaten in the "race."
So we leave the ancient "Beormund's Eye" where many hundred years ago was an abbey, and where now are tanneries and many trades with accompanying and peculiar odours. Away we go in a direct line over the Surrey Canal—the river and the ships we cannot see. We get a glimpse of the lighted Crystal Palace and rush into Chislehurst, where the late Emperor of the French and his son lie buried.
Puffing up hill as if it were short of breath the engine goes, and is suddenly swallowed up in a great tunnel! Oh, the roaring, the clattering, the clamp, clamp, clamp, the "dickery-dickery-dock" tune which the wheels play upon the metals and chairs and joints of the line! Suddenly we are out again under a starry sky; all the mist and fog and smoke are gone. The light which surrounded us in the tunnel, the flickering gleam which shone on us from roof and walls, is as suddenly dispersed and hangs now overhead in the white curling steam, as the fireman opens the furnace door, and the gleam dashes along with us like a halo.
From Sevenoaks our speed increases; the driver slackens off the steam, but we rush on faster and faster. Through another long tunnel, then into the open air round a curve, flying along an embankment until we think we must go over it. Rush, roar, and rattle! Speed slackens, bump, thump, whizz, a long whistle; green and red lights above and below, a big station, engines beside us, people like phantoms on the platforms, crash, bang! Tunbridge is passed, and we are running on level ground, in a straight line for full twenty miles, to Ashford. Ah, we can breathe again now. It did seem rather alarming just then.
So on we go towards Folkestone and Dover. Now the salt-laden breeze tells us we are near our destination. The sorting-clerks work harder and faster. The Continental mail-bags, Indian mail-bags, Mediterranean and China mail-bags, all are ready for transmission to the steamer. Into the tunnel through the
"... Cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully on the confined deep"—
known as the Shakespeare cliff, in consequence of that description in "King Lear."
We quickly reach Dover, so well known as the resting-place of Queen Elizabeth's "Pocket Pistol," twenty-four feet long, on which is the legend—
"Load me well and keep me clean
And I'll carry a ball to Calais Green."
The train glides down the pier, the carriage-doors are opened, mail-bags and muffled travellers are hurried on board. The lights are extinguished, the engine retreats into the darkness, then we jump off and go to bed.
Next time we meet our engine it is waiting for the Tidal train at Folkestone. This train starts from Charing Cross and from Paris daily, each way, at hours when the Channel passage can be accomplished at or near high water. We shall soon have a still faster service, and eight hours between London and Paris will be the usual time.
The run up to London need not be dwelt upon. The pace is not excessive, but punctuality is well observed, and the train runs in safety. We remember one bad accident, though, to the Tidal train.
It was at Staplehurst in 1865. The Whitsuntide series of accidents which disfigured that holiday season was closed by the terrible catastrophe that happened to the Tidal train on its way from Folkestone to London. This train is an erratic one. It travels at different hours each week, and changes daily. On the 9th June in that year (1865), the railway near Staplehurst was under repair. The men were working, and had taken up two rails when the Tidal train was seen approaching.
The foreman had mistaken the time. There was no chance of avoiding an accident. The express came dashing into the gap, and eight carriages were flung over a bridge into a little stream beneath. The engine and the tender jumped the vacant space of rail, and ran into the hedge, but the carriages toppled over, leaving only two of them on the line at the back, and the engine and luggage vans in front. So the eight other carriages hung down and crushed into each other. Ten persons were killed and many injured.
In the train was the late Charles Dickens, who was travelling to London. He had with him the MS. (or proofs) of a tale he was then engaged upon, and in the preface to the work he mentioned the occurrence. He was most useful to the injured passengers, and with other gentlemen exerted himself greatly to alleviate their sufferings. We need not dwell upon the painful scene of the accident, which created quite a sensation, as it occurred to the Continental express, by which so many holiday-makers travel.
We have not mentioned many accidents in the few papers we have put before you, for there is a sameness in them unfortunately; but we remember one terrible accident which occurred in consequence of a little boy playing on an engine, which ran away and caused a bad collision by dashing into a train which it overtook in its wild race.
Perhaps you little readers of Little Folks are not aware that boys begin at a very early age to learn the mysteries of the locomotive engine. These lads are "cleaners" first, and have to rub up the bright parts of the engines, and clear out the fire-boxes. Accidents have happened to the lads, even boys have been killed by going to sleep in the fire-boxes, and when the fire was lighted next morning they have been suffocated. The engine-driver expects his fire lighted and steam got up for him when he comes down to the engine-shed, or "stable." You may, perhaps, have noticed the round houses near the railway—say at York Road, Battersea—those are the engine-"stables." Every engine is placed in its "stall," so that its chimney is just under an opening, or flue. It is also over a "pit," so that the fire can be raked out, or the working examined from underneath before the engine goes into the station next day to take the train away to the seaside, or to carry you to school, or home for the holidays. The engine-driver or the fireman examines the rods, cranks, and all the different joints, nuts, and screws; oiling or "packing," "easing off," or "tightening up" the various parts, so that the machinery may run easily and without heating. One tiny bit of grit may wreck a train.
But our allotted space is now filled, and will not permit us to tell you more concerning engine-boys. So we must say "good-bye" to you all.
"FATHER'S COMING!"
h, Father is coming!
Through all the long day
We thought of him often,
When he was away;
We knew he was working
While we were at play.
He'll be tired, I think;
I have set him a chair
In his own cosy corner—
He likes to sit there—
And we'll bring him his slippers,
His old favourite pair.
I think it's the nicest
To watch at the gate;
And Dolly sits by us
While thus we all wait.
He'll be here very soon—
It's so seldom he's late.
See, Baby knows too
Who is coming to-night;
She is crowing, and clapping
Her hands with delight!
There's his footstep at last!
Oh, hurrah! he's in sight.