A TRUE STORY.
Once upon a time, many hundred years ago, when Rome was mistress of the world, and the Romans were braver and stronger than any one else, there lived a boy of thirteen whose name is still remembered. Lucius Valerius was fond of his lessons, but most of all did he love poetry; so, although he was only thirteen years old, he made up his mind that he would try to win the gold medal and ivory lyre which were given every five years to the boy who should write the best poem.
Lucius not only tried, but he succeeded, and one day, before all the school and a number of visitors, the prizes were presented to him. Now besides the medal and lyre which every one who gained them valued very much, there was something else which they thought far grander. A statue of the prize-winner was placed in the school and crowned with laurel.
You may imagine how the boy's heart beat with joy as he saw the judge step forward to crown his statue, but just at that moment Lucius caught sight of a young man who had also tried for the prize, and who looked most downcast and miserable.
Lucius sprang forward, seized the laurel crown, and put it on the head of the poor fellow who had been unsuccessful.
"You are more deserving of it than I am," he said; "I obtained it more on account of my youth than my merit, and rather as an encouragement than as a reward."
Then the people set up a great shout of joy, for they knew that a noble heart was worth more than all the poems in the world, and they gave a new name to Lucius Valerius in memory of that day.
So Lucius was always called Pudens, which means Modest, and you may be sure he valued his new title as much as he deserved it, for "Kind hearts are more than coronets."
E. M. W.
THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN OCTOBER.
The Flower Garden will now be fast losing its beauty, and the cold winds and frosty nights will be everywhere heralding the coming of winter, when, more through force of circumstances than choice, our Gardening proclivities become considerably abated. Throughout the present month, however, the remaining floral vestiges of summer are often numerous, but especially so when the weather of early autumnal months happens to be of a mild and congenial nature. By this season the greater number of plants will have performed those functions, and have passed through the various stages, which each and every year exacts. In the case of plants known as annuals, an entire life is projected and perfected within the short space of a few months. Various trees and shrubs will now be assuming the rich autumnal tints, and the leaves rapidly drop at the approach of winter, and vital energy is being stored up until the following spring, when new leaves are produced.
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The month of October is, notwithstanding its lack of floral ornaments, one in which the amount of work to be done is by no means inconsiderable, and the pretty little girl, with her hoe and water-can, drawn on p. 241, evidently thinks as much. We must plant now in order to secure a spring display of flowers, and for this purpose nothing can be more satisfactory than bulbous subjects, such as hyacinths, tulips, crocuses, and narcissuses. The hyacinth thrives best in a compost of light loam, leaf-mould, and sand; plenty of the latter may be included in order to secure perfect drainage, which is a very important item in the culture of bulbous plants generally. Perhaps no other spring flowering bulb looks so well when grown in neat patches as the hyacinth; the bulbs should not be less than six inches apart, and at least two and a half inches beneath the surface. They should be purchased in the autumn, selecting firm heavy roots; and "first come, first served" must be borne in mind, as by buying early in the season the best may be secured, and finer spikes of bloom will follow as a natural consequence.
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Tulips have been for many years great favourites with gardeners, both amateur and professional. About two hundred years ago the mania for these plants amounted almost to a national calamity in Holland, and scores of acres are now entirely devoted to their culture. For our own part, we scarcely consider the tulip as in any way justifying the praise which is lavished upon it even in the present day, because its beauty is, to say the least, ephemeral, whilst its showiness is far from being either chaste or delicate. It will be, however desirable to have six or even a dozen bulbs, which only cost about a penny apiece. They can be planted any time during the present month, from two to three inches below the surface, in a compost of loam, leaf-mould, sand, and well-rotted manure. When purchasing, see that every bulb is perfectly solid, and select as many different sorts as possible, thereby securing a variety, which is very desirable in a garden of limited extent. In cold northern situations tulip-beds should always be covered over with a little straw or litter during very frosty weather.
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Few Spring flowers are more welcome or appear so very early in the year as crocuses. No matter how cold, foggy, or dirty the weather may chance to be in this most erratic climate, the regiments of yellow, golden, blue, flaked, white, and versi-coloured crocus flowers will never fail to put in an appearance. The common sorts thrive almost anywhere, and in almost any ordinary garden soil. They should be planted during the present month, about two inches under the surface. As the roots only cost about threepence per dozen hardly any spot ought to be bare of flowers from the middle of January to early in March. A universally-grown plant, even earlier than the crocus, is the well-known snowdrop. This also, like the crocus, can be grown almost anywhere, and may remain in one spot undisturbed for years; both are most effective when grown in clumps. The French name of Perceneige, or Pierce-snow, is singularly applicable to the snowdrop. Place the tiny roots from one to two inches deep, and grow the single-flowered form only.
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The narcissus or daffodil is another of the many spring-flowering plants which are invariably greeted with enthusiasm. The varieties are endless, but the greater number are almost unexcelled for growing in such situations as the tops and sides of hedges, banks, &c. They can scarcely be grown too extensively. Of the various sorts, and exclusive of the ordinary double form, few are more beautiful or more desirable than that known as the Poet's Narcissus (N. poeticus). The pure white of the segments and the delicate bright scarlet centre are best when the plant is grown sheltered from strong winds. Another favourite narcissus of ours, and which we can confidently recommend to our readers, is that known as "Orange Phœnix;" it is a singularly beautiful plant, and produces large double and well-formed flowers; it thrives best in a light sandy soil. Several colours may be secured by purchasing a dozen roots of mixed sorts, costing from two to three shillings per dozen. They may be planted any time throughout October and up to the middle of November.
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The Kitchen Garden of our young folk will need but very little looking after during the present and next two months; but in stating this we must not be understood to imply that it should be wholly neglected. On the contrary, it must be kept quite free from weeds of all sorts; and everything should be in perfect order. To this end paths should be swept and weeded every week, when the state of the weather will admit of this being done. The Kitchen Garden is much too frequently seen in a disreputable state, even in pretentious places, and where flower-gardening is done very well. But well-executed work in one department by no means justifies slovenliness in another. Vacant spaces of ground will need digging, but this operation should, if possible, be left to a labourer, who, for the sake of a small remuneration, would probably be very glad to do it after his ordinary working hours. Even an enthusiast cannot but consider digging as the most laborious of all gardening work, and will take especial care to shirk it whenever possible. In fact, real garden drudgery of all kinds is better done by a labourer, no matter how simple and easy such work may superficially appear to our young folk. Good work, as we all know, can only be done by an accustomed hand.
off to her garden. (See [p. 239].)
THE DISCONTENTED BOAT.
A
boat came back from a journey. It had been to a far-off land. All the sailors jumped ashore, only too glad to run about again, but they tied up the boat to a long arm of rock, and left it there while they were gone.
The tide was very low and the sky was dull; there was just enough water to lap against the sides of the boat, and make it rock up and down. The boat fretted like a petulant child, and pulled at the rope as a dog pulls against its chain, but it could not get away, for all that.
"How dull it is here!" cried the little white boat; "they have all gone on shore and are merry. They don't consider my feelings, left here for the day all alone. And oh, what an ugly place this is!" and it looked right and left.
The sky was grey, the tide was very low; the boat was lashed to a long piece of rock that ran out like an arm into the sea. At each side of the rock a mass of seaweed clung—limp and brown.
"Of all the ugly things I ever saw," exclaimed the boat, "that seaweed is the worst. Think of the places I have been anchored in before—of the lovely tropical flowers that grew at the water's edge."
"You do not know who we are," cried the seaweeds; "we are young fairy sisters, who dance every night. This beach is the floor of our ball-room, and we dance, and are decked with jewels. We dance and are gay in the evening; in the daytime we lie still and rest."
"I do not believe you," said the boat; "you are ugly, and brown, and old. And this place is the dullest I have seen all my life."
So the boat sulked, and was unhappy all day. But when the evening arrived the sailors came down to the shore, and undid the boat, and rowed away.
And the boat looked back, and it was sunset, and a change had passed over the place. The sky was pink and golden, the waves were bathed in light; the sea was as transparent as a sapphire, and you looked through the sapphire roof and saw a golden floor.
Sure enough that was the floor of the dancing-room, and the tide had crept up the sides of the rock, and all the little seaweeds looked yellow and golden, and danced up and down in the arms of the waves.
The boat looked over its shoulder, and saw them: it would willingly have gone back to the scene and danced up and down with the rest, but it never saw them again, for it was bound to a far-off land, never to return.
Lucie Cobbe.
HARRY'S RABBIT.
Harry Pearson was rather a good sort of boy, but he had one very bad habit. He was the greatest stone-thrower in all Tolhurst Village.
It was Harry who had broken the draper's window and the glass of Squire Stopford's greenhouse. He had not been found out; but he knew well enough who had done the mischief, so when one afternoon, as he was running home from school, he saw a man putting up a great placard announcing that stone-throwers would be prosecuted, he felt very much frightened.
He was just slinking home when out came his father, the Squire's gardener.
Harry thought that his father had found out about the stone-throwing, and hung down his head.
But, instead of scolding him as, he had expected, his father said, as if he were pleased—
"Harry, Master Edgar is better to-day, and he wants you to come in now and wheel his chair for him."
Harry's face brightened at once; for there were few things he liked better than to be allowed to go into the Squire's beautiful garden when Master Edgar, the Squire's only son, was well enough to come out in his wheeled-chair.
Edgar Stopford was about the same age as Harry; but he had never been strong, and for more than a year he had been lame.
"All right, father!" exclaimed Harry gleefully. "Is he in the garden?"
And without waiting for an answer he ran in and found Edgar Stopford waiting for him.
"Harry," said Edgar, "I want you to take me in the chair round to the stable, for I want to see the young rabbits. How old are they now, Harry? I've been so ill that I can't quite remember."
"Seven weeks old to-day," said Harry. "I want to see them again very much, Master Edgar. They're such beauties; I can't help thinking of them every day."
"You haven't any rabbits, have you?" asked Edgar.
"No," said Harry. "Don't I wish I had!"
"Mine are prize rabbits, you know," said Edgar, "The old tortoise-shell one took the prize both this year and last year at the County show. Oh! And what do you think? A boy I know has been over here ever so many times trying to get that young lop-eared tortoise-shell doe! You remember which one, don't you?"
"Oh yes! oh yes! That was the one I liked best of all! It had such good broad ears!" cried Harry with enthusiasm. "You didn't let him have it though, did you, Master Edgar?"
"Oh no? He offered me a pair of his best Antwerp pigeons for her. And I wanted the pigeons; but I wouldn't let him have that young doe!" exclaimed Edgar, with a smile on his white face.
"You wouldn't? Oh, I'm so glad!" exclaimed Harry.
"I thought you would be," returned Edgar with another bright smile. "I told him I wanted her for somebody else. Push on, Harry. Let's get round to the stable."
Harry pushed with all his might, while his face flushed up to the roots of his hair; for he could not help thinking—
"I wonder if Master Edgar is going to give that doe to me! But no, that's all nonsense! I won't think of such a thing; of course he is saving it for one of his friends! Shouldn't I like her, though!"
It seemed to Harry quite a long way to the stable, so anxious was he to get there. At last he wheeled the chair into the yard.
"Fetch out the young ones, and let me have a good look at them," said Edgar. "Bring them out one by one; but bring the young doe last."
"All right!" said Harry. And leaving the chair, away he rushed, opened the door of the stable, where, to his delight, he saw the great prize buck in a hutch, and the doe and four young ones all hopping about among a quantity of fragrant hay.
Harry shouted with joy—
"Oh, Master Edgar! Oh, how they've grown! You won't know them! They're lovely!"
He caught up his favourite first of all, and examined her thoroughly with breathless delight.
She had grown into the most beautifully-marked rabbit that he could imagine.
Even to handle such a rabbit seemed to Harry a very great happiness. What could it be like really to be the owner of that young prize rabbit?
With something like a sigh Harry put her down, and caught one of the others.
"I've seen the young doe, and I've measured her ears!" he exclaimed, as he took the other rabbit to Edgar Stopford.
"Well! He has grown!" cried Edgar. "Try if you can push the chair to the stable-door! I should so much like to see them all running about!"
Harry managed to do as Edgar wished, although it gave him a good deal of trouble; but he did not mind that a bit.
"Oh, Master Edgar! Did you ever see such a beauty as that young doe? Do look at her!" said Harry, eagerly, opening the stable-door, and making a dive after the lop-eared tortoise-shell.
The two boys played with the rabbits for a good half-hour. How much they found to say about them, any boy who is fond of animals can imagine. Poor Edgar had not been out for some weeks, and all that time Harry Pearson had not seen those rabbits. Harry was very happy, but still he could not help saying to himself now and then, as he looked at his favourite—
"I wonder who is going to have her?"
"You seem very fond of that tortoise-shell young one, Harry!" said Edgar presently with a smile.
"Ee—yes!" said Harry, his eyes brightening as he looked down tenderly at her.
"But how could you keep her?" asked Edgar.
"Oh, I'd keep her fast enough!" cried Harry, turning quite scarlet, while his heart gave half a dozen tremendous thumps. "I'd keep her! Why I'd make the neatest little hutch that ever was. And I'd give her the best of oats and pollard. Ah, as much as ever she'd eat!"
"Well, then, I shall give her to you," said Edgar. "I made up my mind when I was ill I'd give her to you, for I was sure you would take care of her. That's why I wouldn't let that other boy have her. He is rich, and can buy prize rabbits if he wants them. I'd rather give her to you."
Harry Pearson could not speak a word for a minute or two. He could only look down on the beautiful gift. To think that such a rabbit was his own was too much for him at first.
"Oh!" he gasped, presently. "Oh! Master Edgar. Oh! Thank you! Thank you!"
"Put her in that basket, and take her home," said Edgar.
Harry lost no time in obeying this delightful command. After which he wheeled Edgar, who was getting tired, back to the house, and then ran home with his rabbit, the proudest and happiest boy in Tolhurst.
All that evening there was an eager crowd of youngsters in front of the cottage where Harry lived.
It was a long while since there had been such an excitement in the village.
Nor did the boys' interest in that rabbit die out; boys were always dropping in to see how she was getting on; and Mr. Blades, the butcher, who was a great fancier, offered Harry three-and-sixpence for her.
Very often Harry went to wheel Edgar Stopford's chair, when the two boys would have long talks about the rabbit; and Edgar's pale face would quite glow with pleasure as he listened to Harry's praises of the wonderful animal.
So things went on for some time until Edgar Stopford was taken away to the sea-side.
Harry missed him very much, but he still had his rabbit to amuse himself with; and so, although it was then the holidays, the days did not hang on his hands until very nearly the date of the re-opening of school.
One afternoon, however, the time did seem very long indeed. Most of the boys Harry liked had gone to a treat to which he had not been asked. He was cross and dull. He had spent the whole morning in cleaning out the rabbit-hutch; he wanted something else to do, when, happening to be loitering about in a meadow by the side of the Squire's house, he saw a squirrel in a tree.
In an instant Harry was cruelly stoning away as fast as he could pelt.
He had not done much stone-throwing since he had had the rabbit; now he forgot for the moment everything except the pleasure of aiming the stones.
Up went the stones one after another; a minute later, and—Crash! Crash! Smash went a lot of glass—then there was a yell of pain and rage—a side-door flying open—and Harry tearing, as if for his life, across the field, while after him rushed his own father and his father's master—the Squire!
They followed him—they drove him into a corner of the field; they secured him.
"Walk him off to the police-station this minute!" exclaimed the Squire in a voice of fury.
"Oh, sir! oh, please! please, sir! Oh! oh! Don't, sir! don't! I'll never do it no more!" sobbed the trembling boy.
"Take him to the station-house! Indict him for manslaughter. He might have killed me?" cried the enraged Squire.
"Beg pardon, sir," said Harry's father, touching his hat; "I've cautioned that boy times without number; but leave him to me this once more, sir."
Harry was marched home. His mother was told. She cried bitterly.
"How much money have you?" asked the father.
"Not a—a far—thing," sobbed Harry.
"Then how is the four shillings to be raised to pay for that broken glass?" continued Mr. Pearson.
"I don't—boo-hoo! kn—now!"
"But I do!" exclaimed Harry's father, in a tone of dreadful meaning. "That rabbit must be sold!"
"No! no!" shrieked Harry; "I'd rather be sold myself!"
"Take that rabbit to Mr. Blades, and bring back three-and-six," said Harry's father, in a stern voice.
He felt as if to part with that rabbit would kill him; but he knew it had to be done. I don't know how he managed to do it. What he suffered was terrible, yet he was sure there was no escape; so he put his pet rabbit into a basket and took it to Mr. Blades the butcher. There, in the picture, you can see him.
"he ... took it to mr. blades."
"You won't kill her, will you, Mr. Blades?" he faltered, for the sight of the knives in the shop was too much for him.
Harry has learned a hard lesson. Don't you hope Edgar will buy that rabbit for him again? I do.
L. A.
Our Music Page
"Dignity and Impudence."
Words from "Little Folks."
Music by Burnham W. Horner.
In moderate time.
1. Said a wee little bird, with a pert little look, To an adjutant stork by the river—"I suppose that you think you're as wise as a book, And in fact that you're wondrously clever! You're a picture of dignity, that I'll admit, But alas! that is all I'll allow, ... For indeed you're not quarter as wise as a tit, That hops to and fro on the bough."
2. Said the adjutant-stork to the wee little bird, With a dignified kind of a stare— "Little creatures like you should be seen and not heard, And your impudence well we can spare! You had better by far go back to your nest, And be pert where they'll heed what you do; For you see that in height I'm six feet and the rest, While you are just no feet two!"
3. So it is with us all as we pass through the day: For we each of us think we're most clever— Whether impudent bird that chatters away, Or "Dignity" stork by the river. On our size or our form or our talents we pose, And we hold ourselves up every hour: If the Queen of the Garden be known as the Rose, Then we are that wonderful flower!
The Editor's Pocket-book.
