CHAPTER XV.—A MYSTERIOUS MATTER.
E
lsie was beside herself with rage. She had not naturally a very even temper, but never in her life had she felt in such a passion. Directly her two companions loosed their hold upon her she jumped up, and struck the door of the carriage, screaming loudly, "Let me out! let me out!" She caught hold of the wooden framework, and shook it till it rattled again, while Mrs. Donaldson, well knowing it was locked, sat calmly smiling at her impotent wrath.
Then the child turned furiously upon her tormentors. Her passion knew no bounds; she felt as if she could have torn that wicked "fairy mother" to pieces. It was such a fit of passionate rage as blinds reason and takes away the power of thinking—such a mad, ungovernable fury as would have led an older stronger person to some desperate deed.
"she ... struck the door of the carriage" ([p. 199])
Elsie caught hold of Mrs. Donaldson's arm, and screamed at her. "You bad, wicked thing! let me out! I'll kick you! I'll bite you if you don't! Let me go to Duncan, I tell you, you wicked creature! I'll get out of the window!" and Elsie flew at it, and began tugging away at the strap.
The gentleman took her up in his arms and flung her down on the seat, where Elsie lay screaming and sobbing, and beating the cushions with her hands, grinding her teeth, and flinging herself about like a mad thing.
They let her go on as she would for a time. After a while the gentleman bent over her, and, catching hold of her wrists with the firm grasp of his powerful hands, made her sit upright. "Listen," he said, putting his head close to her face, and looking so ugly and evil that Elsie felt as if she could have struck him; "we have had enough of this. If you are wise you will behave properly, then no harm will come to you. If you make a disturbance, you will bring down upon yourself a fate that you will not like."
It was not so much the words themselves as the menacing way they were hissed in the child's ear that made them so terrible.
But Elsie was not then thinking of herself, and no threat against her took any hold upon her mind. She returned him a sulky glance of defiance, which made him scowl.
Then Mrs. Donaldson came and sat on the other side of Elsie, and began speaking.
"So long as you do what we bid you, your brother is safe," she said, in a voice of quiet decision. "He is quite at our mercy, and will be well cared for, if you are good. Any naughtiness on your part will only injure him. The moment you misbehave he will be turned into the streets, to find his way home as best he can. He will be brought to you in a week if you have not been the cause of his being lost in the meantime."
"I don't believe you," Elsie said sulkily; "you are too far from Duncan to hurt him."
Mrs. Donaldson smiled. "You can do just as you like," she said. "I only warn you. Duncan is in the hands of my people. I can send them a message all the way from London in five minutes, and before you know anything about it they will have done with Duncan whatever I tell them. You forget that I am the 'fairy mother.'"
Then flashed through Elsie's mind something she had heard her mother and granny talking about, which granny would not believe. It was about a wire which took messages all over the world as quickly as you could write them. Her mother had tried to explain it, but granny declared it sounded like some wicked thing done by evil spirits, and she wasn't going to believe it. Elsie was inclined to feel very much like poor old granny, who thought the world was turning topsy-turvy since her young days. But although she could not understand it, Elsie had a dim uneasy feeling that there was too much likelihood of Mrs. Donaldson's words being true ones for her to disregard them.
She could think of nothing else now but Duncan. If any one hurt him, whatever should she do? If only they gave her Duncan back again it seemed as if no trouble would be great.
Mrs. Donaldson's words had brought Elsie to a more reasoning frame of mind. "I will do everything, if you promise me you will fetch Duncan or take me back to him," she said eagerly. "You will take care of him, won't you?" she cried entreatingly. "Promise me nothing bad shall happen to him. You will send a message about what they are to do to him, won't you? but oh! I do wish you would let me go back to him before a week. He will be so frightened and lonely, and perhaps he will call me like he did in the night when he was frightened; and he's never been with strange folk before. He's real timid, too, when people are bad to him, and dursn't say a word, only he's scared like all the time." Elsie could not help crying at the thought of poor Duncan's terror in Sandy Ferguson's cottage, and the way he had hidden it till they were away out of hearing.
Mrs. Donaldson turned away her head uneasily. Something in Elsie's love for her brother had touched a tender chord. It reminded her of a little brother she had loved, and who had died. She had been a different creature in those days, and perhaps for a moment she wished that she were a child again, with the innocent love for her little brother to draw her away from a bad, wicked life. Perhaps the recollection of him made her think for a moment of the life beyond the grave, in which he was peacefully living, but which could only be a terror for her.
But an angry glance from her companion dispelled the passing softness. "You shall both be safe so long as you obey me," she said. "Duncan, I will tell you now, is safe in the hospital. At a word from me Meg will fetch him away. At present he is well tended, with kind doctors and nurses to give him everything he wants, and he will soon be well, for it is only a bad cold he has taken."
Elsie sank back with a sigh of relief. She pictured poor little Duncan lying on a soft white bed, with kind people bending over him, as Mrs. MacDougall had done when she was sick. It brought a great feeling of peace to her mind. She would do anything they wished her, to be sure that Duncan was safe. The only thing that troubled her now was whether Mrs. Donaldson had spoken truly; for children are quick to find out who may be trusted, and Elsie had no faith in either of these two people.
Elsie believed herself that Meg would take Duncan if it depended at all upon her, for although her behaviour had been strange, Elsie could not forget her kindness in the night, when there had been no one near. Nothing would ever make Elsie think that it was not true and genuine. It was, indeed, her faith in Meg's goodness that was her one consolation. She clung to that much more than to all Mrs. Donaldson's statements.
Presently the train stopped. "Uncle William" came, and sat very close to Elsie on one side, Mrs. Donaldson on the other, and each took one of her hands with an appearance of great affection. Elsie sat perfectly still. She had no intention of making any more disturbance. If Duncan's safety depended on her being quiet, no mouse should be more quiet than she was.
Mrs. Donaldson seemed pleased. "I see you are a sensible little girl," she said. "Now, you must mind what I tell you. Remember, I shall not tell you when I send the message, but directly you are troublesome it will go. I may not tell you till the week is gone; but you may feel quite sure that it will not be sent unless you disobey or are naughty. Do you quite understand?"
Elsie replied that she did, and Mrs. Donaldson continued—
"Do not mention Duncan again, not even to me when I am quite alone. He is always Donald."
"I will not forget," Elsie replied.
"And you will have no Uncle William when you get to London. This gentleman is your Grandpapa Donaldson. Now, I have seen that you are clever enough when you choose. Do not forget."
The train had again started on its way, and was rushing along at a tremendous rate, being an express. Mrs. Donaldson had got Elsie's hand in hers, and had kept the child's attention fixed upon herself. The gentleman was now seated in another corner. When Elsie next turned her head towards him, he had utterly changed. In the place of a dark-looking man with a small moustache was an elderly gentleman, with a face quite bare, except for some small grey whiskers and a bald head. He was lounging back most unconcernedly in the carriage, looking through his spectacles at the objects so swiftly flying past them.
Elsie uttered an exclamation of wonder. "A real fairy has been at work, you see, Effie," Mrs. Donaldson said laughingly.
"Hey, what, my dear?" the old gentleman said, bending over as if a little deaf. "Did you speak?"
"Effie wants to know where her uncle William has gone," Mrs. Donaldson shouted.
"Uncle William? what, has she got an uncle William, Mary? Who is he? Here Effie, my dear, will you have a bun?"
Elsie went over to him in a state of the most complete bewilderment, and took from him the tempting bun that he held out to her. As she did so she had a good look at him. Certainly it was not the same person who had called himself Uncle William.
His face was quite changed. In place of the black hair was a small fringe of iron grey locks. This man was years older. His very coat was a different colour.
"Won't you give grandpapa a kiss for that nice bun?" the old gentleman said in a quavering old voice. Elsie went timidly, and gave him a small hasty kiss on the cheek.
He caught hold of her, and made her do it over again. "What, you puss!" he cried, "are you frightened of grandpapa, who gives you all the nice things? Dip your hand in my bag, and take out what you like."
He opened a small black valise, and disclosed delicious fruits and cake. Elsie drew forth a large mellow pear. "If Duncan could have it," she thought as she bit a juicy mouthful.
"Do you like grandpapa better than Uncle William?" Mrs. Donaldson whispered in her ear.
"I do not know," Elsie answered; "but I couldn't dislike him any more," she added, with a little shudder.
Mrs. Donaldson laughed most good-humouredly. "Then you must like him better," she said, "and that is a good thing. Grandpapas are always kind, you know. Go and talk to yours, but you must speak loud, because he is getting a little deaf."
Elsie obeyed. The old gentleman looked round, and smiled. It was a very gracious smile, but somehow not one that Elsie liked. "That's right, come and talk to grandpapa," he said. "Can you read nicely? Here is a pretty book with pictures, out of a fairy pocket grandpapa keeps for his children." As he spoke he drew out a book in most brilliant binding of scarlet and gold. It was full of pictures, and altogether charming. Elsie grew more and more bewildered.
What had become of that dreadful man who had hissed his threats in her ear? He had quite vanished; there was no doubt about that. No one could be more different than this mild old man, who kept on saying kind things in his cracked voice. Elsie, watching him very narrowly, thought she saw something that reminded her of the Uncle William who had so mysteriously disappeared, and wondered whether this might be really his father. Yet that did not make his presence there any the less mysterious.
One effect this incident had on Elsie's mind was to make her stand more than ever in awe of her strange companions. She could not get rid of a half belief that they could do really whatever they liked with both her and Duncan. Although she had not any real faith in their goodness, she had certainly a great dread of their strange power.
The journey was a long one, with few stoppages. The train flew on at a frightful pace through the hill country, where from the windows could be seen the bare bleak peaks of Cumberland, varied with nearer slopes of soft green grass and verdant valleys. On, on through the great grimy towns of the manufacturing counties; on and on through dark tunnels, swinging round curves, over rivers, skirting woods, still rushing on, with an occasional shriek and scream, as of relentless fury; still on and on, long after the day had closed and the stars had begun to twinkle in the sky, till at last the great goal of London was reached.
There is now a gathering together of parcels and packages. The old gentleman, Grandpapa Donaldson, sets them down on the seat, and fumbles at the door. "Why doesn't that idiot unlock it?" he mutters, in a tone that brings strangely to mind the adventure on the lonely road where she first saw the "fairy mother."
"Don't be impatient, father," Mrs. Donaldson exclaims in a wavering voice; and Elsie, looking up at her, sees that her face is pale and her lips tightly set.
She draws a long black veil over her face as she stands waiting. Presently a porter comes. The door is opened. Two men spring into the carriage, and close the door after them.
"The game is up! you are my prisoners!" falls in dreadful tones on poor Elsie's frightened ears.
(To be continued.)
HOW TO MAKE PRETTY PICTURE-FRAMES.
"Your room looks so pretty, Nellie," sighed my cousin Bella; "you should just see mine at home; it's as bare as a barrack."
"Why don't you improve it, then?" was my practical rejoinder.
"Why, it costs such a lot," answered Bella.
"My decorations are very inexpensive, I assure you," said I. "Now these frames, for instance——"
"Oh, they are sweet! they are really," interrupted my cousin.
"Cost next to nothing," I continued. "Shall we make a pair for you to take home? That would be something to start with, at any rate."
Bella was delighted at the idea, which we forthwith carried out; and now for the benefit of little folk, who may like to know how to make something pretty for their rooms, at a small cost, I will proceed to relate what these said frames were made of, and how we made them.
First of all, we got a good stock of materials, such as small fir-cones, oak-balls, tiny pieces of bark, beech-nuts, bits of silvery lichen stolen from the trunks of trees, the little crinkly black cones of the alder, in fact everything of the kind that we could pick up in our rambles about the lanes and woods.
Bella called our gleanings, "the harvest of a roving eye;" and children who live in the country will have no difficulty in gathering in such a harvest, as will suffice for the making of dozens of frames. Of course, autumn is the best time to get them.
The next thing was to decide upon the pictures, for it is always better to make your frame to fit your picture, than to be obliged to hunt for a picture the right size for your frame. Christmas-cards do very nicely; those with a light ground look the best, as the frames are dark. I happened to have two of those fancy heads that are seen in picture-shop windows nowadays (cabinet size).
For these, I first cut out a paper pattern of the frame, an oval about 8½ inches long, and 6¾ inches broad; then I drew a line inside the oval, about 1¾ inches from the edge, and cut the middle out. When I had succeeded to my satisfaction in making a correct pattern, I laid it on a sheet of thin millboard, traced the outline inside and outside the oval with a pencil, and cut it out. Of course, when once you have the pattern in cardboard, it is very easy to cut any number of frames, but it is always a little difficult to get a perfect oval just the exact size for your picture.
My cousin and I then bound both edges with strips of old black stuff, about an inch wide, cut on the cross. I then rushed for the glue-pot, and let me here remark that very strong glue is an absolute necessity, or the cones will continually drop off.
We began to stick on the cones, &c., as fast as we could, while the glue was hot, and for this part of the work I can give no special directions.
All that is wanted is a little taste and dexterity, for of course you must try to avoid making your frames look stiff. Begin at the top of the frame, and make it higher and more imposing than the sides; put first a fir-cone, and then a couple of beech-nuts, and then an oak-ball, or a piece of lichen, and so on.
Cones which are too large and heavy for these small frames are very useful to pull to pieces, to stop gaps with, for no bare places should be left; and the black alder-cones are capital little fellows to stick in here and there, for you will nearly always pick them up two or three together on a tiny sort of black branch, which will fit in nicely between the other cones. With anything round like oak-apples, it is a good plan to slice off a piece and to glue the flat side to the cardboard.
When we had finished sticking on the cones, we left the frames to get dry and firm, and the following day we finished them; and this is the way it should be done.
Put the frame on an old cushion, or something soft, cone side downwards. If you decide to have a glass over your picture, you must get a piece beforehand at a glazier's, about the same size as the picture. Rub if bright with a leather, put a small dab of glue in each corner, and place it in the frame.
But before you do this, you should slip a narrow strip of ribbon through a small ring—like those which umbrellas are fastened with—and glue the ends on to the millboard, in the centre.
This is, of course, to hang your picture up by.
Now put your picture face downwards on to the glass, and be careful to see that you have it straight. Then glue a small strip of paper across each corner to keep it in position.
The last thing to be done is to gum a piece of paper all over the back; and this makes a neat finish to your frame. You must leave it for a few hours to get thoroughly well stuck, and then it is quite ready to be hung up.
Sheila.
HIS FIRST SKETCH.
eneath a cottage window,
Upon a summer day,
Two little ones are whiling
The sunny hours away.
A portrait of his sister
The boy draws on the wall;
The little maid remonstrates,
She likes it not at all.
At first she sits there pouting—
A tear is in her eye;
But peals of merry laughter
Burst from her by-and-by.
What cares the budding artist?
He plies his brush with zest;
He is in downright earnest,
Though she is but in jest.
Art-fire is in his spirit,
For Nature lit the flame;
The first step he has taken
Upon the road to fame.
In childhood's early morning,
Ere opened yet the flower,
Within his soul is dawning
The future artist's power!
Astley H. Baldwin.
SOME FAMOUS RAILWAY TRAINS AND THEIR STORY.
By Henry Frith.
III.—THE "FLYING SCOTCHMAN."
ne minute, sir; just let my mate brush up the dust a bit, and sprinkle a drop o' water on the foot-plate, and we'll be all right and comfortable."
So said an engine-driver on one occasion to the writer, and we are reminded of it when we step up to the "eight-foot" engine which is to carry us from King's Cross Station to York. To pull the fastest train in Great Britain, or indeed in the world, for one hundred and eighty-eight miles, at more than forty-eight miles an hour, is first-rate running. "Scotchmen" run also from the Midland Station at St. Pancras, and from Euston, but the quickest one is that on the Great Northern, and it is also the most punctual.
Now, what do you say to a journey of one hundred and five miles, to Grantham? We will leave King's Cross, if you please, at ten in the morning—a nice comfortable time. We have had our breakfast, and the engine has had its meal of coal and plenty of water. It will want something, for it will travel fast.
Here we are puffing up the incline, between the walls, and through the little tunnels which abound near London, on our way to Barnet. We could tell tales of Barnet, had we time. We could give you a long—perhaps much too long—description of the place near which the Yorkists and Lancastrians contended on that fatal fifth of April, when the Great Warwick was slain and Edward made king.
But our engine-driver does not care for history much. He would rather tell us of his terrible winter journey a few years ago (in 1880), when he had to keep time, and did keep time, through snow and wind, the bitter blast making icicles on the engine out of steam, and hanging inches long from the carriage roofs.
Now our "Flying Scotchman" runs through Peterborough—the Proud, as it was once called, when its monastery flourished, and where is now the splendid cathedral on which the Ironsides of Cromwell laid such hard hands. Shame upon them who destroyed the beautiful chapter-house and cloisters! Perhaps you do not associate your history at your school with the actual places you see, young readers, but a little time bestowed upon the history of the places you pass in a holiday trip will very greatly assist you in gaining a good knowledge of the past.
Look at Peterborough. Here lies Queen Katherine, and here lay Mary, Queen of Scots, for you a long—perhaps much too long—description a while, till James buried her in Westminster; and Scarlett, the sexton, who buried both queens, lies in the nave. But we cannot pause at Peterborough, though we should like to do so, for our iron steed is steaming along, and our driver is thinking of the ice and snow which he had to contend against. The Midland line runs overhead near here, and after a rapid run we pull up at Grantham.
"his first sketch." (See [p. 204].)"
During our stay we hear a little tale from our "fireman," who remembers on one of his trips an engine getting loose in front of the up express, and how he and another man got on a fresh engine, and ran after it on the other line. Oh, what a chase they had after the runaway! and at last they caught it in time to prevent a serious accident. It was a brave, but rash act, to set off after a "mad" engine, which had run away, no one knew how, out of the siding on to the main line.
From Grantham to Doncaster the railway opens up so many memories. We pass Newark, near which the ruins of the old castle may be seen. King John died here; Cardinal Wolsey lodged here, and James I. also stayed within its walls; the whole place teems with memories of Charles and his Parliamentary foes. We pass on near Sherwood Forest, where Robin Hood and his merry men lived, and fought, and stole the king's deer; and then past Doncaster, where the engines and carriages of the Great Northern Railway, which ends near here, are made and repaired.
Doncaster was a very important place in olden times, and a whole volume of adventures might be written concerning the personages who visited it.
While we are talking, the "Flying Scotchman," the quickest of all the Scotch trains, goes tearing along to York. We have heard of Dick Turpin's celebrated ride to York on his bonnie "Black Bess," but we have a finer horse—a green-painted steed—to ride on. In the "good old times" which we read about so much it took four days to get to York, sleeping on the road; now our trains run the distance in less than four hours! Coaching is very pleasant as an amusement, but for business we must have our Iron Horse.
We can lunch at York. Our train waits for no one, but if we like we can eat our sandwich on the platform, and look over old York city, with its dear old Minster, its river, its red-roofed houses; and if we close our eyes for a few minutes, our mental vision will show us many stirring scenes here.
We can imagine the Scots hovering around old York, assisted by the Britons, attacking the gouty Emperor Severus, who afterwards built one of the great walls across Britain to supplement Hadrian's rampart from the Solway to the "Wall's End"—a name now "familiar in our mouths as household" coals. Do you remember what the old worn-out Roman Emperor said at York when he was dying? He looked at the urn of gold in which his ashes were to be carried to Rome, and remarked, "Thou shalt soon hold what the world could scarcely contain!" Then we can see the end of the great Roses' Wars, the heads on the grim spikes of the city gates, while a long procession of kings and queens files out from the cathedral doors, on whose site a church has stood ever since Easter, 627 A.D.
If we had only time to sit and recall all the grand events which have happened in York Minster, we should have to wait for the next "Flying Scotchman," and perhaps for the next after that.
"Any more going on?" "Yes, we are." "Quick, please; all right." The train can't wait while we dream about the past; and have we not Darlington in front of us? Ah! there we must stop a little. Here are the cradles of all the "Flying Scotchmen," "Wild Irishmen," "Dutchmen," "Zulus"; of the four hundred expresses of England, and the thousands of other trains, fast and slow, which traverse the United Kingdom and the world. Yes, Darlington was the nursery of the locomotive railway-engine, and Mr. Pease the head nurse who taught it to run on the Stockton and Darlington line in 1825. To the Darlington Quaker family Stephenson's success was due, and the success of Stephenson's locomotive was owing to Hadley—William Hadley—who has been rightly called the "Father of the Modern Locomotive."
We are now on the North-Eastern line, which ends at Berwick-on-Tweed—for the true Great Northern, though its carriages run over the whole route, does not work the traffic all the way. The North-Eastern hurries us along towards Newcastle-on-Tyne, over Robert Stephenson's high-level bridge, and then over the North British line at Edinburgh.
What do we see from this breezy elevation? "Oh, earth, what changes hast thou seen!" What does a writer say of this? "The mountain stream beneath us, once a broad shallow, now affords depth for the heaviest ships. Away on the northern bank the Roman wall lies hid, its arrowy route just marked by a burial heave of the turf. Before us stands the massive keep, with sturdy Norman walls—the trains of the North-Eastern are scrunching on the curve within a yard of it. Stephenson's engine looks down on Elizabethan gables;" and so on. Near Newcastle—at Wylam and Killingworth—the first locomotive engines were born which changed the country and revolutionised travelling.
The warders at Berwick no longer look out from the castle walls to descry the glitter of Southern spears. The bell-tower from which the alarm was sounded is now silent—the only bell heard within the precincts of the castle being that of the railway porter, announcing the arrival and departure of trains. The Scotch express passes along the bridge, and speeds southward on the wings of steam. But no alarm spreads across the Border now.
We shall cross the Tweed presently, and pass through the country of the Moss-troopers and the territories of the Lords Marchers, the scene of so many conflicts and fatal raids. We first cross the Coquet, "the stream of streams," the poet calls it:—
"There's mony a sawmon lies in Tweed,
An' mony a trout in Till;
But Coquet—Coquet aye for me,
If I may have my will!"
We get a view of the Cheviots; and Tweed-mouth passed, we cross the "Royal Border Bridge," and run into Berwick.
What a record of battle has Berwick! In these peaceful times at home we can hardly picture the old walls on which we walk manned with armoured soldiery, and King John within his house, a burning torch in his hand, setting fire to the town, or hanging up the people by the feet till they told where their money-bags were hidden. In those days and in Edward's time, the "Flying Scotchmen" were Highlanders who were dispersed by the English king. Wallace avenged the slaughter, and seized Berwick; Robert Bruce and Douglas climbed into the town with their trusty men. Half Wallace's body was sent here as a trophy, and the Countess of Buchan was hung out from the walls in a cage!
Beacons again burn in the bell-tower, and Edward and Bruce again engage, and Berwick was only finally deprived of its warlike appearance when James the First united England and Scotland. These are some of the tales the old stones tell us as we pause in Berwick, which within our own memory was so specially mentioned in all forms of national prayer and thanksgiving, as being a kind of neutral ground upon the Border.
Now puffing through Dunbar, past the Field of Preston-pans, and through a district ever memorable in the history of Scotland, we reach the modern Athens "Auld Reekie"—Edinburgh the Beautiful—where the "Flying Scotchman" folds his wings and "flies" no more. His work is done this journey!
A FORAGING EXPEDITION IN SOUTH AMERICA.
By the Author of "How the Owls of the Pampas treated their Friends," &c.
On the branch of a gigantic tree in one of the South American forests a young ant was reposing; he had been working hard all day, being a brisk, spirited fellow, and so he was rather tired, and he lazily watched an old relation of his own, who was slowly climbing the trunk towards him, his fine white polished head glancing against the bark.
"Well, Long-legs," cried the young cousin, as his elder approached, "where are you going at this late hour? I should have fancied that you would have been asleep after all the trouble you had in marching to-day."
"he ... executed a little war-dance."
"My dear Shiny-pate," said the old warrior, as he settled in a little crevice and stretched out his tired limbs, while he rolled up a tiny, tiny blade of grass for a would-be cigar, "I am the bearer of news."
"Why, what is the matter?" cried Shiny-pate anxiously, jumping up so suddenly that he hit his poor little head sharply against a projecting knob.
"Silly goose! nothing is the matter," answered his friend, "only you are a little grander than you thought you were: you are promoted to be an officer—a lieutenant, in fact; so now you can assist me on our marches."
"Oh! Long-legs, is it really true?" exclaimed the young ant. "Am I to be an officer, to march the men about, to lead them to glory?" and he tried to shout "hurrah," but did not know how, so he only executed a little war-dance on the branch of the tree, while his old friend looked on, smiling grimly.
"Now I hope you will distinguish yourself, my child," said he paternally, when Shiny-pate was tired of skipping about. "You will very soon have an opportunity of showing your valour, for to-morrow we are to undertake a dangerous expedition to a distant country, and your courage will be tried."
So saying, he began creeping down the tree, disregarding the entreaties of his young companion, to stay a little longer and tell him where they were going. "No, no," he muttered; "that will be time enough to-morrow; go to sleep and be strong."
Very good advice, certainly; but when children are put to bed before the sun has set in the long summer evening, while the birds are still singing, and the bats have not begun to come out, and they feel desperately inclined to play a little longer, I am afraid they don't relish it much.
However, Shiny-pate was a good, sensible little creature, and he went off very meekly, but he awoke early in the morning, ready for the fray.
"Breakfast first," said he to himself; but no: the older officers said they had to fight first, and eat afterwards; so they soon began to arrange their marching order.
A column of ants, at least a hundred yards in length, but not very wide, was soon formed; each leader had charge of twenty workers. The officers were not expected to march in the main line, but to walk outside their company, and keep it in order; and great was our hero's pride and delight when he surveyed his own particular men, and thought what an example of bravery he would set them.
At last all were ready, and the army moved off in beautiful order. The officers ran up and down the ranks, inspecting everything, their white helmets glistening in the sun, and as Shiny-pate's position was well to the front, he had great opportunities.
"the army moved off."
After they had proceeded for some time with great gravity and care, they came to a tree from which hung a couple of nests belonging to the large wasps of the country, and after a moment's discussion it was decided that the ants should mount and rifle them as a first move, so the obedient soldiers hastened on, and Shiny-pate, who knew nothing of the enterprise, joyfully waved his sword at the head of his troops. How astonished, how disgusted he was, when he felt the first wasp-sting he had ever experienced!
He almost fell from the nest with amazement, but he would not give in—"No, never, die first!" he thought, so he rushed on, and was among the foremost to enter the cells where the young pupæ were carefully walled in, and tearing them from their cosy cradles, the ants proceeded to devour them.
"saluting his commander." ([p. 209]).
However, though the nests were large, and the grubs many in number, there were not half or quarter enough for the army. More and more ants came trooping up the tree, trying to squeeze into the places where there was no room for them, and mournfully calling out that they also were very hungry. So as soon as the pasteboard domicile was empty, the little creatures descended from their elevation, and again pursued their line of march, this time without any incident occurring until they saw in the distance the figure of a man.
Now most of the ants had never seen a human being before, but what did that matter? Their ardour rose, their eyes sparkled, their long slender limbs raced over the ground, and soon the person who had been silly enough to stand and watch the advancing host was covered with the nimble insects, who quickly ran up into his coat-pockets, down his neck, and, in fact, wherever there was any aperture, inserting their sharp fangs, and injecting their poison, until he yelled with fear and pain. He had not been very long in the country, and did not understand the habits of the creatures, so at first he remained in his absurd position, capering about, and trying to brush off the ants. But as he found that their numbers so increased every moment, he began to get really alarmed, lest he should soon be "eaten up alive," and so he ran away very ignominiously, being pursued for some distance by the host of insects; but as soon as he had outrun them, the difficult task of trying to detach those already fastened to his person began. The fierce little insects preferred being pulled to pieces to letting go their hold, and their hooked mandibles remained securely fixed in poor John Lester's skin long after their bodies had been torn off.
Fortunately for himself, Shiny-pate was not included in the number who lost their lives. When the onslaught began, Long-legs commanded him to keep his detachment quiet, as their services were not required; so the steady little ant obeyed orders, and though he stood on tip-toe with impatience, and trembled with excitement, he kept out of the fray.
"Now it is all over—march!" cried Long-legs authoritatively, as John's flying coat-tails disappeared round a tree.
"Shall we not wait for the others?" inquired a young officer very politely, saluting his commander with the back of his tiny foot in true military style.
"an army of ants." ([p. 210]).
"None of them will ever return," replied the colonel sternly. "Do your duty, and obey orders."
So the army again started off, and after a long and dusty march the pioneers came in sight of a pretty little cottage; but I must relate who the inhabitants were before I go any farther.
The house belonged to an Irish gentleman of the name of Wolfe, who, after emigrating to South America, and building a house for his family, a few months before this story opens, brought out his wife, four children, and their old and faithful servant, called John Lester, to keep him company, and help him in the new life he had chosen for himself.
Mrs. Wolfe was rather an inexperienced young lady, and the manners and customs of the place and people, particularly those of the coloured servant, Chunga, astonished her immensely. The white lady had a great horror of creeping things of all kinds; she could hardly bear to get into her bath, for she sometimes found a centipede, as long as her hand, drowned in it.
At night, when the lamp was lighted, cockchafers and insects of all kinds buzzed and flew round it, until their wings were singed; then they danced hornpipes on the table over Mrs. Wolfe's work or writing, falling most likely into the ink-bottle first, and then spinning about with their long legs, smearing everything with which they came in contact, till she used to run away and implore her husband to "kill them all and have done with it." The children thought it was rather fun, except when a scorpion stung them. They had a play about the lizards, which were pretty and harmless, and they used to count how many different kinds of beetles were killed each night.
Sometimes the baby screamed when a particularly large spider walked across its face; but these little trials had to be borne.
On the morning of this memorable day, as Mrs. Wolfe was employed in some household duties, Chunga rushed into the verandah, joyfully crying—
"Oh, missie! oh, missie! de birds are come!"
"What birds?" inquired her mistress in amazement, wondering what new object was going to be exhibited to her, but almost expecting to see a creature with three legs, or two heads.
"De pittas, missie; de ant-thrushes, you call them," said the black woman, gleefully. "Now missie's house will be clean; massa is away, all de tings will be turned out," and as she spoke, she seized her mistress's dress, and, gently drawing her to the open door, directed her attention to several dark-coloured, short-tailed birds which were hopping from tree to tree in the neighbourhood.
"I don't see anything extraordinary about them," said Mrs. Wolfe, in a disappointed tone; "they are only small ugly birds."
"But look dere, missie," persisted Chunga, pointing towards the forest, from the dark shades of which Shiny-pate and his battalions were emerging.
"Why, it is an army of ants!" cried the Irish lady. "How curious! how pretty!"
"Dey is coming here," remarked Chunga carelessly, as she watched the procession.
"the warriors dashed in."
"Here!" echoed Mrs. Wolf in horror; "what for? What shall we do? They will eat all the things in my store-room, they will bite my children!" and she flew to the nursery as she spoke.
But the advancing host moved steadily along, the officers gave orders to enter the house, and our young hero, though quite a novice in the work, was one of the first to creep through a slit in the walls.
"Now," cried Long-legs, "first kill the cockroaches and other small game. Come on; don't be afraid."
So the warriors dashed into the principal room, mounted the rafters, and began a fierce battle. The sleepy cockroaches, fat and heavy from good living, sprawled about, but made a very poor fight. Shiny-pate and two or three of his men would seize one of the kicking old fellows, and either push him or pull him to the edge of the rafters, whence he would fall with a dull thud on the floor, when he was generally too much stunned to make any more resistance, but even if he did he was soon overpowered, bitten, and dragged out of the house.
When the rafters were cleared, our hero was running swiftly across the floor, when a choky voice called him, and he saw his old friend's head protruding from an aperture in a large wooden chest.
"Come here! come here!" cried Long-legs. "There are loads of them inside, and I want help."
"Loads of what?" inquired Shiny-pate, rather incredulously.
"Of all kinds of food," replied the colonel; "but unfortunately it is very hard to get at them; they are hidden among the folds of some white stuff that almost suffocates me."
Shiny-pate at once proceeded to crawl into the chest, but fortunately Chunga, who knew the habits of the little insects, had been going round the house opening every press and box, and now she flung aside the cover of the great linen-chest, and in darted the little marauders, and speedily drew forth hundreds of the hideous cockroaches.
But soon all the small game was cleared off, and yet the attacking party cried for more, and cast hungry eyes at Mrs. Wolfe and the children, who had been skipping about on the floor, trying not to stand on anything, for foraging ants are not to be trifled with; and Chunga said, solemnly—
"If missie kills any ants, they kill her."
So the fear of touching any of them had greatly impeded the lady's movements; she had to step gently on the points of her toes whenever she saw a clear space. She had to rescue her baby from the cradle, and her other children from different parts of the house; and then each child, as it was carried away, began to cry for some particular toy that had been left behind, so that getting them safe and sound into the garden was a work of time. However, at last they were all seated round their mother, only dreadfully hungry, and longing for their breakfast, while the house remained in undisturbed possession of the ants.
At last, even Chunga thought it wise to beat a retreat, so she came gliding gently out, bringing the welcome news that she had seen several ants carrying off an immense scorpion, which "must have been de one dat stung massa, and made him so ill a few days before;" and that the ants were now attacking the rats and mice.
"Rats and mice!" screamed all the children in delight. "Will they kill the horrible things?"
"The rats that fought poor Kitty," pursued George, for this had been a sore trouble to the children. Mrs. Wolfe had brought a fine handsome tortoise-shell cat from Ireland with her, thinking how delightful it would be to have her house quite free from vermin, only, unfortunately, they were so very numerous that poor "Lady Catherine," as the children named their pussy, though she did her best at first, could not by any possibility keep their numbers in check, and she now lived a miserable life, being afraid of moving from her master's protection, and growing daily thinner and weaker from the combined influences of fear, and being unable to perform her usual duties; and as the children loved her dearly, and treated her like one of themselves, they all set up a howl of dismay when their darling's name was mentioned to them.
It was answered by a fearful burst of caterwauling from the interior of the house. The shrieks and yells were really terrific, and the whole party, regardless of their enemies inside, rushed back again to the door, and peeping in, beheld a sight which was almost ludicrous.
There was a shelf near one of the children's beds at a great height from the floor, and to this Lady Catherine (the cat) had mounted, but now she was surrounded, and her retreat completely cut off. There were ants to right of her, ants to left of her, and ants in front of her; and as the little creatures, led on by Shiny-pate the valorous, attacked her with determined precision, the cat, with every hair bristling up on her body, stood with glaring eyes, lifting first one foot and then another to escape her tormentors. Sometimes she stood on her hind legs and frantically tore the insects from her coat, but she wanted courage enough to make the very high jump from the shelf to the floor.
Mrs. Wolfe and the children were so distressed at the sight, that kind-hearted Chunga offered to try and save their favourite, and she crept cautiously into the house, trying to avoid standing on the ants with her bare feet. Lady Catherine's screams redoubled when she saw a friend approaching, but she did not treat the black woman very kindly, for as soon as she stood under the shelf the cat made one frantic leap to her shoulders, and inserting her sharp claws, held on tenaciously.
It was now Chunga's turn to scream, which she did in good earnest; and as she found she could not detach the cat, she fled from the house with her burden clinging tightly to her copper-coloured shoulders, and ran almost into the arms of John Lester, who was returning home. He was quick enough to see what had happened, so, snatching up an old broom with one hand he seized Lady Catherine with the other, and gave her such a sweeping as she had never experienced before, and which, indeed, she strongly objected to; but her cries were disregarded, and she was soon free from the insects, and the children joyfully clutched hold of her.
But meantime Shiny-pate had been carried off in a coil of Chunga's hair, whence he had crept from the cat's fur, and very uncomfortable he felt. He knew that his single arm could never overcome the Indian woman; he was deserted by his troops, and he had no one to direct him. He thought he had better try to alight from his precarious position, and endeavour to rejoin his men; but when he moved, Chunga—whose nerves were a little upset—cried, "Oh! Massa John, brush me too, brush me;" and began tearing her hair down to make ready for the performance. But just at that moment another insect dropped from the tree above her down on her arm, and administered such an electric shock that a thrill ran up to her shoulder, her hands fell, and Shiny-pate, seizing his opportunity, ran swiftly down her back and rushed towards the house, where the scene of confusion was but little abated.
The ants had by this time slain every living thing which had occupied the dwelling, and dragged them into the long grass outside; and the soldiers, after their hard fighting, were endeavouring to satisfy their hunger. This, however, the officers objected to, for they knew by experience what would happen; the pittas had not accompanied them on their march for nothing. The ugly black birds had their eyes wide open, and knew what they were about; they had been waiting and watching all this time, hopping about on the neighbouring trees, and now at last their turn came. The ants gorged with their prey could not escape: down pounced the pittas, and they certainly made the most of their opportunity. The hardened veterans, the most agile warriors, were gobbled up in a moment, and the officers in despair ran here and there, seeing the carnage, but being quite unable to prevent it.
At last, by the time Mrs. Wolfe and her family ventured back to their clean and well-swept house, Shiny-pate by frantic exertions had managed to collect his own troop—he had only lost two of his twenty soldiers.
So our little insects again set out. They were dreadfully tired, and they lagged behind, though their leader longed to overtake some of the advance-guard, which had already gone on. Poor little fellow! his first day's fighting had certainly been an arduous one, and it was not over yet; his exertions to keep his men in order were wonderful. But after marching some distance the ants saw before them a little stream of water, running merrily along, but presenting a serious barrier to their progress.
Shiny-pate at first thought the water might not extend far, and led his company along the bank; but as he found to his dismay that the stream grew wider instead of narrower, his fertile little brain began to devise a plan, and soon he had hit upon a very ingenious one. He selected a shrub with a long branch, which extended across part of the stream, and having marched his men to the very extremity of this bough he caught hold of it with his fore-legs and hung down, ordering one of the soldiers to creep down his body and hang on to the end of it; another followed and clung to the second ant, and so on. By this means the living chain of insects, when long enough, was wafted by the wind to the other bank of the stream, where the foremost ant caught a firm hold, and the brave Shiny-pate then swung off his bough, and followed by all the others crept carefully across their companions' bodies, until the foremost ant, who had been holding on all this time by his hind legs, being relieved from the weight of his comrades, was able to twirl round and obtain a safer footing.
The danger was surmounted, and the officer now inspected his little troop with triumph; indeed, he spoke a few encouraging words which actually caused his soldiers to salute in a body, as they could not cheer, and cry with one voice that they were not afraid to go anywhere with him.
This was, of course, very gratifying to such a young officer, and our hero was beginning to thank his enthusiastic followers when a slight noise attracted his attention, and he suddenly remembered that the time for vigilance was not over: for in the tree above them he beheld a little ant-eater slowly uncoiling itself before beginning its nightly excursion.
Shiny-pate saw its long slimy tongue being uncoiled like a piece of ribbon when the animal yawned; and well he knew that any ant who was unfortunate enough to touch that sticky object would never return to tell the tale; he therefore instantly determined on flight.
So our hero ordered a stampede, but he kept last of all the party, ready to sacrifice himself for the general good if need be; and after a little time his exertions were rewarded, for he happily overtook the main body of ants under the guidance of old Long-legs, and the worthy veteran was so pleased at seeing his young companion safe that he actually fell on his neck and hugged him; and there is no saying what might have happened next if two twinkling lights had not appeared in the distance. They were only fire-flies that an Indian had tied to his feet in order to illumine his path, but the sight made the friends restrain their transports until they reached home.
Then, after all their labours and adventures, they gave themselves up to enjoyment. Long-legs, Shiny-pate, and other distinguished officers who had done their duty for their home and relations, were chaired by their admiring soldiers and carried round the nest, while the fire-flies lit up the triumphal march, and the beetles sang in chorus.
We leave Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe enjoying for the first time a house cleared of both reptiles and insects, and Lady Catherine purring her delight at being relieved from her enemies. No doubt, if she could have given us the benefit of her thoughts, she would have joined the bipeds in saying—
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good."
"a little ant-eater slowly uncoiling itself." ([p. 210]).