The request seemed almost beyond reason, for the night—the terrible night of Africa—was falling, and those words, 'when all the beasts of the forest do move,' have a very real meaning in that land. Ten miles' ride through the dense undergrowth, which might hide every conceivable enemy, would scare the stoutest heart. But a fellow-creature was suffering in those horrible shades, and Livingstone was not the man to weigh the value of the poor native's life against his own. Promptly he went on his way at the call of duty, but, alas! only to find the man dead, and his companions gone, and so to ride back again by the same 'passage perilous.'
Seven years after, Livingstone's worn-out body had been laid in its honoured grave in Westminster Abbey, where his countrymen crowded to do him honour, and the African, who had watched so faithfully over his remains, nearly threw himself into his loved master's grave. A man who was also to lay down his life for Africa, met a native of the Rovuma country wearing a part of an English coat. It had been given him, he said, by one who treated black men 'as if they were brothers,' and who knew his way to the hearts of men; and of all the honours paid to the name of Livingstone, none surely would have pleased him better than that memory, lingering among the dark brethren whose cause he had made his own.
Mary H. Debenham.
TIME FLIES.
ICK! tick! tick! the seconds go,
Flying, oh, so fast,
And almost before I know
Quite an hour is past:
Hour by hour goes quickly on,
Till another day is gone.
Day by day is going fast,
Morning grows to night,
Till they make a year at last
Vanished out of sight.
Days, weeks, months, all sped away—
Yet they wait just day by day.
As the days and minutes go,
Speeding one by one,
So my childhood, youth, I know
Will ere long be done:
Books and toys all put away,
Done with lessons, done with play.
Be it mine to use with care
Time that will not stay,
Doing always here or there
Something good each day:
For as streams to ocean flow,
Youth is speeding fast, I know.
THE SELF-HEAL.
The Self-heal has had a very wide repute for its good-qualities. It belongs to the family of plants known as Labiates, which includes mint, sage, thyme, and other aromatic plants; these flowers mostly have a curious lip, and grow in a spike. The self-heal is not a tall plant, though it flourishes more in the rich soil of a garden than on that of the field-bank or the hedgerow. One curious thing about the plant is, that the flowers do not open all together, but a few at a time, so that it never looks in full bloom. These flowers are bright blue, with a touch of crimson at the edges, the leaves being round and smooth. It is the habit of the plant to throw out trailing shoots, so that when it spreads over corn-fields, it causes much trouble to the labourers who have to pull it up.