The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chatterbox, 1905., by Various

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Copyright, 1905, by Dana Estes & Co.

POETRY.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

COLOURED PLATES.

Chatterbox.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

I.—THE TWO BROTHERS OF ANNONAY AND THEIR PAPER BALLOON.

n the chimney corner of a cottage in Avignon, a man sat one day watching the smoke as it rose in changing clouds from the smouldering embers to the sooty cavern above, and if those who did not know him had supposed from his attitude that he was a most idle person, they would have been very far from the truth.

It was in the days when the combined fleets of Europe were thundering with cannon on the rocky walls of Gibraltar, in the hope of driving the English out, and, the long effort having proved in vain, Joseph Montgolfier, of whom we have spoken, fell to wondering, as he sat by the fire, how the great task could be accomplished.

'If the soldiers and sailors could only fly,' he thought, 'there would be no difficulty.' He looked at a picture of the Rock lying on the table beside him, and saw many places on its summit very suitable for such flying foes to settle on. 'But, ah! who could give them wings?' He turned to the fireplace, and his eyes fell once more on the column of smoke, silently, silently rising; and yet not so silently as the world might think, for though he had not yet quite understood its meaning, Joseph Montgolfier had been striving for some time past to learn the lesson which he felt sure it was to teach him at last. And to-day the secret came out. Thoughts so active as his did not take long to get from Gibraltar back to the smoke, and they had not been there many minutes when Montgolfier jumped from his seat, and, throwing open the door of the room, called to his landlady. A great idea had occurred to him, and, to carry it out, he required some light, silky material, called taffeta. This the good landlady quickly supplied, and when she entered the room some time later, she found her lodger holding the taffeta, which he had formed into a bag, over the fire. As the smoke filled it, it certainly showed an inclination to rise, but once out of reach of the warmest glow it toppled over and collapsed on the floor.

The landlady watched the experiments for some time in silence. Then, with a little laugh, she said, 'Ah, M. Montgolfier, why do you not tie the fire to the bag?'

The great inventor had not thought of that; but he did not require to be told twice, and obtaining a little bunch of some inflammable material, he tied it under his bag and set it on fire. The smoke and heat inflated the tiny balloon, and it rose at once to the ceiling. A few minutes later the inventor called for pen and ink, and wrote the following letter:

'Prepare without delay a supply of taffeta and cordage, and you shall see one of the most astonishing things in the world.'

This hasty note was addressed to M. Stephen Montgolfier at Annonay, near Lyons, and never was a request made that was more likely to be carefully and promptly granted. Stephen Montgolfier, like his brother, had busy thoughts concerning means for rising in the air, and when Joseph returned from Avignon, they set to work with stronger hope of realising their dreams. As they were the largest and best paper-makers in Annonay, they did not lack material for carrying on experiments, and when these experiments had repeatedly resulted in success, they decided that the rest of the world should be admitted into their secret. A large balloon, made of paper and taffeta, should be inflated in the public square, and be allowed to rise before the eyes of any who might gather there to see it. And they carried out this determination on June 5th, 1783. On that day there assembled at Annonay a number of local celebrities, and no better opportunity could have been chosen.

In the public square a large circular space was railed off to keep the crowd at a proper distance, and in the centre of this space rose a wooden platform to accommodate the new cloud-ship and the fire which was to fill it with the power of flight. Never had the brothers Montgolfier had a busier morning; never had the good people of Annonay seen such excitement in their quiet village. The crowd had gathered from far and near, and watched the busy workers round the mysterious platform with widely different thoughts. Some were silent with expectation, some jeered noisily; but, unconscious of praise or laughter, the two brothers directed their little band of workmen, confident of coming triumph.

At last the specially invited guests had all arrived, and when they were accommodated with seats, one of the brothers made a little speech of explanation, ending with the remark that he would apply a torch to the heap of chopped straw and wool beneath the platform. The smoke arising from these different kinds of fuel formed, when combined, he said, the most suitable gas for raising a substance into the air. These diligent brothers, however, had only partly learned the truth as yet, or they would have known that it was the heat, and not the smoke, which lifted the paper bag.

The torch was put to the straw, the yellow flames leapt up, and the smoke, passing through a hole in the platform, entered the open end of the globe-shaped bag, which up to the present had, of course, been lying flat and empty. Instantly a paper dome seemed to rise from the platform. This continued to grow in size, while the workmen stood round in a ring, each holding a rope which passed to the top of the dome. The ropes grew longer and longer as the balloon filled, and it soon became hard work to hold them. But on no account were the men to let go until the word was given.

When at last the paper walls were extended to their uttermost size, the wondering spectators saw a huge ball of some one hundred and ten feet in circumference, swaying uneasily to and fro with every breath of air, as though straining at its fetters.[Pg 3] At last came the word. The ropes were released, and the great body rose rapidly into the air, followed by a thunder of applause. With straining eyes the crowd followed that wondrous flight. Higher and higher, nearer and nearer to the clouds, till what a few moments before was so very imposing in size seemed no bigger than a child's plaything. Then, caught in a current of air, it drifted out of sight for ever.

Such was the launching of the first ship in the new navigation of the clouds. On the place from which it started a handsome monument has been erected, bearing the names of the two builders—Joseph and Stephen Montgolfier—the brothers who always worked together, sharing equally the fame that their discovery brought, and never selfishly seeking for self-advancement. Recent searchings seem to show that the principal honour is due to Joseph, the elder, and, if one of the many stories told in detail (and repeated at the beginning of this article) may be relied upon, surely we ought to also remember with some praise the unknown woman who let lodgings in Avignon.

THE WAY TO WIN.

wish I could win one!' a lassie was sighing,
When sitting quite still in a meadow one day,
And thinking of prizes not won without trying—
Not won by mere wishing as time slips away.

And as she sat wishing she heard a hen clucking;
She lifted her eyes and that hen she could see,
And soon it was rapidly scratching and chucking—
As gay and as busy and glad as could be.

She watched how it struggled to upturn a treasure,
A thing it was wishing for, something to eat,
A worm to be dug for with patience and pleasure!
'Twas found, and it gave Henny-Penny a treat!

That worm the hen wished for she could not have eaten
Unless she had scratched it right up from the ground;
And Mabel had seen that the hen was not beaten—
By carefully working the prize had been found.

So Mabel thought quietly over the matter,
And learnt the good lesson, 'No prize can be won
By thinking and wishing, by waiting and chatter!'
And soon she jumped up and to work she begun.

FREED IN VAIN.

Prince, the parrot, was a proud and happy bird; he was proud of his gorgeous red and green feathers, of his ability to say 'Pretty Poll' and 'How do?' and, above all, of his fine gilded cage, which stood just inside the breakfast-room window.

But, in an evil hour, Prince, watching the birds which flew to and fro outside the glass, was struck with a desire for freedom. He thought no more of his splendid feathers, or his handsome cage; but, from morning till night, he wondered how he should get out. There was not wit enough in his parrot brain to make him understand that the cold English garden was not in the least like the flowery forest of his native island.

His chance came one snowy morning; the French window had been opened, after breakfast, that some one might go out and scatter crumbs for the robins. The cage-door happened to be open too. Unobserved, Prince darted swiftly out, and perched amid the leafless boughs of one of the high trees on the lawn.

He was free! but, oh, how cold it was! How wretched he was already beginning to feel! He crouched shivering on a bough; and when the snow began to fall again in large, wet flakes, he was more miserable than he had ever been in all his petted life.

Paralysed with cold and fear, he clung to the tree, too unhappy even to cry out and let people know where he was.

Poor Prince! he must soon have died if some one had not noticed the empty cage. The alarm was given at once, but it was some time before the bird was seen on his lofty perch.

When they did see him, and everybody called and coaxed 'Poor Prince! dear Prince!' to come down, he was too stupefied with cold and misery to do as he was told.

At last Tom, the page-boy, volunteered to climb the tree and try to reach Prince. It was rather a dangerous task, as the bark was slippery from the frost and snow; but Tom persevered, and, by dint of much effort, got hold of the parrot.

Prince was restored to his cage, but he had caught a bad cold, and never again held up his head as jauntily, or seemed as proud of himself, as he had done in former days.

A KINDLY VISIT.

Willie Mortimer was a cripple, but he did not often complain of his lot, nor, as a rule, did he feel very unhappy about it. His love for drawing and painting was such a resource to him, that when he could hobble on his crutches down to the shore, he was never tired of watching the sea and the boats, and of trying to make sketches which he could work up into pictures at home, as he sat in the window of the little cottage.

But it was a year since the accident which had made the amputation of his leg a necessity, and for the first time Willie's cheerfulness was beginning to forsake him. He could not help noticing how worn and anxious his mother looked, and he knew how hard it was for her to earn enough money, by her plain sewing, to keep up the little house. Until the previous summer she had let lodgings, but she could not manage it when she was nursing Willie, and waiting on him after he left the hospital, and this year no people had applied for her rooms yet.

One of her former lodgers had been an artist, and it was he who, being struck with Willie's talent, had given him instruction, and taught him all he knew about art. But the boy was now thirsting for more knowled[Pg 4]ge. If only he could be trained to be an artist! That was his dream, and often he would sit at his little window, looking over the blue waters of the bay, while his eyes would fill with tears as he thought how impossible it was for a little ignorant boy to paint pictures which would have any beauty.

His pathetic face attracted Dora and Elsie Vaughan as they passed the cottage every day. They were having a perfectly lovely time in this Devonshire village, where their father had taken a house for the summer holidays. Mr. Vaughan was a celebrated artist, and Willie would watch him eagerly as he passed with his canvas and sketching materials, and would long for a sight of the pictures which would soon be so famous.

'That poor little cripple boy does look sad,' Dora said to her sister. 'I think we ought to go and visit him and take him some flowers.'

'But he is not always a prisoner,' Elsie answered. 'I see him on the beach sometimes with his crutches, and he is often trying to sketch boats and things.'[Pg 5]

'Anyway it must be dull for him, and we might cheer him up a little,' Dora persisted.

'It is rather tiresome, though, when there are such heaps of lovely things to do, and the holidays do fly so quickly,' Elsie argued, for she was not as unselfish as her sister, and did not much care to give up her own pleasure.

However, Dora had her way, for Elsie knew from former experience that if she were really set on a thing, it saved trouble to give in at once and make[Pg 6] the best of it. She even found a box of chocolates not quite empty, and with the sweets that were left, and some of Dora's, was able to fill a smaller box. Then they begged some cakes from the cook, and hunted up a couple of story-books from the number they had brought with them, and in the end had quite a well-filled basket for Elsie to carry. Dora picked a bunch of roses and then they set out for the cottage.

When they arrived Willie was sitting before his easel, looking sadly at his latest attempt at a picture, and thinking how poor it was compared with the scene his imagination painted. He was so shy and so much overcome by the honour of their visit that he could hardly find words to welcome them, but the girls' exclamations of delight when they saw his picture soon set him at ease.

'I have watched you sketching on the beach, but I never thought you were so clever,' Elsie told him, and Willie blushed with pleasure at their praise.

Then he opened the box on which his painting materials stood, and showed them all the pictures and sketches he had done in the past year.

'You see, Miss,' he said to Dora, 'now I cannot get about much, it passes the time; but I do wish I had somebody to tell me all the faults in them, and help me to do better.'

'We must bring Father to see them; he will not be backward about pointing out faults,' said Elsie, laughing, 'though I cannot find any myself.'

'But Mr. Vaughan is such a great artist, he would never look at my poor little pictures,' Willie said, flushing at the very thought.

'He may be a great artist, but he is a very kind father,' Elsie told him, 'and he nearly always does what we ask him.'

Certainly he did not disappoint his daughters this time. Moreover, he was amazed at the progress the boy had made with so little help, and saw that he was worth training.

'Your son has great natural talent,' he said to Willie's mother. 'I am even inclined to think he may be a genius. You must allow me to make it easy for him to be trained in the best schools.'

And so poor crippled Willie, instead of being a burden to his mother, became her pride and joy, beginning a career which was one day to make him even more famous than the artist who had given him a helping hand.

THE BOY TRAMP.

CHAPTER I.

The first time I saw Captain Knowlton, we were living in lodgings at Acacia Road, Saint John's Wood. My Aunt Marion had breakfasted in bed, and I, having nothing better to do, wandered downstairs to what our landlady called the 'hall,' where I stood watching Jane as she dipped a piece of flannel into her pail, and smacked it down noisily on to the oilcloth, until there was a loud ringing of the street-door bell.

As Jane rose from her knees, rubbing her red hands on her apron, I edged along the passage, keeping touch of the wall, and staring unabashed at the tall, well-dressed, distinguished-looking visitor.

But as I was on the point of running upstairs to find out, the visitor called me back.

'Yes,' I replied; and fixing an eyeglass in his left eye, he looked at me with considerable curiosity.

And upon that I ran off, shouting, 'Aunt Marion! Aunt Marion!' at the top of my voice. 'Aunt Marion,' I repeated, entering the sitting-room, 'Captain Knowlton is downstairs, and he wants to speak to you.'

Rising from the sofa, and laying down the newspaper which she had been reading, Aunt Marion walked towards the door. She must have been near her thirty-fifth year at that time, about the same age as our visitor. She was tall, fair, and nice-looking, good-tempered, and perhaps a little careless. That morning she was wearing a light blue dressing-gown, although it was past eleven o'clock.

'Yes, bring Captain Knowlton up,' she answered, and ask him to wait a few minutes.'

As she went to the bedroom, I returned to the street door, where Captain Knowlton stood gazing at Jane as she continued to smack the oilcloth with her wet flannel.

'You are to come upstairs,' I cried, and following me to the sitting-room, he sat down and began to stare afresh.

'Did you know my father?' I demanded, for I had no recollection of either parent, or of any relative with the exception of Aunt Marion, under whose charge I had moved about from lodging-house to lodging-house since I was four years of age.

'Well,' said Captain Knowlton, 'if I had not known him, I should not be here to-day.'

He became silent for a few moments, and then added, as he took my hand and drew me against his knee, 'Your father once saved my life, Jack. How old are you?' he asked.

'Eleven next month,' I replied, and, somewhat to my disappointment, Aunt Marion entered the room as I spoke, wearing the dress in which she went to church on Sundays.

'I have often heard of you, Captain Knowlton,' she said, as he rose from his chair, 'although I have never seen you before.'

'Oh, well,' he answered, 'I have been in India the last five years! I came home last week, and from a few words I heard at the club, I gathered that poor Frank Everard's boy——'

Aunt Marion's cheeks flushed, and she held her head a little further back.[Pg 7]

'I am certain of that,' he continued; 'but, anyhow, I made inquiries, and, after some difficulty, succeeded in discovering your address. Perhaps,' he added, glancing in my direction, 'you would not mind sparing me a few minutes alone.'

To my great disgust, she told me to run away, so that I returned to the damp passage, which was now deserted by Jane. After waiting there what seemed a long time, I saw Captain Knowlton on the stairs. After bidding me good-bye, he let himself out of the house.

'Aunt Marion!' I cried, before there was time to reach the sitting-room, 'he says that Father saved his life!'

'But,' I continued, 'why did Captain Knowlton call father "poor Frank Everard?" Was he really poor?'

'Goodness knows, he ought not to have been,' she said. 'Your father had a lot of money when he came of age, but he was foolish enough to spend it all, and the consequence was that nothing remained for your mother, or for you when she died.'

'He has lately come into a large fortune,' she said; and then she told me that he had promised to come again at the same hour to-morrow morning, and take me out with him.

Captain Knowlton seemed so satisfactory in every way that the mere prospect of walking in the street by his side was enticing. I lay awake that night a long time, wondering where he would take me.

When I awoke the next morning, Aunt Marion said I was to put on my best clothes (which were nothing to boast of), and insisted on washing me herself, putting a quantity of soap into my eyes, oiling my hair, and, in short, doing her best in readiness for Captain Knowlton's arrival.

'Have you got a handkerchief?' said Aunt Marion, and I drew it from my jacket as proof.

'Come along, then,' cried Captain Knowlton, and I rejoiced to see that he had kept his hansom at the door.

The first stoppage on that eventful morning was at the hair-dresser's, where I sat in a high chair, enveloped in a loose cotton wrapper, while Captain Knowlton smoked a cigarette and a man cut my hair, after which we went to a tailor's, where I was measured for two suits of clothes. Having visited a hatter's and a hosier's in turn, we entered a large restaurant, sitting down one on each side of a small table, Captain Knowlton leaning across it and reading the bill of fare aloud for my benefit.

'I think I will have roast turkey,' I said, after prolonged consideration, and I accordingly had it, with the accompaniment of sausage and bread sauce, to say nothing of the sweets and the ice which followed. But even what Captain Knowlton described as luncheon, and what I regarded as a kind of king of dinners, was eclipsed by what came afterwards, for we were driven to a theatre, where a comic opera was being played; and at seven o'clock that evening a very tired and sleepy boy, with his right hand tightly clenched on a half-sovereign in his jacket pocket, was deposited on the steps of the house in Acacia Road.

During the next few weeks Captain Knowlton was a frequent visitor, while, for my own part, I wished that he would come every day. One afternoon he arrived in the rain and stayed to tea.

'Now, Jack,' he said, setting down his empty cup, 'I should like to hear you read.'

But as I was bringing one of our small collection of books from the sideboard, he called me away.

'No, none of that,' he cried, with a laugh; 'something you have never seen before. Try the newspaper.'

Although I appeared to win approval by my reading of the extremely uninteresting leading article, he shook his head at the sight of my handwriting, whilst he seemed to be astounded by my total ignorance of Latin and French.

Before he left the house that afternoon he had another private conversation with Aunt Marion, and a week or two later he arrived with the announcement that 'everything had been arranged.'

'Windlesham has been very strongly recommended to me,' he explained. 'The Reverend Matthew Windlesham, to give him his full title.'

'No, but he has a capital house, with a large garden and a meadow, at a place called Castlemore.'

'About a hundred miles from London. Windlesham has a wife and five daughters, and at present there are only six or seven pupils. As Jack is rather backward, it will suit him better than a larger school.'

So everything was decided, and I fancy that Aunt Marion looked forward to my departure with a satisfaction equal to my own—it could scarcely have been greater. Boys and girls were at that time an unknown quantity to us, as were most of their sports and pastimes.

It was true that there were scarcely enough of us at Ascot House for football or cricket; nevertheless we did our best in the meadow at the bottom of the garden, our scanty numbers being eked out by Mr. and Mrs. Windlesham's five girls. They were nice, kind people, and, when the first shyness had worn off, I settled down happily at Castlemore. During the next three uneventful years I received occasional visits from Captain Knowlton, while I grew greatly in stature, and, it is to be hoped, in knowledge.

The holidays were, for the most part, spent with Aunt Marion, sometimes in boarding-houses at the seaside, sometimes in London, and I had no anticipation of troubles ahead until shortly after I passed my fourteenth birthday.

THE CASTLE LIGHT.

'I wish you would tell me, Grandfather, how it was you first thought of building a lighthouse tower.'

'Well, Conrad, if you will know, you shall hear the story,' and Sir Matthew Cairns, as he said these words, looked kindly down into the bright young face uplifted to his own.

'It was twenty years ago that the thought first came to me that Cairns Castle might serve as a beacon to those far out at sea. The reason for this was that on a certain winter's night a vessel was wrecked on these shores, solely on account of there being no light to warn her of her peril. More than a hundred souls went to their doom, to the joy, it is said, of the wreckers, who made a fine harvest on the coast at daybreak.'

'Oh, Grandfather,' Conrad said with a shudder, 'how awful! Surely we have no such people about now?'

His grandfather sighed, and, to turn the subject, proceeded to explain to the little lad his method of lighting the lamp.

Cairns Castle was an ancient building which overlooked the sea, its isolated position rendering it a very lonely dwelling-place. Sir Matthew, its present possessor, though by no means a wealthy man, had spent a considerable sum of money in adding a lighthouse tower to the castle. From the window-panes shone forth a gleam so clear and brilliant, that many a gallant seaman was guided safely home thereby.

'Let me light the lamp to-night, Grandfather,' said Conrad, after listening intently to all Sir Matthew's instructions. 'Perhaps it will guide Father and Mother on their way home from India.'

'Aye, laddie, perhaps it will; the good ship Benares should be nearing our coast by this time,' was the reply.

Ah! little did Sir Matthew think, as he said these words, of the incidents which would take place, ere the castle light should next fling its friendly rays across the sea.

The November afternoon was creeping on apace, and Sir Matthew, absorbed in thought, drew long whiffs from his pipe, as he sat over the dining-room fire. The wind was wild and stormy, and dashed against the window-pane with angry force.

Conrad, who was busy preparing his lessons for his tutor next morning, looked up anxiously. But the words he was about to say were checked by the entrance of a rough-looking man of the fisher type.

It was William Forrest, or Black Bill as he was called by his neighbours, partly on account of his swarthy appearance, and partly because of his evil deeds.

'Evening, master,' was the sullen reply; 'I have come on business, and I want to see you alone.'

Sir Matthew bade Conrad take his lessons into the library, whilst he spoke to his visitor. The boy obeyed, unwillingly enough, for instinctively he felt that Black Bill meant no good to his dearly loved grandfather.

Somehow he could not give his mind to his lessons, and at length, thinking the interview must be ended, he returned to the dining-room. The sight which there met his eyes made his heart stand still with terror and alarm. His grandfather lay gagged and bound upon the floor.

It was the work of a few moments to remove the gag, and when Sir Matthew could find voice, he told the story of his attack.

Black Bill, who was in reality a wrecker, for some evil reason of his own, had endeavoured to extract from the baronet a promise not to light the lamp that night. Upon Sir Matthew's indignant refusal, he, with the aid of two colleagues who were waiting near, had next proceeded to render him helpless. They had already gagged and bound the three old servants of the castle. So massive were the walls and lengthy the passages that not a sound had reached Conrad's ears; and the men had apparently forgotten his presence in the castle.

The boy, in terrible distress of mind, tried to unloose the cords which bound his grandfather hand and foot.

'Never mind the cords, Conrad,' said the old man at last, 'they are more than you can manage. Go and light the lamp, for it is already past the hour, and may Heaven protect you.'

'I will do it, Grandfather,' he replied, looking fearfully around lest Black Bill and his colleagues should be listening. 'Then I will come back and help you,' he added bravely.

With light, fleet footsteps, the little ten-year-old laddie made his way along the passage, towards the staircase. Presently sounds fell on his ears which sent all the colour from his face. Black Bill and his comrades were talking together in a room close by, the door of which was open; and to reach the lighthouse staircase he must pass that very room. For a few minutes he crouched in shadow, too panic-stricken to move. He thought of his promise to his grandfather and of the homeward-bound Benares battling with wind and wave; then like an inspiration came the thought of Him Who stilled the waters of Galilee, and Who at this moment was watching over him.

The lad hesitated no more. On he sped past the open door, towards his goal. But, alas! Black Bill had noted his light footsteps.

Mercifully in the darkness the men took a wrong turn, and the boy mounted quickly up, up, up, until he was safe in the shelter of the lighthouse tower.[Pg 11]

It took him but a few seconds to turn the key in the lock, and to slip the heavy bolts. Then he was safe from his pursuers.

Meanwhile the good ship Benares was tossing on the angry sea, out of its course and in sore peril, with no castle light to guide it home.

Then, almost at the moment of its extremity, shot forth a brilliant gleam, and the gallant vessel was saved—saved by a little lad's courage and daring.

Black Bill, after hammering vainly at the door, at length turned away, muttering threats of vengeance.

An hour crept by on leaden wings, and at last, to Conrad's joy, he heard his grandfather's voice calling him by name. In a very short space of time they were face to face, and Conrad heard how that one man, more tender-hearted than the rest, had secretly returned to the castle (after Black Bill's departure) and freed Sir Matthew from his bonds.

Cairns Castle is now falling into decay, and its light no longer exists. But on the coast near by stands a magnificent lighthouse, which sends forth its life-saving gleam across the sea. Conrad has left boyhood far behind him, and has now little lads and lasses of his own. Many are the stories which their parents have to tell of the once stately home of the Cairns family, but the story the children like best to hear is how Father lit the Castle Light.

THE INDIAN CHIEF AND THE BISHOP.

Bishop Whipple, who did so much work among the Indians of North America, tells how a great Indian chief became a Christian. 'One day,' he writes, 'the chief came to see me, and said that he wished to be a Christian; that he knew he must die some day, but he had been told of the new life into which Christians entered after death, and that he also would like to enter that life.'

This strange question was understood perfectly well by the chief. It meant that he must cut off the bad old habit of going on the war-path.

'No, I cannot allow you to cut my hair,' he answered, reluctantly, for he was not ready to give up going on the war-path.

'Well, you cannot become a Christian unless you cut your hair,' said the Bishop, sorrowfully.

The chief went away, but he still attended the services which the Bishop held, and after some months came again to the Bishop.

'I want to be sure of that life after death,' he said. 'Please make me a Christian.'

'Yes; do whatever you like with me so long as you make me a Christian,' answered the chief.

Thus the chief eventually became a Christian, and many of his tribe followed his example.

THE NAUGHTY KITTENS.

ook at old Puss,' the Kittens said,
'He's fast asleep, he nods his head;
How dull and stupid it must be
To be as slow and old as he!
He lies and sleeps there in the sun,
And does not try to play or run;
Creep up and gives him just a pat—
He ought to run, he gets so fat!'

But Puss awoke. 'Hullo,' said he,
'You think to play your tricks on me?
I know I'm old, I'm glad I'm fat—
My dear, kind mistress sees to that;
I scare the birds while lying here—
They dare not come when I am near,
To steal my mistress's nice fruit;
My time to some good use is put.

'But you! what have you done to-day,
Except to romp and run and play?'
The Kittens, looking quite subdued,
Said, 'We are sorry we were rude.'
'Well then, this time I let you go,'
Old Puss replied, 'for now you know
That older folk are wiser far
Than silly little kittens are.'

With this remark Puss walked away
And left the Kittens to their play.
I'm glad to say they ne'er forgot
The lesson that they had been taught,
And from that day tried hard to be
From naughty, idle ways quite free;
In fact they now behave so well
That I have nothing more to tell.

THE BEST LESSON.

A good man once had a serious illness, during which his life was several times despaired of. On his becoming convalescent, a friend said to him, 'It will be a long time before you are able to collect your thoughts to preach again, or to think of material for your sermons.'

'You are mistaken, friend,' was the answer. 'This illness has taught me more than all the books and learning I have studied in the whole of my life before.'

He had been not far from death, and had learnt more fully than any books could teach him, that there is something greater than mere human wisdom.

A MONKEY'S MEMORY.

A French lady on one occasion saw an organ-grinder ill-treating his monkey. She was moved with pity, and bought it. It became her chief pet, and used to follow her about everywhere. Once she invited a party of guests to a concert. The monkey was allowed to watch; but instead of staying where she had put it, it took the hat of one of the guests, and made a collection, much to the delight of the audience, and then emptied the contents into the player's lap. It had not forgotten its old habits.[Pg 12]

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 7.)

CHAPTER II.

'Jack,' said Captain Knowlton, who had come to see me at Castlemore for a few hours, 'I have brought some news. Your aunt is going to be married.'

'Anyhow,' he said, 'she is going to marry Major Ruston, and in about a month I shall come to fetch you to the wedding.'

'We must manage as best we can,' he answered. 'You understand that I have taken you entirely off her hands. In the future you must look to me. Will you object to that?'

'I shall like it immensely,' I said; and the following morning Mrs. Windlesham helped me to compose a suitable letter of congratulation to Aunt Marion.

In due course Captain Knowlton came, according to his promise, to take me to the wedding, and we were driven direct from the London terminus to his own rooms in the Albany, where I made the acquaintance of Rogers, his servant, a pleasant-looking man, about twenty-seven years of age, who seemed always to wear a blue serge suit. Rogers took me to the Hippodrome that evening, and the next afternoon to a house at South Kensington, where I found Aunt Marion looking younger and more smartly dressed than I had ever seen her before.

'Did Captain Knowlton tell you the news?' she asked, when I had sat by her side for a few moments.

'No,' she said; 'you won't see him until Captain Knowlton brings you to the church to-morrow. It is to be a very quiet wedding, and we shall start for India the next day.'

When Rogers returned to fetch me an hour later, Aunt Marion put her arms around my neck and kissed me a great many times, telling me to be good, and try in every way to please Captain Knowlton—advice which I considered very unnecessary.

After the wedding ceremony the following day, we went to an hotel, where the four of us had luncheon,[Pg 13] and, later on, Captain Knowlton stood on the pavement without his hat, and took a white satin slipper from his pocket, throwing it after the carriage as Major and Mrs. Ruston were driven away.

'I don't think much of Major Ruston,' I remarked as I walked to the Albany with Captain Knowlton.

After Rogers had cleared the table that evening, and brought two cups of coffee, and Captain Knowlton had lighted a cigar, 'Jack,' he said, 'how old are you by this time?'

'Ah, a grand age, isn't it?' he exclaimed. 'I was talking about you to Windlesham. He gave you a pretty good character on the whole.'

'I am glad of that,' I said, for although I had never thought much about my character hitherto, it seemed desirable to possess a good one, if only to please Captain Knowlton.

'A bit mischievous,' he continued, 'and rather headstrong. Inclined to act too much on the impulse of the moment. It is time you set to work in earnest, you know, Jack. You will have to look sharp if you wish to go to Sandhurst.'

'That is all right then. You are quite old enough to understand things. I feel certain your father would have liked you to enter the army. Now,' he added, 'I am afraid you will have to spend the next holidays at Castlemore. I have one or two engagements which cannot very well be put off, and unfortunately there is nobody in the world who can be said to belong to you.'

'Yes,' I cried, and suddenly I seemed to realise what a bad thing it would be if I had not Captain Knowlton to depend upon.

The next day I returned to Ascot House, naturally disappointed at the prospect of spending the holiday at school. The other fellows all went home at the end of March, and about a week later I was surprised when Elsie Windlesham, the eldest of the five girls, told me that Captain Knowlton was waiting in the drawing-room. But my satisfaction faded when he explained that he was going abroad for some months, and that he had come to say good-bye. 'The fact is I have not been up to the mark,' he continued, 'so I have bought a small steam yacht.'

'The Seagull—a jolly little craft, and I hope to make a voyage round the world in her. I shall get back again before the summer holidays, and then we will have a good time together. I have had a chat with Mr. Windlesham,' said Captain Knowlton, 'and told him to keep you well supplied with pocket-money and so forth. You will be a good chap,' he added, 'and work hard for Sandhurst.'

As he would probably be absent on my fifteenth birthday, he had brought a silver watch and chain, which certainly went some way towards consoling me for his departure. So I said good-bye to Captain Knowlton, little dreaming of what was destined to occur to both of us in the near future.

For now events began to happen quickly one on the top of another, and it was less than a fortnight after Captain Knowlton's departure that Elsie told me, as a great secret, that her father had been offered a lucrative living in the north of England.

'That is why he has gone to London to-day,' she explained. 'He wants to sell the school before next term begins, and he has heard of somebody who will very likely buy it.'

A few days later, Mr. Turton appeared on the scene, accompanied by his wife and his only son, Augustus. Mr. Turton was not a clergyman, although he dressed a little like one; he was short, rather stout, with a pale face and an untidy dark beard. But his wife was tall and lean, and her face looked gaunt and pinched, while, as for Augustus, it was difficult to judge whether he ought to be described as a boy or a man. Taller than Mr. Turton, he had a long, thin face like his mother's, and a growth of fair down upon his chin. With a boy's jacket he wore a very high stand-up collar, while his hair sadly needed cutting.

I shook hands with the three in turn, and as I tried to think of something to say to the painfully bashful Augustus, I overheard a remark of Mr. Windlesham's which led me to believe I was being spoken of as an important source of revenue.

The result of Mr. Turton's visit was that the holidays were lengthened for eight days, to allow the Windleshams to move away and their successors to take possession of Ascot House. I learnt from Elsie that the furniture had been bought as it stood, and that Mr. Bosanquet—the assistant master, and a thoroughly good fellow—was to stay on for one term, after which Augustus would take his place.

'I have felt a little at a loss,' said Mr. Windlesham, the day before his departure. 'All the other boys are returning, but in your case I have been compelled to take Captain Knowlton's approval for granted. However, I have explained all the circumstances to Mr. Turton, and I have no doubt you will be very happy and comfortable.'

Still, I had certain doubts, and, in fact, after I had reluctantly said good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Windlesham, and to Elsie and her sisters, and the fellows came back from the holidays, a change was at once perceptible. Perhaps, in some ways, an impartial observer might have regarded it as a change for the better. Everything was conducted in a far more orderly manner. We rose an hour earlier in the morning, and went to bed half an hour earlier at night. We had the same kind of meat every week-day in regular rotation, and less of it; our bread was cut thicker, and spread with less butter; we were no longer permitted to wander about the small town at our own sweet wills.

It became necessary to ask leave before we spent any money, and although Augustus shared for the present our lessons with Mr. Bosanquet, he acted as a kind of tyrannical overseer during the rest of the day.

One morning in June, about two months after Captain Knowlton's departure from England, I was summoned to Mr. Turton's study, and I found him with a more than usually grave face.[Pg 15]

'Not about Captain Knowlton?' I cried, for it seemed that there was really no one else in the world for whom I very much cared.

Mr. Turton spoke kindly, as did Mrs. Turton in her rather cold, unsympathetic way; but nothing that any one could say made the slightest difference. I felt that I had lost my best and, indeed, my only friend.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1805.

I.—IN THE PILLORY.

ne summer's day in the year 1805, a farmer's wife, carrying a heavy basket of eggs, was slowly trudging along a lane leading to the market town, when a woman ran hastily to her, calling out as she passed, 'You are in luck to-day, Mrs. Hodge! Eggs are so scarce that you can ask any price you like.'

'Why?' laughed the woman. 'Because every one wants them! A man has just been put in the pillory for speaking against the King, or the Parliament, I don't rightly know which; but at any rate he is safe in the pillory, and folk are having rare fun pelting him,' and the woman passed on to join in what she called 'the fun!'

Mrs. Hodge, however, was a woman of a different sort. 'I will sell none of my eggs for such cruel work as that,' she said resolutely. 'Sooner, by far, would I take the whole lot back unsold, that I would, than ill-treat an unfortunate man in that way.'

She had now reached the market-place, and there, on a platform raised several feet above the ground, stood a wide wooden post, with three round holes in it, through which appeared a man's head and his two hands. Thus imprisoned and utterly unable to protect himself in any way, he furnished sport for a thoughtless, cruel mob, who were aiming at him with rotten eggs, cabbage-stalks, and any rubbish that came to hand.

Mrs. Hodge's blood boiled with indignation as she saw the terror and agony in the poor man's eyes, as missile after missile hit him, each hit being greeted with a shout of delight from the populace.

'Shame on you!' cried the honest woman, and hastily leaving her basket at a shop-door, she somehow pushed her way through the masses, and climbing the platform, stood right in front of the pillory. 'Shame on you all, to hit a helpless man!' she cried again.

'Get down! get down!' shouted the mob, furious at any one interfering with their fun. 'Get down, or we will treat you the same!'

'More shame to you,' said the dauntless woman. 'I shall not leave for all your threats! Surely there will be one amongst you all who will not see a helpless man tortured.'

'But he is a bad man. He was trying to set folk against the Government. He deserves to be punished!' was shouted by different voices in the crowd.

'If he has done wrong he is being punished for it,' said the woman firmly, still continuing to shelter the man by standing before him. 'It is bad enough for him to stand all day in the pillory under this broiling sun, without having his eyes blinded and his nose broken. We shall all, maybe, want a friend one day, so let us help this poor fellow now. Here, Ralph,' she continued, catching the eye of the chief leader of the rioting, 'you said, when I saved you from bleeding to death in the hay-field last summer, that you owed me a good turn. Pay it me now! Leave this poor fellow alone, and get your friends to do the same.'

The man stood irresolute one minute; then his feeling of gratitude conquered him, and he said, half-sheepishly, 'Have your own way, Mother! I will see that no one throws any more at him.'

'That is right, Ralph,' said Mrs. Hodge, heartily, for she knew that Ralph's influence was great. 'Now for a pail of fresh water, and let me see if I cannot get all this dirt off this poor fellow's face and hair.'

'Thank you, Missis, you have been real good to me,' the man said, hoarsely. 'I could never have stood it much longer.'

The mob—fickle as mobs so often are—were now as ready to help as before to injure, and instead of jeering and reviling, there were now those who remarked that 'perhaps the chap was no worse than the rest of us,' whilst others were glad they had been stopped in time, for only a few weeks before a man had been killed, whilst standing in the pillory, by those who were only 'amusing' themselves in much the same fashion as folk on that day.

One of the crowd fetched water, and a woman brought a mug of milk, which was sweet as nectar to the poor man's parched throat, and now, though he had still many hours before sundown to stand in the pillory, yet it was shorn of its chief terror, as Ralph undertook to shield him from all further injury.

So he once more thanked Mrs. Hodge, and she returned to her eggs with a mind at ease.

It may surprise our readers to know that the punishment of the pillory remained on the Statute-book of this country until the year 1837, though it had practically fallen into disuse for many years before it was repealed.

The pillory came down to us from Anglo-Saxon times, and there was a law passed in the reign of Henry III., ordering every village to set up a pillory when required for bakers who used false weights, perjurers, and so on.

NOTHING IS PERFECT.

An Italian artist had painted a little girl holding a basket of strawberries. One of his friends, who was at the time a great admirer of his genius, wishing to show the perfection of the picture, said to some people who were looking at it, 'These strawberries are so very natural and perfect, that I have seen birds coming down from the trees to peck them, mistaking them for real strawberries.'

A countryman, on hearing this ridiculous praise, burst out laughing: 'Well, sir,' he cried, 'if the strawberries are so well represented as you say they are, it must not be the same with the little girl, since she does not frighten the birds.'

The painter's friend could answer nothing; he had received a well-deserved rebuke for his flattery.

Moral.—Excessive praise wrongs rather than benefits the person upon whom it is bestowed.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

I.—ON CAVERNS IN GENERAL.

ong ago, in the dark ages of the world, when superstitious terrors ruled the mind of savage man, caverns were looked upon with awe and peopled with supernatural beings. The mysterious waters that issued from some, the depth and length of the winding ways of others, the unaccountable sounds that echoed through the vaults and galleries of all, gave rise to wonderful legends in many parts of the world.

Beneath the Holy Peak of Kailas, supposed to be the centre of the Hindoo Universe, are caverns in which, according to legend, live the four sacred animals, the elephant, the lion, the cow, and the horse, from whose mouths issue the four great rivers of India, the Ganges, Sutlej, Indus, and Brahmapootra.

According to Scandinavian mythology, Loke, the incarnation of evil, was for a long time bound to points of rock in a cavern, with a huge serpent crouching above and spitting venom on the prisoner.

Hastrand, the nether world of the Vikings, was also depicted as a cavern of colossal size, furnished with poisonous serpents and unlimited sources of torture for mind and body.

The Greeks held caverns to be sacred to various gods—Pan, Bacchus, Pluto, and the Moon. The Romans peopled them with Sibyls, or priestesses of Fate, and beautiful nymphs; whilst in ancient Germany and Gaul, fairies, dragons, and evil spirits shared the gloomy recesses which no mortal might invade and live.

In the Middle Ages there were many legends of evil spirits dwelling in caves, who beguiled human beings to their rocky homes, whence the visitors never returned. Probably the truth of this particular fable lay in the growing spirit of exploration into the recesses of Nature, the dangers of which—ill provided with light, ropes, and modern means of security as they were—must have been extreme.

About this era, too, the forests of Northern Europe were largely thinned, and fairies, dwarfs, and such folk, it was thought, were obliged to take refuge in caverns and grottoes. Within the last hundred years a legend was common in the Hartz Mountains, that if a wedding feast lacked copper or brass kettles, cooking-pans, or plates, the needs would be supplied on invoking the dwarfs at the entry of their rocky homes. No payment was asked for or expected, but a little meat left in the pans on their return was appreciated and might lead to future civilities.

Moorish children are still brought up to believe that Boabdil, the last King of Granada, with his mighty host, is still sleeping in a huge cavern, whence he will some day issue to a last great victory over the Christians.

So far we have seen only the imaginative ideas of these great hollows of the earth, for 'hollow' is the true meaning of the Latin word cavea, from which cave or cavern is derived: now we will glance at the more practical purposes to which the smaller and more superficial caves have been adapted.

With the dawn of Christianity, many men and women, shocked at the excesses of Greek and Roman civilisation, retired from the world and led simple lives as hermits in remote caves. To this day, 'The Hermit's Cave' is a common name in England, and, though it is not always a genuine one, it usually denotes that in olden times some hermit or 'anchorite' passed his lonely existence in the spot in question.

Long before this era, in Hindoostan, advantage had been taken of natural caverns to hew into shape the marvellous rock temples of Elephanta, Ellora, and Ajunta, still accounted as amongst the wonders of the world.

In New Mexico and Arizona in remote ages whole tribes lived in caves, some natural, but more often made habitable by the aid of masonry. Most of these are high up on shelves edging precipitous cliffs, and were clearly chosen as places of refuge from enemies of the plain.

All over Europe caves are found containing bones of human beings, most of which are recognised by scientists to belong to an earlier race, who made use of these homes provided by Nature, both for abiding-places during life and resting-places for the dead. In many of these caves, sketches on bone, horn, and ivory have been found, remarkable for their clear and vigorous drawing at a time when art was an unknown quantity. It is noticeable that drawings found amongst the Esquimaux relics depict seals, whales, and walruses, whilst those of more southern races show mammoths, wild horses, and bisons; the only animals drawn by both being the reindeer.

Numerous caves in Britain, and indeed all over the world, contain bones of animals, and from classifying these, learned folk have found out a great deal respecting the geological and geographical changes which have taken place on the crust of the earth since the Creation.

Now that we have thought of the terrors with which caverns inspired our remote forefathers, as[Pg 19] well as of the practical uses to which they have been put by less imaginative men and animals, let us try to see how and why these mighty hollows came to exist at all.

Earthquakes are often accountable for rocks heaped in wild confusion, leaving great chasms below. Volcanic agency also deposits huge roofs of lava over tracts of ice and snow, and the melting of the latter leaves empty spaces of vast extent. The neighbourhood of Mount Etna, in Sicily, has various wonderful caverns of this formation. Landslips and rock-falls on the surface account for many small grottoes, but water is the main origin of all the most celebrated caverns of the world. Underground streams and rivers gradually eat their way along the surface of their rocky flooring, the carbonic acid in the water acting chemically on the stone in addition to the wearing force of the element. Once a shallow channel is worn, new forces set to work to deepen it: sand, pebbles and grit of all kinds, washed down by the current, grind and wear away the rock. In course of time great depths are hollowed out, and if it happens that some obstacle turns the course of the water, and the river finds a new outlet, a long deep gallery is left dry, and here and there an apparently bottomless pit where the water has acted on specially soft stone. From above, also, a steady action of moisture has been eating away the cliff, adding height to the cavern, as well as coating its roof and sides with a sparkling substance derived from the union of water and particles of the limestone, in which caves usually abound.

Nothing can be more beautiful, when illuminated, than a roof of stalactites, with ascending pillars of stalagmite often meeting and forming pillars, like those which will be later on described in the Mammoth Cave and others. The building of these fairy grottoes is really a simple matter, but one only possible to the Great Architect to whom a thousand years are as one day; for a very little bit of one of those stony icicles would take hundreds of years in formation. Water flowing above a cave is certain to contain carbonic acid, some given to it by the atmosphere, and some imparted from decaying vegetation. This water oozes slowly through the rock, and the carbonic acid in passing dissolves a mite of lime, carrying it through the roof, to which the lime adheres whilst the water evaporates. Drop follows drop, each tiny particle sliding down its fellow, until, as weeks and years and centuries roll by, a lovely long pendant is formed, known as a stalactite. Sometimes the drops of acidulated watery lime fall through the roof by an easier passage, and fall right on to the floor of the cavern, when an upward process takes place, each drop exactly striking the one before, until one of the stately columns arises known as a stalagmite.

AN OCEAN POLICEMAN.

Amid a flutter of flags and the cheers of onlookers, the 'ocean policeman,' H.M.S. Speedy, first took to the water on May 18th, 1893. Its birthplace was the banks of the Thames at Chiswick, but hardly had it settled itself on the smooth surface of the river when orders came from official quarters that it should proceed at once to school. They were no easy lessons that it had to learn, and the subsequent examinations were extremely difficult and trying, for they were conducted by a large crowd of the most learned gentlemen in England and the Continent connected with naval matters. The school was at Sheerness, and here the Speedy spent four months in preparation. On September 28th the first run was made, and three weeks later the examiners were delighted to find that this splendid new boat was able to steam at a speed of twenty knots an hour. Everything the inventor and designer had claimed for her was proving true. The new style of tubing in the boilers made it possible to get up steam very quickly after the fires were lighted, so that when the order came to start there was no 'Oh, wait a minute, please; I am not quite ready!'

The engines, four thousand five hundred horse-power in strength, did their work far more nimbly than those in any previous gunboat of the same size. The vessel is two hundred and thirty feet long, and can steam triumphantly through water no more than ten feet deep. That in itself is enough to terrify evil-doers who would otherwise hope to escape by getting into shallow water beyond her reach. But in addition, she carries two large guns and a search-light.

Having thoroughly satisfied the examiners, this huge scholar soon had the honour of receiving a commission, and is now on duty in the North Sea among the brown-sailed fishing-smacks, like a gigantic duck watching over her ducklings. There are several gunboats of the British navy employed in the same way, but few of them quite so modern as the Speedy, or so capable of guarding the interests of the fishermen. Any foreign smack or lugger that comes within three miles of the English coast is 'trespassing,' and is immediately called upon by the Speedy to give an explanation. If the trespasser hesitates, a boat is lowered from the steamer with an officer on board to make inquiries, and should the answers to his questions be unsatisfactory, the stranger and his boat are sent prisoners to the nearest English port.

Thus, up and down among the great fleet of peaceful fishers, the Speedy plies all day, and even in the darkest night her watching is as keen and sure, for then her search-light, a dazzling beam, sweeps over the sea in all directions, and not the tiniest rowboat could escape unseen. Many a time it has revealed some stealthy marauder who hoped, under the cover of darkness, to pull in a net of fish from these forbidden waters and then sail into some French or Dutch port undetected. All chance of escape, however, is over when once that dazzling light falls upon the dishonest craft.

And who would begrudge such protection to our fishermen? Their busy fleets are floating towns of industry, in which some thirty-three thousand men and boys are employed. In 1901 their harvest represented eight million six hundred and forty-seven thousand eight hundred and five hundred-weight of fish, and realised six million eight hundred and forty-eight thousand one hundred and ninety-two[Pg 20] [Pg 21]pounds in money. A very large portion of this came from the North Sea.

But such treasure is only secured at great danger and with loss of life. In this same year 1901, over three hundred fishermen were drowned, some in wrecks and collisions, some in missing barks, and many by being dragged overboard by the cumbersome fishing gear. At all hours of the day and night, at all seasons of the year, these perilous labours are carried on, and when we think of this, is it not some gratification to know that the rights and privileges of our fishermen are jealously guarded by such stalwart ocean policemen as the Speedy?

WAITING.

n London town the streets are gay,
And crowds go quickly by,
It is a glorious summer day,
But I sit here and sigh;
The pavement's hot, my feet are sore,
Yet I must wait outside the door.

I cannot bear to sit out here,
But I am tied up fast,
I saw my master disappear,
But I could not get past;
'No dogs allowed inside this shop'
They said, so here I have to stop.

Ah! here he is, and off we go!
'Tis jolly to be free!
I bark, and do my best to show,
As he caresses me,
How much I love him, for to part
From him I know would break my heart.

THE FROG AND THE GEESE.

Two wild geese, when about to start southwards for the winter, were entreated by a frog to take him with them. On the geese consenting to do so if a means of carrying him could be found, the frog produced a stalk of long grass, got the two geese to take it one by each end, while he clung to it in the middle by his mouth. In this manner the three were making their journey, when they were noticed by some men, who loudly expressed their admiration of the plan, and wondered who had been clever enough to discover it. The proud frog, opening his mouth to say, 'It was I,' lost his hold, fell to the earth, and was dashed to pieces.

AN INDIAN CUSTOM.

'Look here!' said a young fellow as he opened the door of the log-house, in Canada, where he and a friend were 'camping out.' 'See what I have found dangling from a tree in the forest;' and he held up for his friend's inspection a tiny pair of leather moccasins gaudily embroidered with coloured beads.

'They are of no value,' interrupted the other; 'there is a hole in the toe. I expect some Indian mother hung them there to get rid of them.'

'No! no! they were hung there because the child who wore them is buried under that tree, and these moccasins are put there for its use in the next world,' explained his friend.

'Oh, if that's the case!' said the young fellow, 'I will go back at once, and replace the little shoes, for I would not hurt their feelings about their dead friends for anything.'

Mistaken as are the Red Indian's ideas of the next world, he is yet as careful as we are to honour the last resting-place of his loved ones.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 15.)

CHAPTER III.

Mr. Turton lent me the newspaper in which he had read the account of the wreck of the Seagull, and upstairs, in the room which I shared with two other fellows, I sat down on my bed to master it.

It appeared that the skipper of the vessel, with seven of the crew, had been landed by a British cargo steamer at Hobart Town, Tasmania. The Westward Ho! had picked them up in a small boat about seven days out from Capetown.

According to the story of the Seagull's skipper—Captain Wilkinson—she had experienced extremely bad weather for some days, and, becoming almost unmanageable, had been run down by a large liner in the middle of a dark night at the height of the gale.

Whether the liner was British or foreign, Captain Wilkinson could not state; but, in any case, she had continued on her way without attempting to stand by to save life. The Seagull foundered in less than ten minutes, Captain Knowlton persisting in his refusal to leave in the first, and—as Captain Wilkinson declared—the only, boat which got away. He had done his utmost to stand by, in spite of the fury of the gale; but when day broke, and the storm to some degree abated, there was no sign of either Captain Knowlton or the Seagull. That she had foundered with the remainder of the crew and her owner the skipper had not the slightest doubt, although he went as far as to admit, to the newspaper reporter, the possibility that the small boat in which he had escaped might have drifted some distance from the scene of the wreck in the darkness.

My only gleam of hope was due to Mr. Bosanquet, although I felt inclined to discount this, because he was given to look at the brightest side of things, and often predicted fine weather just before a storm.

'Still,' he urged, 'you do not know for certain that Captain Knowlton was drowned. I admit there is a great probability that you will never see him again, but, after all, it is quite within the bounds of possibility that the skipper's boat drifted away, and that the owner and the rest of the crew managed to leave the Seagull. Of course,' he added, 'if I am right, you are pretty certain to hear something farther in a week or two.'

Accordingly I lived in the most acute suspense during the next few days; but the time passed without news of Captain Knowlton, and such faint hope as I had cherished faded entirely away. In the meantime it seemed evident that Mr. and Mrs. Turton had not shared it. I learned from Augustus that his father had written to Mr. Windlesham, asking that I might be removed from Ascot House as a bad bargain.

Moreover, I began to observe a kind of resentfulness in Mr. Turton's demeanour, and especially in his wife's. It was rumoured in the school that they[Pg 23] were 'hard up,' and hence the shorter supplies of meat and butter. But it was Augustus who first made me realise my new situation.

'I say, Everard,' he said, when we were alone one day, 'I should not care to stand in your shoes. Now Captain Knowlton is dead you cannot stay here, you know.'

'I guess you are not, though!' he exclaimed. 'There is no one to pay for you, and Windlesham is mean enough to say he won't take you off our hands.'

The entrance of Mr. Bosanquet put an end to Augustus's gloomy forecast of my future, and, as the assistant master seemed to be the best friend I had left, I asked his opinion on the subject.

'Of course,' he said, taking my arm, 'it is a rather difficult position. If Captain Knowlton has left a will with a legacy to you, there need not be much difference; but Mr. Turton is of opinion that if this were the case, he would have heard from the solicitor. Mr. Turton is a good deal perplexed to know what to do with you, though we will hope for the best, in spite of everything.'

Now, I was fifteen, and fairly tall and strong for my age. I could easily perceive the difficulties at which Mr. Bosanquet hinted, and that, if Captain Knowlton were actually dead, and had left me nothing in his will, there was only Aunt Marion to whom it was possible to look for help; and she had taken no notice of me since her wedding-day. I was ignorant of her address in India, and felt that I should be little better off even if I knew it. So, after a few days' reflection, I determined to speak to Mr. Turton.

'Well, Everard, what is it now?' he demanded, a little impatiently, as I entered his study.

'Just what I should like to be in a position to tell you,' he exclaimed. 'At present I have been unable to discover the name and address of Captain Knowlton's solicitor, but, when I go to London with the boys at the end of the term, I shall do my best to gain farther information. We will put off the discussion until my return.'

It was, however, impossible to keep the question of my future in the background, and no day passed without many speculations. Numerous out-of-the-way projects had one peculiarity in common—they were all to end satisfactorily. Even if I were fated to endure certain trials and hardships, I felt perfectly confident in my ability to rise above them eventually.

The first important difference which I experienced as a result of the loss of the Seagull occurred on the Saturday after this interview with Mr. Turton. It was the custom to go to Mrs. Turton after dinner on Saturday for our pocket-money; my own allowance since Captain Knowlton's departure having been a shilling a week.

'I am afraid there will not be any more pocket-money for you this term!' she exclaimed—and, suddenly understanding, I walked dejectedly away. Before I had gone many yards Smythe took my arm.

'Awful ass if you do,' cried Augustus, who had a knack of overhearing what was not intended for his ears.

'Oh, well!' said Augustus, 'of course, if he is beggar enough to take your money!'

I should have liked to kick Augustus as he walked away with a snigger; but at least he had made it impossible to take advantage of Smythe's offer. It was a new and painful experience to stay outside the confectioner's shop while the other fellows entered, and the matter was freely discussed in my presence by Smythe and the rest on our return. Indeed, justice compelled me to agree with Barton's opinion that, as Turton stood uncommonly little chance of being paid for the current term's board and tuition, it was scarcely to be expected that he should feel inclined to provide me with additional pocket-money.

CHAPTER IV.

The end of the term soon came, and on the last afternoon I stood listening while Smythe, Barton, and the rest of the fellows boasted of all the wonderful things they intended to do during the holidays.

'I should not care to stand in Everard's shoes,' said Augustus. 'As likely as not he will have to go to the workhouse before he has done. He will see when my father comes back from London.'

Before they all set out to the railway station the next morning, Mr. Bosanquet took me apart for a last word of hope and encouragement. He was not to return to Ascot House after the holidays, and for my part I felt extremely sorry to bid him good-bye.

'I feel confident Mr. Turton will do his best for you,' he said. 'But you must try to make allowances if he seems a little put out. He is not by any means a rich man, and, of course, he had to pay Mr. Windlesham for the goodwill of the school. Mr. Turton will feel the loss of your bill, you understand—that is to say, if Captain Knowlton does not turn up again.'

'If he had been rescued,' I asked, 'don't you think we should have heard news of him before now?'

'Well, in all probability we should,' said Mr. Bosanquet. 'But strange things happen sometimes, you know; and, after all, I do not consider it impossible that he may be stranded somewhere, and prevented from communicating with his friends.'

'Anyhow,' he insisted, 'there is no positive proof, and even at the worst his solicitor may be able to satisfy Mr. Turton about your future.'

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 23.)

t last the other fellows went to the station with Mr. Turton and Mr. Bosanquet, leaving me to enjoy the company of Augustus and his mother, who did not make much of an attempt to disguise her disfavour. It may be imagined with what anxiety I awaited Mr. Turton's return from London. He arrived at Ascot House late the following evening, having passed one night away from home. Although he had a long talk with Mrs. Turton, he did not speak to me that evening; but an ominous note seemed to be struck when Augustus told me I was henceforth to breakfast alone in the schoolroom. So, to my great disgust, the following morning, whilst Augustus and Mr. and Mrs. Turton breakfasted in the dining-room, a cup of milk and water, with five thick slices of bread and scrape, were brought to me on one of the desks; no bacon or egg, or relish of any kind, accompanied the meal.

'Well, Everard,' he said, 'I succeeded in finding the address of Captain Knowlton's solicitor, and I had a long conversation with him.'

'I regret to say that he has no doubt about the fact; but, at the same time, the estate cannot be administered for some months yet. In any case that will make no difference to you. Captain Knowlton had not made a will, and everything he died possessed of will pass to his nearest relatives.'

'The circumstances are extremely unfortunate,' was the answer. 'For me it is a serious loss, and I confess it is difficult to know what to do for the best. I understand you have no relatives of any kind.'

'Ah, that is the Mrs. Ruston whom Mr. Windlesham mentioned. She is in India, I believe?'

'I can no doubt find it out in an Army List,' he said. 'But from what Captain Knowlton told Mr. Windlesham, I fear little is to be gained in that direction.'

From that day nothing was the same, and I soon began to realise that my presence in the house was regarded as a nuisance. All my meals were solitary, and I seldom had enough to eat.

'Everard!' cried Mrs. Turton, directly I had finished breakfast two mornings after the above conversation, 'all the servants are very busy this morning, so you must make your own bed.'

I went upstairs to the bedroom which I had occupied alone since the beginning of the holidays, and after staring at the bed for a few moments, I was about to strip off the clothes, when I heard a snigger at the door.

Darting to the dressing-table, I seized a hair-brush, and threw it at his head. Unfortunately it hit him on the forehead, making an ugly cut, and, of course, he at once went to show Mr. Turton, who came upstairs a few minutes later, by which time my bed was made—after a fashion.

'Well,' I answered, rather sullenly, I am afraid, for I was growing somewhat desperate, 'he should not be cheeky.'

'You will not leave this room until dinner-time,' he said, 'and your meal will consist of bread and water.'

I spent a miserable morning staring out of the window on to the garden and the fields beyond, without a book to pass the time, my only comfort being the sight of Augustus with a strip of court-plaster above his left eyebrow.

At half-past one a servant came to tell me to come down to dinner. Alone in the schoolroom, I at first determined to refuse my food, until hunger conquered my resolution, and I ate it every scrap. Soon afterwards Mrs. Turton entered, but she said nothing about Augustus's injury.

'The house is being cleaned,' she said, 'and all the woodwork has to be washed. You may as well go down to the kitchen for a pail of hot water and begin with the wainscotting in the hall.'

'Honest work is no disgrace to anybody,' she said. 'You must try to make yourself useful in every possible way, and be careful not to splash your jacket.'

Raging inwardly at my task, I only hesitated a few moments; then, going down to the kitchen, I asked the good-natured cook for a pail of water.

'I call it a shame!' she muttered. 'Things were different in Mr. Windlesham's time. A shame I call it.'

'Oh, it doesn't matter,' I answered, feeling not a little embarrassed by her sympathy.

She filled an iron pail at the boiler-tap, and, as I stood waiting, my thoughts flew back to earlier days at Acacia Road, and to Jane and her energetic manner of smacking the oilcloth. But I suppose my ideas had developed since those times, and certainly I felt this morning that I was being subjected to the lowest humiliation. However, I carried up the pail, slopping the water on the stairs at every step, with a scrubbing-brush in the other hand, and then I set to work. When once I had[Pg 27] begun, I cannot pretend that I found the actual washing of the wainscot particularly distasteful, although it seemed rather hard, after I had done my best, that Mrs. Turton should upbraid me for soiling my clothes.

It was perhaps a week later that the notion of running away definitely entered my mind. By that time I had cleaned a considerable portion of the woodwork of the house, lime-whitened a portion of an outside wall, filled several coal-scuttles, and swept the yard. My clothes were naturally not at the best at the end of the term; I had grown considerably since they were new, and now they were splashed with distemper and soiled with dirt. One Monday morning I noticed the absence of the boy who cleaned the boots and knives and forks, and remarked upon it to Augustus.

'You see we shall not want him now,' he answered, with one of his irritating sniggers, and I fully understood the significance of his words. I try to do the Turtons no injustice, reminding myself that, to begin with, they were far from rich, and that they had lost the forty pounds or more which should have been paid for the last term's board and schooling. Moreover, they had not known me for some years, as the Windleshams had done; I was in their house, requiring food and shelter, and perhaps they could not reconcile their consciences to turning me out. So they determined to make me useful in the only possible way.

Already I had begun to wonder what would happen when Smythe and the other fellows came back after the holidays. One thing I knew for certain, and this was that Augustus would not fail to tell them how I had spent the time since they left; in fact, he had more than once hinted at their interest in my proceedings. The dismissal of the boot-boy made me more and more apprehensive that I should still continue to be degraded after the beginning of the term, while I felt humiliated by the conviction that, even in the present circumstances, Mr. and Mrs. Turton were keeping me only on sufferance.

But this Monday morning brought me to a determination. I had finished breakfast, and was wondering what I should be set to do next, when Augustus opened the schoolroom door.

'You understand,' he continued, 'that I have no desire to say or do anything to hurt your feelings. I can quite sympathise with you, and I am grieved that this necessity has arisen. But the fact remains.'

'You compel me to take harsh measures,' he said. 'I have no wish to take them, but I shall give orders that you have no food until you obey me. You have to work for your living. I certainly cannot afford to keep you in idleness. You will go to your bedroom, and stay there until you clean the boots and bring them to my study.'

Looking back, I am never able to forgive myself for surrendering. Yet I did surrender, although not at once. I passed Mr. Turton at the door and walked slowly upstairs, where I shut myself in the bedroom. Then and there I finally made up my mind. Without any definite scheme when I succeeded in reaching my destination, I determined to go to London. I did not possess a penny of money, but I had my silver watch and chain, which surely it must possible to sell.

The hundred-miles' walk caused me not the least alarm. I was strong and well, although I had grown thinner during the holidays; the weather was warm, and I reckoned on reaching my destination in about a week. As to what I should do on my arrival I had very little idea; but, for one thing, I thought I would try to find Rogers and ask his advice. I had read many books about boys who had gone to London without a penny in their pockets and made immense fortunes, from Dick Whittington downwards, and I saw every reason to believe that, in some wonderful way, I should be equally successful. At all events, I would go. I would put some clothing into a bundle, and then I would await a favourable opportunity and take my departure, for at the worst it seemed certain I should be safe from pursuit. Mr. and Mrs. Turton would be thankful enough to get me off their hands, although Augustus might miss me as his butt.

The hours passed very slowly in the bedroom, and, having breakfasted on bread and water, I began presently to feel more and more hungry.

'I will not clean Augustus's boots,' I repeated at intervals, and I tightened the strap behind my waistcoat. But, as the long afternoon began to wear away, and my hunger still increased, I sang to a different tune. 'What did it matter whether I cleaned the boots or not?' I asked myself, especially if I could succeed in finding Augustus alone in the garden for a few quiet minutes before I left the school. Anyhow, it would be the first and the last time. So, just after the clock struck seven, I opened my door, went down to the hall, and thence to the kitchen, and knocked at the door.

'In the coal-cellar, Master Everard,' she answered. 'I would have done them with pleasure, only Mrs. Turton forbid me.'

I went into the coal-cellar, took the brush and blacked the boots, and, oddly enough, I did not cease until I had made them shine far more brightly than Augustus's boots had ever shone before. Then I took them in my right hand and carried them upstairs, knocked at the door of Mr. Turton's study, and was told to enter.

'Ah,' answered Mr. Turton, 'I am glad you have come to a less unreasonable state of mind. You can go to the kitchen and ask Cook for some food.'

THE FRIENDLY LIGHT.

ildly the wind doth rage,
Loudly the waters roar,
And anxious are the hearts of those
That wait upon the shore,
Till through the darkness of the night
The lighthouse sends its friendly light.

Warning and guiding light,
It shines across the bay.
And helps the sailor steer his course
Till safely on the way:
The harbour gained, and home once more,
He greets his loved ones on the shore.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

I.—STINGS AND LANCETS.

Bees and Spiders, Earwigs, Beetles and Snails, Dragon-flies, Grasshoppers, and Butterflies are familiar enough to us all; yet how many realise how 'fearfully and wonderfully' they are made? What a marvellously complex weapon is the 'sting' of the bee! What a wonderful 'rasp' the snail possesses! How many can tell how an insect smells, and where its organs of taste and hearing lie? Since these are questions which young people often ask again and again, some of them will be answered in the course of these articles. To explain such matters clearly is a very difficult task, but with the aid of drawings, specially made for this purpose, the main facts at least should be easy to grasp.

Most of us agree to treat the bee respectfully, having a wholesome dread of the vengeance he is likely to inflict on those who offend him. But how does a bee sting? and what is the sting like?

To take the last question first. The sting of the bee is really an extremely cunningly devised weapon, so complex that only the bare outlines of its structure can possibly be described clearly.

If you turn to the illustration of the bee-sting, you will notice, in the right-hand figure, at the upper end, three pointed projections or 'processes' marked. The two outer ones (s s) we may neglect, for they are only protecting sheaths; that in the middle (i s) is the sting proper. This consists of two parts, (1) a strong gouge-like portion, and (2) a pair of darts of marvellous delicacy. These darts we cannot see in position because they lie on the other side of the gouge-like piece. But to the left you will notice a[Pg 30] long sword-like blade, drawn separately, with a curiously crooked handle and a sharp barbed point. This is one of the pair of darts. Those who have had the misfortune to be stung may be interested to know that this painful wound was inflicted thus: When the bee alighted on you, he first thrust through the skin this hard, pointed gouge; then one of the darts was pushed down, then the other, a little further; then the gouge penetrated still deeper, and the opposite dart deeper still, and so on, first one dart, then the other, going deeper and deeper, the gouge following. As they penetrated, little drops of poison oozed out from the barbs of the dart, and this caused the pain and inflammation.

This poison is made in what is called the poison gland, the long, slender, coiled tube (p g) in the picture. As the poison is made, it is stored in the big bag (marked p) at the back of the sting, and when this is working, the poison is forced down between the gouge and the darts, to find its way out at the barbs into the flesh.

But this sting is not only used for the purpose of giving pain. The bee long ago discovered the fact that food, if it is to be preserved for any length of time, requires to be specially dealt with. Accordingly the honey which is destined to be kept is preserved from fermentation by the addition of a drop of formic acid deposited by the sting.

Only the workers and the queen-bees of a hive have stings: the males are stingless.

In stinging it often happens that the barbed darts are thrust so far into the wound that they cannot be withdrawn. As a result, the whole apparatus is left behind, and the bee pays the penalty with its life.

But whilst some insects, such as the bees, inject poison by means of a 'sting,' others effect the same end by peculiar modifications of the mouth-parts. The gnat is a case in point: the water-bug, common in our ponds and ditches, is another.

Strangely enough, the mechanism adopted is precisely similar in character, though the parts of which this mechanism is made up are of a totally different kind. Here, the mouth-parts are specially modified, so as to form a supporting and piercing weapon, like the 'gouge-like' piercing weapon of the bee, with delicate pointed and barbed weapons corresponding to the barbs of the bee's sting. This piercing organ may be used for sapping the tissue of plants, or, as in the case of gnats and fleas, they may be employed for the purpose of absorbing the blood of animals. In the latter case, after the surface of the skin is pierced, a poison is forced down into the wound, for the purpose, it is thought, of making the blood more fluid. But this poison is of a highly irritant nature, and leaves a very painful feeling, accompanied by more or less inflammation of the parts attacked.

The water-boatman, which almost every one must have seen swimming back-downwards in ponds, can inflict a very painful wound in this manner. The illustration shows the 'lancet' of nepa, the water-bug. The piercing organ just described is the spear-shaped piece bounded on either side by two long filaments.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

1.—Geographical Acrostic.

An American Republic, having a hot climate on the coast-line, but cooler inland. It is a rich and fertile country, where many valuable trees grow. Useful plants and fruits are produced in great abundance, and there are many wild animals, and birds of brilliant plumage. Numerous shallow rivers water the land, and gold, silver, iron, copper, and other metals are to be found there.

2.—Arithmograph.

THE MYSTERIOUS CHEST.

'It is hard lines it should rain the first day of the holidays,' said George, somewhat gloomily, as he looked out at the heavy downpour, which was fast changing the tennis-lawn into a miniature lake.

'If you two lads want an indoor job, I have one for you, and one that has baffled me,' said Mr. Carteret, looking up from his paper.

'A lot of things were sent here from Vale Place last month, and amongst them an oak chest, which I cannot unlock, try as I may, so I waited for you two, as I know you are more handy with your fingers than I am,' answered his father.

'Father,' here broke in George, 'I thought you were to have Vale Place when old Mr. Pelham died?'

'But it is left to some one else, is it not?' went on George, anxious to understand the matter, which had greatly puzzled both boys for some weeks.

'Yes, I meant to tell you about it when you came home,' said their father. 'It was no good writing bad news, but you must know it sooner or later. You know,' he continued, 'that my father and Mr. Pelham were brother-officers in India, and when both my parents were swept away in one week by cholera, Mr. Pelham brought me home to Vale Place, where I was brought up as his son and heir. But after his death, a few months ago, no will could be found, though he had repeatedly told me that he had made one, leaving Vale Place to me and my children.'

'It passed to the heir,' said Mr. Carteret. 'He is a distant cousin, who cares nothing about the property, and means to sell it for building land.'

'Well, I do not know that there is any shame about it, for this cousin has never lived there, and it has none of the old associations for him that make me regret its loss so deeply. He seems a very considerate man in some ways, and begged to be allowed to send me all the old furniture which stood in my room at Vale Place, thinking I should value it, as indeed I do. So that is how the old chest came to me, and here are the keys. See what you can do with them.'

'Upstairs in the attic. You will want a candle; it is in a dark corner,' was the answer.

'I am coming too!' announced Nannie. 'I want to see what is in the chest. I have fed my birds, and I may not stay out in the rain.'

'Little girls should not be inquisitive,' said George, who dearly loved to tease his sister. 'You may see more than you want.'

'Oh, George! what?' said Nannie, in rather a shaky voice. 'What do you think is in the chest?'

'You will see by-and-by, and remember I have warned you!' said George, mysteriously.

Nannie, though alarmed, bravely stood her ground and watched the two boys as they tried every key on the bunch; then, finding that none fitted, they used a screw-driver, and at last were successful.

'Now, Nannie!' shouted George, as Pelham lifted the heavy lid. 'Look out! I am sure I heard something stirring inside.'

'Empty! quite empty!' he cried, in a tone of the utmost disgust. 'Nothing at all in it but an old letter!' and he threw the paper on to the ground by the side of the chisel.

'I told you so,' began Nannie, but the sentence was hardly out of her mouth before she gave a little shriek and leapt high into the air. 'A rat! a horrid rat!' shrieked the child. 'It ran over my foot.'

George did not shriek; but he, too, was startled, for the rat had appeared so suddenly.

'It could not!' said Pelham, bluntly. 'I was looking in the chest when Nannie shrieked, and there was nothing in it—that I know! I saw no rat anywhere.'

'But I saw it!' said George. 'Look! look!' he shouted, excitedly. 'There it goes! Just by your foot! You may depend upon it this box has a false bottom. Let us turn it over and see.'

'I believe you are right, George!' said Pelham. 'Hold the candle, Nan, and we will see where this rat came from.'

The chest, empty as it appeared to be, was yet so heavy that it was with difficulty that the two boys could turn it over, but they did it at last, and now there was no doubt where the rat had come from, for the floor was strewn with little bits of nibbled paper, and there was a biggish hole in the false bottom by which he had evidently gnawed his way into the chest.

'Now, then, the fun is beginning!' exclaimed Pelham, excitedly, 'We must get inside this false bottom; it is full of old letters. I can see that much! Perhaps we shall find a love-letter of William the Conqueror to Joan of Arc!'

'Oh, no, you will not!' said Nannie, wisely, 'for Joan of Arc lived many reigns after William I. I read about her only last week.'

But neither Pelham nor George heeded Nannie's superior information, so busy were they prizing off the somewhat thin layer of wood which formed the false bottom of the chest.

It gave way at last, and disclosed a whole heap of letters, some nibbled into mere powder by the busy rat and some still uninjured, and on the top of all a yellow parchment folio bearing in large letters the words, 'Will of George Pelham, Esquire, of Vale Place, Surrey.'

'I must take it at once to Father,' said Pelham, and he ran down the attic stairs closely followed by the no less excited George and Nannie.

'See, Father, this will! Is it right? Will you have Vale Place after all?' said Pelham, eagerly; as he held out the papers.

Mr. Carteret took the bundle, looked at the heading, and then turned it hastily over to see the signatures at the end.

Yes, it was duly signed and witnessed, and without doubt was the long-sought will!

Why Mr. Pelham should have so carefully concealed his will was never explained, but people from time immemorial have done odd things with their wills, and will probably continue to do so. It was, after all, of little consequence now where it had been found, so long as the will was a true one, and of that no doubt was ever raised.

Before many months were over Mr. Carteret and his family were settled at Vale Place, where the 'mysterious chest,' as Nannie always called it, has the place of honour in the entrance hall.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1805.

II.—SIGNOR ROSSIGNOL'S PERFORMING BIRDS.

It was April, and the year 1805, when two little fellows, out for the day from Charterhouse School, stood at the bow window of a large house on Ludgate Hill, London, waiting for the return of their uncle from his country house.

'Here he comes!' said the lads, as a portly figure came round the corner, and the next minute he was in the room, exclaiming, in his cheery way, 'Well, lads, glad to see you! What must we do this afternoon? Is it to be the Tower of London, or the river, or the Monument? Anything you choose will suit me.'

'Then, sir,' said the elder boy, eagerly, 'do let us go and see the performing birds. All our fellows are talking about them.'

'To be sure we will! I, too, have heard about this Signor Rossignol, as he calls himself, and we will have a bit of dinner, and start off at once to Charing Cross.'

The 'bit of dinner' proved to be a very ample meal, to which our schoolboys did full justice, for school meals a hundred years ago were far from satisfying, and a dinner like this one was not a thing to be hurried over. However, there must come a time when even hungry schoolboys can eat no more, and at last, when even another fig seemed an impossibility, a start was made for the birds. They arrived at the Hall in good time, and had excellent seats, just facing the stage.

When the curtain drew up, it disclosed a long table, on which were placed a dozen cages, each containing a little bird. Their 'tutor,' as Signor Rossignol styled himself, stood at the head of the table, and, after a low bow to the audience, he began: 'Behold my little family of birds! They have all the true military instinct, and are ready, as you will see, to do all in their power to defend this land of freedom.'

Loud and prolonged cheers greeted this speech, for the Battle of Trafalgar had not yet taken place, and the dread of a sudden landing of the French 'tyrant' was never long out of the thoughts of any Briton. When the cheering had ceased, Rossignol opened the cages one after another, and each bird hopped out in a sedate way, and placed itself on the table, waiting for orders.

'Fall in!' shouted Rossignol, in a loud military voice, and at once the birds formed themselves into two ranks. Then their tutor fitted a little paper helmet on to each bird's head, and fixed tiny wooden muskets under their left wings.

Thus equipped, the birds, at the word of command from their tutor, went through the usual exercises of soldiers amidst the applause of the audience.

'Death of a deserter,' explained the tutor, as six birds placed themselves three on each side of the new arrival, and solemnly conducted him from the top to the bottom of the table, where there was a small brass cannon, charged with a little gunpowder.

The unfortunate deserter was placed in front of this cannon, his guards retired in an orderly way, and he was left alone to meet his fate. A lighted match was now put into the claws of another bird, who hopped slowly up to the cannon and discharged it. At the sound of the explosion the deserter fell down on to the table, and lay there as if rigid in death.

'Oh, I say! That is too bad!' said the younger boy. 'I don't think poor birds ought to be blown from the gun like that. It's cruel, is it not, sir?'

Before the uncle could reply came the sharp order, 'Stand!' and, behold, the dead deserter came to life again, and hopped away to join his friends!

The birds were now replaced in their cages, and it was the signor's turn to occupy the stage.

First of all he gave a clever imitation of the notes of all birds, ending up with the prolonged 'jug-jug' of the nightingale, which he did to such perfection that you could hardly believe there was not a grove full of those birds on the stage.

'He may well call himself "Rossignol"' (the French for nightingale), said the boys' uncle as he gave a hearty clap to the clever performer, 'for he seems as real a nightingale as I ever listened to.'

Next Rossignol produced a fiddle without any strings to it, and going through all the airs and graces of a real violinist, he sawed the air with an imaginary bow, making the notes with his voice so well that you could not imagine it was not a real violin playing. This delighted the audience most of all, and he was encored again and again, and when the entertainment was finished, the two boys said 'they wished they could have it all over again!'

For many months Rossignol continued to draw large audiences to hear his imitation of birds, &c., but one fatal day it was discovered that the sounds were produced by an instrument—probably a pierced peach-stone—which he concealed in his mouth, and after that no one cared to hear him, and he died in great poverty a few years later.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 27.)

CHAPTER V.

y chief fear when I went to bed that night was that I might not wake early the following morning, for in this event my departure would have to be put off. I must leave Ascot House before any of the Turtons were up, if I left at all; I was bent upon getting away from Castlemore at the very earliest moment. In my room there were three beds, two being unoccupied during the holidays, and there was a chest of drawers which I shared with my companions. On the knob of one of the[Pg 35] drawers hung the bag in which were kept my brush and comb, and this I thought would serve to hold the few things I intended to take with me. Not daring to get the things ready that night, lest Mr. Turton should pay one of his occasional visits to the bedroom when he turned out the gas, I lay down, and in spite of the important coming event, soon fell fast asleep. When I awoke the sun shone into the room, and getting out of bed and looking at the watch which was to be shortly converted into money, I saw that it was twenty minutes to six.

Losing no time over dressing, putting on the better of my two knickerbocker suits, I removed the brush and comb from the bag, putting in their place two pairs of stockings, a spare flannel shirt, a pair of gum-shoes, two handkerchiefs, and a flannel cricket cap.

Having little fear that any one but the servants would be about the house, I tightened the string of my bag, and went quietly downstairs. In the room where we kept our hats and overcoats I put on my laced boots, which already were somewhat thin in the soles, and my straw hat, as the sun had been extremely hot the last few days; and then I began to think of breakfast, because I made up my mind that it would be wise not to attempt to dispose of my watch and chain until Castlemore had been left some distance behind. About ten miles on the London road, although I did not know the precise distance, stood the small town of Broughton, and there, I thought, it might be safe to replenish my exchequer. Consequently, having not a penny in my purse at present, I must wait until I reached Broughton for breakfast, unless it were possible to obtain something to eat before I left the school.

So, leaving my bag in the hat-room, I went to the kitchen, where the cook was in the act of lighting the fire.

'I am most awfully hungry,' I continued. 'Do you think you could give me something to eat?'

Turning her broad back to the fireplace, she stared at me from head to foot, seeming especially to be impressed by the fact that I had put on my boots. But if she had a suspicion of my intention, she kept it to herself, and going to the larder, returned with a plate on which lay a thick slice of dry bread and another of cold beef.

Thanking her, I took the bread and meat and left the plate, then, returning to the hat-room for my bag, unbolted the front door without making a noise and walked calmly away from the house, beginning to eat my breakfast as soon as I reached the road. It was a beautiful summer morning, and the birds sang in the garden trees as I walked towards the margin of the town. Holding my bag by the long string I let it hang over my left shoulder, and stepping out briskly soon passed the last houses in Castlemore. Although my chief feeling was one of relief at having left Ascot House and the Turtons behind, it was impossible to avoid a glance back at the days which I had spent so happily with the Windleshams. I no longer had the least doubt that Captain Knowlton had been lost with the Seagull, and as I covered the first mile or two of my long journey, I became impressed with a conviction of all the difference his death had made to my life. Instead of Sandhurst, I could not tell what lay before me, and yet I scarcely doubted that, whatever it might be, the end would prove satisfactory.

I determined to lose no time over my first stage, and after walking for three-quarters of an hour, I passed a finger-post, which conveyed the information that Broughton lay still eight miles distant. Although I had told myself yesterday that Mr. Turton was very unlikely to start in pursuit, that he would be only too glad to get rid of an unremunerative boarder, this morning seemed to make the affair look different. He might consider that his duty compelled him to set out in search of the runaway, so that it would be wise not to rest until the first ten miles had been put between myself and the school.

I felt anxious to reach Broughton, in order to dispose of my watch and chain, being already somewhat afraid that there might arise some difficulty about its disposal. I had never attempted to sell anything before, nor was it easy to form an opinion concerning the value of the only things I had to barter. Still, four pounds appeared a likely sum, or three pounds ten at the lowest, and this would surely serve to provide food and shelter until I reached London.

Very few persons passed me by the way, but coming within sight of the first houses of the small town, which was in reality little more than a large village, I began to overtake and soon passed a man who I little imagined would cross my path again. Broughton is approached by a long decline, at the foot of which, on the right, stands a rural inn. Before its door this morning were a couple of waggons, one laden with hay, the other with sheep-turnips. A smock-frocked carter stood eating a chunk of bread and fat bacon, while a fox-terrier begged for scraps. Having walked ten miles in the hot sunshine, I was glad of any excuse to halt, so that a few minutes after passing the man in the road, I stopped to watch the dog.

While I stood there the man caught me up again, and he also came to a stop, between myself and the waggons. He was quite young, probably not more than one or two and twenty, tall and well-built, although he walked with a slouching gait. He wore corduroy trousers fastened round the waist by a narrow strap, and a blue shirt, with an unbuttoned jacket of fustian. On his head was a limp-brimmed, dirty, drab felt hat, and in his left hand he carried a red handkerchief, which apparently contained all his possessions, and in his right a stout stick which had been obviously cut from a hedge. His hair was extremely short and black, but he could not have shaved for some days; his face was deeply sunburnt and one of the most evil-looking I had ever seen. I imagined that he was looking for a job at hay-making or harvesting, and in that case he would have little difficulty in finding one at the present season.

Without entering the inn, he walked on towards the main street, which contained two dozen or more of small shops, and a few minutes later I took the same direction, soon beginning to look about for the kind of shop I wanted. After I had passed[Pg 36] the tramp a second time, I saw the usual sign of a pawnbroker's, and, thinking it would look better to remove my watch and chain before entering, I took the bar out of my button-hole.

Stopping outside the shop, I stood a few minutes gazing in at its window, which was filled with a miscellaneous collection: teapots, telescopes, knives, spoons, pipes, and one or two flutes and concertinas. Presently I summoned enough resolution to enter, and going to the counter, held out the watch and chain to the rather elderly man behind it.

'Oh, you do, do you?' he answered, and opening the watch, he began to examine the works. He[Pg 37] looked so doubtful that I began to fear he would refuse to buy, in which case I scarcely knew what to do, as it seemed unlikely that I should find another such shop that day. It was already past eleven o'clock, and after my walk I was beginning to feel hungry. Certainly he had no right to buy the watch from a boy of my age, but I suppose that after a little hesitation he was unable to resist the temptation to make a bargain.

Still holding the watch with the chain hanging down between his fingers, he broke into a laugh which did not sound very merry.

'Four pounds!' he exclaimed. 'Think yourself l[Pg 38]ucky if you get ten shillings. I will give you fifteen.'

It was a terrible disappointment, but at the time it did not occur to me to doubt the man's good faith. I came to the conclusion that I had ignorantly over-valued my property, and at least fifteen shillings would be better than nothing.

'Very well,' I answered, and, placing the watch and chain on a shelf behind him, the man opened a drawer under the counter. While he slowly counted out the money in silver, I happened to glance at the window. In a moment my eyes seemed to be riveted by those of the tramp, whose existence I had quite forgotten. He stood outside the shop, watching me with the greatest intentness, and suddenly I felt afraid, and wished he had gone on his way, and left me to go mine. I spent as long a time as possible counting the money and putting it in my knickerbockers' pocket, but when I at last left the shop the tramp was still staring in at the window.

Still, he took no notice of me as I walked away from the door, not even turning his head. With money in my pocket, my appetite suddenly became urgent, and seeing a coffee-shop a little further down the street, I entered and sat down at a table, which sadly required scrubbing. An untidy girl came to ask what I wanted, but when I suggested a chop—for 'chops and steaks' was painted over the window—she said I could only have eggs and bacon.

'Coffee,' I replied, and, after waiting ten minutes or longer, I was supplied with a plate of hot eggs and bacon, a thick slice of bread, and a cup of coffee. Not in a mood to be very particular, I ate every scrap with the greatest relish, and altogether I could not have spent less than three-quarters of an hour in the coffee-shop. My meal cost eightpence, and its effect was to make me feel extremely lazy and sleepy; but, having a long day before me, I determined to find some shady spot and rest for an hour or two until the heat of the day had passed. Then I would push along until I was about twenty miles from Castlemore, when I must find a lodging for the night.

GEORGE II. AT DETTINGEN.

At the battle of Dettingen, George II. was on horseback, and rode forward to reconnoitre the enemy. The horse, frightened by the cannonading, ran away with the King, and nearly carried him into the midst of the French lines. Fortunately, however, one of the attendants succeeded in stopping him. An ensign seized the horse's bridle, and enabled the King to dismount.

The King then abandoned his horse, and fought on foot at the head of his Hanoverian battalions. With his sword drawn and his body placed in the attitude of a fencing-master who is about to make a lunge, he continued to expose himself without flinching to the enemy's fire, and in bad English, but with the utmost pluck and spirit, called to his men to come on.

This was the last occasion upon which a sovereign of Great Britain was under the fire of an enemy.

MY FRIEND.

ho is my friend? Not he who seeks
By flattery to sway;
Who, whether I be good or bad,
Gives me his praise alway.

Who is my friend? Not he who frowns
On me when I am wrong,
But never gives encouragement
To make me glad and strong.

Who is my friend? 'Tis he who makes
My highest good his aim;
Whose love sincere is shown alike
In praise or wholesome blame.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

I.—'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'[1]

The scene of this story is laid at Land's End in Cornwall, or, to be precise, to the west of the little village of Sennen Cove, and the time chosen is toward the end of last century.

The month of the year was November, and the night was wild and tempestuous, so that the storm beat against the little thatched cottage in one room of which a woman was dying. Gathered about her bed was her husband, Owen Tresilian, and their son Philip and daughter Mary. We pass over the sad scene connected with the death of Mrs. Tresilian, just referring to her last words to the father of her children. There had been times in Owen's life when, finding himself without means and without work, with want staring himself, his wife, and his family, in the face, he had resorted to bad ways of obtaining money. He would never have yielded to the temptation had it not been for the persuasive words and occasionally the threats of his mates. Many of these men were wreckers; that is to say, they deliberately placed on the coast false lights which lured passing ships to destruction. It was from the wrecks of the disabled vessels that they gathered up the treasures carried to them by the waves, and it was known that one or two of the more desperate characters among them had not hesitated to throw back into the water the poor unfortunate creatures whom they had lured to destruction, as they struggled to reach the shore. Owen, indeed, had never gone thus far, but he had participated in their illicit gains, and had himself helped to kindle the lights that were to[Pg 39] wreck the boats. His dying wife, whose trouble when she heard of this was very great, had made him promise that whatever might occur after her death, he would never again be guilty of such wicked work. He had promised her faithfully that none should ever force him again to engage in such undertakings, and he had added solemnly, 'They may kill me first, but I would rather starve than do it.' Scarcely had she finished speaking to husband and children, when wild shouts were heard outside the cottage, from the midst of the storm, 'Come on, men! come on—a wreck! a wreck!' Lights passed the little windows, and the clatter of many feet along the path close by told the family what manner of men were about.

The story goes on to tell how Owen, after his wife's death, his son Philip and his daughter Mary, endeavoured to lead lives very different from those of the greater number of their neighbours. They had come under the influence of Wesley's teaching, and were not afraid to let it be seen that they wished to honour God and keep His commandments. Owen's mates, who had known him in the days when he had thought very much as they did, left no stone unturned to show their ill-will to him and his family now that so marked a change had taken place. There was in the village a certain Arthur Pendrean. He was the son of old Squire Pendrean, who had at first greatly opposed his son's wish to become a clergyman. On one occasion, when Wesley had been preaching in the village, and had been in danger from the rough crowd, Arthur, then but a boy, had been so indignant at their behaviour, that he had rushed forward with the intention of placing himself between the old man and his rough assailants.

A few days later this story reached the Squire's ears, who, in a violent passion, sent for his son and told him that if he ever went near the Methodists again, he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors. A few years later, when, between sixteen and seventeen years of age, the youth left school, he told his father boldly that he wished to go to Oxford, and that he intended to become a clergyman. The boy had a hard time of it before he won the old Squire's consent, but in time leave was given.

Arthur Pendrean had from the first taken a keen interest in the Tresilian family, and had watched most carefully over Philip. He was aware of the ill-will felt by the rest of the villagers towards his charges, and made it no secret that he was one of the sternest opponents of the evil practice of wrecking. It was well known that Arthur had set his face against their evil designs, and that it was his determination to have a lighthouse built, no matter at what cost, to warn off ships from this doubly dangerous spot. The worst-disposed among the men would have made short work of the young clergyman could they have had their way and escaped consequences. At least, they would prevent, if it lay in their power, the carrying out of his cherished plan, the erection of a lighthouse. It was perhaps natural that hating the 'parson,' they should not feel kindly disposed towards those who closely followed his advice and over whom he so carefully watched. It was in these circumstances that the following occurrences took place. Arthur was about to ride to St. Sennen one Sunday morning, when his faithful old servant, Roger, came up to him and said, 'I hear, Mr. Arthur, that a cutter with a press-gang on board is at anchor off Sennen Cove. Sunday is a favourite day for those chaps to land; they always find the men at home then, and so they are easier to catch. I thought I would warn you about it, sir, because their game is to carry off all the men and lads who are called Methodists.'

'This is bad news,' Arthur had replied. 'I knew a press-gang was in the neighbourhood, but never thought of their coming our way. I will gallop down to Sennen Cove at once.'

Arrived at the Cove, Arthur found everything as usual, the cutter lying quietly at anchor and a few men and boys sitting or lying lazily on the beach watching her, and speculating as to the intentions of those on board.

On Sunday afternoon we again see the young curate; we hear his stern voice as he asks a group of six stalwart men, 'What are you doing here, men? Take your hands off those lads at once; what right have you to drag them away?' We see the men, furious at this repulse, falling upon Arthur from behind and dragging him to the ground, and Philip with him. The young clergyman, brave man that he was, was no match for six assailants at once, and was of course unable to withstand the combined attack. Promising Philip that he would have him released when he reached Plymouth, for he was under seventeen, and handing him as a memento a small Testament, and commending him to the care of God, he was obliged to witness the rowing away of the boat that carried his young charge every minute farther out of sight.

Philip's capture would not have been brought about had it not been for the ill designs of the youths of his own age who were no friends to Arthur Pendrean. The scheme for decoying him into the immediate neighbourhood of the press-gang belonged to two of the worst characters in the village. But we will not enter into details of their scheming. It is enough to know that for the time being their wicked designs were successful, and we find Philip within a very short time on board the Royal Sovereign, one of the finest line-of-battle ships in Earl Howe's fleet.

The trouble and grief of his father and little sister when they learned what had happened was great. Owen at first refused all comfort. It was in vain that Mr. Pendrean promised to spare no pains to bring the lad home again: the bereaved father would not be comforted. It was in this state of mind that he set out for Falmouth, accompanied by Arthur Pendrean, as they thought it not improbable that the cutter might put into this port before proceeding to Plymouth. Her crew were, however, too wide awake, and the press-gang too anxious to secure prize-money, to run any risk of losing those whom they had captured, and pressed for his Majesty's navy; they therefore made straight for the fleet. How Philip Tresilian subsequently fought in the battle of the first of June, how he saw for the first time and understood something of the horrors of war, are all graphically described by the author.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This favourite book is by James F. Cobb. (Wells Gardner, Darton, & Co., London.)

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

I.—'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'

e shall now take a peep at the lighthouse and its first watcher. 'That will never be finished,' said one of the wreckers, when he saw the work slowly progressing on the lonely rock at Land's End. But it was finished. Arthur Pendrean wrote to many rich ship-owners in London and elsewhere, and at length, by the aid of their money and the toil of skilful workmen, a light began to burn in the Longships Lighthouse on September 29, 1795. Those were early days of lighthouses, and experience had hardly yet proved the risk and the danger of leaving one man alone on a solitary rock to attend to the lights, often cut off for days, or even weeks, from all communication with the shore. In these days things are very different. Three men, and sometimes four, are appointed to take charge of lighthouses, such as the Longships, Eddystone, and others.

One night a furious gale from the south-west raged along the coast; many were the watchers at Sennen and other villages along the shore, keeping a sharp look-out for wrecks; but whether owing to the lighthouse or to the fact that there were not many vessels about just then, the evil hopes of those who were longing to profit by the misfortunes of others were frustrated. Owen felt very anxious about the lonely lighthouse-keeper, whom he could not help thinking of as trimming his lamps on the solitary rock with the roar of the ocean around and below him. He knew that one who had not been there could not possibly have any idea of the awful noise on the Longships Rock occasioned by the roaring and the raging of the waves in the caverns underneath. We cannot stay to describe all that Jordan, the lighthouse-keeper, in his loneliness experienced, nor to tell how the waves, leaping above the lighthouse, sometimes completely covered it. We see him as he walks about, now up and now down, almost terrified by the fierce yells and shrieks which fell upon his ears, and at last watch him, in despair, fling himself upon his bed. Oh, that he had never been tempted to come to this accursed, haunted rock—for haunted he felt certain it was! Like most sailors, he was more or less superstitious, and the angry roar in the caverns beneath sounded to him like the roar of hundreds of imprisoned wild beasts, until, by-and-by, losing all his presence of mind, his hair turns white in a single night with terror, and he becomes a maniac. It was thus that Arthur Pendrean found him several days later, when, seeing, to his great grief, that the lamps were unlit, he put out to learn the cause in a little boat manned by Owen and one or two of his friends. How Owen and the others failed to effect a landing on the rock, and how the brave young clergyman made a bold leap, springing safely upon a projecting ledge of the Longships, is all thrillingly told in the chapter headed 'A Hazardous Voyage and a Bold Leap.'

Perhaps the most surprising part of the story is the bravery of Mary Tresilian, Philip's little sister, who, although only a child, when she sees that no man can be found to undertake the dangerous and difficult work of keeping the lamps lit on the Longships, begs her father most earnestly to himself undertake the task, and permit her to accompany him. At first he would not hear of it, neither would Arthur Pendrean; but the child pleaded so earnestly and fearlessly that, in the end, no one else coming forward to undertake the duty, they yielded to her prayers. And so we find the light burning again in the lighthouse, thanks to the courage and unselfishness of a brave little girl.

'Trust me, I will be a match for them, somehow or other,' said Nichols, when he knew who the new lighthouse-keepers were. 'I have an old grudge against that Tresilian, and I mean to pay him out. As to that parson, you all know what I think of him.'

'Well, John, there's many a chap here will be glad enough to help you,' said Pollard.

A very exciting chapter is that entitled 'A New Conspiracy,' which tells how Owen, coming ashore with some fish, was waylaid by a ruthless gang of wreckers and smugglers, who tied him up as a prisoner, and would have left him to starve had it not been for one of them with a little more heart than the rest, who cut the cords that bound his wrists, seeing there was no chance of his escape from the cavern into which they thrust him, bolting and barring the gate that closed it. A more wretched dungeon could scarcely be imagined. Dark even in brilliant noon-day, damp and dripping with slimy sea-weed, the ground full of pools of stagnant sea water, the air so chilly that it seemed to freeze one to the very bones, such was the place to which these cowardly enemies consigned the unfortunate man. And he? His thoughts were of his little child. Truly his troubles were great; his wife was dead, his son torn from him, and now his daughter, his only child, doomed, as he thought, to a terrible fate, while he, her father, was a prisoner and powerless to help her. But was he powerless? Could he not pray? It was this thought that caused him to fall on his knees in his lonely prison and entreat protection for her from the Father in heaven.

And Mary, what was she doing? At first, when she found that her father did not come back, she gave way to grief. The darkness coming on and the tempest rising, with trembling hands she tried to make a fire. Suddenly the thought struck her that the lamps were not lit, and she determined, brave child that she was, to light them herself. She had often watched her father do it, and she knew how. She stood on tip-toe to reach the lamps, but they were far, far above her. Nothing daunted, she piled one thing above another until every article that she could lay hold of was in use except the old Bible. Being a very reverent little girl, she could not bear the idea of treading on the Holy Book; but, at last, when she had reflected that[Pg 43] her standing on the book for the purpose she had in view, the saving of the lives of many poor sailors, could do it no harm, she placed it reverently on the top of the pile, and above it, that she might not tread directly on to it, a large basin. And now she was just high enough, and found, to her great delight, that she could light the lamps. Great was the surprise of Nichols and his companions when they saw, as they ascended rising ground with their false light, the bright rays of light streaming out from the Longships. For a minute or two they could say nothing; then a volley of wicked words proceeded from them.

'Who would have thought it? That child has managed to light the lamps, and there they are burning as brightly as ever.'

'Who would have thought it indeed?' exclaimed Nichols. 'If it had ever entered my head that the girl would have been up to those tricks, I'd have rowed out in Tresilian's boat, carried her off from the lighthouse, and locked her up with her father; and now here's all my fine plan spoiled.'

For the beautiful ending of this attractive story, of Owen's release and Philip's rescue from drowning by his own father, and of the punishment that befell the wicked men who occasioned the deaths of so many brave fellows, we can only say that our young readers should go to the book itself, where they will find these facts all set forth in a thoroughly interesting manner. To-day a new lighthouse stands on the Longships, and the light shines out at an elevation of one hundred and ten feet above high-water mark, and is visible at a distance of eighteen miles.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

II.—SOME WEAPONS OF OFFENCE.

The sting of the bee and the lancet of the gnat, although fashioned of very different materials, bear a close likeness in their mechanism. In each case the piercing organ is, in the first place, a gouge-like weapon which prepares the way for more delicate lancets. But in the spider we find a very different piece of machinery for the injection of the poison. It is formed by a pair of peculiarly modified legs which act as jaws, and are armed each with a powerful claw, at the tip of which, as in the poison-fang of the viper, is a small hole. Out of this hole a drop of poison oozes when the prey is seized, and this has the effect of paralysing the victim. The poison is formed in a curious bag, or 'gland' (G.L), which communicates with the claw by means of a long tube or duct.

Many people feel a remarkable repugnance or even dread for spiders. This, in many cases at least, is due to the supposed venom in their bite. Yet, except the famous 'Tarantula,' no spiders really inflict a painful wound. Tales of fearsome black spiders are common enough. One of the spiders known as 'line weavers' is reputed to have a very poisonous bite. To test the truth of this, one authority on spiders repeatedly allowed himself to be bitten, yet suffered no inconvenience! In the early and barbarous days of medical practice, a spider was frequently applied to the wrists of patients suffering from fever.

Even the virulence of the dreaded Tarantula's bite has been greatly exaggerated. It was supposed to cause the disease known as Tarantism: the victim was seized with a mad desire to dance. The mania, while it lasted, was accompanied with leaping, contortions, gesticulations, and wild cries, until finally the fit of hysteria, for such it was, wore itself out. The methods of treatment were many and curious. One of the most favoured was to bury the patient up to the neck! But the dulcet strains of music were believed to be the most powerful of all cures, and certain peculiar tunes came to be regarded as especially effective, and hence became known as Tarantella!

Parts of India now desert are said to have been deprived of their inhabitants through the dread caused by certain huge spiders known as the Galeodes. Their bite is without doubt extremely painful, and may cause violent headache, fainting fits, or even temporary paralysis. Camels and sheep are sometimes so severely bitten by these spiders that death results.

Occasionally the spider catches a Tartar, for wasps and bees now and again get entangled in the web spread for more helpless victims. Rushing out in a blind fury, the spider closes with his captive, and then follows a fight to the death. Sometimes the spider wins, but as often as not the sting of his would-be victim is thrust home with deadly effect, for the soft and pulpy body of the spider offers a target not easily missed.

There is a saying that we should 'eat to live,' but the dragon-flies seem to have reversed this rule, for they appear almost to 'live to eat,' their appetites being enormous. This is especially true of the larval or infantile stages of growth, and the manner of capturing their prey is peculiar.

Readers of Chatterbox, who combine a love of natural history with a fondness for boating, have probably many a time watched the gauze-winged dragon-fly hawking for flies. But how many have realised that, below the surface of the stream, the coming generation of dragon-flies was waging a precisely similar war—a war, too, even more relentless? The full-fledged dragon-fly cannot bring himself to venture out, even to eat, unless the sun be shining; but the budding dragon-fly has not yet learnt to be so particular, and hunts incessantly, be the weather fine or wet. The apparatus by which his prey is captured cannot, however, be easily described. The mouth of an insect is made up of many separate parts, and that which in other insects forms the 'under-lip,' is in the young dragon-fly peculiarly modified to form what is known as the 'mask.' This remarkable piece of apparatus may be compared to a pair of nippers mounted on a jointed and freely movable handle. When not in use these nippers are kept folded up close under the head; but as soon as prey comes within reach, the nippers flash out, and the victim is seized and brought to the powerful jaws, where it is rapidly torn to pieces.

The weapons of offence of the spider and dragon-fly larva differ in one important particular from those of the bee and the water-bug, and similar insects: the former are used for the capture of victims intended as food, whilst the latter are employed, in[Pg 44] the case of the bee, for attack or defence; and in the case of the water-bug for robbing the animal or plant of a small and quite insignificant quantity of its blood, or sap, as the case may be.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 38.)

houghts of the ill-favoured tramp had once or twice come into my head while I ate my eggs and bacon, but, perhaps as one result of the meal, I felt very little doubt that he had by this time got some distance ahead, while the rest which I had determined to take would allow him to leave me still further behind. On coming into the street again, however, I took the precaution to look to the right and left, and rejoiced to see no sign of the man. The houses of Broughton soon grew farther and farther apart, but I had to walk a mile or more without seeing any tempting resting-place. The sun was very hot, and my legs were beginning to ache, when, at the foot of a slight hill, I saw that the road was edged on each side by a thick wood, whose shade looked particularly inviting. As soon as I reached the shade, I found that I was not alone, for sitting in the road were two men wearing wire spectacles and breaking stones with a hammer. They paid not the slightest attention to me, while, for my part, I felt rather glad of their presence. The shade made the spot seem more lonely than the road I had as yet traversed, so that I stepped into the wood on my right with a pleasant feeling of security. A few yards from the road I lay down at the foot of a large beech-tree, and resting my head on my bag, after listening for a few minutes to the ring of the hammers in the road, I must have fallen asleep. On reopening my eyes I instinctively felt for my watch, and when I realised that I should never see it again, it seemed that I had lost a familiar friend. The sun now shone lower in the sky, and it must in any case be time that I continued my journey.

Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I walked towards the road, when what was my dismay to see the tramp, who I imagined had long left me behind, seated by the roadside, smoking a very short, black pipe and gazing silently at the stone-breakers. Although he took no notice of my presence, I now began to wonder whether he had deliberately followed me from Broughton, or whether his presence in this shady part of the road was merely a chance coincidence. It was quite possible that he had[Pg 45] hidden himself while I was in the coffee-shop, watched me from its door, and set forth in my wake. If this were the case, his purpose seemed scarcely doubtful, for he had certainly seen me receive the money for my watch and chain.

Still, it was not possible to stay where I was all day, so reluctantly turning my back on the stone-breakers, I walked on, trying to hope that, after all, the tramp might be perfectly harmless in spite of his evil appearance. Though strongly tempted to look behind and ascertain whether he was following or not, I warned myself that it would be wiser to appear to take no notice, till, at last, when the stone-breakers must have been half a mile to the rear, I looked back, and saw, to my horror, that the tramp was still dogging my steps.[Pg 46]

CHAPTER VI.

Half panic-stricken for the moment, I quickened my pace; but when I looked behind again ten minutes later, it appeared that the tramp had lessened the distance between us.

It now began to seem like a nightmare. There was no prospect of getting away from my pursuer. If I hastened, he walked faster, and I no longer felt the least doubt that his intention was to rob me. Although the road was little frequented, it was by no means deserted. An occasional bicyclist would pass, or a waggon, or a dog-cart, while here and there stood farm-houses and cottages by the way-side.

I believed that the tramp would dog my steps until dark, and that in the meantime he would not allow me out of his sight. Yet, until the present, I had no actual cause for complaint, and when I met a policeman, there seemed no excuse for referring to the tramp's existence. Feeling bound to speak to the policeman, however, I stopped to inquire the time, and he eyed me curiously as he took out his watch. My clothes were by this time covered with dust, and no doubt I appeared a disreputable figure.

'Five past five,' said the policeman. I must have slept in the wood longer than I had thought.

The finger-posts told me that a place named Polehampton lay ahead, but I would not inquire the distance, and so tell the policeman that I did not know much about my destination. But when I fancied he must be close to the tramp, I looked back, just in time to see them exchange a nod in passing.

Every time I looked behind after this, my pursuer appeared to be gaining, although he took care not to overtake me. He could easily have done so had he wished, because I was becoming extremely tired, the more, no doubt, because of the fear which oppressed me. As this gained strength, I did the worst thing possible—playing, as it were, into the tramp's hands if his purpose was what I suspected. But this walk along the straight, open road as evening fell became gradually more and more unbearable. I even began to ask myself whether it could be actually a nightmare, and I should presently awake to find myself in bed at Ascot House, scarcely knowing which would be preferable.

Seeing a stile leading to a field-path on my right, I suddenly determined to climb over it, and though I had no notion whither it lead, to take to my heels, regardless of everything but the chance of leaving the tramp behind. In a second I was over, and, doubling my fists, began to run. There were some cattle in the field, and the path appeared to end at another stile, beyond which was a plantation of chestnut-trees. To the left, beyond a hedge, lay a large plot of waste ground; to the right, a dense wood, where I could hear some pigeons cooing.

I did not stay to look back until I reached the farther stile, a good deal out of breath, and then, to my intense relief, I saw nobody in the path. I persuaded myself that the tramp must have reached the first stile before now, and that, as there was no sign of him, he had gone on his way. Perhaps, I thought, as I climbed over the second stile, I had wronged the man after all, and had simply been the prey of my own timidity. Resting on the top of the stile a moment, I began to look around. In front was a narrow path through the chestnut plantation, and it must lead somewhere, though I knew not where. But I determined to follow it, thus making a slight divergence from the main road, and finding a way back to it to-morrow. Meantime, I might come to a village, where it would be possible to obtain some supper and a bed. So, rejoicing to have shaken off my nightmare, I sprang to the ground on the other side of the stile, when immediately I felt a hand on my collar, and saw the dark eyes of the tramp once more peering into my own.

He had, of course, dived into the wood when he saw me climb over the first stile, and, cutting off the corner, had been coolly awaiting my arrival. On the whole, I think that being in his grasp was almost preferable to the feeling that he was dogging my steps. His left hand gripped the collar of my jacket and flannel shirt, and instantly I began to wriggle, twisting my leg about his own in an attempt to bring him to the ground; but the man was of enormous strength, and, freeing himself, he shook me as a terrier shakes a rat, until I felt there was little breath left in my body.

Yet I did not give in without another struggle. I knew that he would take every penny I possessed, and that there was nothing else on which to raise any money. I was still nearly ninety miles from London, and already ready for another meal. I butted my head into his stomach, I struck out madly with my fists, I writhed and kicked, until, raising his right arm, he brought down his fist on my head, and after that I knew nothing for some time.

When I regained consciousness, I lay in the plantation about two yards from the path, just where I had been flung, I suppose. My head and body seemed to ache all over, but, on attempting to rise to my feet, I found no difficulty, beyond a slight giddiness. My bag had disappeared, my knickerbocker pocket, which had contained my total capital of fourteen shillings and eightpence, was sticking out empty, and, of course, there was no sign of the tramp. Walking to the stile, I found that my left ankle pained me, although not very severely; I could also see in the lessening light that my clothes were considerably torn.

So hopeless appeared the outlook that I confess I rested my arms on the top of the stile, buried my face on them and sobbed, until the increasing darkness warned me that crying would not provide a bed for the night. A bed for the night! But how could I obtain a bed without money? Still, it was not practicable to remain where I was, while I thought it would be better to take my chance through the plantation than to return to the road, where I might even meet the tramp again. Certainly, whichever direction I followed, I had no wish to walk very far. I had never felt quite so worn out in my life, as I continued my way through the plantation and a field beyond, the gate of which opened into a pleasant[Pg 47] country lane. Here I turned to the right, as the main road lay to the left, and I had not walked many yards before I reached a pretty farm-house, standing well back, with a barn on its left, in which some cows were lowing. The sky was by this time of a dark blue, and one small star twinkled. I could not help looking rather longingly at the cosy house, and, while I looked, a lamp was carried into one of the front rooms and a red blind was drawn down. However, it was no use lingering there, so I walked on beside a hedge, fragrant with honeysuckle, past one or two fields, until I came to a black gate with something shadowy behind it. Stopping by the gate, I saw that the object in the field was part of a haystack, one side being cut into a kind of terrace. Four black calves came to the gate, but they turned tail and trotted away again as I put my leg over the top rail, for I at once made up my mind that there would be no better place to sleep than the haystack. The night was fine and hot, and my body ached to such a degree that I felt I could sleep anywhere.

TAKE CARE OF THE DAYS.

he little days come, one by one,
And smile into our face;
Each hath its dawn and set of sun,
Each hath its little place.

Then scorn them not, but use them well,
Treat each one as a friend;
Neglect them not! We cannot tell
How soon our days may end.

Heed not the years! Make every day
With love and labour fair;
The years, then, as they roll away,
Will need no further care.

THE CAPTAIN'S TURN FIRST.

The captain of a merchant ship, on being appointed to a new vessel, heard that his crew had a very bad name for the use of oaths. He determined to put an end to bad language on his ship, and, knowing how hard it would be to do so by the mere exercise of authority, thought of a novel plan which was entirely successful. He summoned the men and addressed them thus:

'I want to ask you all a favour, and I know that British sailors will hardly refuse a favour to their new captain. It is my duty to take the lead in everything, and especially in one thing. Now, will you grant me my favour?'

'It is this, then. I want to take the lead in swearing, and to use the first oath on board this ship, before any of you begin to swear.'

The men were at first surprised at the strange request, but they soon recovered and gave the captain a rousing cheer. Needless to say, the captain's oath was never uttered, and so the men had no excuse for swearing.

SAVED BY TWENTY GUINEAS.

hanks to his quickness of brain and fleetness of foot, M. de B——, a French Royalist officer, was able to use a well-known device and so effect an escape from imminent death.

On a certain memorable morning, sixty-nine brave soldiers were executed by the Republicans. The story of these deaths, and of one remarkable escape, is related by a fellow-prisoner who witnessed the scene.

At nine o'clock in the morning the prisoners were startled by the entrance of a Republican officer, who held a piece of paper in his hand, and was attended by an escort of about twenty soldiers. As he came in he announced:

'Citizens! you are to accompany me. Those whose names I shall call will not return to this place. As I read out the roll, let each one named range himself on the right-hand side.'

The men obeyed this order in silence; no one knew what it meant, and all feared the worst. Only two names were excepted from the roll; the other prisoners, seventy in number, stood in line, awaiting their unknown fate.

'The word was given to march,' says the narrator, 'and the whole seventy-two of us, guarded by a large number of Republican soldiers, filed out from the gloomy gaol. We were taken to the seashore, where a halt was made; then the officer in charge read the death-sentence, adding, as he turned to us—the two whose names were excepted from the fatal list—these words:

'"These others will not be sentenced until further evidence has been heard, but they will be present at the execution of those condemned."

'The unhappy men were then and there shot, one by one. This work of horror went on for an hour, and we, whose time had not yet come, were forced to stand by, fully expecting that the same fate would shortly be our own.

'Sixty-nine had fallen, and at last came the turn of De B——. The four men told off to shoot him said, "We are extremely sorry to do this, but it is the law, and we cannot help ourselves; and now, if you have any money about you, please bestow it upon us."

'A happy thought flashed through the Royalist's brain. "I have twenty guineas," he replied calmly, "but I do not desire to cause any jealousy amongst you. I will therefore fling down the coins, and let each one get what he can."

'With a dexterous movement of his hand he sent the golden coins spinning in all directions. The soldiers, in their greedy eagerness, forgot the prisoner for a moment, and scrambled for the money; this was what M. de B—— had reckoned on. As he was an excellent runner, taking to his heels, he promptly fled, got safely away, and was never recaptured.'[Pg 48]

THE ADMIRAL AND THE FISHERMAN.

M. de Tourville, a French Admiral who lived in the beginning of King William the Third's reign, proposed to make a descent on the English coast, and, as his intention was to land somewhere in Sussex, he sent for a fisherman, a native of that county, who had been taken prisoner by one of his ships, in hopes of obtaining some useful information concerning the state of the Government. He asked the fisherman to whom his countrymen were most attached, to King James or to the Prince of Orange, styled King William.

The poor man, confounded by these questions, made the Admiral this reply: 'I have never heard of the gentlemen you mention; they may be very good lords for anything I know; they never did me any harm, and so God bless them both. As for the Government, how should I know anything about it, since I can neither read nor write? All I have to do is to take care of my boat and my nets, and sell my fish.'

'Then, since you are indifferent to both parties,' said the Admiral, 'and are a good mariner, you can have no objection to serve on board my ship.'

'I fight against my country!' answered the fisherman, with great vigour. 'No, not for the ransom of a king!'

GOOD-NIGHT, GOOD-DAY!

e got up to welcome the swallows
This morning as soon as the sun;
Then over the hills and the hollows
We went for a beautiful run.
The daisies were ready to meet us—
All over the meadows they grew;
But now we must say:
'Good-night, O good-day!
We've been very happy with you.'

We sang with the busy bees humming
O'er blossoms too bright to forget,
And when the soft breezes were coming
We saw the grass bow as they met.
Oh, may all the hearts that have known you
Now beat with a pleasure like ours,
And cheerfully say:
'Good-night, O good-day!
And thank you for sunshine and flowers.'

WHALEBONE.

Many thrilling stories have been written about the dangers of whale-fishing. The perils and hardships of whaling expeditions are braved in order that we may be supplied principally with two things—whale-oil and whalebone. If you can learn what whalebone is, and what is its use, you will know a good deal about the habits of the whale itself.

The substance which we call whalebone is not true bone. It would be much more correct to call it whales' teeth, as it occupies the same position as teeth, and, in a measure, serves the same purpose. Moreover, the whale has a skeleton of true bones underlying its flesh, and serving as a framework for its huge, bulky body. These bones are very light and porous, and this is a great advantage to the whale, which spends most of its time floating upon the surface of the water without having to make much effort.

There are numerous kinds of whales, and they do not all yield the substance which we call whalebone. The sperm whale, or cachalot, has teeth in its lower jaw, and no whalebone whatever. The Greenland whale, on the other hand, which is the one most sought after for its oil, has no teeth, but abundance of whalebone, which hangs from the sides of its upper jaw.

In order to get some idea of what this whalebone is like as it hangs in the whale's mouth, we must try to picture what the whale itself is like. The largest of them grow to something like sixty feet in length. The head is unusually large, and forms about one-third of the whole body, and the inside of the mouth is about as large as a ship's cabin or a very small room. The strips of whalebone, which reach from the upper jaw to the lower one, must, therefore, be very large. The largest strips, which hang in the middle of the jaws, are rather like large planks, being from ten to fifteen feet long, and about twelve inches across at their widest part. They are thinner than planks, however, and perhaps we might better compare them to long and broad saw-blades. There are altogether about three hundred of these whalebone planks or blades in the whale's mouth. They are set transversely—that is to say, one narrow edge of each piece touches the tongue, while the other edge lies against the cheek or lip. They lie so close together that from the middle of the edge of one blade to the middle of the edge of the next the distance is less than an inch, and yet there is a space between them. The whole set extends like a huge grate round the whale's mouth, the bars of whalebone being long in the middle of the sides of the jaws, and growing shorter near the back and front.

Whalebone is very fibrous or stringy, and it splits very readily. The lower ends of the pieces in the whale's mouth are split and frayed into stiff bristles, and the inner edges are frayed in the same way, while the outer edges are made smooth, so that they do not hurt the inside of the animal's lips. The roof of the whale's mouth is covered with smaller pieces of whalebone hanging down like bristled quills. Many of these are only a few inches long, but they make the whole of the upper part of the whale's mouth rough and bristly.

The creature's tongue is an enormous one, often measuring six yards long and three yards wide. Its throat, however, is so small that sailors often say a herring would choke it. What can be the use of such a large mouth and tongue, and such large bars of whalebone to a creature which has so small a throat?

On the surface of the Arctic Sea, where the whale lives, there are swarms of living creatures. Some of these are jelly-fish, like those which are often left upon the sea-shore when the tide goes out. But one of the commonest of these lowly animals is a little[Pg 51] soft-bodied creature about an inch and a half long, which moves along through the water with the help of two organs like wings or paddles. It is called the Clio borealis, and it is very rarely seen near the shore. It is upon these creatures that the whale feeds. Opening its mouth wide, it rushes through the sea, and takes in a crowd of these soft-bodied animals, along with the water in which they are swimming. Closing its mouth, it drives out the water through its plates of whalebone, and the little creatures are caught in the bristles as in a net. Its great tongue is lifted up, and crushes them all into soft pulp, which is easily swallowed, even down the whale's small throat.

Thus every part of the whale's mouth is altered to suit its strange mode of feeding. The hard teeth, which would be of no use for biting small pulpy animals, are done away with, and a new growth of whalebone appears, which is of the utmost service in catching the whale its food.

Whalebone has been used for many purposes. It is split up into little pieces, and used for light frameworks, which are required to be stiff, but, at the same time, elastic. It used to be used for the ribs of umbrellas and for ladies' hoops. It was also split very small and used for the bristles of brushes. But it is now becoming scarce, and other substances are generally used in its place.

SAVED BY THE ENEMY.

The following story of the Crimean War, told by the Russian author, Turgenieff, is well authenticated.

A young Russian Lieutenant, named Sergius Ivanovitch, was one cold night with an attacking party whose object was to drive a body of French soldiers from their position in front of the Russian lines. Wishing to be as free from hindrances as possible, this young lieutenant did not take his military cloak.

The French proved to be well posted on the edge of a wood. At the end of a desperate fight, the Russians were forced to retreat, leaving behind them their dead and wounded. Among the latter was Sergius Ivanovitch.

How he now longed for his cloak! He suffered even more from the cold than from his wound. Although a bullet was in his leg, he knew that the exposure, rather than the wound, would be the death of him. With many a shiver and groan, he was trying to examine his leg, when he heard some one say in French:

'You had better leave it alone. Be patient, and disturb your wound as little as possible.'

The man who thus spoke was a veteran French captain, who lay close by, more severely injured than Sergius.

'You are right, no doubt,' said the Russian; 'but I shall die of cold before morning.'

Then the Frenchman blamed him for coming out in the snow without his cloak. 'I have learned by experience,' said he, 'never to go out without mine. This time, however, it will not save me, for I am mortally wounded.'

'No, my dear enemy, I shall not last until help arrives. It is all over with me, for the shot has gone deep. Here! take my cloak. Wrap yourself up in it and sleep. One can sleep anywhere at your age.'

The young Russian protested in vain. He felt the cloak laid upon him, and its warmth sent him to sleep.

When he awoke in the morning, the French captain lay dead at his side. The Russian never forgot this generous act of one whom the policy of his nation had made his enemy.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

II.—FINGAL'S CAVE, STAFFA.

hile we shall have to consider some of the most wonderful caverns of other lands, we must not forget that Great Britain can boast of perhaps the most beautiful cave in the world. As we are a nation of sailors, it seems fitting that our marvellous cavern should rise directly from the sea, and that its pavement should be the mighty ocean. It is claimed as the most beautiful because it has the advantage of light to exhibit its wonders, as well as the endless variety of the dancing waves to illuminate its dark pillars with a never-ending flash of gems, as the waters dash against its walls in storms, or lap lovingly round them in the summer sunlight.

Fingal's Cave is one of many fringing the cliffs of the little island of Staffa, off the coast of Mull, in Scotland. These caves are all formed of what learned people call basalt, which means rocks moulded by the action of fire. Basalt contains a good deal of an opaque glassy substance, and its colour may be pale blue, dark blue, grey, brown, or black. This rock has a special faculty for building columns with (usually) six sides, but the form varies as much as the colour. These pillars are divided at fairly equal distances into lengths, just as stone pillars in a cathedral are generally built, and, wonderful to say, the joints, when closely examined, are found to be of the cup-and-ball pattern, on which our own bones are put into their sockets.

Basalt is usually hard and tough, and it is supposed, though with no certainty, that the regularity of the columns is the result of the contraction of the rock in cooling after undergoing great heat.

The name Staffa is a Scandinavian word meaning 'Pillar Island,' and no doubt its wonders have been known from very remote times. It is quite near the island of Iona, one of the earliest settlements of the Christian missionaries from Ireland.[Pg 52]

A little distance from the shore is the tiny island of Bouchallie, or the Herdsman, which is entirely composed of basaltic rocks of great beauty; and from this islet a colonnade of pillars leads to the entrance of Fingal's Cave. The mouth of the cave is forty-two feet wide, the roof is fifty-six feet above, and the length of the cavern is two hundred and twenty-seven feet.

All down the sides pillars line the walls, and from above hang the ends of pendant columns. Below is the clear blue water, where even at low tide there is a depth of eighteen feet.

'Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself it seemed would raise
A Minster to her Maker's praise.'

Certainly no service that human tongues could utter could surpass in impressiveness the strains raised to the glory of the Creator by the waves as they enter this temple of His own building, and toss aloft their offerings of glistening water and snowy foam.

Fingal, the hero from whom the cave takes its name, was a mighty man of renown in the legendary days of both Scotland and Ireland. He figures in the poems of Ossian, as well as in Gaelic ballads as Fion or Fion na Gael, and no other lore has ever been so dear to the peasants of these countries as the record of the marvellous deeds of Fingal.

Another remarkable cave in Staffa is 'Clam-shell Cave,' which is of immense size. It is really a huge fissure in the cliff, of which one side is wonderfully like the ribs of a ship or the markings on a clam-shell. This appearance is the result of immense pillars of basalt crossing the rock in even lines.

A rough iron stairway has been put up the cliff to enable visitors to look into the cave from above.

The 'Boat Cave' is smaller than that of Fingal, but the basaltic formation is even more regular: this cavern runs for one hundred and fifty feet, and is about twelve feet broad.

Indeed the whole coast of Staffa is studded with caves, into some of which a boat can enter when the water is smooth, but this is not of very frequent occurrence on this storm-beaten coast.

THE TEAL.

What is the Teal? It is a bird once plentiful in many parts of Britain from which it has now vanished, owing to the draining of marshes and the cultivation of coast-lands, for it loves watery places. Being a notable species of the duck tribe, it is a prize to the hunter of wild-fowl. Not only is the bird thought a delicacy, but when the hunter comes upon a party of them he can generally manage to secure several. It is a shy bird, avoiding the abodes of mankind and large ponds or rivers. What it likes is a still, rushy pool, or some sluggish brook overhung with vegetation. About the South of[Pg 54] England it is seldom observed except in winter; occasionally it keeps company with other wild ducks when the weather is severe. Should one of them be alarmed by the approach of a possible enemy, while it is on a brook, it usually flies up and skims just above the water for some distance, when it will quietly settle near the bank, or it may drop into the water and swim away rapidly.

In their appearance the male and female birds are very different. The male teal is particularly handsome; the head is chestnut brown, having a glossy patch on each side; the neck and back are black, pencilled with grey; the wings exhibit a green spot, set in velvety black, and underneath, the colours are black and buff. But his female companion has no bright tints; she is attired in dull black and grey, which is an advantage to her, helping to her concealment at the period of nesting. About July the old teals moult, and, losing for a time their quill feathers, they are unable to fly, though able to walk and swim. Thus deprived of their fine feathers, the male birds are less handsome, and resemble the females till spring comes. Often in September and October teals assemble to migrate, flocks of them flying hundreds of miles to some winter resort, which they quit when the wonderful instinct given them by Providence tells them to journey elsewhere to make their nests.

Teals do not like to place the nest flat on the earth, and it is generally put on the ground rather above the marshes or streamlets, a hollow being scraped under a small bush. One or other of the parents lines the nest, perhaps with heather, or perhaps with fragments of grass. Eight, nine, or ten creamy-white eggs are laid, and then the hen-bird plucks from her body the soft down underlying the feathers, which is put round the eggs, making a soft bed for the young when hatched. They soon swim and run well, following their mother about as she goes insect-hunting.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 47.)

he haystack seemed to be cut exactly for my purpose, and, mounting step by step, I found a terrace more than sufficiently large to allow me to lie at full length. The scent was warm and sweet, and when I had said my prayers, I lay staring up at the sky, watching as the stars came out one by one. For a while, sleep would not visit me, although my head went round and round, as it were, and I seemed to be conscious of nothing but the tramp pursuing me along the white, dusty road. Yet I must have fallen asleep before long, because I was suddenly awakened by the barking of a dog.

'Heel, Tiger,' said a man's voice. 'Good dog, heel!' I still heard the dog growl in a painfully threatening manner, then the man's voice again. It was a somewhat rough voice, yet with a kindly note in it. 'Now,' it said, 'whoever you are, I advise you to show yourself. I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't show up in another minute, I shall set my dog on to you.'

As it was, I felt in mortal dread lest Tiger should spring at me during my descent; still, I rose to my feet, feeling still a little giddy and confused, climbed down to the foot of the haystack, and walked a little timidly towards the gate, where I could distinctly see the tall, stoutly-built figure of a middle-aged man in the light of the rising moon.

As I walked by his side, with Tiger, a large retriever, sniffing suspiciously at my heels, I realised that we were going in the direction of the cosy-looking farm-house. The possibility of being offered a comfortable bed, with a chance of taking off my clothes, and of something to eat, seemed delightful, and, before we came within sight of the red blind again, I had lost all fear of my companion, although he had not opened his lips during our short walk.

He came to a standstill in front of a five-barred gate beyond the barn, in which I could hear the cows chewing. 'Now, then,' he said, and, without any second bidding, I entered the farmyard. 'This way,' he continued, and the next minute he was tapping the door of the house with his stick. It was opened by a short woman, who wore a white apron over a dark dress, and had one of the ugliest and pleasantest faces I have ever seen.

'Who is that?' she asked, stepping back in surprise on seeing that the farmer was not alone.

'I went to see if the calves were all right,' was the answer, 'and the youngster was asleep on the rick. Tiger found him out—didn't you, Tiger?'

'Well,' said the woman, 'he looks as if something to eat would do him good, anyhow.'

'Take him to the kitchen, Eliza,' cried the farmer, and, opening a door to the left of the passage, she bade me enter and sit down; whereupon I suppose I must have again fallen asleep, for I was conscious of nothing farther until I opened my eyes, and saw Eliza in the act of placing a tray on the deal table; on the tray I rejoiced to see a large pork chop, a cup of hot cocoa, and a thick slice of bread.

CHAPTER VII.

My spirits seemed to rise with every mouthful of food, and I felt that I had at last reached a haven after all the unfortunate turmoils of this first day. Although the evening was hot, the kitchen fire seemed only to add to the sense of comfort, and although there were no looking-glasses, there were many things so bright that I could easily have seen my face in them.

Eliza, who was Mr. Baker's housekeeper, watched me with evident enjoyment, and before the plate was empty she rose to replenish it. I felt thankful[Pg 55] that Providence had guided me to Mr. Baker's door, and devoutly hoped that I should not be turned away that night. I realised instinctively that these were the sort of people who would not turn a dog from their door if he needed succour, and by the time I had finished my meat, and had begun to eat a large portion of apple tart with a great many cloves in it, it appeared certain that there was shelter for one night, at least. At last I finished the last piece of thick and rather heavy piecrust, and sat waiting to see what would happen next.

'Now,' said Eliza, 'I should think the next thing ought to be to clean yourself.'

So she led me to a wash-house behind the kitchen, and brought a large bowl of enamelled iron, filling it with very hot water. A cake of yellow soap and a jack-towel were provided, and taking off my jacket and waistcoat, I enjoyed a thoroughly good wash.

'Let me see what I can do with those,' said Eliza, taking my jacket and waistcoat, and when she brought them back as I dried my hands they certainly looked a little less dusty. She lent me a hard brush to brush my knickerbockers, stockings, and boots, and although there were several rents in my jacket, I began to feel something like a respectable member of society again.

'Now,' cried Eliza, regarding me with evident approval, 'suppose you come and see Mr. Baker.'

She led me to the room where I had seen her, earlier in the evening, draw down the red blind, and he was seated in an arm-chair with a wooden pipe in his mouth.

'Sit down,' he said, and nothing loth, for my legs still ached painfully, I took a chair by the door. 'Now,' he continued, 'how did you get yourself into such a state, and how is it you are wandering about the country alone?'

'I ran away,' I answered, and Mr. Baker looked towards the door, which Eliza had left half open.

'Eliza,' he exclaimed with a kind of chuckle, which seemed to confirm the assurance that I had found a sympathetic listener—'Eliza,' he shouted, 'the youngster's run away.'

'Has he, though?' said Eliza, coming to the threshold, where she remained standing.

'From school?' he asked, and sliding down farther into his chair, evidently prepared to enjoy my story, while Eliza stood in the doorway with her arms folded. I told it from the beginning. Every now and then Eliza would interrupt with an expression of sympathy, and Mr. Baker slapped his knee when I told him how I had thrown the hair-brush at Augustus. When I came to the end, having described the day's adventures, the sale of my watch and chain, with the theft of the fifteen shillings by the tramp, Mr. Baker shook his head, and looked into Eliza's pleasant, plain face.

'Supposing you got to London,' she suggested, turning to me, 'what did you think of doing?'

'Still,' said Mr. Baker, 'you have not done much good for yourself to-day now, have you?'

'When I get to London I am going to find some work to do,' I assured her; but she shook her head, and smiled a little sadly.

'Yes; and directly after breakfast to-morrow morning,' he said, 'I shall drive the youngster back to Castlemore.'

'What else do you think I can do with you?' he asked, as Eliza went away to prepare my bed.

'I dare say you would,' he answered. 'Only you see there is nothing else to be done. I can't say I believe in boys running away, but still you seem to have been badly treated, and if you had a home, I don't say that in the circumstances I would not see you to it safe and sound. But you have not; and the consequence is that it is my duty to take you back. And,' he added, solemnly, 'however severely he treats you it won't be half so bad as what you would meet with if I let you go your own way.'

I could find nothing to answer. With all his kindness, Mr. Baker seemed to mean what he said, and I realised that a remonstrance would be only waste of words. Besides, I am afraid I was become cunning in my efforts at self-preservation, and if I said nothing, I certainly thought the more. My sleepiness seemed to have left me, and all my wits were at work. If I could prevent him, I determined that Mr. Baker should not take me back to Ascot House, although as yet I had not the remotest notion how to hinder his purpose.

One thing appeared certain. He was only to be defeated by strategy, and not by force. As I looked at his large fist resting on his arm-chair, I knew that if I attempted to resist I should be as powerless in his arms as I had been in those of the tramp. Presently Eliza re-entered the room to say the bed was ready, and when I arose Mr. Baker held out his arm to shake hands, causing me to feel not a little shamefaced. My friend seemed to have become an enemy. He had treated me kindly, and, indeed, still intended to do what he considered best for me, while my chief aim was to oppose him. But to have said right out that I would not go back to Castlemore would have defeated my own ends, so that I put my hand in his, received a cordial shake, and then followed Eliza upstairs. She carried a candle, which she set down on the washing-stand, and I saw that I was in a small room, extremely cool and clean, with one window, in front of which stood a muslin-covered dressing-table.

A NOVEL RAIN PROTECTOR.

ne day, some years ago, a number of people were travelling in Ireland by coach. The day turned wet, and threatened to continue so till night. The moment the coach stopped, one of the outside passengers, who was without an umbrella, rushed into an ironmonger's shop and came out with a grid-iron in his hand. All the other outside passengers thought he was mad, but he wrapped himself in a large cloak, which covered his cap and most of his face and came down to his feet, and seated himself on his gridiron in the middle of his seat. In a couple of hours it was seen what he meant.

While the other passengers were sitting in pools of water from the dripping of the umbrellas, he was sitting high and dry above the seat on his gridiron; all the water ran under it, and when they got to their destination, the man on the gridiron was as dry as a bone, whilst the other outside passengers were soaked to the skin.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

3.—Pied Cities.

4.—Geographical Enigma.

To gently walk, to move with ease;
An edge, or margin, if you please:
Combine the two, and you will find
The home of persons great in mind.
A spot of northern English ground
Near which a mighty poet found
A still retreat: a teacher sage,
And lady honoured in her age,
Were dwellers in this district too,
And all its wondrous beauties knew.

Answers to Puzzles on Page 30.

1.—Honduras.

2.—Hiawatha.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 55.)

I hurried out of my clothes as soon as Eliza had closed my bedroom door, although I did not turn into the inviting bed until I had bathed my feet, which were already slightly blistered. Then I lay down, having a difficult task to keep my eyes open until she came to take away the candle. To my surprise, Eliza bent over the pillow and kissed my forehead, thus making me feel more guilty than ever. It seemed a poor way to repay the kindness I had met with at her hands and Mr. Baker's, to run away during the night, although unless I did this it appeared certain that I should be taken back to Turton's the first thing after breakfast the next morning. Concerning such a calamity I felt desperate, and I believe there were few things I would not have done to secure freedom.

It was not that I feared any tremendous punishment, for I had never known Mr. Turton raise his hand to a boy, and my treatment could scarcely be worse than that which I had met with to-day. But it was the idea of the shame and degradation of being hauled back, of the jeers of Augustus, and his telling the other fellows on their return. Indeed, I was incapable of reasoning; I simply felt that any fate would be preferable to a return to Castlemore, and the only alternative seemed to be flight for the second time.

At present I could not tell whether even this would be practicable, although at the best I perceived that there would be many difficulties to overcome—Tiger not being the least. I had no idea whether Mr. Baker gave him the run of the premises at night, although this appeared extremely probable, or whether he was on the chain, and, if so, where. Whatever I did must be under cover of darkness, and the nights were short at this season. I knew that a farmer's household would be early risers, and that in fact there was little time to spare.

As I lay in bed, I could hear voices downstairs, and guessed that my own affairs were under discussion. I remembered a tale I had read of some travellers who were lost on a mountain, and in spite of their terrible weariness, feared to lie down in the snow, knowing that if they once fell asleep they would never again awaken in this world. My case seemed rather like theirs, although I lay in a comfortable feather bed. How delightful it was, how cool and fresh the linen sheets, how willingly I could have closed my tired eyes and fallen asleep! But in that case I feared that I should be lost. I certainly could not feel sure of waking before daylight; indeed, I felt I could sleep for a week, whereas, long before dawn, I had to put a considerable distance between myself and Mr. Baker's farm.

Afraid of closing my eyes in spite of myself, I sat up in bed, anxiously waiting for the voices to cease, for until it became safe to open my window, and ascertain what was underneath it, I could not tell even whether escape were possible. The window[Pg 59] was the only hope! The house was so small that I could not imagine myself opening the door, going downstairs, and finding a way out without disturbing its inmates. If the window was not too high, and the ground was fairly clear beneath it, I might be able to get away, but otherwise there seemed no alternative to an ignominious return to Castlemore to-morrow morning.

At last the voices became silent. I heard a key turned and bolts shot home into their sockets, heavy footsteps on the stairs, the shutting of first one door, then of another, followed by total silence. Getting out of bed about a quarter of an hour later, I walked about the room, and going to the washstand, sluiced my face in the basin to make myself more wakeful. Again I sat on the bed for what seemed a long time, until a clock downstairs struck the hour of midnight. Now, I thought, Mr. Baker and Eliza must be asleep, and groping for my clothes, I began to dress with all possible speed. As I rose from lacing my boots I trod on a loose board, which creaked so loudly that I felt certain it must be heard throughout the house. Lest any one should be aroused, I got quickly into bed again, dressed as I was, but although I lay there some time I heard no sound. Creeping cautiously across the room, I moved the dressing-table, and then, with the utmost care, drew up the green cotton blind. The moon shone brightly, almost at the full, but this might be either an advantage or a drawback. At least, it served to show my surroundings, and, before opening the window, I stared through the panes for some minutes. The house consisted of only one story above the ground floor, and the rooms were by no means lofty. My window overlooked what was evidently a fair-sized kitchen-garden, surrounded by a low hedge, beyond which I could see nothing but fields.

Now, if it happened that Tiger was chained, and I could succeed in reaching the garden, I determined to give up for the present every thought of gaining the road to London or anywhere else. I would simply get through the hedge at the earliest moment lest any one should detect me in the bright moonlight, then make a straight dash across country. By this means it promised to be far easier to avoid pursuit than if I followed any kind of road. Being fully dressed, with the exception of a hat, which did not seem to matter, I cautiously pushed up the lower half of the window and leaned forward to survey the ground. Immediately below me lay a bed about two feet wide, with flowers growing in it and one or two standard roses. I saw that the distance would not be too great to drop, and, anxious to lose no more time, I climbed out to the sill, crouching there a minute with alarming thoughts of Tiger. But all was perfectly still; one or two birds began to rustle in the leaves of the ivy which seemed to cover the back of the house, that was all, until turning round on the narrow sill, I heard the jangling of a chain. Peering forth once more, however, I could see no sign of a kennel, so that it seemed probable that Tiger was secured at the side of the house or in the front. Placing my hands on the sill, I gradually lowered myself until I hung by the fingers, then the next moment I dropped all of a heap, but without making much noise, on to the bed, the only damage being a scratch on the left cheek from a thorn on one of the standard roses.

Finding my feet at once, I made for the hedge, scrambling through it as Tiger began to give tongue. Turning to the left on the other side, I ran with all my might until I floundered into a wet ditch. Over a second hedge I scrambled, across a meadow with sleeping cows and calves, which rose at my approach, looking rather ghostly as they crowded together in a bunch. I clambered over gates, floundered into other ditches, and presently found myself entering the completer darkness of a wood, on the other side of which came a park, then more fields, until I began to pant, and to think that Mr. Baker's farm was sufficiently far behind for safety.

How long I had been running I have no idea, but the moon was fast sinking towards the horizon, and, before it disappeared altogether, it seemed advisable to find a place where I might secure some much-needed sleep. In a large field I espied a wooden shelter—intended, no doubt, for cattle—and open at one side. This being empty I entered, and was fortunate enough to find a goodly heap of dry clover in a corner. Spreading this out over the ground, without more ado I threw myself, just as I was, at full length upon it, too weary to think or to do anything but fall at once asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

I must have slept for many hours in the shed, for, when I opened my eyes, the sun was high in the sky. I think it must have been past ten o'clock, and it took some minutes before I could succeed in determining which of my recent experiences were real, and which the result of dreams. Little by little I began to put together the circumstances, which had occurred since yesterday morning, in their proper order, and my cheeks tingled with shame as I tried to imagine the feelings of Mr. Baker and Eliza when they discovered my flight. They had treated me with genuine kindness, and it must appear that I had repaid them with the basest ingratitude; while yet I cannot pretend to have repented of my flight from the farm-house, for I knew that, in similar circumstances, I should act in the same way.

At first I felt tempted to lie down and go to sleep again, but this might be to run no little risk. It was impossible to decide whether I was still on Mr. Baker's land or not, for, although I had covered some miles last night, there was no proof that I had run in a straight line, and it seemed quite likely that I had described something resembling a circle.

So I rose and stood gazing down at my legs, which now bore no traces of the brush which Eliza had lent me after supper. My boots were completely coated with mud as the result of the ditches into which I had floundered in my headlong flight, my stockings were splashed, and even my knickerbockers were freely covered with dry mud.

On stepping out from the shelter of the hut, the sun shining full in my eyes reminded me that I had not put on my hat, and, entering again, I looked[Pg 60] about for it for a few seconds before remembering that it had, of course, been left behind at the farm-house.

As I crossed the field, the situation seemed peculiarly depressing, and it was impossible not to contrast it with my circumstances at the same hour yesterday. It was one consolation that nobody could rob me to-day, for I had not a penny in my pocket. Every one of my limbs seemed to have a separate ache, and although I had not been accustomed to very luxurious fare of late, I felt a great longing for breakfast.

Although my confidence in the good fortune awaiting me in London had been somewhat shaken since I left Castlemore, I still determined to set my face in that direction. Where else could I go unless I returned to Mr. Turton? An unthinkable proposition. Making my way towards a black five-barred gate, I rejoiced to see a lane on the other side of it,[Pg 61] and, without a notion of my locality, I thought it better to turn to the left. The lane, a mere cart-track, led to a wider road, prettily undulated, and, for half a mile or so, entirely deserted. The first person I saw that morning (it must have been about half-past eleven) was a young man of about three-and-twenty years of age, engaged in mending a puncture in his bicycle-tyre. The machine was turned wheels upwards, while he stood pressing the punctured portion of the collapsed tyre between two pennies. From curiosity, and the desire, perhaps, to be near some one for a few minutes, I stopped, while he chalked the patch, stooped to replace the outer covering, and then, turning the bicycle right way up again, took off the pump.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

II.—M. CHARLES AND HIS PARIS BALLOON.

ews, like sound, travels fast; and the applause which greeted the ascent of the Montgolfier balloon at Annonay had hardly ceased when it seemed to reach the ears of the people in Paris, and put the whole town in quite a flutter of excitement. Some of those who had been present at the great experiment wrote an account of it to their friends in Paris, who at once began to make arrangements for inviting the Montgolfiers to send up another balloon from the capital. But these arrangements took too long to satisfy the impatience of the people of Paris, and they were better pleased when M. de Saint-Fond opened a subscription to pay expenses for a separate experiment.

No one in all France had heard of the event at Annonay with more interest and delight than a certain M. James Alexander Cæsar Charles, a young and clever scientist who took great pleasure in showing people the wonderful things he had discovered. When Franklin brought lightning out of the clouds with a kite, M. Charles followed the road thus pointed out to him, and soon found new wonders which he had a great talent for explaining. Thus, though he might not be a great original discoverer, he was quick to see in what direction truth lay, and was able to lead those who were less learned than himself. What wonder, then, that the people of Paris were full of expectation when they heard that M. Charles had put away his electrical studies to devote his attention to balloons? Sufficient money having been collected he set to work with the assistance of two brothers named Robert, and constructed an 'envelope' of silk, which, when filled, would make a balloon twelve feet two inches in diameter. This was very small when compared with the giant of Annonay, but the gas that M. Charles was going to use would make it thirteen times stronger. 'You see,' said he, 'the air that the Montgolfiers use is twice as light as the atmosphere. I shall use inflammable gas' (as hydrogen was then called), 'which is fourteen times lighter; though to retain this it will be necessary to paint the silk with rubber dissolved in turpentine.'

But if the gentlemen who sat around the platform at Annonay had gathered to see this baby balloon inflated they would have grown very weary, for it took nearly four days. Every morning outside Charles's house a notice was hung up to inform the eager crowds how the wonderful little giant was growing; and at last it became necessary for mounted police to protect his door, so great was the crush. Then, on the twenty-sixth of August, though the balloon was not quite full, it was decided to carry it to the Champs de Mars, the open space from which the ascent was to be made. There the filling could be completed. But as not even a king, travelling in state, would be likely to draw such excited throngs as this balloon, arrangements were made for moving the silk bag in the middle of the night. First, all the tools which would be required at the launching were sent in advance; then, at two o'clock in the morning, the procession set out. A strong body of mounted soldiers accompanied the waggon on which the half-filled balloon was placed, while in front of it marched a body of men carrying torches. The journey was only two miles long, yet in that short distance the cavalcade was greeted with enough applause to satisfy the most ambitious. All vehicles encountered en route were drawn aside, and the drivers doffed their caps as they watched it pass. As the balloon swayed solemnly from side to side, an imaginative on-looker might have fancied that it was acknowledging these respectful salutations.

In due course the scene of action was safely reached and the filling process continued. As the gas had to be made from sulphuric acid and iron filings, it naturally took some time, but when the clocks of Paris were striking five on the evening of August 27th, 1783, Charles's cloud-cruiser was ready for the voyage. The bells had hardly done chiming when a cannon-shot was heard. It was the signal for departure. The thousands of spectators heard it with a thrill of interest, and as its echoes reverberated over Paris, the watchers of the high towers of Notre Dame, and the military school, directed their telescopes to the Champs de Mars. One of the guests was Stephen Montgolfier, for though Charles might add improvements to others' inventions, he always acknowledged to whom the first honour belonged.

In spite of the heavy rain that was falling, the balloon shot into the air with great rapidity, and in the space of a minute or two disappeared behind a cloud. The moment it vanished another cannon was fired as though in farewell, but the watchers (richly dressed gentlemen and fine ladies) regardless of the weather, continued to keep their eyes upon the clouds, and were surprised to see it once more, far above them, sailing in the direction of Gonesse, fifteen miles away. Here in a field it settled, three-quarters of an hour after leaving Paris, and—met its doom. The country people, imagining it to be a large and unknown bird, approached in fear, until one, bolder than the rest, stabbed it with a pitchfork, when the sighing sound, made by the out-rushing gas, only confirmed their conviction that it was endowed with life. In vain did the village curé try to dissuade them, and when at last the silk bag lay flat and 'lifeless' on the ground, they tied it to a horse's tail and set him galloping through the field. With wild excitement they followed in chase, till hardly a shred of poor M. Charles's carefully-built balloon remained to be trodden on.

When the country folk were so ignorant as this, we can hardly be surprised to read that the Government soon found it advisable to make Montgolfier's discovery widely known, so as to allay 'the terror which it might otherwise excite among the people.'

MY GARDEN CONCERT.

hear a splendid concert in my garden every day,
When the breezes find by grove and lawn some instrument to play;
They shake the shiny laurel with the clatter of the 'bones,'
And from the lofty sycamore draw deeper 'cello tones,
And giving thus the signal that the concert should begin,
The brook beside the pebbled path strikes up its mandoline.

Then all the garden wakes to sound, for not a bird is mute:
The robin pipes the piccolo; the blackbird plays the flute;
While high upon a cedar-top a thrush with bubbling throat
Lifts up to this accompaniment her clear soprano note.

Then by-and-by there softly sounds, beside some flowering tree
The oboe of the dancing gnat, the cornet of the bee.
Such tiny notes—and yet with ease their cadence I can trace,
While over-head some passing rook puts in his noisy bass,
Or from a green and shady copse, a daisied field away,
I hear the jarring discords of a magpie and a jay.

The Wind conducts the orchestra, and as he beats the time
The flood of music sinks and swells in melody sublime;
Till, when the darkness deepens and the sun sets in the West,
They all put up their instruments and settle down to rest;
And when I seek my slumber, like the daisy or the bird,
My rest is all the better for the concert I have heard.

THE LEGEND OF HELFENSTEIN.

A German version of an old story.

In former times there ruled at Olmütz, in Moravia, a Duke who allowed himself, when in anger, to do many cruel things. One day, Bruno, his falconer, came trembling before his master and announced to him that the finest of the falcons was dead. When the Duke heard this, he flew into a passion, and commanded his servants to chastise the man severely. Bruno, however, succeeded in escaping the intended punishment, and hid himself in the thick forest which extends from Olmütz to the Oder valley. There he lived by hunting, and occupied himself with charcoal-burning.

It happened one day that as Bruno, armed with bow and arrow and battle-axe, was going through the forest, he suddenly heard the well-known hunting-cry of the Duke. He quickly hid himself behind an oak-tree, in order that his master should not discover him, and saw, to his horror, that his master was pursued by a wild bison. The Duke would have lost his life, if Bruno, with his battle-axe, had not courageously attacked the furious animal and given it a mortal wound. Deeply touched, the Duke thanked the deliverer of his life for his proved fidelity, and bade him ask any favour he pleased.

Bruno did so. He asked to be allowed to possess as much land as he could encircle with the skin of the dead bison. Smilingly, the Duke promised to grant the request.

The falconer began to cut the skin into small strips, and with them encircled the whole hill upon which he had saved his prince's life. The Duke was highly pleased with this proof of Bruno's cleverness as well as courage, made him into a knight, and put him in a position of honour at his court. Bruno became dearer to his master every day, and rendered him many and great services. In later times he built a castle on the hill, which, in memory of the Duke's deliverance, he called Helfenstein.

CHASED BY SEAGULLS.

Seagulls are a very distinct tribe of birds, mostly lovers of the sea, yet from time to time showing themselves inland. They look larger than they really are, owing to their having a quantity of down and feathers, the wings being also long and the head large. They are equipped with a strong and straight bill, by means of which they devour a great variety of food. They will occasionally go out to sea hundreds of miles from land, but they are not welcome sights to the mariner, for he usually regards them as signs that bad weather is approaching. The most familiar species is the common seagull, white and grey, with greenish legs.

One of the peculiarities of the seagull is its habit of dashing in parties after any object that attracts its notice. This now and then furnishes amusement to men and boys who are strolling along the Thames banks or bridges. Supplying themselves with bits of bread or fragments of meat, they fling these upon the river, and watch the birds eagerly pursue the food.

Seagulls will also give chase to birds of other species they may come across. Not long ago the Cunard steamer Campania, from New York, was nearly due south of Nova Scotia, when the look-out observed a bird close at hand flying rapidly. In fact, it went faster than the ship, which was then moving twenty-four statute miles an hour. A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive, but could not make enough speed to catch it. At length the bird settled upon the deck, wearied, and proved to be a fine specimen of the snowy owl.

The snowy owl is a species chiefly found in the Arctic Circle, especially about Greenland and Iceland. It is a hardy bird, and has its nest among the rocks. The bill is hooked like a hawk's, having round the base a few stiff feathers. Its plumage is snowy white touched with some brown.

THE CAPTAIN AND THE INVALID.

A fine instance of moral courage occurred not long ago at a small seaport. The captain of a little passenger-boat, a tall, sun-browned man, stood on his craft superintending the labours of his men, when the boat train came in, and about twelve minutes after, a party of half-a-dozen gentlemen came along, and, deliberately walking up to the captain, thus addressed him:—

'Sir, we wish to go by this boat, but our further progress to-day depends upon you. In the train we have just left there is a sick man, whose presence is extremely disagreeable to us. We have been chosen as a committee by the passengers, to ask that you will deny this man a passage on your boat; if he goes, we remain here.'

'Gentlemen,' said the captain, 'I have heard the passengers through your committee. Has the invalid any representatives here? I wish to hear both sides of the question.'

To this unexpected inquiry there was not a single answer. Without a pause, the captain crossed to the car, and, entering, beheld a poor, emaciated, worn-out creature, who was obviously very weak and ill.

The man's head was bowed in his hands, and he was weeping. The captain advanced and spoke kindly to him.

'Oh, sir,' said the invalid, looking up, his face lit up with hope and expectation, 'are you the captain, and will you take me? The passengers shun me, and are so unkind. You see, sir, I am dying; but if I can live to see my mother, I shall die happy. She lives at B——, sir, and my journey is more than half performed. I am a poor printer, and the only child of her in whose arms I would wish to die.'

By this time the whole crowd of passengers were grouped around the gangway, with their baggage piled on the pier, waiting for the decision of the captain, before engaging their passage.

A moment more, and that decision was made known, for they saw him coming from the cars with the sick man cradled in his strong arms. Pushing directly through the crowd with his burden, he ordered a mattress to be put in the cabin, where he laid the invalid with all the care of a parent.

Then, scarcely deigning to cast a look at the astonished crowd, he called loudly to his men: 'Let go!'

But a new feeling seemed to possess the passengers, that of shame and contrition at their own inhumanity. With a common impulse each seized his own baggage, and went in a shamefaced way on board the boat.

In a short time a message was sent to the captain, asking his presence in the cabin. He went, and one of the passengers, speaking for the rest, with faltering voice told the rough captain that he had taught them a lesson—that they felt humble before him, and they asked his forgiveness.

BOUQUETS.

uttercups and daisies,
Violets and May,
Pimpernels and cowslips,
Make a sweet bouquet.
Not a rose among them;
Nought the garden yields.
Yet a lot of beauty
Taken from the fields,
Gathered in the sunshine,
Through the happy hours—
What a sweet bouquet, dears,
Made of simple flowers!

Patience and forgiveness,
Kindness to the weak;
Willing in our labour
All the happy week;
No exalted actions
Striving after praise,
Yet a lot of beauty
From life's lowly ways,
Gathered through the day, dear,
By the heart that heeds—
What a sweet bouquet, dear!
Made of simple deeds.

McLEOD OF CLERE.
Founded on Fact.

he moonlight lay in soft brilliance over the land of Burmah. Its rays pierced the small slit windows in the cell of the fanatic An-we-lota, and lighted up the fierce faces of the dacoits and desperate men, who from time to time stealthily entered, until a close-packed band had collected. Near and far a message had reached these malcontents that an attack would be made on some of the British outposts scattered here and there over the newly conquered territory, and held by English officers and a brave force of Sikhs and Pathans.

'We are as nothing,' said An-we-lota; 'these Ingalay' (Englishmen) 'have taken our country, and are now setting up their camps everywhere among us, for these men to spy on us. They say the glorious King Theebaw is dead. Know we not well that he will come again and reign over us? I am myself possessed of magic power. I have swallowed the all-powerful mercury, which makes me proof against bullet and steel, which turn to water as they touch me. Have I not also the coins of invulnerability bound in the flesh and blood of my arm?' and the fanatic stripped up the sleeve of[Pg 67] his yellow robe and showed his bare, skinny upper arm, where the edges of buried coins were visible in deep cuts. 'I am king as well as priest; I am the Prince Setkia Muntna, who was drowned in the Irrawaddy seventy years ago. I have come to life again—behold, I am he.'

Dusky hands were raised in salutation, and one evil-looking warrior stepped forward: 'I am also proof against bullets. Was I not Theebaw's chief "Boh"?' (head warrior). 'I am ready to lead any expedition against these robbing English. See, we are all armed.'

The moonlight flashed on the murderous-looking 'dah' knives raised for an instant from the folds of the garments of the assembled men.

'Our first attack,' said An-we-lota, 'shall be on the Sardu Station. Our scout, Al Met, has brought word that much of their force has been called away to quell the Wahs. Our attack shall be swift and sure, and with our band here we shall outnumber them, and exterminate the whole while they are sleeping. When shall we start?'

'No time like the present,' was the cry, and the dahs flew out again and were uplifted.

In a few minutes the cell was emptied, and the stealthy march began, by rock and jungle and secret paths, to the doomed outpost station.

The hours passed, and the early morning light showed pale on the blazing huts of Sardu Fort, and on dead and dying scattered about. Where the dead were thickest lay a young English officer gasping, 'Inez, my darling, we shall meet again soon, and our little son——'

Close at hand lay the fanatic, An-we-lota, dead, his magic coins and mercury-fed body no proof against British steel.

From the distance there came the tread of a returning force—too late!—and in the deepest shades of the jungle a native woman, with horror-stricken face, pressed forward through tangle and thorn, with a living, wailing bundle clasped close to her breast.

How many days she spent in weary wandering over well-nigh a hundred miles of jungle and plain, helped by log-boat up strange waters, ever heading for the homes of her people, the Karens—a bourne she was never to reach—who can say?

It was early morning. The first faint streaks of dawn were chasing the night shadows from hill and valley. Early risers in a little jungle village far distant from Fort Sardu shivered as they rose from their sleeping-places, and pushing aside the curiously woven mats, hung from the eaves of the sloping roofs, descended to the waking world outside. The native dogs howled hideously as they were unceremoniously driven from the still smouldering embers of last night's fires.

Maung Yet, one of the first astir, twisted the folds of his waist-cloth closer round him, and looked forth upon the morning. The rising sun was turning into gold and bronze the ripening paddy fields close at hand, glorifying the reed roofs of the native huts under the feathery palms, and gilding the distant belt of jungle, stretching away to the horizon.

The huts of the Tounghi tribe were raised breast-high on stout posts, as protection against wild beasts and snakes. Many dark-skinned natives moving around in busy preparation showed that the labours of the day would be beginning early.

It was the time of the Burmese harvest, and the first of the ripe paddy fields would be gathered in that day. Already might be heard the hoarse voice of crows, and the screams of hundreds of bright-hued parrakeets, descending for their feast on the precious grain. At the sound, many of the village youths ran up quickly, and with cries and rude bird-clappers scared the birds away, only to set to work again at some more distant spot.

Many and various were the sounds echoing around Maung Yet, and ever and anon he seemed to distinguish from among them a sound like a human cry. Once more it came, and Maung stood keenly listening. Yes, a cry for help, certainly, and a dog's strange, shrill bark, too—and both from the far-off jungle. Maung Yet trembled. Was it the cry, perchance, of some robber luring him to destruction, or was it really a fellow-creature's cry for help?

The Burman, like all his race, was very superstitious, and avoided the jungle as being haunted; but his heart was kind. Arming himself with his primitive sickle, he beckoned to Lan Wee, his young brother, who was squatting on the ground eating a huge mass of rice, and set off at full speed towards the spot whence the cries proceeded, attracted onward against his will by the voice of misery. The youth followed him closely, his eyes wide open with fear, as they neared the dreaded jungle. In its dark shadows who could say what dangers lurked? They pressed on, however, through trails of prickly foliage, clinging undergrowth, and fallen timber, which lay like so many traps for unwary feet. The cry had sunk to a moan, but the dog's whine was shriller and more urgent as they neared the end of their quest.

Both Burmen were tattooed over breast and shoulders with a glorious blazonry of red—a decoration performed with religious rites as a protection against 'evil spirits.' Few Burmen would face the jungle unless thus fortified. Maung felt a few qualms even in spite of his tattoo, but invoking the 'aing-sohn' (the good spirits), he and his young companion, breathless and panting, struggled on, and came to what they sought at last.

Half resting against a fallen tree-trunk lay an apparently dead native woman, reduced to almost a skeleton. Her bare feet told of long, rough journeying, and from wrist to elbow of the left arm was a half-healed wound, such as Maung Yet knew well the keen 'dah' could leave. From her neck was slung a baby, and standing fiercely on guard, a lean, whitish dog.

With the curious canine instinct, divining rightly friend or foe, the dog allowed the approach of the two Burmen. Maung knelt and raised the prostrate woman; the weak head fell heavily on his shoulder, then stirred uneasily, the eyes opened, and the dying lips tried again and again to find utterance. Broken words at last whispered faintly over and over again, 'Bébé Ingalay—Mah Kloo! Thakin Missee Bébé!' Then the wasted hands tried to remove the baby. Maung understood, and signed to the youth to lift it from her neck. The movement[Pg 68] woke the child, and it uttered a thin cry. The sound roused the flickering life of the dying woman for an instant; with a last movement she lightly touched the wee dark head, smiled faintly, and died.

A shallow grave was hastily dug. A pouch in the tattered garments contained a few coins of money and a curious small gold cross. Maung Yet touched his tattoo anxiously as he took the latter: it must be, he thought, some strange charm. Then he placed the coins in the mouth of the dead woman, in the belief that this provided ferry-hire over the death river, and he and Lan Wee lifted the woman into the grave. Then, with all speed, the two Burmen left the hated jungle, carrying the tiny infant, the lean dog following closely.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 61.)

The cyclist was a good-looking, short, but well-built man, clad in a light, home-spun suit, with knickerbockers and a Panama hat. On the frame of his bicycle was an ordinary mackintosh haversack, and, strapped behind the saddle, a paint-box, a folding sketching-stool, and a good-sized sketching-block. Fixing the pump, he knelt down to inflate the tyre; but the pump was rather small, the sun was hot (as I felt, having no hat), and the man seemed soon to weary of his job. He had glanced once or twice in my direction, and now he rose, blew out his cheeks, and cried: "Hi, boy! do you want to earn a copper?"[Pg 70]

'Just pump up this tyre for me, then,' he said; and, going down on my knees by the roadside, I began to pump with a will, while he took out a pipe and began to fill it. 'Think that's all right?' he asked, as I rose to my feet.

Holding his machine, on the point of wheeling it into the middle of the road, he paused, staring into my face.

He stared again for what seemed a long time, and it was evident that I caused him a little perplexity.

Somewhat alarmed, in consequence of my recent experiences, I thought it time to get on my way.

'Don't be in a hurry,' he said. 'I think you and I ought to have a little talk.'

With that he looked at his watch; then, saying that it was nearly twelve, he took from a side pocket of his jacket a tin case, packed with tempting-looking sandwiches.

'I am all right,' he said, with a laugh; 'you needn't bother about me. Sit down and start.'

Needing no further persuasion, I sat down on the grass by the way-side, and steadily emptied the sandwich tin. Before this was accomplished, however, he produced a flask, pouring some of its contents into a small cup which fitted on to one end. It seemed to put fresh life into me.

'Think for a moment, and don't be stupid,' he said. 'How can I take you back if you don't tell me where you have come from? Besides, you would be as much as I could carry with my bike, you know. So fire away,' he added, and I sat on the grass and once more told my story from the beginning, except that this time I omitted to mention Mr. Turton's name or address.

'When you reach London,' he asked after I had become silent, 'what are you going to do?'

'But, you know,' he said, with a kind sort of smile, 'you have not even got a cat.'

'I believe I shall be all right if only I get there,' I persisted. 'If you would not mind telling me the way to the main road.'

'Any one will do for me,' I answered, and upon that he wheeled his machine into the middle of the road.

He mounted as he spoke, and in a second I was standing on the step behind him. In spite of the circumstances, I thoroughly enjoyed that eight miles ride, and felt sincerely sorry when it ended. Now we coasted down a hill, now we both dismounted to walk up one, and, after one such walk, my companion stopped, unfastened his haversack, and took out a cloth cap.

'Think you could wear that?' he asked, and, trying it on, I found it was only slightly too big.

'Thank you most awfully,' I said as we rode on again, and then we did not stop until we reached four cross-roads. Seeing the word 'Polehampton' on a finger-post, I perceived that I had returned to the road from Castlemore to London, which I had left to cross the fields in my futile endeavour to avoid the tramp. It was true that I had made a fairly wide circuit, for my new friend told me I should still have five miles to walk to Polehampton.

'I am immensely obliged to you for the lift and—and everything,' I said, as he seemed to be on the point of starting. I felt extremely reluctant to part from him.

'That is all right,' he answered, thrusting his hand in his knickerbocker pocket. 'This may help you on your way.' He put something into my hand as he pressed it, then, without another word, mounted his bicycle and rode away. Opening my hand, I found five two-shilling pieces. For the next few yards I did not see things very clearly, for I felt too thankful.

After looking back once or twice until he was out of sight, I set out in a business-like manner to walk the five miles to Polehampton. The events of the morning had filled me with fresh courage, and now that my face was once set towards London, earlier hopes began to reawaken. I should have liked to know my companion's name, to keep in my memory with that of Mr. Baker and Eliza, but I never saw or heard of him again. Still, I have not forgotten him or the good turn he did me, and I wish that this story might come into his hands to show that I am not ungrateful.

Having passed through so much in a short time, I was inclined to expect every mile to bring forth its own peculiar adventure, but Polehampton came into sight without any remarkable occurrence. I scarcely enjoyed the walk, as my legs ached more than ever, and I rested many times by the roadside.

To-day being Friday, I determined, on the strength of my ten shillings, to look for a cheap temperance hotel, or some place of the kind, and make a bargain[Pg 71] with the proprietor to stay over Saturday and Sunday. This would give me time to rest and make myself a little more presentable, because, in my present muddy condition, I knew that it would be impossible to obtain any kind of work.

For that was what I intended to do. Instead of hoping to reach London in six days, as at first, I would try to earn a little money by the way, because I perceived that it would be no use entering in such a condition as I was at present.

Polehampton appeared to be even a smaller place than Broughton, and by no stretch of imagination could it be described as a town. Still, it felt pleasant to see a few people about; and noticing a clean-looking whitewashed cottage, with a few bottles of sweets and ginger-beer in the window, I entered, sitting down on an empty box while a white-haired, round-backed old woman opened a bottle of ginger-beer, and a spaniel came from a back room and began to lick my hands. Having paid my penny, I sat sipping the ginger-beer, when it occurred to me that it would be a capital place to lodge, if only the old woman would take me.

'Till Monday morning,' I answered. 'You see, I want to know how much it would cost for a bed and food until then.'

'That is three nights,' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is a small room I might make up a bed in, on the floor, if that would suit you, and there will be a joint of pork for Sunday.'

'There is a bit of cheese and a bit of bacon,' she explained. 'Till Monday morning, you say? I should not think five shillings would hurt you.'

So I gave her five shillings, thus leaving only five and a penny in my pocket; but so sorely at that moment did I feel the need of rest that I did not hesitate. The old woman—Mrs. Riddles—lived alone with her old brown spaniel. There was a room behind the shop, which served the purpose of a kitchen, a sitting-room, and a wash-house. In one corner stood a step-ladder, leading to one bedroom and a kind of cupboard, without either window or fireplace, or any furniture but one bottomless chair. This I discovered was intended for my own use, and, indeed, so long as I might lie down in it, I cared about little else.

After an early supper, consisting of bread, some very fat cold streaky bacon, and cheese, Mrs. Riddles put a sofa-cushion, a pillow, two thin blankets, and a sheet on the cupboard floor, and advising me to leave the door open for the sake of air, retired to her own room. It was a vastly different kind of bed from that which had been given to me by Eliza at Mr. Baker's farmhouse, but at least it did not prevent me from sleeping the moment my head touched the pillow. I did not reopen my eyes until Mrs. Riddles brought me a can of cold water and a basin, with soap and a towel, on Saturday morning.

'It is seven o'clock,' she said, 'and breakfast is ready when you are.' For Mrs. Riddles' credit I must confess that I have seldom enjoyed a breakfast more. It consisted of dry bread, oatmeal porridge, and coffee. Oddly enough, the coffee was delicious, and the porridge was equally good, so that, thoroughly refreshed by a long night's sleep and an ample breakfast, I brushed my knickerbockers, cleaned my boots, and went forth into the main street of Polehampton feeling fit for anything that might happen.

THE GENEROUS BAKERS!

A deputation of a guild of bakers once presented themselves before the chief magistrate, asking for permission to raise the price of bread, which in those days was regulated by the corporation. When the time came for leaving, one of the deputies dexterously left upon the table a bag containing six hundred pounds in money. Some days afterwards they came again, fully believing that the purse had pleaded very powerfully for them. But the magistrate said to them, 'Gentlemen, I have weighed your reasons in the scales of justice, and have not found them of sufficient weight. It has not seemed just to me to make an entire town suffer by an advance so ill-understood. Besides, I have had distributed between the two hospitals in the town the money which you left me, not doubting that you would wish it to be put to such a use. I also believe that, being rich enough to make similar alms, you cannot be losing in your trade as you say.'

AFFECTIONATE EAGLES.

A True Anecdote.

A man working on a farm one day saw an eagle fluttering over the barn-yard, no doubt meaning sooner or later to swoop down in search of prey. He determined to save his chickens, and fetching a gun, fired at the would-be robber. But he only succeeded in hurting its wing. Instead of falling to the ground it flapped about in the air in a helpless sort of way, uttering loud cries of pain.

The man was just going to fire again when he noticed another eagle coming up in the distance. It was evidently the mate of the one he had wounded, for it came straight to its rescue. Seeing that the first eagle could not fly away itself, the new-comer seized its wounded mate with its beak and claws, and, half carrying it, helped it to fly slowly away to the mountain-side, where it put it down, as it thought, in a safe place. For a whole week the men on the farm saw it, day after day, carrying food to the disabled bird. It would have been quite easy for them to have killed both the eagles during this time; but the farmer forbade his men to molest them in any way, because he was so pleased at the affection and courage the one had shown on behalf of the other. After a time the wounded eagle got well, and they both flew away.[Pg 72]

STEEPLE-CLIMBERS.

Cleverness or skill in doing some particular thing has been noticed to recur in families, and steeple-climbing is one example, we are told. At Nottingham there was a family named Wootton, members of which had for centuries the reputation of being daring steeple-climbers, not for adventure, but in the way of business. Such persons were also called steeplejacks, and they were paid liberally for their exploits, as they deserved to be.

Robert Wootton, who lived in the time of King George III., was famous for repairing steeples and spires without using a scaffold; he did his work by the help of ladders, hooks, and ropes. When he repaired St. Peter's spire, Nottingham, in 1789, having finished his work, he beat a drum at its top, thousands of people looking on. Another of the Woottons undertook the perilous task of ascending the spire of St. Mary's, Manchester, which was very lofty. By a tremendous wind the ball and cross had been bent down, and looked dangerous. This steeple-climber raised ladders one after the other, assisted by blocks and ropes, and secured each in succession to the stonework with clamps. When he got near the top of the spire the work became more difficult, and the spectators anxiously watched him as he fixed the last ladder. Having accomplished this feat, Wootton stepped from the ladder on to the crown or pinnacle of the steeple, and stood quite upright, with his hands free. Then he raised a cheer, which was responded to by the crowds below. More extraordinary still, one of these steeple-climbers is said to have performed the feat of standing upon his head on a steeple's top; but there is some doubt about the story.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 71.)

CHAPTER IX.

t was agreeable to think that I had nothing to do, and with my hands in my pockets I turned to the right, strolling towards the railway station, a few yards from which was a level crossing. The station yard and booking office stood on the left, and before the entrance were one or two old-fashioned-looking cabs; one in particular I noticed, having a body like a small stage-coach and yellow wheels.

As I hung about the doorway it was alarming to realise that in spite of my two days' journeying, and of all the accompanying dangers, I might take a ticket and reach Castlemore in little over half an hour, and that consequently any one else could travel from Castlemore to Polehampton in the same short time. But it was easy to persuade myself that nobody would feel the least desire to travel a yard on my account, although I denied myself the pleasure of going on to the platform. Leaving the station yard, I turned towards Mrs. Riddles' cottage again, and passing this came to a standstill in front of a few shops on the opposite side of the way. One was a butcher's; next to the butcher's was a grocer's, and in its window I saw a card:

I read, and as I stood gazing at the card, a short, red-haired man came to the door, rubbing his hands and looking smilingly about him.

'Ah, well,' he answered, 'even if you wanted a job, I could not take you without a character. But Mr. Raikes, at the Home Farm down the road, would take any one this morning. He has got his large field of hay down, and it will probably rain before Monday. If he does not get it carried to-night, as likely as not half will be spoilt.'

With that he re-entered his shop, while I strolled on at first aimlessly down the street.

I began to wonder how far it was to the Home Farm. A day's hay-making seemed to be a kind of play, and if one could be paid for such amusement, so much the better. For now that I had paid Mrs. Riddles I had only five shillings, and when once I started again they would not go very far. I had sufficient forethought to return to the cottage and ask for some luncheon to put in my pocket; then, armed with a slice of bread and a chunk of the fat bacon from which I had supped the previous night, I set out for the farm.

There was a large field adjoining the road, with an open gate. At the farther end, two carts were being loaded, but nearer the road, several men and women were busily making the rows of hay into cocks. Close at hand stood a tall, sparely built farmer with a cane in his hand and a fox-terrier by his side. He seemed to be trying to hurry everybody along, and there was an air of bustle and haste about the whole scene. Although the sun shone hotly, threatening clouds were coming up, and it would require a hard day's work to get all the hay carried by nightfall.

'Fire away then. You will find a fork against the hedge. Go and join those men,' and he pointed to the haymakers with his cane. Taking the fork, I ran across the field and set to work with a will. But the sun shone fiercely, and when twelve o'clock came I would gladly have lain down in the shade of the hedge. The moment we had finished dinner the farmer urged us to work again, and so we kept at it through the afternoon, until the last load was carried at seven o'clock and we all drew round the farmer for our money. He gave me a shilling for my day's work, and I confess I walked back rather[Pg 75] proudly to Mrs. Riddles' cottage, feeling that I had made a beginning and earned my first shilling.

There was no difficulty about sleeping that night. The bells were ringing for service while I dressed the next morning. Having made my appearance as decent as possible, I walked across some fields to a small church. On the way home to dinner I noticed a stream which looked extremely tempting. Mrs. Riddles had spread a clean but much-darned tablecloth, and the roast pork was ready. During the meal, the rain, which had been threatening since yesterday, began to fall, but when it ceased at half-past three I borrowed a towel, and ran across the damp fields to the river and soon plunged in.

The swim was delightful, and having partly dressed again, I sat on the bank and washed my socks, which I carried home in my hands. On the whole it was a good day, although the wet which set in again towards the evening made me anxious about to-morrow. If the rain continued, all my plans would be upset. I had determined to sleep out of doors for the next night or two, thus eking out my money, but I could not very well sleep without shelter unless it were fine and dry.

Unfortunately, Monday proved to be a drizzling morning, so that instead of setting forth as I had intended before eight, I hung about the door of the cottage, hoping the weather might improve. Towards ten o'clock, the rain began to cease, and looking inside the back room I said 'good-bye' to Mrs. Riddles, who inquired in which direction I was going.

'To London,' I answered, and this was the first sign of curiosity she had betrayed concerning either myself or my destination. She was a very old woman and somewhat deaf, treating my presence entirely as a matter of course.

However, I bade her good-bye, and was on the point of stepping from the shop into the small front garden, when instinctively I sprang back and shut the door.

To my horror I had seen Mr. Turton and Augustus walking along the middle of the road, each carrying an umbrella; Mr. Turton had an anxious expression on his pale, bearded face. As I crouched, peeping between the bottles of sweets in the window, I saw them pass the gate and come to a standstill. They had the manner of persons on the look-out for some one, and it seemed impossible to doubt that the some one was myself.

I confess that I felt surprised. Why should Mr. Turton want me back at Castlemore, unless, indeed, for the sake of taking revenge for my flight? At least, I could conceive no other reason, and while feeling deeply thankful for my narrow escape, I determined to spare no effort to make this effectual. That Mr. Turton should have hit upon my precise locality did not appear very remarkable.

These thoughts passed through my mind in far less time than it takes to set them down on paper. I remembered that my friend on the bicycle had said that all roads led to London, and now the idea occurred that the best way to evade Mr. Turton and yet to attain my purpose, would be to make a dash across to some other main road, keeping almost paralled with my pursuers.

After appearing to hesitate in the middle of the road, only a few yards from my hiding-place, Augustus and his father approached the door of the opposite butcher's shop, presumably with the intention of inquiring whether a boy of my description had been seen in the place. I regretted now my short conversation with the grocer, who had nodded to me in a friendly way as I came home from church on Sunday, and no doubt had seen me enter Mrs. Riddles' cottage.

If he directed Mr. Turton thither, I was lost, unless I could succeed in leaving Polehampton before the Turtons came out again. Now, close to the station yard was a lane, which led I knew not whither, but at least it could be reached without passing the opposite shops. Opening the door, as Mr. Turton left the butcher's and entered the grocer's, while his back and his son's were towards me, I made a dash through the garden, turned to my right, nor looked behind until I had reached the other side of the street. Then to my alarm I saw Mrs. Riddles standing at her door, which I had just left, while Mr. Turton and Augustus were hurrying across the roadway towards her. Fortunately they seemed too excited to look about them, so that I guessed that the grocer had set them on my track.

Taking to my heels I sped down the lane, soon leaving the few cottages behind and finding myself between low hedges with wheat growing on one hand and sheep-turnips on the other. A short distance ahead, I saw a butcher's cart on the point of leaving a cottage door.

'Are you going straight on?' I cried to the boy, only a little older than myself, who was driving.

'Up you jump,' he exclaimed, and the next instant I was seated by his side, clinging to an iron railing on the top of the cart.

Two miles would be better than no start at all, for I felt certain that Mr. Turton would follow me. Mrs. Riddles had seen the direction I had taken, and he might hire one of the railway-station cabs to overtake me. Fortunately, the butcher's boy drove at a smart pace—faster, I thought, than any cab; but when we reached Hincham and I paid his sixpence and alighted, I scarcely knew what to do.

My experience on leaving the road for the fields on the first day had not been encouraging, so without much notion of where I was going, I determined to push along the lane for some distance, keeping a frequent look-out in the rear. Turning at intervals to look back along the straight, level lane, I walked on for a few miles, while the rain continued to hold off and the sun came out again. Stopping once more to make certain there was no pursuit, I saw to my dismay a vehicle rapidly approaching.

Recognising it as the queer-looking fly I had noticed on Saturday in the railway-station yard, I felt no doubt that it contained Mr. Turton and[Pg 76] Augustus. The driver turned and stooped down towards the off-side window, as if to speak to them, while the next instant, a head being thrust out, he pointed in my direction with his whip.

Now what was I to do? It seemed that although they might be able to see that I was a boy, the distance was too great to enable Mr. Turton to recognise me, with any certainty, as his runaway pupil. Fortunately, the lane began to wind to the right a few yards ahead, and taking to my heels, I was soon out of sight of the occupants of the cab.

A few yards further still, the lane bent again, and more sharply, so, seizing the opportunity, I climbed over a gate on the left into a large meadow, which contained a great many sheep and cattle.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.—HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

When we come to examine the methods by which the more lowly creatures take up their food, we cannot but feel astonished at the marvellous number of contrivances by which this is done. To bring home this fact, let us compare the methods of feeding of two of our commonest insects with those adopted by another and very different group of animals—the Mollusca, taking the common snail as an example.

By the butterflies and moths the food is taken in a liquid form—honey procured from flowers—by means of a most marvellously complex 'tongue' or 'proboscis.' This organ, when not in use, is coiled up so as to be out of harm's way, but when the creature desires to feed it can be extended with wonderful rapidity. Its length is astonishing: in many cases, as in some of the hawk-moths, it attains a length of four to five times that of the body, and in some species it may be as long as ten inches! The general shape of this tongue you will see in the figure marked a, which shows what the tongue is like when seen under the microscope.

Carefully examined by the aid of a microscope, this tongue will be found to be made up of two separate tubes lying side by side, and, as each tube is grooved along its inner side, it follows that when the two separate halves are brought together, a third tube lying between the two outer ones is formed. So closely do these two halves fit when closed that this middle tube is perfectly air-tight. This union is secured by a number of hairy projections which interlock, much as one's clasped fingers interlock. Only the middle tube is used for the passage of the honey, the side tubes being used, as some think, for breathing purposes, while others hold that they serve to help in pumping up the fluids into the mouth. By this interlocking contrivance the tube can easily be opened and cleaned, should the passage become blocked by solid particles.

Delicate as this wonderful 'tongue' appears to be, it is in some cases capable of inflicting wounds on the tissues of the food plants. A species of moth, for instance, causes considerable damage to crops of oranges by inserting its trunk through the peel so as to suck the juices of the enclosed pulp. The sucking action is performed by means of a small bag inside the head, the size of which can be alternately increased and decreased by the action of muscles, thus causing a pumping action.

It will probably surprise many readers of Chatterbox to learn that this wonderful tongue is by no means always found in butterflies, for there are many species which have no mouth, and take no food whatever after they emerge from the chrysalis stage. They simply live long enough to lay their eggs, and then die!

The tongue of the fly is every bit as wonderful as that of the butterfly. Strictly speaking, perhaps it ought not to be called either a tongue or a proboscis, for it is really a spout-like mouth bent upon itself, and furnished at its end with a curious pair of flaps or lobes. You may get an idea of what it is like if you imagine the spout of a teapot to turn downwards at first instead of upwards, and then picture the spout turned sharply forwards near its middle. The body of the teapot corresponds to the fly's head; the end of the spout would correspond to the mouth of the fly. On each side of this mouth there will be found in the fly a pair of ear-shaped flaps or lobes, and these play a very important part. Each flap or lobe (see fig. b), where it joins the mouth, contains a long tube, and this tube gives off, along its outer side, about thirty smaller tubes, which are[Pg 78] open below. Now, when the 'tongue,' as it is called, is extended, as in feeding, a copious flow of saliva is sent down the long tubular mouth into the tube of each flap, and when this is full the liquid escapes into the smaller tubes, and as these are open below, it flows out, of course, on to the food. Let us imagine this to be sugar. The saliva meets the sugar, and the syrup which is of course formed is then drawn up along the same channel as that by which the saliva came down. New surfaces for the saliva to work upon are constantly exposed by means of some fifty or sixty exceedingly tiny 'teeth,' which, by the aid of the microscope, will be found at the opening of the mouth, just where the tube-bearing flaps join it. The two rod-shaped, hairy organs at the base of the 'tongue,' in the illustration, are organs of touch, and not part of the 'tongue' proper.

THE ELEPHANT AND THE CROCODILE.

A Fable.

An Elephant and a Crocodile were once standing beside a river. They were disputing as to which was the better animal.

'Look at my strength,' said the Elephant. 'I can tear up a tree, roots and all, with my trunk.'

'Ah! but quantity is not quality, and your skin is not nearly so tough as mine,' replied the Crocodile, 'for neither spear, arrow, nor sword can pierce it.'

'Heyday, sirs!' said His Majesty, going up to them, 'let me know the cause of your quarrel.'

'Certainly,' said the Lion. 'Do you see that soldier's steel helmet on yonder wall?' pointing at the same time across the river.

'Well, then,' continued the Lion, 'go and fetch it, and bring it to me, and I shall be able then to decide between you.'

Upon hearing this, off they started. The Crocodile, being used to the water, reached the opposite bank of the river first, and was not long in standing beside the wall.

Here he waited till the Elephant came up. The latter, seeing at a glance how matters stood, extended his long trunk, and reached the helmet quite easily.

They then made their way together back again across the river. The Elephant, anxious to keep up with the Crocodile in the water, forgot that he was carrying the helmet on his back, and a sudden lurch caused the prize to slip off and sink to the bottom. The Crocodile noticed the accident, so down he dived, and brought it up in his capacious mouth. They then returned, and the Crocodile laid the helmet at the Lion's feet. His Majesty took up the helmet, and addressing the Elephant, said:—

'You, on account of your size and trunk, were able to reach the prize on the wall but, having lost it, you were unable to recover it. And you,' said the Lion, turning to the Crocodile, 'although unable to reach the helmet, were able to dive for it and save it. You are both wise and clever in your respective ways. Neither is better than the other.'

McLEOD OF CLERE.
(Continued from page 68.)

There was much excitement in the Tounghi huts when the story was told, and Maung Yet's wife took possession of the 'Bébé Ingalay.' Much talking and gesticulation, too, among the mothers of the tribe over the white skin of the little stranger. Frail and weak, he seemed at first inclined to slip away from his adventurous life, but Mah Soh had a big motherly heart under her dark skin, and loved Bébé with a great love, and tended him with all the care she knew.

Thus, in spite of strange food and surroundings, the little one throve. His dark eyes took in the brightness of sunshine and moonrays, he slept on his red sleeping-mat under the shade of gorgeous blossoms, waking to the sound of water and the scream of red and green parrakeets, and his tiny hands were raised, with coos of excitement, to catch these bright-hued creatures flitting from branch to branch above him. There he heard the cries of the boys as they goaded the lazy oxen to pull the clumsy carts faster as they came laden from the steaming paddy fields. Bébé learned to love even the pye-dogs which congregated under the huts, and would let him touch them. He loved Mah Soh the best, of course, but almost as much his own white dog, who guarded Bébé jealously, and gave alarm if any evil threatened him. Bébé soon learnt to twist his tiny fingers in the dog's metal collar to keep him near.

When the rice was all gathered, the paddy boats were laden and shipped down the river to the market at Rangoon. Then quieter days began, and Mah Soh, dressed in her best on gala days, would stand at the hut door and chat to the neighbours in their curious musical language.

'How could the Bébé Ingalay have got into the jungle?' 'It was the woman who had died who had brought him there.' 'Did she not call herself Mah Kloo, and had not Maung thought she was a Karen woman?' 'Yes, that was so, but Bébé could not have been her child; had she not said he was Ingalay?' 'It must have been sad for a "Mem" or a "Thakin Ingalay" to lose him.'

Ah, it was hard to understand, and there was the queer charm the woman had, but it and Bébé had brought good fortune—never had Maung Yet gathered in a better harvest. And the little subject of all this talk, dressed like a Burmese baby in Mah Soh's arms, heard all, and understood nothing, not knowing how all-important it was to him.

The rainy season was unusually severe that year, and came all too soon; then fever broke out in the jungle villages—it came to Maung Yet's house, and[Pg 79] Mah Soh was one of the first to die. Bébé cried, and when no one knew, he crawled to her. They took him away when they found him there; he lay hot and restless on his sleeping-mat, for he too had taken the fever. Maung Yet was a sad man that day, and he and his fellows talked much of the trouble. They said the evil spirits must be angry, and some dread thing would happen if the white baby died. Had they not tied round its neck the metal charm, and it had worked no cure yet? Then one told of a camp of white men, Thakins (captains) and native soldiers, who had raised many tents and huts by the big lake: would it not be wise to take Bébé to them?

Maung Yet resolved to do so; they would start at moonrise. Wrapped in cloth and skins tenderly by the women, Bébé was placed in the tappa (a Burmese basket of creel-shape), and slung over Maung's shoulder. They paced rapidly through the night, he and his fellows, until at sunrise they saw the shining of Lake Ownwi, and later the sentries and huts of a camp, and knew that their wandering was nearly ended.

II.

It was the first day of the summer term, at Oakwood Preparatory School, and the head master, Dr. Rayne, was interviewing in his study various parents bringing new boys, all of the latter more or less subdued by so august a presence.

A ring had heralded a fresh arrival, and the butler announced 'Captain Ferrers.' A middle-aged man, bronzed and tall, and followed by a dark, handsome boy some ten years old, entered, and was warmly greeted by Dr. Rayne, who, grasping him by both hands, exclaimed: 'Welcome back to England, Ferrers! It is good to see you again. I got your note, and am most interested—this is your little charge, of course—glad to see you, my little man.'

'Yes, this is Paul. I have been telling him a lot about my old days here, and how I was one of your first boys. I have to hurry away to-day, and would like a few words with you first. Paul could perhaps——'

'I will give him into my daughter's hands. New boys are her special function. Come with me,' and a kind arm was passed round the boy's shoulders.

'Shall I see you again?' The child's big, dark eyes were turned wistfully to Captain Ferrers.

'Oh, yes, dear boy, and you can show your dog to Miss Rayne; it is waiting outside.'

'Now for our chat,' said Dr. Rayne, returning. 'I want to hear all you can tell me about this child. He is a fine boy truly.'

'And a fine character, too, proud and passionate, but affectionate and honourable to a degree; among natives he has often helped me by his fearless truth and sense of right. It is more than nine years since he came to me. I was at the time newly arrived at Fort Caidman, one of the stations in the Shan Highlands on the China-Burmese frontier. As you know, my men are all Sikhs and Pathans, and only I and my fellow-officers were British. One morning early, my man came to me saying that some natives wished to speak to me. I went directly. I found they were Tounghis, a friendly people a long way from my station. The spokesman carried a tappa (a native carrying-basket) over his back, and in it, wrapped in a blanket, a child apparently about a year old, dying, as far as I could see. It was brown with exposure, and its cheeks and eyes bright with fever. I took it for a native infant, but the man assured me by an interpreter that it was white. His story was rather involved, but I gathered that he had received the child from a dying woman in the jungle—a "Karen" he called her. It was moons ago, and how the woman had got it he did not know—she had said "Bébé" and "Ingalay" and had died. Yes, she had said "Mah Kloo," which must have been her name. These Burmese women generally have the prefix "Mah," and so this was little clue. They call anything white "Ingalay" (English) as a rule, so that also is no guide. I thought possibly the child might be half-caste, but feel sure now he is pure European, more suggestive of Spanish or Italian blood, I think. However, I am going from my story. I hesitated what to do, but the man was in such trouble, and so insistent, repeating over and over the necessity of propitiating the "good spirit," that I called my wife, and she decided we must take the little waif, or it would die in the basket.

'For many days it seemed only just alive. My wife was doctor and nurse, however, and we managed to pull him through, and in a few months he was a beautiful walking and talking boy, the pet of the whole station; and while my wife lived, he was her bright, happy shadow; his black head, with a curious white lock (possibly from some bad cut), was always cuddled close against her shoulder, and how she loved him! But she died some months ago, and I gave up my outpost work for a time, with a year's leave, and have come to England until my next billet is fixed. We named the boy "Paul" after myself, and have given him the surname which was with difficulty made out on the brass collar of a dog which came with him—the name of "Fife," presumably that of its former master. I seemed to gather from the man that the dog had been found with the child, but cannot be sure. It is a breed I do not know. Inquiries and advertisements were of no avail—no white child seemed to be inquired for, and we had so little to go upon, as you see. And now he must be educated, and there is no one else in the world I can turn to so surely, or leave him with so thankfully, as you, Dr. Rayne.'

Dr. Rayne thanked him for his confidence, and they went back to see Paul again. Mary Rayne, the Doctor's bright-faced daughter, was making friends with little Paul, who sat on the floor, his arms round his dog's neck. The Captain stooped, and lifting the boy, kissed him tenderly. 'Good-bye, dear old man; you will be happy, I know, and get a clever boy, besides lots of football and cricket. I will take care of "Boh," and we will have no end of a good time in the holidays.' As Captain Ferrers spoke he slipped a thin chain into the dog's collar, and led him away. Pressed against the window a little lonely boy, with clenched hands, trying to keep back the tears that would come, watched those he loved best disappearing down the long drive.

McLEOD OF CLERE.
(Continued from page 79.)

'Paul Fife,' said the newcomer, who had just been left by Dr. Rayne in the school playground, where boys of all sorts and sizes, from ten to fourteen, were congregated, newly arrived from home and holidays, and while they waited for the tea-bell, were inspecting the 'new boys.'

'Oh, "Paul," what a jolly name. "Paul Pry," "Poll parrot," "Polly put the kettle on." Well, Polly, and where do you come from?'

'Let him alone, Briggs,' said the school captain (a pleasant-faced, tall boy). 'Dr. Rayne asked me to look after him a bit. I say, though, young 'un, call yourself "Fife," that's quite enough; we don't have Christian names here, you know.'

'Well, Christy, you needn't punch my head, I don't want to harm the infant,' cried Briggs. 'He can tell me where he comes from, anyhow—can't you, new kid?'

'No, I have not really played them, but I want to. There were no white boys besides me, but I can shoot, and ride, and row, and fence, and throw darts.'

'Not near, but there was a big lake like a sea—the Inthas live there. They are called lake-dwellers, and their huts stand on the top of the water—Uncle Ferrers took me to their huts sometimes. The Inthas row so funnily, partly with their legs. They can row, oh, so fast, and fish, and hold an umbrella, all at the same time!'

'Oh, I say, that must be a cram, anyhow. Tell the infant he must not tell lies, Christy.'

'I don't, and I won't tell you things if you say that,' and the child drew himself up haughtily and turned away, clenching his small brown fists.

'It is a shame, you chaps,' said Christy. 'I know he has come from some queer place in Burmah.'

'Did you see his hair?' said Fane. 'It's as black as a coal, and just in one place is a white streak—he is a regular magpie. Hurrah! there's the tea-bell.'

'Oh, I have heard my mother say some one she knew had a lock of white hair—it looks rather jolly,' rejoined Christy. 'I say, little piebald, don't mind our ragging. I'm awfully hungry, and I dare say you are. There is cold beef always for tea first night of term—worth having, I can tell you. Come along with me, and I will show you where to sit.'

Paul soon began to feel more at home as a small unit in the hundred boys at Oakwood.

'Wonderful at mathematics and no idea of classics' (was the verdict of the masters), 'but can talk Gramouki and Pushtan dialects like a native.'

'No good at football and cricket, but promises well,' said the boys, 'and can climb and jump anything, and use his fists, too.'

Ten days had passed, and Dr. Rayne, at work in his library, was disturbed by a knock, and the matron entered.

'I am sorry to interrupt you, sir, but it is about that new little boy, Paul Fife. I cannot get him to eat his dinner properly; he seems hungry at first, and then leaves off—later, I look at his plate and it is cleared. I find from some of the boys that he puts the greater part of the meat in his pocket, and, I suppose, throws it away. I thought I had better come to you.'

'Come here, little man,' the Doctor called, pleasantly. 'I want to talk to you. You are not too big to get on my knee. No, I thought not. You see, you are one of my little boys now, and we all want to be as happy as possible. You are very thin; do they give you enough to eat?'

'And you like what you get, I hope. We have not Burmese and Indian cooks, you know.'

'And yet Miss Owen tells me you do not eat your dinner, but pocket it—I hope you don't waste and throw away good food, Paul.'

'Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?' and to the astonishment of the doctor, the child covered his face, and his whole body shook with sobs.

'Control yourself, dear boy. No, I cannot allow such crying, you will make yourself ill. That is better. Now tell me anything in confidence, and I will see what can be done.'

With an effort Paul gradually quieted, and then said: 'Yes, I will tell you; please—please, I didn't mean to be naughty, but I do love Boh so much. It is my dog; you saw him, and Uncle Ferrers took him away. I don't know how he got loose, but several days ago he came running up to me in the cricket field—he was so thin, and his ear was torn—I was eating my lunch bun, and I gave him all I had left. He just gobbled it. When some of the fellows came up, I sent Boh off, and he ran into the wood, but each day I whistle, when I can get by myself, and he comes; he is thinner than ever, so now I eat only part of my dinner even if I am hungry, but I save nearly all the meat for Boh. He is the oldest friend I have, for Uncle Ferrers says he came with me. He looks often as though he could speak and tell me whose little boy I used to be. Please, sir, I can do quite well with half a dinner, if he may have the other.'

Dr. Rayne stroked the smooth, dark head, deeply touched by the boy's story. 'There,' he said, 'come with me, and let us see about this dog.'

So hand in hand child and master passed through the big school buildings, and out towards the breeze-swept cricket ground.

'It is a curious name for your dog,' said the Doctor; 'how do you spell it, B-e-a-u?'[Pg 83]

'Oh, no, sir, B-o-h—it is Burmese. It means "head warrior" or chief fighting-man. Uncle Ferrers' Sikhs and Pathan soldiers called him that, because whenever he fought with the pye-dogs or other dogs, Boh always won. May I call Boh now?' (for they had reached the high ridge near the wood).

'Boh! Boh!' the clear voice shouted, and then followed endearing words of Eastern dialect. A few seconds, and a joyful bark announced the delighted animal, who leapt up rapturously, his paws on the shoulders of his little master. The boy's eyes shone as he raised them to Dr. Rayne, fearlessly, but the voice trembled as he urged: 'If I might just see him now and then, we should neither of us mind so much.'

'You shall, I will see to it. Now, bring Boh round to the stables, and John shall find him a kennel and a good dinner. There, there, I didn't want so many thanks, dear boy; I wish I had thought of it before. Now, off to your form master, and I shall expect no more complaints from Miss Owen.'

So Boh also became a member of Oakwood, and a letter was dispatched at once to Captain Ferrers relieving his mind as to the missing dog, who had found his way through so many miles of unknown country safe to his happy owner.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

III.—THE MAMMOTH CAVE.

n the State of Kentucky, in the United States, not far from Louisville, is a table-land formed of limestone, perforated with holes like a sponge, down which rain rushes with great force. Far below run rivers, and there are also still, deep lakes partially fed by the water from above; and, as might have been expected, here also are the most wonderful caverns in the world. It is said that to explore all the halls and galleries communicating with each other, and connected with the Mammoth Cave alone, it would be necessary to walk or climb one hundred and fifty miles. This may well be believed when we hear that the cave contains fifty-seven domes, eleven lakes, seven rivers, eight cataracts, and two hundred and fifty-six avenues, besides thirty-two pits or abysses, and a Gothic church.

The great Mammoth Dome is over four hundred feet high, and light comes in from above through holes which, at such a height, look like stars shining in a dark sky. One of the chief lakes is called the Dead Sea, from its stillness and gloom, and when light is flashed over it from above it is wonderfully impressive, with its surrounding fringe of gleaming stalactites.

A terrible abyss is known as the Bottomless Pit, the depths of which have never been sounded. On one of its sides rises a huge crystallisation in the form of a spinning chair, which gleams out from the surrounding blackness, and is called the Devil's Chair. This appalling chasm is credited with various terrible tales. One is of two young lovers who hid in the Mammoth Cave, but finding themselves pursued, tied themselves together with the girl's girdle, and jumped into the abyss. However misguided and foolish we may think these young folk, we can have nothing but pity for two runaway slaves from Alabama, who, after horrible sufferings and privations in the swamps and forests, hoped to have found a resting-place in the great cavern. Alas for their hopes! before long they heard the voices of their pursuers, the cracking of their heavy whips, the baying of the bloodhounds which had tracked them to their refuge. Further and further they retreated in the darkness, only to hear the dreadful sounds draw nearer and nearer, until they found that they could go no further, as they had arrived at a small rocky platform overhanging the Bottomless Pit. Before was certain death, though it was hidden in the horrors of mystery and darkness; behind were the terrors of a death of protracted agony, as a warning to other fugitive slaves! One second's hesitation, and then, as their captors reached out to seize their prey, the despairing men leapt from the rock into the awful pit.

One very singular cave is known as the Church, and is curiously like the crypt of an English Cathedral, such as Gloucester or Canterbury. It is very nearly the same size as the latter. Here stalactites and stalagmites of colossal size have joined to form pillars, united by Norman arches, with wonderful effect. Religious services have often been held in this veritable 'temple not made with hands.'

Indian mummies have been met with in parts of the cavern, proving that it was known to native tribes in past ages. The skeleton of a mastodon, an extinct form of elephant, stands in one of the great halls, and a few live creatures still inhabit the gloomy depths. A cave-rat as large as a rabbit was caught, which, although it had very bright eyes, was quite blind when taken from the cave; but after a month's experience of daylight it gradually began to make use of its eyes. Various kinds of eyeless fish and crabs live in the dark waters, and a live frog was seen wearing an unhappy expression of countenance.

The slow rate at which stalagmites grow has been tested in this cavern by a lantern which was dropped in 1812 and found cemented to the floor in 1843, since which its upward progress has been carefully watched. The Mammoth Cave contains immense quantities of nitre. During the great American Civil War, most of that used was found here, and as gunpowder contains two-thirds of nitre to all its other ingredients, these caverns were of great value to the nation. The Mammoth Cave is now private property, belonging to Dr. John Crogan, who gave ten thousand dollars for it.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 76.)

CHAPTER X.

Beyond the meadow lay a field of wheat, tall and yellow, although not yet quite ripe for the sickle. Stooping until my hands almost touched the ground, I ran as fast as possible under the shelter of the friendly hedge, until, reaching the cornfield, I scrambled through another hedge, and lay down on my face amidst the wheat.

But still it was impossible to feel in the slightest degree safe, the road being only a few yards distant, while I distinctly heard the sound of approaching[Pg 86] wheels. If it had not been for the bend in the lane, I should scarcely have been able to delay capture many minutes, and even as it was, I lay quaking while I wondered whether Mr. Turton would be able to see me from the road.

The cab passed my hiding-place, however, so that I began to hope it might not be going to stop, until on the point of rising, I heard the horse pulled up, heard the door opened, and recognised Mr. Turton's voice as he told Augustus to alight.

'He might easily have got into that wood,' said Augustus, and I regretted that in my haste I had not taken to the wood on the other side of the road.

While Augustus and his father must have gone to inspect the woods, I heard the sound of an approaching motor-car, and guessed that it had stopped close to the cab on the other side of the hedge.

I lay on my face with the thick wheat growing high all around, my eyes raised to the hedge, above which I could see the top of a man's straw hat. I supposed that his motor-car had broken down, but at any rate, his companion alighted and came on to the raised path, so that I could see her hat and face.

She looked about my own age, although she must have been unusually tall. Young as she was, she wore a thick veil, which she had turned back under the brim of her white hat. A quantity of fair hair hung loose, and she had dark, rather mischievous, but friendly-looking eyes.

The next moment I heard Mr. Turton and Augustus returning from the wood, to inquire whether the driver of the motor-car had seen any one answering to my description. For the car had been coming to meet the cab, as if the driver were making for Polehampton.

'A boy of about fifteen,' said Mr. Turton, as they all drew nearer to the hedge. 'I saw him—I am almost certain it was he—about this spot. Then I lost him in the bend of the lane, and I thought it was possible that you might have seen him running to meet you.'

'I don't remember seeing a boy,' was the answer; 'but then, this wretched car is enough to occupy all my attention. Did you see a boy, Jacintha?' he added.

'No, Uncle,' she answered, and I thought what a strange name it was—one which I certainly had not heard before. 'Has he run away from school?' she asked, with obvious interest, the next moment.

'Yes,' said Mr. Turton, while I could imagine Augustus's snigger; 'he has caused me an immense deal of trouble, and I am extremely anxious to take him back with me—extremely anxious.'

While I lay in the wheat, able to see the tops of their heads as they moved closer to the hedge, it did not seem altogether improbable that Mr. Turton would gain his wish; and while he was still discussing me with the driver of the motor-car, whom 'Jacintha' had addressed as 'Uncle,' the girl came quite close to the hedge, turning to look at the ripening corn. As my eyes were upraised, they looked straight into hers, which seemed to hold them as if I were fascinated.

Now, I thought, everything is over with me! I had not realised that I could be so easily seen by any one looking down into the field from the higher path. Jacintha was evidently startled; she stepped abruptly backwards, as I supposed, to tell Mr. Turton that she had found the object of his search. I was already making up my mind how to act. Mr. Turton was unlikely to be a very swift runner, while I knew that I could give Augustus a pretty good start. The moment Jacintha came back to the hedge to point out my hiding-place I determined to rise from the ground, dart towards the adjoining field where the sheep were pastured, and taking a line across country, at the worst I would lead them all a good chase before I gave in.

A second later, though it seemed a long second in my suspense, Jacintha returned to the hedge and again looked down into my upturned face. Gradually her lips parted in a smile, and then my heart began to thump against my ribs, for I knew that she was not going to betray me. As I smiled back in my relief, she nodded her head ever so slightly, and turning, walked away from the hedge.

'Why don't you drive on to Barton?' she cried, raising her voice, I supposed, for my especial benefit.

'Perhaps he has gone down through a trap-door,' said Jacintha with a laugh, and Augustus sniggered in return. How I wished there had only been Augustus to deal with, with perhaps Jacintha to look on during the process. But it would not have been his boots that I should have blacked!

'Uncle!' cried Jacintha, 'do you remember the steep lane we passed on our left?—that would be on your right,' she added, evidently turning to Mr. Turton.

'There was a finger-post which said "Pathway to Barton." If they were to take that path don't you think they would get to Barton more quickly?'

'Then,' said Mr. Turton, 'if we follow the road, we might be able to intercept the boy. I am very much obliged to this young lady. But in case you should see him after all,' he continued, 'allow me to give you this card. If you could manage to detain him while you communicate with me at Castlemore you would confer the greatest favour.'

I could not catch the answer, but a few minutes later, I heard the cab-door shut and knew that Mr. Turton and Augustus, thanks to Jacintha, had been driven off in the direction of Barton, five and a half miles distant. So that they would have eleven miles to drive before they returned to this spot, leaving me at least two hours (reckoning for the search at Barton and so forth) to make good my escape.[Pg 87]

In the meantime the motor-car still continued to make strange noises, and every now and then its owner gave vent to curious exclamations.

'Don't you think,' suggested Jacintha, 'it would be best to try to get as far as the farrier's we passed opposite the footpath to Barton?'

'Upon my word, I almost think it would!' was the answer. 'Come, suppose you take your seat.'

'Oh!' cried Jacintha, 'but if you don't mind I think I would sooner walk—it is not far, you know.'

So a few moments later the motor-car made stranger noises than ever and moved away, evidently with difficulty, and when it had gone a little distance Jacintha came to the hedge again.

'I don't think I had better stay,' I said. 'Because they might change their minds and come back.'

'I don't think they will,' she answered. 'Because I heard him tell the driver to go to Barton. What shall you do?' she asked.

'You see,' she explained, 'I really live in London, only I am staying now with my uncle and aunt—I always come to stay with them in the summer.'

'Why,' she returned, 'we have come miles and miles this morning. My uncle has just bought a motor-car—a beauty. We started quite early—soon after seven, and it began to rain just before, so my aunt wouldn't come. We were going to Polehampton, and we have broken down lots of times, though we get along splendidly in between.'

'You see I had no money,' I explained. 'I sold my watch and chain, but a tramp robbed me.'

'I wish I could tell Uncle,' she said. 'You know he is most awfully nice, only I am afraid he might put you in the motor-car and drive after the cab—we could catch it easily if we tried.'

'Uncle will be wondering why I am so long,' she continued. 'I expect we shall go straight back now the motor-car has gone wrong.'

'Where to?' I inquired, from sheer curiosity to learn as much about her as possible.

'About a mile this side of Hazleton,' she said, on the point of going away. 'I do hope those people won't catch you,' she continued, 'and that you will reach London all right, though it doesn't seem much use if you haven't got any people. I never knew any one who had run away before,' she added, regarding me with evident interest, and with that to my great regret Jacintha walked away.

'Thank you ever so much,' I cried, and then in order to see the last of her, I came round into the road, standing on the path watching until a bend took her out of sight. Even then I did not at once set out on my journey, but, having taken the precaution to bring some bread and cheese in my pocket, I sat down to eat it, near the spot where Jacintha had recently stood, when I saw something shining on the path.

Taking it in my hand, I found that it was a heart-shaped locket, which doubtless belonged to Jacintha. I imagined that she had worn it suspended from a chain round her neck, that it had caught in one of the twigs of the hedge and been broken off when she started back in astonishment on first seeing me lying amidst the corn.

Ignoring any possible risk from her uncle, I now thought only of returning the locket, and accordingly set forth at a run, nor stopped until I reached the farrier's shop, opposite the footpath to Barton. Then I saw, to my extreme disappointment, no sign of a motor-car before the door.

A STORY OF STANLEY.

Sir H. M. Stanley, the famous African explorer, once had a strange and unpleasant experience, from which he was saved by his presence of mind and readiness of resource. He was travelling in Africa, and had to stay some time at a village. The people here were extremely ignorant and superstitious and quite unused to the ways of white men. After a time some of them noticed him making entries in his note book—for this was new country to him, and it was important that he should remember what he saw—and not understanding what he was doing they jumped to the conclusion that he was bewitching them in some mysterious way. This report spread all over the village, and a crowd of about five hundred savages collected, and threatened to kill the explorer at once unless he destroyed the book. Stanley was, naturally, very unwilling to give up all the notes which had cost him so much trouble and danger to collect, but on the other hand it would be very much worse to lose his life. Suddenly he had a bright idea. He happened to have with him a volume of Shakespeare's plays: he thought that in all probability the savages would not know one book from another, so he offered it to them instead of his note-book. The natives were quite taken in. They accepted the Shakespeare, and, amid much rejoicing, burnt it to ashes, thus breaking, as they thought, the spell that Stanley had cast upon them.[Pg 88]

THE CAPTAIN'S CIGAR.

The ship was on fire! The boats were lowered, and were quickly filled by the terrified passengers and crew. Amid the general excitement, the captain alone remained cool and collected, and when the time came for him to follow the others, he did a very curious thing. Before descending the ladder into the boat, he shouted to his sailors, 'Hold on for a minute!' Then he drew a cigar from his pocket, and deliberately lighted it with a scrap of the burning rope which lay close by. This done, he went down steadily and slowly, and ordered his men to push off.

One of the passengers asked him afterwards, 'How could you stop at such a moment to light a cigar?'

'Because,' replied the captain, 'it seemed to me that unless I did something to divert the minds of the people in the boat, there would probably be a panic. Then the boat would have been upset, for, as you know, it was over-crowded. My seemingly strange act attracted your attention. Watching me, you forgot your fright and your own danger for the moment, and so we got off in safety.'

THE PUFF-ADDER.

The Puff-adder is the most common, as well as the most deadly, of African snakes. It is generally about four feet long; the evil-looking head is broad and flat, while the body, which is as thick as a man's arm, tapers very suddenly towards the tail. The puff-adder is of a uniform brown colour, checked with bars of darker brown and white. It is slow and torpid in all its movements, and is peculiarly dangerous from its habit of lying half buried in the sandy track, not caring to move out of the way of passers-by, as other snakes generally do; still, if not molested or trodden upon, it does not attack man. If any unfortunate creature, however, should be bitten by this reptile, death occurs in a few hours. When irritated or alarmed, this snake has the power of swelling out the whole body, from which fact it derives its popular name.

McLEOD OF CLERE.
(Concluded from page 83.)

III.

It was Sports day at Oakwood School, a glorious 18th of June. Guests were gathering from near and far, and every lodging and primitive inn in the neighbouring villages was reaping a harvest from the invasion of relatives and friends of boys past and present. On the school tower, a landmark for miles, the house flag and the Union Jack floated proudly. The hundred boys looked a goodly sight below, clad alike in white with varying racing colours in broad sashes and ties.

It was Paul Fife's third term, and he had just been welcoming Captain Ferrers. 'I must go directly,' said the boy; 'I am in the sack race for boys under twelve. I must tie Boh up first, or he will come rushing after me and spoil my chance.'

'So glad you think we are taking care of him,' said the Doctor. 'He is a favourite with us all; not quite a typical English boy yet, though. I am glad to see so many "old boys" here to-day, and parents too. Bless me, there's General McLeod of Clere; I have not seen him for years. It must bring back many sad memories: his son was here years ago, a splendid fellow—his death was a terrible blow,' and Dr. Rayne went off to speak to his old friend.

The bell rang for the sack race, and there was a general movement to the starting-post, where the eight small boys in for the final were standing, each tied up to the neck in his sack, ready for the start. The old General was keenly interested, and was standing immediately behind Paul.

The master starter yielded to the request, 'May we have our caps off?' and uncovered one after the other each little competitor's head. General McLeod made a hurried exclamation as the dark head before him was bared. Paul heard him, but had no time to look round, for with an 'Are you ready?—are you ready?—off!' the boys were started. Blundering, tumbling, struggling up again, they rounded the opposite post, and came hopping in, Paul an easy first. As he touched the winning tape, his uplifted face beaming with pride, the old General turned white to the lips, and stretching out his trembling hand he laid it on the head of the laughing boy, and gasped uncertainly, 'Miguel Sarreco!'

There was very earnest talk in the Head Master's study that night, between Dr. Rayne and the General and Captain Ferrers, glad of a quiet hour at last.

'If I might suggest it,' said Dr. Rayne, 'you should tell your story first, General; it may throw light on small things, which otherwise may escape my friend Ferrers's notice and remembrance of all concerning this poor little child.'

'I quite agree with you, and will reserve my story until after,' and Captain Ferrers sat down, listening eagerly while the General began.

'I must go back many years. My wife, as you know, Rayne, was of Portuguese descent, an ancestor of hers having married a señora in Lisbon, after the Peninsular war. She (my wife) inherited a little property there, and in some business connected with it I had met, at different times, a far distant connection of hers, Don Manuel Sarreco, with whom I became fast friends. About fifteen years ago I received an urgent message to go to him at once. I travelled day and night, only to find him dying—he had been mortally wounded in a duel. He knew me, and urged on me his last request, to take his two children and bring them up as my own in England. I hesitated, but his entreaties and the love I had for him prevailed, and I took on myself the charge. The eldest was a beautiful girl of seventeen, Miguel two years younger. They were wonderfully alike, only in the boy's case the raven black hair had a lock of white on one side, the "Sarreco streak," as it was proudly called, which appeared in the family generation after generation. I brought the children home with certain of their[Pg 91] most cherished possessions, some fine riding-horses, and a pair of curious dogs of Andalusian breed.

'My son, Hugh (as you know) had joined the army, and having helped in the final subjugation of Burmah, was then stationed at Mandalay, in command of native troops. I sent the boy Miguel to Harton, and Inez rapidly picked up English at home. Two years later Hugh returned, as he had obtained a year's leave. To make a long story short, he fell in love with Inez, and they were married before he returned to Burmah.

'I ought to mention that, some months before, the addition of two fine puppies of the Andalusian stock had become the pride of our kennels: they were born the day of the wedding of the Princess Louise with the Duke of Fife, and were unanimously christened "Fife" and "Louise." The dog I saw to-day was the same breed. When Hugh and Inez went away, Fife was an important part of the luggage. We went to see them on board, waving good-byes as the vessel steamed away, and I never saw them again.'

The General's voice faltered and failed, but soon he resumed: 'You may perhaps remember the sad bathing accident at Harton School, of which no one quite knew the end. Miguel Sarreco was one of the two boys drowned; his dog, Louise, had apparently tried to save him, for their bodies were washed in together some hours after the accident. The boy had been the only young one left with us at Clere: he was the darling of us all. Judge, therefore, the shock I felt to-day when a face like his looked into mine, and his own dog apparently jumped as formerly round him.

'Inez was so shocked by the news that a change from Mandalay was suggested, and Hugh obtained the command of Fort Sardu, one of the outpost stations in the Shan States. The Dacoit attack on this fort you will remember. We were just rejoicing over a letter from Hugh, telling of the birth of a little son, when we were stunned by the ghastly news of the massacre of every living soul at Fort Sardu.

'I travelled out to Burmah at once, hoping against hope. But all had perished. A sentry near the jungle alone was living, sorely wounded. When questioned, he was delirious, but just before he died he had quieted, and said that Pahna, the Karen woman, had got away into the jungle, but her arm was wounded, and as she went he heard the wailing of a child, and a dog with burning hair had rushed out from one of the huts after her. No one could say if it was truth or delirium, but every inquiry was made. No such woman had been heard of, nor had she returned to any of the Karen encampments, so if she had got away she must have died in the jungle, they said. The body of an infant had been seen among the dead at the fort and buried with the others, so that the sentry's tale seemed but a myth.

'Many months later, a letter, delayed some while, reached me from my boy. It had been written the day after the child's birth apparently. I have it here. After some private matter he says: "Our little son is a fine fellow, very dark, and his thick black hair has the 'Sarreco streak' very visible, which Inez is absurdly delighted at. The English nurse has jungle fever, and is kept away, but Pahna, the Karen woman, is a splendid substitute: she is the wife of my faithful native servant. Pahna is devoted to 'Bébé Ingalay.' Her English is curious; Inez she usually called 'Missee Sahib,' but now she has got to 'Missee Mahkloo,' 'Thakin Mahkloo' meaning me—her nearest rendering of McLeod." You start, Captain Ferrers?'

'Yes; I will say why presently—please go on,' said Captain Ferrers. 'I cannot say how interested I am.'

'The letter goes on,' resumed the General: '"Inez hung the Ragged Cross, the 'Sarreco badge,' round the baby's neck for a few moments to dub him true 'Sarreco.' Pahna looks on it as a charm especially his own, and hangs it over his cot. 'Fife' watches the little one jealously, so he is well protected."

'That is practically all,' said the General, folding the thin letter reverently with hands that trembled; 'but I feel surer and surer—my heart tells me that the little boy Paul Fife must be my own flesh and blood. He is Miguel Sarreco's very image: the same haughty poise of the head, and lean, sinewy body; but when he speaks, the voice is my son's, and the curve of the lips his also.'

'I think I can help you,' said Captain Ferrers, rising. 'I have here in my pocket-book the exact description of the finding the dying woman and the child in the jungle as given me by the Tounghi, "Maung Yet"—he is still to be found, I believe, if more is required. Her dying words over and over were as you see: "Thakin Ingalay—Bébé—Mah Kloo." He took the last to be the woman's own name, and impressed me with the same idea. But it must be meant for Macleod. This alone, coupled with the white lock of hair, is almost proof-positive. But still further, the dog was there, and on his brass collar (which I removed at once, not to risk losing it) was the word "Fife," the name of his owner, we thought, and so we called the child Fife too. Last, but not least, I believe I have in safe keeping the veritable "Sarreco badge" you mention, a curious kind of gold cross, fastened to a thin gold chain. Maung Yet gave it to me as a charm found on the dead woman. I may add that these Karen women are wonderfully faithful; probably both husband and her own infant were slain early in the fight, and she had alone been able to take away the English baby, and had carried him all those weary miles, saving him only to die herself. The hardships endured are terrible to think of.'

There was a pause—the old General's head was bowed over his clasped hands. Then he rose to his full height and said: 'It is quite enough to assure me of what I felt sure of before. I thank God for all His mercy! and now I should just like to kiss my little grandson before I go. I will be here again early to-morrow.'

Captain Ferrers and Dr. Rayne, both frequent visitors at Clere, assert that the General grows younger. It may well be so, for the dark clouds of sorrow have lifted, and the sun shines for him with the laughter of a happy child. He can look hopefully forward now to life's evening. He is not the last of the McLeods.

THE STARTLED HARES.

our hares were at dinner one day—
The sweetest of herbage was theirs—
And as they all nibbled away
They seemed to be rid of their cares;
For the grass was so green and the sky was so blue,
They had plenty to eat and nothing to do.

The sun shone so brightly that day,
They did not think danger was near;
The hunters and dogs were away,
There was nothing around to cause fear.
[Pg 93] When, alas! from the sky there dropped with a plump,
A something which made their poor hearts give a jump.

Poor Fred was knocked backward at once,
And Charlie fell flat on the ground,
While Peter stretched out his long legs
And fled without making a sound;
But Tom, who was boastful, cried, 'Stop! Don't you see,
It is only a kite from its string broken free!

'Just let me catch hold of that boy,
I'll give him a box on the ear—
I'll teach him to fly his old kite
Beside us, to cause us such fear....
Why, there is the boy! After all, I will wait—
I must hurry off home, it is getting quite late!'
[Pg 94]

Then off with a rush went brave Tom,
His heart beating loud with dismay;
While Charlie, and Peter, and Fred
Cried, 'Isn't Tom valiant to-day?'
And the boy shook with laughter to see Tom in flight,
For he knew that fine words never drive away fright!

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 87.)

CHAPTER XI.

The blacksmith, a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a leather apron, stood at the door with a hammer in his right hand, his shop being a kind of barn beneath a tall elm-tree, directly opposite the narrow lane, with a board signifying that it was a footpath to Barton. It was exactly the place I should have selected in order to get away from the main road had I known of its existence.

'About a quarter of an hour,' said the smith, and I saw that it would be useless to think of following it in the hope of overtaking Jacintha. Perhaps it was just as well, as she had suggested that her uncle might take me forcibly back to Mr. Turton, whose eagerness to bring me once more to Castlemore still furnished matter for surprise.

But still, even if I ran some risk, I was determined to lose no time in returning the locket to its owner, who had certainly done me a good turn. My direction, which a little while ago had appeared uncertain, was now decided for me, and henceforth, instead of directing my steps towards London, I aimed at reaching Hazleton, whence the journey could be continued with greater safety from pursuit.

'Can you tell me how far it is to Hazleton?' I asked before moving on from the smithy.

'Jim,' cried the blacksmith, turning towards a man who was hammering a horse-shoe, 'here's the champion walker wants to know how far to Hazleton.'

'Bear to your left till you come to the main road,' said the smith, 'then take the left again.'

Having thanked the man, I walked on, still looking sharply out for Mr. Turton's cab, until I came to a small village with a green, on which a few boys were playing cricket. Here there were two forked roads, and after staying five minutes to watch the game, I followed that to the left. I took the precaution to place the locket in my empty watch-pocket for greater safety, and as I left the village behind, I took out all the money in my possession—four shillings and sevenpence—and counted it, although I knew perfectly well what it amounted to. Even if the weather remained fine, which appeared extremely doubtful, I could not hope to reach Hazleton in less than two days, and then I must hang about the entrance to Colebrook Park until I succeeded in seeing Jacintha alone. As to what was to happen after that, I did not trouble myself; Hazleton had now become my fixed destination, and by securing a free bed in the open air for two nights, I reckoned it would be possible to fare well on the way.

Now that I had set my back towards Barton, I felt perfectly safe from Mr. Turton, and the road became so hilly and beautiful, with woods and undulating fields on each hand, that it soon began to engage all my attention. Villages came close together, and, indeed, the only drawback that afternoon was the lowering sky, which certainly foreboded a bad night.

At about five o'clock I passed through a kind of model village, with some quaint cottages and a few nourishing shops, in one of whose windows I saw some extremely tempting-looking small pork pies. Having eaten only bread and cheese for dinner, I was beginning to feel ravenously hungry, so, entering the shop, I inquired the price.

'I will have one,' I answered, when it occurred to me that if I was going to sleep out of doors, it might be wise to buy two, keeping one in reserve for supper. Then I asked for a glass of milk, and as there was a penny change out of sixpence, I bought a large cake of chocolate.

On leaving the shop, the sky looked blacker and more threatening than ever, and I wondered whether Jacintha and her uncle had arrived home yet. Eating one of the pork pies as I walked on, I followed it by half the cake of chocolate, and then the rain began, with large drops, which made me dread a thunder-storm.

After a little while the rain ceased, however, and quickening my steps, I began to think I should be driven to pay for a night's lodging after all. Presently I came to a kind of open moor, covered with bracken, bramble, and brilliant patches of heath. A rabbit scampered across the road, but there was no one to be seen, although a railway ran close at hand through a cutting on the right. I could see the tops of the signal-posts and hear the rush of passing trains now and then. When I had walked a mile or more across the moor, the rain began again with flashes of vivid lightning and long rolls of thunder. I turned up my collar and buttoned my jacket, which was soon nearly wet through, and at last stood up in the wet bracken under a beech-tree. A more vivid flash of lightning, however, reminded me that I had heard of the danger of standing beneath trees in storms; so, plunging into the deluge again, I followed the road up a steep hill, in the hope of seeing a village, or some kind of shelter, from the crest.

But the only human habitation in sight was a solitary house, which looked curious enough amidst those lonely surroundings. It stood at the corner of a cross-road still several hundred yards distant, a new-looking house, built of red bricks, with a tiled roof, with a garden and railings in front. Determined to find shelter somewhere, I set off down the hill at a run, and, as I drew near the house, rejoiced to see that it was apparently empty. By[Pg 95] the iron railings stood a black board, announcing that it was to be let unfurnished, while the wisps of straw about the path seemed to show that the tenants had but recently forsaken it, because of its lonely situation, no doubt. Opening the gate, I went up the stone steps and stood beneath a small porch before its front door, where at least I was out of the rain, which now poured down in torrents. On each side of the small porch was a shelf, evidently intended to support flower-pots, and underneath one of the shelves I saw an old sack.

This I picked up and examined, and finding that it was not very dirty, I thought there could be no harm in taking possession of it, for if the rain continued, the sack would serve the purpose of a cape to protect my shoulders. Placing it round them at once, I stood gazing at the rain, while the evening gradually darkened. The thunder sounded as if it were exactly overhead, and the lightning seemed to dance around me. Presently I began to wonder how to pass the night, since it would be madness to leave this shelter in the deluge, while yet I could not very comfortably remain where I was.

It must have been between seven and eight o'clock when a happy thought occurred. How idiotic to feel doubtful where to sleep when here was a whole house apparently at my disposal! It could not injure anybody if I made it a shelter for myself for the night, whereas it would be an immense boon to have a roof over one's head until the rain ceased—- although it looked as if it never would leave off.

Drawing the sack over my head, I came forth from my shelter and inspected the front of the house, only to find that every window was securely fastened. Going round to the side gate of lattice-work, I found it unlocked, however, and made my way at once to the back garden. There, by great good fortune, was a window with the bottom pane broken, and having enlarged the hole, I was able to put in a hand and push back the fastener, so that to open the window and effect an entrance was the work of a few seconds.

Having shut the window, I looked about, and saw that I stood in a kind of breakfast-room, entirely empty; but on going to the adjoining kitchen, there was a heap of shavings and paper by a packing-case in one corner, and on this I determined to make a bed. The rain still pelted, the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed, while the interior of the house seemed dismal and oppressive, I confess to a feeling of timidity which I had not experienced since I left Castlemore—such as, indeed, I had scarcely been conscious of in my life before. The evening was already dark, and the night promised to be absolutely black. When I went to the kitchen door and looked out into the stone-floored passage, I could scarcely see my hand before me, and there was no means of obtaining a light.

Returning to the kitchen, I shut the door, and, making the most of the still remaining light, I began to prepare my bed for the night, but as I turned the shavings a mouse ran over my hand, and for the moment I felt so startled that I walked to the farther side of the room.

There I began to persuade myself that there was no danger to be feared from a mouse, and presently, returning to the corner, I shook out the shavings and pieces of paper until they somewhat resembled the shape of a bed. A few minutes later, however, it seemed to become suddenly black, save when the flashes of lightning lighted the room, for, of course, the windows were without blinds. Sitting down on the bed, I determined to eat my supper and try to sleep, not caring how early I woke, so long as it was daylight. I congratulated myself on the possession of the second pork-pie and the chocolate, and lest the morning should prove as wet as the night, I only ate half of my provender, although I could very readily have dispatched the whole.

Then, having taken off my boots and spread the sack out to dry, I said my prayers and lay down at full length; but, instead of falling asleep at once, my thoughts turned to the past, and I seemed to live over again every interview I had ever had with Captain Knowlton. When I remembered his cheerful personality, it seemed impossible to realise that he could be dead, and yet by this time I had not the slightest hope of ever seeing him again. I tried to dwell on Mr. Bosanquet's encouraging words, but it was useless to-night as I lay watching the lightning; and, oppressed by grief at Captain Knowlton's loss, I could not keep back a few tears. Then I must have fallen asleep, for, I know not how much later, although the kitchen was still in total blackness, I found myself sitting up, and thinking for the moment that I was back in my room with Smythe and the other fellows at Mr. Turton's. Before I had quite realised the actual surroundings, I grew cold from head to foot, with that uncomfortable sensation called goose-flesh, as if every individual hair were standing on end. My teeth began to chatter as I strained my ears to listen.

There could be no doubt about it. I could distinctly hear a low, pitiful weeping apparently just above my head. That the sounds came from some human being in intense distress I entertained no doubt whatever, and yet, inconsistently enough, I felt frightened out of my wits. Rising, I felt my way by the empty dresser to the door, and there stood listening. Still the melancholy sound continued; such a dismal wailing as I had never heard before. How I longed for the day to break, or even for the lightning, which had now ceased, although in unison with the sounds of continuous weeping I heard the rain beating against the window-panes.

Afraid to open the door, feeling that I would gladly endure any penalty in exchange for a box of matches, I did not make the least attempt to go to sleep again, but stood close to the kitchen window on the look-out for the first sign of dawn. Never had time seemed to pass so slowly. The sounds of mice in one corner made me shudder, and for once in my life I was thoroughly and shamefully terrified.

The first shade of grey on the ceiling caused a feeling of intense relief, and I began to upbraid myself for timidity. As the light gained brightness, courage returned, and when at last it was day, although nothing could have appeared much more dismal than the outlook from the window, I determined to pull myself together and to make a tour of inspection.

THE BEST BEGINNING.

Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, was not only an excellent ruler and fine general, but deeply religious.

On one occasion, at the beginning of a great war, he landed his troops in Germany. Directly he landed in the early morning, after giving some necessary orders to some of his officers, he retired a few paces from them and knelt down to pray. He noticed that this action on his part appeared to surprise some of his men; whereupon he said, 'The man who has finished his prayers has done one half of his daily work.'

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

5.—Arithmograph.

Answers to Puzzles on Page 58.

4.—Amble-side, in the Lake District, near which place lived Wordsworth, Dr. Arnold, and Harriet Martineau.

THE INDIAN'S CONSCIENCE.

An Indian once asked his neighbour for some tobacco. The neighbour put his hand in his pocket and gave him a handful. The next morning the Indian came again, and brought a quarter-dollar which he had found between the tobacco. The neighbour was surprised at such honesty, and asked the Indian why he had not kept the money.

'It is just like this,' he answered. 'In my heart I have a good man and a bad man. The good man said, "The money does not belong to you; give it back to its owner." The bad man said, "It has been given to you; it belongs to you." The good man replied, "That is not true, and such conduct is evil; the tobacco belongs to you, but the money belongs to him who has given it away by mistake; you must give it back again." The bad man answered, "Think no more about it, and do not let such a trifle disturb you. Keep the money." I was in doubt as to which voice of my heart I should listen to. At last I lay down in bed, but the good man and the bad man quarrelled so all the night in my heart that I had no peace, so I felt obliged to bring you back your money.'

THE LIME OR LINDEN.

The Lime, or Linden, is very notable amongst our trees on account of its beauty and usefulness, and also because it will grow anywhere. It is especially a London tree, for we see it in parks, squares, many private gardens, and along some roads in the metropolis. But the smoke of London seldom allows the tree to attain its full size. Often the stroller in July, passing along a road or lane, becomes suddenly aware of a delicious scent floating upon the summer breeze. He looks up, to find this perfume comes from a lime, putting forth its clusters of flowers upon their leafy branches—flowers to which, by day or night, crowds of bees, flies, and other insects resort. About the suburbs of London the lively sparrows often have their assemblies in lime or plane-trees; and in most years, the London limes, towards autumn, put forth a few fresh leaves.

The lime is a hardy tree, and flourishes even in the cold regions of Sweden and Russia. It is supposed to have been introduced to Britain by the Romans, who brought trees and plants into these islands from various countries where the Roman banners had been carried. Amongst the Swiss, this tree has been regarded as an emblem of liberty, and planted for a memorial. From the lime, called in Sweden 'lind,' the greatest of our early botanists took his name; it was chosen by him because a large lime-tree overhung his father's house, and so he has always been known as Linnæus.

'Linden' comes from the Swedish name, but 'lime' is an ignorant mistake, which cannot be altered now. Properly, the tree belongs to the citron family, akin to the orange and lemon, and the other name of the linden seems at first to have been 'line,' because the bark was used for making cord and other lines.

From 'bast,' as the inner bark is called, a great number of mats are made in Russia, and sent all over Europe; a small quantity is also woven in Lincolnshire and Monmouthshire. Hats and shoes have been made from lime-bark, and the solid wood is serviceable in many ways. It has supplied bowls, plates, sounding-boards for pianos; and some beautiful carving—that of Gibbons, for example—has been executed in lime-wood. It is white, but very tough when properly dried.

A handsome tree when solitary, the lime is particularly beautiful in an avenue. There is a famous avenue of large size at Ware Park, and another remarkable one in the Cathedral yard at Winchester.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

III.—PROFESSOR CHARLES' FIRST VOYAGE.

Notwithstanding the superior power of Professor Charles' gas balloon, the Montgolfiers stuck to their hot air, 'for,' said they, 'see how much cheaper it is, and how much more quickly the balloon can be inflated—about ten minutes against three days.' So, in answer to frequent demands, their air-ships sailed into the skies, and[Pg 99] even the applause of royal hands increased the uproar with which each successful experiment was greeted.

On the morning of September 19th, 1783, the road between Paris and Versailles was crowded to excess. The stream of carriages seemed endless, and the eager throng pushed its way between the vehicles till there was hardly room for horse or man to move. The windows all along the route were full of faces, while the house-tops themselves were invaded by sight-seers. And all this excitement was because the King had commanded Stephen Montgolfier to send a balloon up from the gardens at Versailles. This time, however, there were to be passengers, and as no human being had ever breathed the upper air before, it was questioned whether he could do so and live. The pioneers, therefore, should not be human, and in due course a cock, a sheep, and a goose were chosen. These were the first living passengers in the cloud-cruisers, and after a voyage at a great height, of eight minutes in duration, they returned to the earth in perfect health. But what bird or animal could have wondered if, after that 19th of September, they had quacked, and crowed, and bleated with more pride than before?

Then Montgolfier was busier still, and on November 21st, in a fire-balloon specially decorated for such a great occasion, two gentlemen, named Pilâtre de Rozier and D'Arlande, made the first ascent. Of the former of these we shall have to speak again.

But as hot air, as a means of flight, has been surpassed by hydrogen gas, we ought to give more attention here to the grand voyage made eleven days later by Professor Charles and his skilful helper, M. Robert. During the preparations all went well. The balloon was made and fitted at the Tuileries, with a lovely car in the shape of a fairy's boat, bright with blue panels and golden ornaments. But when things had gone thus far, trouble began.

On November 29th a rumour (too soon confirmed) ran through Paris that the King forbade the ascent to be made. At midnight Charles was aroused from sleep and summoned to appear before a high official, who presented him with the royal order to give up his project. We may readily believe that after this he passed a restless night, and his trouble became harder to bear when his enemies whispered that he himself had asked for the order to be made because, at the last moment, his courage had failed him. Sad to say, such whispers as these will travel as fast and far as shouts of praise, and Professor Charles felt thoroughly depressed. But there was some comfort in the heavy rain that fell, for no one could expect the balloon to ascend in such weather, and before the clouds cleared away perhaps his difficulties would clear away too.

The King, however, was deaf to all appeals; maybe he thought Professor Charles was too valuable to France to run the risk of being killed. But if this was the reason, there were four hundred thousand people in Paris who did not agree with him, and when the next morning broke quite cloudless, they gathered at the Tuileries in a somewhat impatient manner. Who was to be obeyed, the people or the King? Well, up to the last minute Professor Charles would not decide. The arrangements were continued. The great balloon was moved into the open space, with a small one, five and a half feet in diameter, beside it. This was to be sent up first, to see if the air was sufficiently quiet. The rope which controlled it was placed in the hand of Stephen Montgolfier, 'for,' said Professor Charles, 'it was you who first showed us the way to the clouds.' At a signal given, M. Montgolfier cut the rope, and for a moment the attention of the spectators was engrossed by this little pioneer as it rose into the blue above them.

Finally, at a quarter past one, M. Charles made up his mind to keep his promise to the people, and disobey the King for once, and, accompanied by M. Robert, stepped into the blue and golden car. Amid a deafening tumult, that must have been heard at Versailles, they rose slowly into the air. His own description of the voyage has been preserved, and as he was a man who could describe what he felt and saw (and let all 'chatterboxes' know that this is harder than it seems), no story could be more interesting. They rose straight up for one thousand eight hundred feet, and then hung poised in the air. The view was entrancing, and as the aeronauts looked down at the Tuileries and the buzzing crowd, Professor Charles felt as though he had escaped from a swarm of wasps ready to sting him without mercy if he failed to please them. However, his troubles from that point of view were over, and he turned his thoughts to the delights of his voyage. Presently they heard the report of a cannon, which meant that the people of Paris could no longer see them. Far below, like a silver brook, wound the river Seine, and twice the balloon floated across it. Village after village drifted away beneath them, till, at the end of two happy hours, they settled in a broad meadow at Nesle, twenty-seven miles from Paris. Here they were joined by three Englishmen who had ridden after them from Paris on horseback. These Englishmen, together with the village clergyman, signed Professor Charles' papers to prove that they had witnessed his descent, while the awestruck peasants gathered round and helped to hold the balloon.

The sun had already set, but the gas was not all gone, and so Professor Charles went up once more, this time alone. He clapped his hands as a signal to the peasants to let go, and ten minutes later was soaring at a height of nine thousand feet. In that ten minutes he had passed from an atmosphere of spring to that of winter; for although it was December 1st, it was warm weather on the earth. Perfect silence was around him, and when he clapped his hands the noise was quite startling. As already stated, the sun had set when he left the earth, but now he saw it again just above the far horizon. All below was dark with shadow, and on him and his balloon alone the sun was shining. Delighted by these new experiences, he turned his eyes in all directions. Not a human being was visible, not a human voice could be heard, and while he looked and listened the sun sank out of sight once more. Professor Charles, for the first time in his life, had[Pg 100] seen two sunsets in one day. Perhaps he thought that was enough, for he pulled the valve-line, and a few minutes later alighted in a field two miles from his starting-place, and the home of one of the Englishmen. The next morning he and Robert entered Paris in triumph, and a few hours later, through another gate, the balloon entered in triumph too, being escorted by bands of music and crowds of people.

The kind old King evidently forgave Professor Charles for disobeying him, for he immediately presented him with a pension, and first-class lodgings in the Tuileries, where he continued his studies till his death in 1823.

THE JEALOUS KITTENS.

hen Jack and Tom were little kits,
No settled home had they;
But Mother found within the barn
A hamper full of hay,
And there she took her children two,
And told them what they ought to do.

She said, 'Now, darlings, make no noise,
And if you do no harm,
And learn your business, you will live
In comfort at the farm.
Just catch a mouse—for that's your trade—
And then your fortune will be made.'

Now, when the kits were left alone
They soon began to play,
For neither cats nor children can
Be busy all the day;
But as they tossed the hay about,
A little mouse came creeping out!

'Look! look!' cried Jack, with eager eyes.
'I see!' cried Tom, 'I see!
[Pg 102] You go and seek another mouse,
And leave this mouse to me.'
'Indeed, I won't!' cried Jack at once;
'You surely take me for a dunce!

'That mouse is mine—I saw it first;
So, Tom, away you go,
And let me tackle it at once,
And lay the rascal low.'
But naughty Tom would not submit;
He said, 'It's mine—I'll capture it.'

But while they quarrelled loud and long,
They quite forgot their prey,
And when at last they made it up
Miss Mouse had slipped away—
For if you fight and disagree,
You ne'er will catch the enemy.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 95.)

CHAPTER XII.

he most probable explanation of the noise I had heard seemed to be that the house had not after all been empty—indeed, it could not be empty! Although the regular occupants had gone they might have left some one behind as a caretaker, who certainly must be in the depths of despair. Heedless of the fact that my presence might be resented, I opened the kitchen door, crossed the stone-paved passage, and going up a few stairs, came to a fair-sized hall. Here there were four doors, one leading out to the porch where I had found shelter yesterday afternoon, one to a room right at the back, and two which apparently opened respectively into the drawing-room and dining-room.

As the front room was above the kitchen I determined to try that first, for thence the weird sounds of the night had seemed to come. Advancing rather nervously towards it, I gathered sufficient courage to turn the handle, when, discovering that the door had been locked from the outside, I began to hesitate about turning the key.

Unless somebody had been shut in by mistake, how had he or she obtained admission? But as I stood there hesitating, I suddenly broke into a laugh of perfect relief. The truth now seemed plain enough. I could hear scampering feet, and an eager whine, which ended in an impatient bark. Opening the door, I saw a small rough-coated terrier with a patch by his tail; bounding forward he began to yelp and spring and fawn upon me, licking my hands and showing every sign of joy and satisfaction.

I think my own pleasure was almost equal to the terrier's. It is impossible to make any one understand the intense joy of finding a companion after the night I had passed. Although he looked rather thin, his condition did not suggest that he had been locked up longer than a day or two; but picking him up in my arms while he whined and licked my face, I carried him downstairs, and turning on the tap over the sink let him drink as much water as he wished. Fortunately I had still half of the pork-pie in my pocket, and it was good to see him eat it bit by bit from my hand. It was true that my remaining small piece of chocolate made an unsatisfactory breakfast, and that the terrier eyed me a little reproachfully even when I ate that, but he would not leave me for an instant, and in less than half an hour it seemed as if he had belonged to me all my life.

'What's your name, old chap?' I asked, and he wagged his stump of a tail as if he would have told me if he could. 'Anyhow,' I said, 'you must have a name of some sort. What shall it be?'

It took some time to decide upon a suitable name, and then we did not arrive at anything more original than 'Patch.' Having settled this pressing question, I stripped to the waist and had a good wash at the sink, drying myself as well as I could on the shavings which had served as a bed. By this time the rain had almost ceased, and I began to think that it might be advisable to get outside the house before I chanced to be seen. So, having got through the window with Patch in my arms, I shut it again and was going round to the front when I saw that the terrier was poking his muzzle into every nook and corner, as if in search of his lawful owner.

Still, he came to my whistle, and not forgetting the sack, I went round to the front of the house, standing under the porch at the top of the steps until presently the rain entirely ceased, the clouds broke, and the sun shone in a feeble kind of way.

The first order of the day was breakfast, then to make my way to Hazleton with the object of returning Jacintha's locket. With the sack rolled up beneath my arm, with Patch running excitedly around me, I set forth along the muddy road across the moor. Having left this behind and followed a winding lane for some distance, we seemed to be approaching a village. Passing one or two houses, we crossed over a railway bridge, passed a dozen or more cottages, and then, at the corner of two roads, I saw what appeared to be a kind of mixture between a temperance hotel and a mission hall.

After the various escapades through which I had passed since leaving Castlemore, my clothes were in a sad condition, my boots especially being coated with mud, so that for a moment I shrank from entering the building. Summoning courage, however, I pushed open the door and found myself in a bare-looking room with several large illuminated texts on the walls, and three wooden tables, at one of which a man was seated drinking a cup of tea.

A clock over the mantelpiece showed that it was a quarter-past ten, although I had thought it considerably later. As Patch followed me into the room, leaving damp footmarks on the clean linoleum, a short thin-faced woman, with fair hair drawn very tightly back, entered from the opposite door with a wet dish in one hand and a cloth in the other.

'If he doesn't spoil my floor,' she answered, and as I took Patch up in my arms she added, 'What is it you want?'

'Three-halfpence each. Tea a penny the cup, bread and butter a halfpenny a slice.'

I made a hasty calculation in my mind, and being extremely hungry determined to spend sixpence, though it made a rather serious inroad into my remaining four shillings and a penny.

'I will have two boiled eggs, four slices of bread and butter, and a cup of tea,' I answered. Soon afterwards, while I sat with Patch on my knees, the other customer left the room. When the woman returned with my breakfast and received the sixpence in exchange, I was agreeably surprised by her altered manner. At first she had created an unfavourable impression, but now as I ate she stood watching with kindly interest, presently remarking, however, that it was beginning to rain again.

'I was told that it was thirty yesterday,' I said, 'and I know I have walked ten miles since.'

'Well, you won't be able to get far on your way in this rain,' she replied, and indeed it was again coming down in torrents. 'We make up beds here,' she added. While she was speaking, a small, fair-headed child of four or five years ran into the room, and, encouraged by the way the woman caught him up and kissed him, I thought that I would confide in her.

'You see,' I explained, 'I have only three and sixpence to last me to Hazleton, and this weather I can't get along very quickly—that is the worst of it.'

She pursed her lips as she looked into my face. 'Well,' she answered, 'I can give you a bed for sixpence if you're not too particular. Then there's dinner——'

'I shall not care about dinner,' I said, feeling perfectly satisfied after two eggs and four thick slices of bread and butter, 'if I could have some bread and cheese for supper.'

Finally, she agreed to give me some tea in the afternoon, some supper, a bed, and a plain breakfast the following morning, for one and ninepence; this would leave the same sum to carry me to Hazleton, beyond which my plans did not at present extend. The woman, moreover, offered to tie Patch up in an out-house and give him some scraps, and later in the day she said that if I would go to bed early she would wash my shirt, which sadly needed such attention. Altogether it seemed that I had found a friend; and as the rain did not cease all day, I amused myself reading such books as the place contained. At six o'clock I had supper and went to bed, putting everything but my cap and cloth clothes outside my door, where, after a long night's sleep, I found them nicely ironed and folded. On coming downstairs, I borrowed some boot-brushes, so that on Wednesday morning I set out looking far more respectable than I had done on my arrival, in excellent spirits, with one and ninepence in my pocket and Patch at my heels.

A short distance from the reading-room, or whatever it ought to be called, I met a postman who told me it was only twenty-three miles to Hazleton, although, after I had covered quite four miles more, a member of the county police told me it was still twenty-two miles. Seeing that it would be impossible in any event to reach Colebrook Park to-day, although I could easily manage the distance to-morrow, I did not hurry, but, the sun being hot, allowed Patch several rests by the way, until on making another inquiry at about half-past five that evening, I was informed that Hazleton was still eighteen miles distant.

Although the day had been fine, the ground was still wet, far too wet to sleep out of doors with comfort. I had economised as much as possible, but walking is hungry work, and now I found myself with only one and fourpence by way of capital. The consequence was that a free lodging of some kind must be discovered, and I looked about vainly for another empty house.

At about six o'clock I happened to pass a farm; a good-natured-looking man stood leaning against a gate, smoking a pipe.

'No one seems to know exactly how far it is,' I answered, and he chuckled as he puffed at his pipe. Then he began to eye me inquisitively, and presently, knocking out his pipe with a good deal of deliberation, he turned and walked away. I was beginning to feel that I had met with a rebuff, when he looked back and told me to follow him.

With Patch in my arms I followed the farmer round the house to an empty shed behind.

'You can have a shake-down here if you don't mind being locked in,' he said; and, although I would rather not have had the key turned, I at once consented. It was a large shed, and quite clean and fresh, but entirely bare. When I had been there about half an hour a maid opened the door, with a plate of cold beef and potatoes in her hand, and she stayed talking while Patch and I shared the meal. Soon after she had gone, taking the plate and knife and fork, the farmer came again, followed by a man with an armful of straw.

'I shall not lock you up,' he said, 'though I have been done so often you can't tell whom to trust and whom not. If you go to the back door to-morrow morning, you will get some breakfast.'

I have slept in more comfortable places, but still the shed was quite as good as anything I had a right to expect, while Patch's presence proved the greatest comfort. He lay down close beside me, artfully taking advantage of the straw, and when I felt very lonely—for I could not get to sleep for some time—I put out a hand and felt his coat.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 103.)

t was half-past six the next morning when I went to the farmer's back door, where the rough-looking maid provided me with a cup of coffee and a chunk of bread and butter, then, followed by Patch, I set out that Thursday morning on the road to Hazleton. The weather could not have been better, although the middle of the day promised to be excessively hot.

As I trudged along the pleasant road, I had some wild idea of reaching Hazleton that evening, but this was soon destroyed, for about a mile from the farm where we had slept, I noticed that Patch was limping. Sitting down on a heap of stones by the roadside, I looked at his near hind paw, and saw that it was nastily cut, so that he could only walk in great pain. I suppose he had trodden on a piece of glass in the road.

Now I realised that I was in an awkward plight. Of course, Patch must on no account be left behind; but, on the other hand, how was I to get him along? Tearing a piece off the edge of the sack, I frayed out some of the thread and made a kind of bag, which I put over the wounded paw, tying it round the leg. This took some time, and, as the job was finished and Patch was licking my hand by way of thanks, I saw a large van approaching from the direction of the farm, driven by one of the fattest men I had ever seen. The cart was laden with bottles of ginger-beer and mineral waters, but, as it passed us by, at a fair pace, a nosebag, which was tied behind, fell off into the road.

The driver, alone in the van, was entirely unaware of his loss until, rising from the heap of stones, I shouted to him to stop, and, picking up the nosebag, ran after the van. Pulling up his horse, he leaned down to take the bag, and then asked where I was going.

'Well, now, listen to me,' was the answer. 'My round doesn't take me as far as Hazleton, but I am going to Watcombe, and that's ten miles short. We shall not get there much afore evening, because you see I have to travel a good bit out of the main road, and stop at ever so many places on the way.'

At any rate, the proffered lift would take me within ten miles of Colebrook Park, whereas without such help I did not see how I was to get even so far unless I carried Patch in my arms. Besides, the drive was tempting in itself, the only drawback being that my remaining capital of one and fourpence would have to bear an extra strain, and, in case of more bad weather, it would probably be exhausted before I reached my destination. However, in a very few moments Patch and I were seated on the top of a wooden box full of lemonade bottles, the fat driver whipped up his horse, and we sped gaily along the country road.

CHAPTER XIII.

As I sat on the box of lemonade bottles, with a hand on Patch lest he should show a desire to jump down from the van, I noticed that he was sniffing curiously at the back of the driver's coat; and presently the driver in his turn began to look with equal interest at the terrier.

'Come to that,' was the answer, 'I seem to know him. Looks to me most uncommon like Mr. Westrop's dog, he does.'

For a few minutes, without answering (for the fat driver was slow of speech and spoke in a deep voice which seemed to come from the direction of his boots), he divided his attention between the horse and the dog, and then fixed his small eyes on my face.

'Mr. Westrop's been in a bad way about his dog,' continued the driver. 'A very bad way. What do you think about it, Sam, old chap?'

The terrier, to my sorrow, showed what he thought about it by wagging his stumpy tail and whining with satisfaction, so that it would have been ridiculous to attempt to persuade myself that he failed to recognise the name of 'Sam.'

'I know most people betwixt here and Barton,' said the driver, laying his whip gently across the horse. 'Come to that, so I ought.'

'Do you live at Barton?' I asked, thinking of Mr. Turton and Augustus, and their wasted drive to that town.

'Just this side,' was the answer. 'That's where our factory is—half a mile this side of Barton. And every day of every week, for fifteen years or more, I've driven round the country with this van.'

'Why, of course,' he exclaimed. 'Back by the straight road, after I've done my round.'

We had already left the wider road, and as the driver spoke he pulled up the horse at the door of a small rustic inn. Fastening his reins to a hook on his seat, he slowly dismounted, took a box of bottles from the van, carried it into the inn, returning after a short interval with the same box filled by a similar number of empty bottles. Then he climbed up to his seat again, unhooked the reins, and cried 'Gee-up' to the horse, which at once started at a smart trot along the lane.

'Now about this dog,' he began. 'Mr. Westrop used to live at the Beacon on Ramleigh Forest—I can remember before the house was built. He moved out last Friday to a house near Barton, and sure enough he has lost his terrier. Where did you find him? That's what I should like to know.'[Pg 107]

'I don't know whether the house was called the Beacon,' I answered, 'because I didn't see any name. Patch had got locked in the drawing-room.'

'Well, now!' cried the driver, 'who would have thought the dog was fool enough for that! Locked in the drawing-room, were you, Sam, old chap? And how did you get him out?'

When at some length I explained how I had been caught in the storm, and sought shelter in the empty house, and slept in the kitchen, and had been frightened by the ghostly noises in the middle of the night, the driver leaned forward and laughed so uproariously that I felt afraid lest he should fall from his seat on to the horse: and as soon as his merriment permitted him to speak, he turned to me with his great red face redder than ever.

'Well,' he cried, 'you are a nice young man for a small party, you are! A nice young burglar, to be sure! Going and breaking into people's houses, cool as you please, and stealing their dogs. Howsoever,' he added, 'Mr. Westrop will be no end glad when I take Sam back to him to-night.'

'Why, what do you think?' he demanded. 'You wouldn't go and keep a dog that didn't belong to you!'

I am afraid I might have been tempted to keep Patch or Sam, whichever he ought to be named, on any terms, if circumstances had permitted; and useful as the lift on my way had appeared, I began to regret that I had ever seen the driver or his van. But before I had time to reply we were pulling up in front of another inn, where another box of mineral waters was carried in, and a box of empty bottles was brought out.

'Not but what,' the driver continued, 'I am sorry to take the dog from you, because he is just the sort you could soon grow fond of—aren't you, Sam? But right is right,' said the driver, looking straight in front of him, as he laid the whip on his horse.

During the next two hours we stopped at numerous inns, and I might have been able to enjoy the drive through the country lanes, and the remarks which the driver exchanged with almost every one we met, if it had not been for the necessity of restoring Patch to his rightful owner. It was impossible to pretend that the driver had not right on his side, but the fact remained that the terrier's companionship had become very valuable, and I would have borne a great deal rather than give him up. On the other hand, I began to persuade myself that it would have been perhaps difficult to keep him in London, especially if I succeeded in obtaining work as quickly as I hoped, when necessarily I should be occupied most of the day.

When we stopped at a more important inn at one o'clock, the driver took from beneath his seat two plates, one covering the other, and tied up in a clean napkin. Without a moment's hesitation, he offered to share his meal with me, and there appeared to be quite enough rabbit-pie for two. After dinner, as we drove on again, he became more talkative, and asked a good many questions about myself, with the result that he soon learned where I was going after I left Hazleton, and how much money I had in my pockets, though I did not mention the gold locket.

'Now where did you think of sleeping to-night?' he asked, and I told him that I intended to wait to see what might turn up in the way of shelter. 'You see,' he continued, 'I always like fair play. Fair play is a jewel. It was you who found the dog, though you had no business to have been on the spot, so to speak. But Mr. Westrop is pretty sure to give me a tip for bringing Sam back, and I don't see why you should not have your share.'

'Of course it is, because I am going to make it all right,' he said. 'I told you I would set you down at Watcombe, ten miles from Hazleton; but half a mile short of that my sister-in-law lets lodgings. I will speak to her, and arrange that you shall have some supper and a bed and breakfast, and then I think we can cry quits, eh—what do you say?'

I said that it was very kind of him, and he proved as good as his promise. The house was not particularly tempting-looking, but, at all events, it was far better than no place to sleep in. I climbed down from the van, followed by Patch, from whom I was so soon to part, and accompanied the driver into a kind of kitchen, where a tall, stout woman in a cotton dress was busily employed as we entered. She glanced at me once or twice while the driver carried on a whispered conversation and handed her some money. Then she went out at a back door and returned with a piece of rope.

'That's enough,' answered the driver, and, going down on his knees, he whistled to Patch, who went obediently, and stood wagging his tail while a loop was fastened round his neck. I followed when the driver led him out at the door, lifting him into the van, and tying the end of the rope to the rail behind his own seat. Standing on an empty box, Patch looked down at me and whimpered, so that I climbed on to one of the wheels to pat his coat and hold his muzzle as a last good-bye. The driver mounted to his seat and unhooked the reins.

'Down you jump!' he cried. 'So long! be good!' and, whipping up his horse, he drove away, while Patch began to run about on the top of the box, and strained at the rope as if he were as sorry to leave me behind as I was to let him go.

THE REASON WHY.

Louis XIV., King of France, was very fond of playing at chess. One day he was having a game with one of his courtiers, and during the game made a false move, to which his adversary respectfully called his attention. The King, who did not easily suffer contradiction, did not wish to acknowledge that he was wrong, and appealed to the noblemen who surrounded the table, but none of them made any reply. Just then the Duke de Grammont came into the room, and immediately the King saw him he appealed to him, and wished to explain to[Pg 108] him the subject of the dispute, but the Duke hardly allowed him to finish.

'Your Majesty is certainly wrong,' he said, with a firmness of tone which astonished the King, and caused him to frown.

'How do you know that I am wrong, Monsieur le Duc?' replied the King; 'you have not even given me time to explain to you what the question was.'

'I know undoubtedly,' replied the Duke of Grammont, 'for all these gentlemen, whom your Majesty was consulting at the moment I arrived, only replied by their silence. They would every one have hastened to take your part if your Majesty had been right.'

The King was struck with the sense of this argument, and admitted that he had made a mistake.[Pg 109]

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

III.—HOW BUTTERFLIES, FLIES, AND SNAILS FEED.

When the method of feeding employed by the Snail is compared with that of the Butterfly or the common Fly, a very striking difference in the construction of the mouth-parts will be noticed. The common snail (fig. d), for example, feeds by the constant licking, or rather rasping, motion of a very wonderful tongue—a tongue which, stretched out, appears to be longer than the whole body! Yet only a small portion of this curious organ is in use at one time.

This tongue (fig. f) consists of a long flat ribbon, or 'radula,' as it is called, the surface of which is beset by a series of minute teeth, set in rows across the ribbon. The number of these teeth varies greatly in the different species of Mollusca—the group to which the snail belongs. In some there may be as few as sixteen; in others, in some relatives of our garden snail, for example, there may be as many as forty thousand! The working portion of this ribbon is fixed to a sort of tough cushion, which, by means of muscles, can be drawn forward and protruded from the mouth, where it is worked backwards and forwards with a licking or rasping action that effectually scrapes away, in a fine pulp, the edge of the cabbage leaf on which the creature is feeding. The teeth serve, in fact, the same purpose as the horny spines on the tongue of the lion, or, on a small scale, of the cat. You all must have noticed how rough a cat's tongue is when, in a burst of affection, pussy insists on licking your hand. If she went on licking long enough she would wear away the skin. As the snail's teeth wear away in front they are replaced from the reserve store which is kept in a sort of pocket, which lies behind the 'cushion' in the drawing of a section of a snail's head (fig. e). It is here that new teeth are being constantly formed, and pushed forward to supply those lost.

In this drawing, by the way, you will notice a long arrow (a-b): this marks the passage which the food takes from the mouth to the gullet, and thence to the stomach. The head of the arrow points towards the snail's interior.

In many mollusca, the teeth, instead of resembling one another throughout the series, are of different kinds, very large and very small teeth alternating one with another in endless variety.

The horny jaws, to which reference has been made, are generally not conspicuous; but in the Cuttle-fish and Octopuses they are of huge size, and have been aptly compared to the beak of a parrot. But we must return to this subject again on another occasion, for it is one of quite unusual interest.

AN OLD-FASHIONED GRACE.

This little 'grace before meat' was written two hundred and fifty years ago by Robert Herrick, a Devonshire clergyman who became a famous poet. 'Paddocks' is an old name for 'frogs,' and 'benison' means blessing; 'heaving up' means 'lifting up in prayer.'

Here a little child I stand,
Heaving up my either hand;
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat and on us all.—Amen.
[Pg 110]

CURIOUS NAMES IN LONDON CITY.

Time and progress have swept away many of the old streets, lanes, and alleys for which London City was remarkable. Most of them had names with a meaning, though it is sometimes difficult to find this out now. One reason is that, as the years went on, names often got altered in very odd ways. There were few of what might be called 'fancy' names, such as are now often given to new streets or roads. Frequently a name arose from the business of the people who lived in the street, or perhaps it kept in remembrance some notable person who had a house there. Occasionally it happened that a lane or alley had several names, and it is not easy to tell which is the oldest. The citizens sometimes gave two or three streets the same name.

When it could be done, old names have been kept, or not much altered, though the street is changed. Old-time Londoners would stare at Cannon Street of nowadays, so different from the Candle-wick or Candlewright Street of the past, where lived dealers in tapers and candles. It is said that Paternoster Row got its name from the fact that stationers and writers had shops there, who sold, among other things, copies of the Lord's Prayer. It had an Amen Corner, and Creed Lane is also near. Afterwards mercers and lacemen invited customers to shops in the Row, and finally it became famous for books and magazines.

Chancery Lane and Fetter Lane still keep the old names they had when their appearance was not that of streets or business thoroughfares, but quiet lanes between Holborn and Fleet Street, dotted with private houses. Fetter Lane had nothing to do with fetters or prisoners; it was so called because 'fewters,' or idle persons, were often found lurking amongst the back gardens. One of the short turnings out of this lane had the odd name of Three Leg Alley; nobody seems to know why. It is supposed that Gracechurch Street is a reminder of a church in the locality, St. Benet's, Grasschurch, thus called because near the church was a herb-market, where wild or garden plants were sold. Occasionally the name is found in books written by chance as Gracious Street. At first the Gresham Street of our day was called Cateaton Street, but an old writer about London states that this was also shortened to 'Catte.' There was a surname Catte or Katt, which might have belonged to a person who built houses along the street. Hog Lane, Spitalfields, we are told, was visited now and then by the porkers that were allowed to range in the fields and obtain what food they could. Doubtless they strolled up the lane on the chance of getting fragments from the kitchens of citizens. Was Duck Lane, Smithfield, damp enough to be attractive to ducks? It may once have been, but later it was known as Duke Street.

Many places in the city were named from eatables or other articles that were sold in them. This was the case with Pudding Lane and Pie Corner; Milk Street, too, is supposed to have been a milk market, but Honey Lane was not a depôt for honey, nor remarkable for its sweetness. The historian Stow says that it was both narrow and dark, needing much sweeping to keep it clean. The Poultry was a market for fowls, and Scalding Alley, close by, had houses in which people scalded poultry and prepared them for sale. An old name given to Grocers' Alley was Coney-slope Alley, for it had a market where coneys or rabbits could be bought. In Rood Lane formerly stood the Church of St. Margaret Pattens, beside which the women offered pattens to by-passers. These wooden elevators for the feet were much in demand at the time when London streets were often deep in mud, and the fields splashy or sticky with clay. But they did not sell bucklers in Bucklersbury; so far as we know, it was called after a citizen named Buckle, to whom the manor belonged. Grub Street did not have at all a pretty name, though some say it was first Grape Street; then it was altered to Milton Street in honour of our great poet. Little Britain or Britagne Street had a residence belonging to the Dukes of Brittany, and Barbican was notable for its Roman tower, around which were large gardens.

EARNING AN HONEST PENNY.

'I wish we could scrape enough money together to buy poor old Father a pair of slippers for his birthday,' said Jack; 'his old ones are all in holes, and I know he can't afford a new pair—he has had so many expenses since Mother's illness.'

Geoffrey looked up from his home-lessons and sighed deeply. 'My money-box is quite empty,' he remarked, 'and Nellie and Hilda have not a farthing in the world.'

'That is true enough,' laughed Nellie. 'But, oh, Jack,' turning to her eldest brother, 'if only we could do something for Father, I should be so glad! He seems so worried lately, and I am sure it's because he can't get Mother all the nice things she ought to have now that she is getting better.'

'Couldn't I take out a broom and sweep a crossing?' asked Geoffrey; 'that would bring in a little, and I would not mind what I did, if it helped.'

'You must find your crossing first,' returned Jack. 'The roads are as dry as a bone at present, so that won't work, little stupid!'

'Little stupid' sighed again. 'If only I knew how to earn an honest penny!' he murmured.

There was silence for a moment; then Jack said slowly: 'I wonder what became of Uncle Harry after he went out to Australia. Father never writes to him; he doesn't know where he is now, and we have moved so many times that I expect Uncle does not know where we are either. I dare say if he knew we were so badly off he would help us.'

'It's no good talking about Uncle Harry,' said Geoff; 'the question is, Can we help Father?'

'Look here,' cried Jack, suddenly; 'supposing, instead of saying "Can we," we say "We must." Supposing,' he added, 'we all make up our minds to[Pg 111] earn a shilling each as best we can, so that we may have four shillings to buy Father some slippers?'

'Oh, we must each hit upon a plan for ourselves,' returned Jack; 'I vote we draw lots for the first victim to-night, and we will allow each victim two days to earn the shilling in, and then will draw for the next.'

Of course, they all began to puzzle their young brains about plans; but Jack cut some slips of paper into different lengths, and, placing them between his thumb and first finger, while he clasped his other fingers tightly over the ends inside his hand, he bade them each take one, and whoever drew the longest was to earn the first shilling.

Well, they all drew, and Jack took the slip which was left; but Nellie got the longest, and she retired to the window, and stared out for inspiration.

'I know what I shall do,' she announced, at last; 'I'll cut my twelve chrysanthemums out of my garden, take them down to town, and sell them in the street for a penny each.'

'Nellie!' cried Jack; 'you mustn't think of doing such a thing! Father would not like it, and I am sure we should not. You are not half strong enough to go out into the streets.'

But Nell was firm. 'It's the only thing I can think of, Jack,' she replied, 'and I will do it. We must earn some money somehow, and no one will recognise me if I put on my old frock, and a shawl over my head. We can't help being poor, Jack, and it is an honest way of earning a shilling.'

Jack, however, looked a little worried. He admired Nellie's pluck, but he did not like the thought of her going out into the streets alone. Nevertheless, after some discussion, it was decided that she should have her way, on condition that Jack went with her to see that she was quite safe. It was agreed that the matter should be kept dark, and that if Mother asked where Jack and Nellie had gone next evening, the others were to say it was a secret.

So, after tea the following day, the two children stole out. Mother was resting in her own room, and Geoffrey and Hilda were at their lessons, though it must be confessed they found it hard to give their whole attention to them.

It was a good mile and a half down to the town, but Nellie trudged bravely on with her treasured chrysanthemums (she alone knew what it cost her to cut them), and Jack walked a little behind, for his sister said that flower-girls never had any one to escort them, and he must not let any one see he belonged to her.

When they arrived in town, Nellie took up her station at a busy corner, and timidly offered her flowers for sale, while her brother stood in a doorway not far off, pretending to read a book by the light of a street lamp, but in reality he was watching to see that she came to no harm.

One honest penny was earned—two; then Nell grew bolder, and ran after a man whom she thought a likely customer. But he pushed her roughly on one side, and she fell upon the pavement. Jack could have kicked that man, but he was out of sight in an instant, so the boy went and helped Nellie to rise instead. Gathering up her flowers, he entreated her to return home, and not to trouble any more. But the little girl bravely held out, assured him she was not hurt, and in the end persuaded him to go back to his doorway.

Ten minutes passed away without any more flowers being sold, then Nellie held out the best of all to a kind-looking gentleman who was passing slowly by.

He stopped, looked at the child somewhat curiously, and then said, 'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers; but I wonder if you can tell me where Greenfield Road is, eh?'

Nellie started, for that was the name of the road where she lived. However, she simply directed him, and was turning away to seek for another customer when he slipped a bright half-crown into her hand. The child was so astonished that for the moment she could say nothing, and when she recollected herself the gentleman had gone, and Jack was by her side, asking what had happened.

'Well,' he said, when she had told him, 'no more selling flowers to-night, Nell, so you can just come home at once, for you have done your part and more,' and he would not hear of her staying there any longer.

Together the two started for home, feeling very happy indeed; but scarcely had they got inside the door when Geoffrey literally rushed at them.

'Oh, Jack! Nellie!' he cried, 'you can't think what a splendid thing has happened! Who do you think turned up ten minutes ago? Uncle Harry; yes, Uncle Harry! He has been hunting for us for days. Oh, it seems too good to be true! He's in the dining-room now, with Father, and——'

'Oh, is he?' said a voice from behind, and who should appear on the scene but the kind gentleman who had given Nell half-a-crown! 'Why!' he exclaimed, suddenly, 'what's this I see? Well, if it isn't——Why, what does it all mean?' he asked, turning round to Father, who had followed him out, and was looking equally puzzled.

There was an awkward silence. Nellie coloured, and in her nervousness, down went all her pretty flowers on to the floor. But Jack came to the rescue, and blurted out the whole story on the spot.

Father turned his head away as Jack explained; indeed, he was much touched by the children's thoughtfulness; but Uncle Harry patted Nell's head, and praised her for her pluck. He said that Father ought to be proud of his four children, and I am sure Father was, though he said they must never think of going into the streets to sell flowers again.

Of course, the earning an honest penny business came to an end, for Uncle Harry had come back much better off than when he went out to Australia, and he gave the children a shilling each to buy Father some slippers, and something else for themselves besides.

Later on, he and Father became partners in a business of their own, and Nellie never had to think of selling her flowers again, or Geoffrey of sweeping a crossing.

'GINGER FOR PLUCK.'

Thomas M'Calmont had blue eyes, a mop of red hair, a moderate share of brains, and a most insatiable thirst for adventure. When his school-fellows made insulting remarks about his red locks, he was wont to answer, 'Ginger for pluck;' and, indeed, on several occasions, he had acted up to this saying there and then on the persons of his unfortunate persecutors.

Tommy was only eleven years old. Mrs. M'Calmont, his mother, regarded him as the most wonderful boy in the world, and would have utterly spoilt him, after the fashion of adoring mothers, had it not been that Mr. M'Calmont, seeing nothing more wonderful in his son than a red-headed, mischievous boy, set himself most diligently to curb Tom's youthful energy, and make an honest, sensible fellow of him.

They lived in the country, and Tom had three miles to go to his school. But Mr. M'Calmont also had business in Barton, so the pair set out together each morning in a trap drawn by a steady-going horse, who never shied or ran away, or did anything at all exciting. Tom was set down at the door of his school at nine o'clock, and called for at half-past four precisely, just like a grocery parcel. Never a chance for a frolic over the fields in the clear morning air, never any scrapes to get into! No gentle dawdles through the lanes after school, with occasional excursions into hedge or spinny after wild creatures, or the chance of a nice creepy adventure in the darkness of some winter's evening. The whole business, Tom thought, was humdrum and commonplace.

But at last, one early springtime, it happened that Mr. M'Calmont had urgent business at the town of Greenhurst, twenty miles away. It was a cross-country journey, where railways did not fit, so Mr. M'Calmont departed in his trap, leaving Tom and his mother in sole possession for a whole fortnight at Red House. Mrs. M'Calmont was secretly rather glad to be able to spoil her son as she liked.

Tom made the most of his advantages, and mother and son together revelled in the glorious sense of doing everything they liked best. Tom's favourite dishes appeared at every meal, bedtime came a good hour later than usual, and Tom also managed three clear days' 'old-soldiering' on the strength of a slight cold. But the last morning of liberty came, and as Tom dressed he carefully turned over in his mind how he should celebrate it. It was a beautiful morning after a week of heavy rain, and Tom had no wish for another day of coddling indoors.

Tom's mother packed his lunch-case with many dainties, and kissed him good-bye. Tom felt rather mean, 'like a wriggle-up worm' as he afterwards put it, and he half resolved to give up his plan and go soberly to school, for, to tell the truth, he had already resolved to play truant. Unhappily, as he turned into the lane from the drive gates, a rabbit dashed across the road right in front of him, and frisked into the hedge in a most tantalising manner, as if to show his contempt for stupid human beings who plod along the beaten track. That killed all Tom's scruples, and he was soon scurrying through the fields, scrambling over hedges, leaping ditches, and getting his clothes into as pretty a pickle as could be desired.

What a splendid day he spent, following no settled route, but wandering here and there as the impulse of the moment directed, and feeling in all his boyish frame the gladness of life and of spring! He lunched in a little wood, with a fallen tree for a throne, and a rippling stream to play him music while he feasted. Then he sauntered leisurely on in the afternoon sunlight, many thoughts busy beneath his comical red thatch. The long hours in the open after his three days indoors made him sleepy at last, and he was glad to discover behind the temporary abode of a railway navvy a little rough wood hut, where, with a friendly dog for company, and some straw for a couch, he was soon fast asleep.

Tom was dreaming. He heard a babel of voices fierce and angry, and was striving very hard to hear what they were saying; but, though the voices seemed loud, he could not distinguish one word from another, and in trying to do so he awoke. The voices continued, but they were not loud at all, though rough and angry. They came from the navvy shelter, and Tom could hear plainly every word. He was about to move away when he heard his father's name mentioned, qualified with expressions of hatred. Plainly it was right that he should hear what these men had to say about his father, so Tom crouched nearer the wall of the hut and listened. His blue eyes grew big and round, and his face filled with horror.

Tom knew that the navvies at work in the district were not regular workmen, but a very rough set. A gang of them had been almost a terror to the neighbourhood, and Tom's father had been foremost in bringing the guilty ones to justice. Three of their friends were in the hut, one with a revolver. They had learned from a workman that Mr. M'Calmont was to return from Greenhurst that evening, and they were discussing the spot where they could best waylay and shoot him. 'We won't kill him, only damage him a bit,' were the last words Tom heard as he crept from his hiding-place and made his way quietly into the wood.

Tom's fear began to give way to excitement. He had an adventure at last, and all to himself. To go home for help would be no use and would only terrify his mother. The setting sun showed that the evening was advancing, and his father would soon be coming, so that the only thing was to go and hide near the spot where the men had planned to wait. This was where two roads merged into one, at the bottom of a steep hill overhung with trees. Mr. M'Calmont might come by either of the two roads—it would depend on whether he wished to go into Barton or not.

Tom made his way to his post as quickly as possible, and found himself a hiding-place in a hole beneath the hedge, where only a boy could wriggle, and where he hoped that in the dusk he would be unobserved. His post was just the point where the road forked; the men had planned to stand some yards from that point, where it was more shaded by[Pg 115] trees, so Tom hoped that when he heard the trap approaching, and could distinguish on which road it was, he would have time to run and warn his father, who would then, he did not doubt, with the aid of his valiant son, be a match for any three men.

It was rather a lonely watch. Tom was getting hungry again and very tired and stiff. As the light faded, his excitement faded too, and it was almost a relief to hear the stealthy arrival of the conspirators. Then another long wait, until at last he heard the cart-wheels going over unrolled stones, which told that it was not on the Barton road. Out of his hiding-place he crept, and darted along the grass at the road-side. An unlucky stumble over a fallen branch betrayed him, but as he fell he shouted with all his might, 'Look out, Father, they are going to shoot you!' Then there was a rush, a crack as something came into violent contact with his head, the world went round, and then—darkness.

When Tom woke, the morning sun was shining into his own room. His mother was busy at the window, fixing the curtain to keep the light from his face, and Tom could see that she was crying. A great fear entered his mind, and, as his mother turned and looked at him, all he could say was 'Father?'

'Quite safe, my brave laddie, for you frightened the men away. My dear, brave boy.'

Then joy filled the heart of Thomas M'Calmont, and for once the fault of playing truant went unpunished.

GROWING UP.

hen birthdays come, we always write
Our names upon the nursery door,
And carefully we mark the height,
Each standing shoeless on the floor.

How strange to think birthdays will be
When we shall never add one more
To all those marks which gradually
Are climbing up the nursery door!

SOME WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

IV.—THE GROTTOES OF HAN IN THE ARDENNES.

A narrow opening high on an oak-covered hill; a cluster of women, girls, and boys, each carrying a slight iron bar connecting two oil lamps; a crowd of tourists of many nationalities—all waiting to enter the Grottoes of Han. Presently the guide arrives, and delivers a brief speech as to the possible consequences should visitors deface or purloin the treasures of the cave, demanding silence during his explanations, and declaring that one light-bearer would accompany every four persons. He ceases, and away we go. Down, down, down, apparently into the very heart of the earth, through damp and chilly air and profound darkness, broken only by the glimmer of the friendly lamps. Then we cease descending, and emerge in a cavern where the lights are flashed upon thousands of fossilised insects, and on into the 'Hall of the Foxes,' where countless generations of their species lived, died, and were buried. After this the great caverns succeed each other rapidly, each with some special interest of its own, until we find ourselves in the 'Hall of the Trophies,' where electric light is installed to exhibit the marvels of the roof. A thick fringe of stalactites, many of immense size, descend to meet the columns of stalagmite ascending from the floor.

Right through the caverns, a distance of nearly two miles, a rough path has been made which is fairly dry and clean, but on either side are rivers and banks of mud, so that it is well to be careful and watch the way. Once as we went along we heard behind us a splashing thud, and, turning, beheld a portly Belgian floundering on his back in the mire, whence he presently emerged, coated with mud, looking rather like a hippopotamus. No rule of silence could avail to stifle the peals of laughter that rang through the grotto, and we had the less scruple in enjoying the fun because any one of us might at any moment have the happiness of similarly amusing his or her fellow-creatures.

Our merriment ended before the wonders of the 'Hall of Mystery,' where the electric light travelled round to show 'The Mosque,' standing out in glittering points of light; 'The Curtain,' a veil of gleaming lacework in stone; and 'The Alhambra,' furnished royally with every combination of diamond-like crystals. It would be easy to invent names for most of the objects, for shrines, pulpits, thrones, and such-like are everywhere carved, of dazzling whiteness and richness of design.

Next we enter the gloomy magnificence of the 'Hall of the Dome,' where the roof towers up two hundred feet into the darkness. As we ascend the steep path we turn and see below the gleam of water. This is the subterranean river Lesse, the architect of these gloomy grottoes, which until some forty years ago had heard no voice save that of the water hammering and chiselling the rocks at its own sweet will. Legend declares these stately halls to be the palaces of the little Brown Dwarfs, who, issuing from their homes at night, by counsel and more practical aid enabled the early builders to produce the wonderful edifices of Bruges, Ypres, and other Flemish cities.

Still we go on, up and down through grotto after grotto of marvellous beauty; sometimes along the banks of the shadowy river, reflecting in its depths the fairylike beauties of roof and wall, then up high, narrow ridges or down into the depths of inky blackness, until at last we find ourselves in the 'Hall of Embarkation.' Here a small wooden platform projects over the river, and near it are a number of large boats capable of carrying all our party. The boats push off, all lights are extinguished, and the sensation of total darkness in such conditions is more weird than pleasant. We are told that the water is of unknown depth, and it takes some confidence to repress thoughts of collisions and perils by water of various kinds.[Pg 116]

The boats move on in solemn procession, and soon a tiny speck of light appears, and grows gradually larger and brighter. By degrees the light pervades dimly roof, walls, and transparent water, and then, all in a moment, a flood of glorious sunshine gleams through the lofty portal which we are approaching. Behind us fringes and bosses of stalactite are tinged with the warm glow, and stand out in bold relief from the darkness; before us the banks are green with grassy slopes and waving trees; below us the river dances along in the sunlight as if full of joy at escaping from prison, and we too share its happiness as we float back into our every-day world from the gloomy glories of the Grottoes of Han.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 107.)

For the next hour I felt extremely miserable, but, remembering that I should, in all probability, see Jacintha to-morrow, I began to wish it were possible to do something to improve my appearance for the occasion. For not only were my clothes in a far from satisfactory condition, but the soles of my boots were full of holes, so that one stocking touched the ground.

There was nothing to do but wander about and look at the chickens until I was summoned to supper, which consisted of bread and very strong cheese.

On being shown to the bedroom, I found that it contained two beds, in one of which a small boy was[Pg 118] already reposing. Although he seemed to watch me with considerable curiosity, he made no attempt at conversation; but it was a very noisy house, and I found it impossible to get to sleep for some time.

When my room-fellow awoke me at about six o'clock the following morning, the sun was shining brightly into the shabby room, so that this promised excellently for the day's tramp. I said my prayers, and having washed, dressed, and partaken of a somewhat scanty breakfast, wondering, as I ate, what had by this time become of Patch, I set out, at a little after half-past seven, in the direction of Hazleton.

Presently, passing through a village, which seemed to be on the outskirts of the town of Hazleton, I bought two penny sausage rolls at a small baker's shop, and asked for a glass of water. As I walked on, eating the rolls, it soon became evident that the town was close at hand. At intervals I passed large houses, standing in their own grounds, and carefully I read the names on their gate-posts, lest one should be Colebrook Park. The path, which had been almost indistinguishable from the roadway, was now asphalted, and I stopped to read a notice board concerning vagrants, wondering whether I ought to be reckoned under that denomination. I do not know whether the sun had affected me—for it shone with brilliant force that morning—or whether I was tired after my ten miles' walk without much food, but as I drew near to Hazleton, which I had formerly felt so anxious to reach, my usual spirits seemed to forsake me, and, if it had not been for the necessity to return the locket, I think I should have passed on my way without making the least attempt to see Jacintha again.

I seemed to have lost pride in myself, so that it became difficult to keep up much hope. Perhaps it might be possible to get the locket safely into Jacintha's hands without seeing her, especially if there happened to be a lodge at the entrance to Colebrook Park, when I might leave the trinket with the lodge-keeper.

With the object of making up my mind, I lay down on the wide border of grass on one side of the road, thankful for the shelter of the hedge. It was about half-past twelve, and several carriages passed as I lay there, as well as a few bicyclists. But now the straight, wide road was clear; no one was in sight, either to the right or to the left, until, from a gate a hundred yards away, in the direction of the town, a girl on a bicycle came forth, and I knew at once that she must be Jacintha.

She wore a wide-brimmed, white straw hat, and a white cotton frock, and was sitting very upright as she turned and coasted on her free-wheel machine down the slight hill towards me. For an instant I thought of turning away my face, so that, even if she remembered it, she should not recognise me; but she looked so bright and pleasant an object in the middle of the sunny road that, on the impulse of the moment, I rose to my feet, crossed the margin of grass, and lifted the cloth cap which had been given to me before I reached Polehampton.

Jacintha was off her machine at once. 'Why,' she cried, 'you are the boy who ran away!'

'It is not the nearest way from where you were to come through Hazleton,' said Jacintha.

'You see,' I explained, thrusting my fingers into my waistcoat pocket, 'I came to bring back your locket,' and I held it out towards her in the palm of my right hand.

'Yes,' I answered. 'I found it on the path just by the hedge where you were standing.'

'But I did not bring a locket with me from London,' she exclaimed, and I felt immensely disappointed.

'Of course not,' she returned. 'How can it be if I didn't bring one?' and then she removed one hand from the bicycle, and took the locket from my palm, which I wished had not been so extremely grimy. 'I think it is very pretty,' she continued, 'and I believe it is gold.'

'Oh, it is gold right enough!' I said, 'because it has a hall-mark. It is eighteen carat.'

'Have you come out of your way just because you thought it was mine?' she asked, giving me back the trinket.

'If it comes to that,' I answered, 'you were rather nice to me that day. Some girls would have given me away, and then I should have been back at Ascot House before now.'

'I must not be late,' she cried, 'because both Dick and I were late for breakfast.'

'Dick is my brother,' Jacintha explained. 'He only came down yesterday. Dick's a year older than I am. I really ought to go,' she added. 'If my uncle were to see me talking to you he mightn't like it.'

'At all events,' said Jacintha, candidly, 'he would be rather surprised, you know. Because you do look most tremendously dirty—just as if you were a regular tramp—and yet your face would be all right if it were only washed and you had your hair properly cut.'

I felt that my cheeks were growing red, and for the moment I was tempted to make an angry retort, although, remembering what I owed to Jacintha, I simply held out my hand and muttered 'Good-bye!'

'Oh, you mustn't go on yet,' she exclaimed. 'I want to hear all you've been doing. I must go in now, but please promise to wait till I come out again. I won't be long.'

'Only don't stay here,' she said. 'Wait till I am out of sight, and then follow me until you come to[Pg 119] our hedge. Right in the corner you will find a place you can get through, and nobody ever comes to that field. You get through the hedge and stay till I come back.'

CHAPTER XIV.

I stood in the road while Jacintha mounted her bicycle and rode up the slight hill to the gate, when she looked back and waved her hand as she turned into the grounds. Having waited a few minutes, I followed her directions, found the weak spot in the hedge, scrambled through, and at once sat down on the grass.

I saw I was in a remote corner of a large field, in which a few Jersey cows were grazing. But this was not quite an ordinary field, as it contained a good many foreign trees with iron railings round them. It was more like a park. In the middle stood a small mound, looking as if it had been made artificially, with a kind of arbour on the top overgrown with some sort of creeper and shut in by trees.

The time seemed to pass very slowly, but at last I saw the flash of Jacintha's white dress in the sunshine as she walked rapidly towards my corner, the house not being visible from where I sat. To my vexation, however, she was not alone. A few yards behind came a boy of about my own age a

	Page
A Boy's Heroism	179
A Coat of Paint	319
Advice that Saved a King's Life	279
A Fair-sized Field	358
Affectionate Eagles	71
Afloat on the Dogger Bank	188, 198, 202, 214, 218, 226, 238, 242, 253, 258, 266, 277, 285, 291, 300, 308, 317, 324, 334, 342, 346, 354, 366, 374, 378, 386, 398, 402, 410
A Hundred Years Ago	15, 34, 142, 163, 210, 322, 382
A Kindly Visit	3
A Lesson in Steering	127
All Prime Ministers	243
A Monkey's Memory	11
A Mother Rabbit's Courage	122
A Motor-car of the Past	331
Anecdotes	98, 130, 167, 195, 230, 262, 290, 339, 371, 394
Animal Makeshifts	220, 251, 275, 340, 371, 397
An Impression of Zanzibar	391
An Indian Custom	22
An Ocean Policeman	19
An Old-fashioned Grace	109
A Novel Rain Protector	58
A Queer Address on a Post-card	390
A Peep at Northern Italy	247
A Sparrow's Coolness	183
A Story of Stanley	87
A Stroll amongst Ferns	358
A Strong Motive	299
A Timely Rescue	259
Chased by Seagulls	63
Clever Billy	323
Cruisers in the Clouds	2, 62, 98, 154, 190, 223, 250, 266, 298, 346, 370, 395
Cuban Lizards	119
Curious Names in London City	110
Diamonds	299
Doctor Abernethy's Advice	263
Earning an Honest Penny	110
Eastern Jugglers	197
Encounters with Lions	311
Encouragement	133
Ethel's Orange-plant	339
Faith and Sight	211
Freed in Vain	3
Frost-bitten in the Red Sea	187
Generosity	251
Gemmal Rings	315
George II. at Dettingen	38
'Ginger for Pluck'	114
Heroes and Heroines of Famous Books	38, 42, 166, 171, 274, 351, 354
He set the Example	246
His First Wolf Hunt	390, 406
How Hetais Wore his Medal	359
Indian Wireless Telegraphy	395
Insect Ways and Means	29, 43, 77, 109, 149, 179, 211, 237, 261, 283, 307, 357, 364, 387
In the Snow	373
Japanese Plums	146
Jim's Shower-bath	227
Life in Bohemia	282
Magic Rods	122
May Day	143
McLeod of Clere	66, 78, 82, 90
Mice on a Submarine	279
Nature's Noblemen	158
Never Caught It	270
Never draw a Sword except in a Cause that is Just and Right	170
Nicolo in Vienna	411
No Hurry	155
Nothing is Perfect	18
Not the same Thing	146
Old Conduits	323
One Good Turn deserves Another	306
One More Chance	295
One was Missing	287
Outwitting Himself	255
Philip Wood and Sir Christopher Wren	314
Pussy's Playmate	287
Puzzlers for Wise Heads	30, 58, 98, 130, 167, 195, 230, 263, 290, 339, 371, 395
Rat-skins	270
Ready!	283
Regiments in the City	350
Rice-paper	203
Rudel and Lisbeth	150
Saved by the Enemy	51
Saved by Twenty Guineas	47
Served her Right	207
Smithfield Tournaments	170
Spy or Guide?	394
Steeple-climbers	74
Strange Children	290
The Admiral and the Fisherman	50
The Best Beginning	98
The Best Lesson	11
The Black Leopard	234
The Black Swan	364
The Boy Tramp	6, 12, 22, 26, 34, 44, 54, 58, 69, 74, 85, 94, 102, 106, 117, 125, 134, 138, 146, 158, 162, 173, 181, 187, 194
The Captain and the Invalid	66
The Captain's Cigar	90
The Captain's Turn First	47
The Cashmere Stag	231
The Castle Light	10
The Chinese Laundryman	382
The Cow-tree	307
The Cypher Telegram	123, 130
The Duke and the Traveller	167
The Duke of Wellington's Head Gardener	219
The Eagle's Nest	349
The Elephant and the Crocodile	78
The Feast of Cherries	175
The Flower-girl	207
The Frog and the Geese	22
The Gate-keeper of Rambouillet	231
The Generous Bakers	71
The Girl who Did Not Run Away	130
The Great Northern Diver	133
The Hidden Room	327, 330, 338
The Indian Chief and the Bishop	11
The Intruding Squirrel	186
The Jumping Mouse	299
The Legend of Helfenstein	63
The Lime or Linden	98
The Little Bush-boy	155
The Man with the Glasses	213
The Mysterious Chest	30
The Old Clock	271
The Parks of London	205, 245, 270
The Pitcher-plant	221
The Poet Crabbe's First School	234
The Potato	263
The Puff-adder	90
The Reason Why	107
The Sago-tree	210
The Story of Slate	186
The Teal	53
The Teeth of Hyenas	231
The Wreck of the Hope	391
Torn to Rags	178
Toys from the Streets	379, 389, 403
Twenty Pounds Reward	362
Two Medals	219
Two Ways of Reading a Sentence	150
Ulrich's Opportunity	234
Whalebone	50
What Katie Heard	303
White Negroes	178
Without a Hen to Buy Stamps	143
Wonderful Caverns	18, 51, 83, 115, 139, 195, 229, 294, 315, 332, 363

	Page
A Busy World	382
Against Odds	406
Bouquets	66
Discontent brings Dulness	157
Don't Begin	244
Fairy Song	350
Good-bye to the Last Fire	163
Good-night, Good-day!	50
Growing Up	115
How Tom Dresses	282
Invitations	148
Jack's Wish	259
My Friend	38
My Garden Concert	63
My Picture-book	234
One and One make Two	222
Our Puss	122
Sad Company in the Nursery	299
Take Care of the Days	47
The Bat and the Ball	142
The Contented Pansy	358
The Father of All	279
The Fox's Serenade	306
The Friendly Light	29
The Great Picture-book	186
The Jealous Kittens	101
The Lover-doll	390
The Naughty Kittens	11
The Pioneers	170
The Promise of the Storm	394
The Rabbit and the Hare	331
The Slate's Story	371
The Song of the Broom	294
The Startled Hares	92
The Trumpet and the Drum	227
The Two Dolls	315
The Way to Win	3
The Weather Sprites	195
Too Clever	178
Too Tempting to be Lost	204
Travellers' Tales	134
Waiting	22
Welcome to the First Fire	323
What am I?	214
What Insects Love	342
Why the Sea Sobs	363
Willie's Sum	251

"Why Should We Wait Till To-morrow?"	Frontispiece
Home for the Holidays,	facing p. 64
On a Voyage of Discovery,	facing p. 128
All Hands to the Pump,	facing p. 192
Crossing the Brook,	facing p. 256
Good News of the Boy,	facing p. 320

	Page
A Cliff-dwelling of North America	229
A Corner of Hyde Park	205
A Countryman's Well-deserved Rebuke	17
Afloat on the Dogger Bank (Illustrations to),	189, 200, 201, 216, 217, 225, 240, 241, 253, 257, 268, 277, 285, 292, 301, 309, 317, 325, 336, 344, 348, 356, 368, 376, 377, 385, 400, 401, 409
'After all, I will wait'	93
'A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive'	64
'A horseman galloped to the spot in the hope of finding them still alive'	153
A Monkey's Memory	12
Andrée's Departure for the North Pole	297
An Eastern Snake Charmer	197
Animal Makeshifts (Illustrations to),	220, 221, 252, 276, 341, 372, 397
An Ocean Policeman	20
An Old-fashioned Motor-car	332
A Peep at Northern Italy	248
A Picture Puzzle	28
A Scene in Clissold Park	245
A Scene in Regent's Park	269
'As we cleared the water we could hear the wolves close behind'	403
'Billy allowed the letter to be taken'	324
'"Boh! Boh!" the clear voice shouted'	81
Chinese Laundrymen	381
Cliff-dwelling, New Mexico, and Cave-pottery	333
Cuban Lizards	120
'Daisy soon grew clever at keeping the head to the wind'	128
East Front of the Rock Temple of Elephanta	140
Entrance to the Grotto of La Balme	316
'Fight against my country! Not for the ransom of a king!'	49
Fingal's Cave, Staffa	52
Hans Christian Andersen	164
'He could hardly find words to welcome them'	5
'He deliberately lighted a cigar with a scrap of the burning rope'	89
'He hit out with all his force'	349
'He loaded the children with cherry branches'	176
'He looked wistfully at the pair of crutches'	124
'He ran towards the bull and opened his umbrella quickly'	260
'He saw an old man, who seemed to be very weary'	353
'He started, and let the lancet fall'	280
'He steered his balloon round the Eiffel Tower'	369
'He told his son he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors'	40
'His grandfather lay gagged and bound on the floor'	9
'How dare you strike me when you know God can see you?'	165
'How it tasted—well, I've never heard'	204
'How would you like to earn twenty pounds reward?'	361
'I am afraid I have no berth here for you, my lad'	305
'I am worth something when I can call that brave boy my son'	152
'I cannot bear to sit out here'	21
'I don't know what to do'	157
'If you hang him, you shall hang me too'	169
'I got these easily from the cellar'	329
Insect Ways and Means (Illustrations to),	29, 44, 77, 109, 149, 180, 212, 237, 261, 284, 308, 357, 364, 388
'I saw it first—'tis mine—let go!'	244
'It hopped into the space between the rails'	184
'It is a terrible thing, is a wreck on this coast'	392
'It is good! very good'	313
'It rose at once to the ceiling'	1
'It was fortunate that we put them off the scent'	132
'"I will add this too, lady," said the pedlar'	337
'I will take care of Boh'	80
'Jack worked with a will'	320
'Jim got a terrible drenching'	228
'Just as Lord Massereene was leaving the prison, he was arrested'	209
'Katie stood on the doorstep'	304
'Live on sixpence a day—and earn it'	264
'Look out, father, they are going to shoot you'	118
'Maung and his young companion came to what they sought at last'	68
'May turned away, feeling ashamed and miserable'	340
'M. Charles stepped into the blue and golden car'	100
'My master wishes to speak with you'	352
Nicolo and the Krampus	412
'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers'	112
October 21st, 1805	321
'One bolder than the rest stabbed it with a pitchfork'	61
'One pig went squealing down the road'	177
'Paralysed with fear, he clung to the bough'	4
'Please do not shoot me'	393
'See what my speckled hen has hatched'	328
'Seven miles high!'	265
'Shame on you all, to hit a helpless man'	16
'She could hardly stand still while Alice tied the ribbon on'	114
'She managed to drag her on shore'	129
'She was just high enough, and could light the lamps'	41
The Best Beginning	97
The Black Leopard	233
The Black Swan of Australia	365
'The bottle stood in the air as though hanging there'	396
The Boy Tramp (Illustrations to),	8, 13, 24, 25, 36, 45, 56, 60, 69, 76, 85, 96, 104, 105, 117, 125, 136, 137, 148, 160, 161, 173, 181, 193
'The cat washed the jackdaw in its turn'	289
'The commanding officer advanced towards the bier'	360
The Death of a Deserter	33
The Deerslayer in the hands of the Indians	172
'The driver heard them, and reversed his engine'	224
'The dog hailed his master as he passed'	345
'The eagle seized its wounded mate with its beak and claws'	72
'The empty branch bore a label'	145
The First Post-office in the Sky	192
The Giant's Hall, Luray	293
'The grateful mother handed the doctor a handsome pocket-book'	256
The Grottoes of Han in the Ardennes	116
The Great-Northern Diver	133
'The horse nearly carried the King into the French lines'	37
The Jealous Kittens	101
The Jumping Mouse	300
'The little bush-boy appeared'	156
The Mammoth Cave, Kentucky	84
The Man with the Glasses	218
'The men set to work to load their muskets'	272
'The other passengers thought him mad'	57
'The peacock took all her play in good part'	288
'The rabbit bit the stoat in the most infuriated manner'	121
The Rock Temple of Kailus at Ellora	196
'The sailor-pupil climbed into the car'	249
'The second lion seized him'	312
The Simplon Pass	141
'The soldiers forgot the prisoner, and scrambled for the money'	48
'The stag stayed by his mate's body'	232
The Teal	53
'The two were soon locked in fight'	384
'The women of Bohemia act as bricklayers labourers'	281
'The woodpecker fled in fear'	185
'They burnt the Shakespeare, breaking the spell'	88
'They came hopping in, Paul an easy first'	92
'They stumbled along, supporting the stranger as best they could'	373
''Tis the very man!'	273
Toys from the Streets (Illustrations to),	380, 389, 404
'We charged at the midst of the foe'	405
'We will see where this rat came from'	32
'What is it?—a fire? Speak, boy!'	236
'Who'll buy?'	208
'Wootton stood quite upright on the pinnacle of the steeple'	73
'Would you take a message of importance for me?'	168
'Your Majesty is certainly wrong'	108
'"You shall go," said the captain, "if I lose every passenger"'	65
'You young rascal'	296

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Chatterbox, 1905., by Various

E-text prepared by Susan Skinner, Juliet Sutherland, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/)

POETRY.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

COLOURED PLATES.

Chatterbox.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

I.—THE TWO BROTHERS OF ANNONAY AND THEIR PAPER BALLOON.

THE WAY TO WIN.

FREED IN VAIN.

A KINDLY VISIT.

THE BOY TRAMP.

CHAPTER I.

THE CASTLE LIGHT.

THE INDIAN CHIEF AND THE BISHOP.

THE NAUGHTY KITTENS.

THE BEST LESSON.

A MONKEY'S MEMORY.

THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 7.)

CHAPTER II.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO. True Tales of the Year 1805.

I.—IN THE PILLORY.

NOTHING IS PERFECT.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

I.—ON CAVERNS IN GENERAL.

AN OCEAN POLICEMAN.

WAITING.

THE FROG AND THE GEESE.

AN INDIAN CUSTOM.

THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 15.)

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 23.)

THE FRIENDLY LIGHT.

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

I.—STINGS AND LANCETS.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

1.—Geographical Acrostic.

2.—Arithmograph.

THE MYSTERIOUS CHEST.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO. True Tales of the Year 1805.

II.—SIGNOR ROSSIGNOL'S PERFORMING BIRDS.

THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 27.)

CHAPTER V.

GEORGE II. AT DETTINGEN.

MY FRIEND.

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

I.—'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'[1]

FOOTNOTES:

HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.

I.—'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'

INSECT WAYS AND MEANS.

II.—SOME WEAPONS OF OFFENCE.

THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 38.)

CHAPTER VI.

TAKE CARE OF THE DAYS.

THE CAPTAIN'S TURN FIRST.

SAVED BY TWENTY GUINEAS.

THE ADMIRAL AND THE FISHERMAN.

GOOD-NIGHT, GOOD-DAY!

WHALEBONE.

SAVED BY THE ENEMY.

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

II.—FINGAL'S CAVE, STAFFA.

THE TEAL.

THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 47.)

CHAPTER VII.

A NOVEL RAIN PROTECTOR.

PUZZLERS FOR WISE HEADS.

3.—Pied Cities.

4.—Geographical Enigma.

Answers to Puzzles on Page 30.

1.—Honduras.

2.—Hiawatha.

THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 55.)

CHAPTER VIII.

CRUISERS IN THE CLOUDS.

II.—M. CHARLES AND HIS PARIS BALLOON.

MY GARDEN CONCERT.

THE LEGEND OF HELFENSTEIN.

E-text prepared by Susan Skinner, Juliet Sutherland,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net/)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 7.)

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1805.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 15.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 23.)

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1805.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 27.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 38.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 47.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 55.)

McLEOD OF CLERE.
Founded on Fact.

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 61.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 71.)

McLEOD OF CLERE.
(Continued from page 68.)

McLEOD OF CLERE.
(Continued from page 79.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 76.)

McLEOD OF CLERE.
(Concluded from page 83.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 87.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 95.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 103.)

THE BOY TRAMP.
(Continued from page 107.)