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THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

VOL. VIII.--NO. 355.

OCTOBER 16, 1886.

PRICE ONE PENNY.




THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.

BY THE REV. J. G. WOOD, M.A., Author of "The Handy Natural History."

    "Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,
      As through the glen it dimpl't;
    Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;
      Whyles in a weil it dimpl't;
    Whyles glittered to the nightly rays,
      Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle;
    Whyles cookit underneath the braes
      Below the spreading hazel."

    _Burns: "Halloween."_

[Illustration: THE BROOK AND ITS BANKS.]


CHAPTER I.

The many aspects of a brook--The eye sees only that which it is capable
of seeing--Individuality of brooks and their banks--The rippling
"burnie" of the hills--The gently-flowing brooks of low-lying
districts--Individualities even of such brooks--The fresh-water brooks
of Oxford and the tidal brooks of the Kentish marshes--The swarming life
in which they abound--An afternoon's walk--Ditches versus hedges and
walls--A brook in Cannock Chase--Its sudden changes of aspect--The
brooks of the Wiltshire Downs and of Derbyshire.


A brook has many points of view.

In the first place, scarcely any two spectators see it in the same
light.

To the rustic it is seldom more than a convenient water-tank, or, at
most, as affording some sport to boys in fishing. To its picturesque
beauties his eyes are blind, and to him the brook is, like Peter Bell's
primrose, a brook and nothing more.

Then there are some who only view a brook as affording variety to the
pursuit of the fox, and who pride themselves on their knowledge of the
spots at which it can be most successfully leaped.

Others, again, who are of a geographical turn of mind, can only see in a
brook a necessary portion of the water-shed of the district.

To children it is for a time dear as a playground, possessing the
inestimable advantage of enabling them to fall into it and wet their
clothes from head to foot.

Then there are some who are keenly alive to its changing beauties, and
are gifted with artistic spirit and power of appreciation, even if they
should not have been able to cultivate the technical skill which would
enable them to transfer to paper or canvas the scene which pleased them.
Yet they can only see the surface, and take little, if any, heed of the
wealth of animated life with which the brook and its banks are peopled,
or of the sounds with which the air is filled.

Happy are those in whom are fortunately combined the appreciation of art
and the gift (for it is a gift as much as an eye for art or an ear for
music) of observing animal life. To them the brook is all that it is to
others, and much besides. To them the tiniest brook is a perpetual joy,
and of such a nature I hope are those who read these pages.

Not only does a brook assume different aspects, according to the
individuality of the spectator, but every brook has its individuality,
and so have its banks.

Often the brook "plays many parts," as in Burns' delightful stanza,
which seems to have rippled from the poet's brain as spontaneously as
its subject.

Sometimes, however, as near Oxford, it flows silently onwards with
scarcely a dimple on its unruffled surface. Over its still waters the
gnats rise and fall in their ceaseless dance. The swift-winged
dragon-flies, blue, green, and red, swoop upon them like so many falcons
on their prey; or, in the earlier year, the mayflies flutter above the
stream, leaving their shed skins, like ghostly images of themselves,
sticking on every tree trunk near the brook.

On the surface of the brook are seen the shadow-like water-gnats,
drifting with apparent aimlessness over the surface, but having in view
a definite and deadly purpose, as many a half drowned insect will find
to its cost.

Under the shade of the willows that overhang its banks the whirligig
beetles will gather, sociably circling round and round in their mazy
dance, bumping against each other in their swift course, but glancing
off unhurt from the collision, protected from injury by the stout coats
of mail which they wear.

They really look like unskilful dancers practising their "figures" for
the first time. They, however, are not engaged in mere amusement, but,
like the water-gnats, are absorbed in the business of life. The
naturalist knows, when he sees these creatures, that they do not form
the hundredth part of those which are hidden from human eyes below the
surface of the little brook, and that the whole of the stream is as
instinct with life, as if it had been haunted by the Nipens, the
Undines, and the host of fairy beings with whom the old legends peopled
every river and its tributaries.

They are just as wonderful, though clad in material forms, as any water
spirit that ever was evolved from the poet's brain, and have the
inestimable merit of being always within reach whenever we need them.

I will venture to assert that no fairy tales, not even excepting those
of the "Arabian Nights," can surpass in marvel the true life-history of
the mayfly, the frog, the newt, and the dragon-fly, as will be narrated
in the course of these pages. I may go even farther, and assert that
there is no inhabitant of the brook and its banks whose biography and
structure are not full of absorbing interest, and will not occupy the
longest life, if only an attempt be made to study them thoroughly.

An almost typical example of slow-flowing brooks is to be found in the
remarkable channels which intersect the country between Minster and
Sandwich, and which, on the ordnance map, look almost like the threads
of a spider's web. In that flat district, the fields are not divided by
hedges, as in most parts of England, or by stone walls--"dykes," as they
are termed in Ireland--such as are employed in Derbyshire and several
other stony localities, but by channels, which have a strong
individuality of their own.

Even the smallest of these brooks is influenced by the tide, so that at
the two periods of slack water there is no perceptible stream.

Yesterday afternoon, having an hour or so to spare at Minster, I
examined slightly several of these streams and their banks. The contrast
between them and the corresponding brooklets of Oxford, also a low-lying
district, was very strongly marked.

In the first place, the willow, which forms so characteristic an
ornament of the brooks and rivers of Oxford, is wholly absent. Most of
the streamlets are entirely destitute of even a bush by which their
course can be marked; so that when, as is often the case, a heavy white
fog overhangs the entire district, looking from a distance as if the
land had been sunk in an ocean of milk, no one who is not familiarly
acquainted with every yard of ground could make his way over the fields
without falling into the watery boundaries which surround them.

Some of them, however, are distinguished by hawthorns, which take the
place of the willows, and thrive so luxuriantly that they may lay claim
to the title of forest trees. Blackberries, too, are exuberant in their
growth, and in many spots the hawthorn and blackberry on opposite sides
of the brook have intertwined their branches across it and have
completely hidden the water from sight. On these blackberries, the fruit
of which was in its green state, the drone-flies and hawk-flies simply
swarmed, telling the naturalist of their multitudinous successors, who
at present are in the preliminary stages of their existence.

Among the blackberries the scarlet fruit of the woody nightshade (a
first cousin of the potato) hung in tempting clusters, and I could not
help wondering whether they would endanger the health of the young
Minsterians.

In some places the common frog-bit had grown with such luxuriance that
it had completely hidden the water, the leaves overlapping each other as
if the overcrowded plants were trying to shoulder each other out of the
way.

In most of these streamlets the conspicuous bur-reed (_Spargánium
ramósum_) grew thickly, its singular fruit being here and there visible
among the sword-like leaves. I cannot but think that the mediæval weapon
called the "morning star" (or "morgen-stern") was derived from the
globular, spiked fruit-cluster of the bur-reed.

A few of the streams were full of the fine plant which is popularly
known by the name of bull-rush, or bulrush (_Typha latifólia_), but
which ought by rights to be called the "cat's-tail" or "reed-mace." Of
this plant it is said that a little girl, on seeing it growing,
exclaimed that she never knew before that sausages grew on sticks. The
teasel (_Dipsacus_) was abundant, as were also several of the true
thistles.

In some places one of these streams becomes too deep for the bur-reed,
and its surface is only diversified by the half-floating leaves of one
or two aquatic plants.

On approaching one of these places, I find the water to be apparently
without inmates. They had only been alarmed by my approach, which, as I
had but little time to spare, was not as cautious as it ought to have
been. However, I remained perfectly still, and presently a little fish
appeared from below. It was soon followed by a second and a third, and
before long a whole shoal of fish were floating almost on the surface,
looking out for insects which had fallen into the water.

The day being hot, and with scarcely a breath of wind, the fish soon
became quite bold. They did not move beyond the small spot in which they
had appeared, but they all had their tails in slight movement, and their
heads in one direction, thus showing that although the water appeared to
be perfectly motionless, there must be a current of some sort, fish
always lying with their heads up the stream, so as to allow the water to
enter their mouths and pass over their gills.

If then these sluggish streams were unlike those of Oxford, where the
ground is low, and nearly level, how utterly distinct must they be from
those of hilly and especially of rocky localities!

In the earlier part of the present year I was cursorily examining a
brook in Cannock Chase, in Staffordshire. Unfortunately, the day was
singularly inauspicious, as the sun was invisible, the atmosphere murky,
and a fierce north-east wind was blowing, a wind which affects animals,
etc., especially the insect races, even more severely than it does man.
Even the birds remain under shelter as long as they can, and not an
insect will show itself. Neither, in consequence, will the fish be "on
the feed."

On a previous visit, we had been more fortunate, trout, crayfish, etc.,
testifying to the prolific character of the brook, which in one place is
only four or five feet in width, and yet, within fifty yards, it has
formed itself into a wide and treacherous marsh, which can only be
crossed by jumping from one tussock of grass to another; and yet, again,
it suddenly spreads out into a broad and shallow torrent, the water
leaping and rippling over the stony bed. Scarcely a bush marks its
course, and within a few yards it is quite invisible.

As we shall presently see, the brooks of the chalk downs of Wiltshire,
and of the regular mixture of rock and level ground, which are
characteristic of Derbyshire, have also their own separate
individualities.

We shall, however, find many allusions to them in the course of the
work, and we will therefore suppose ourselves to be approaching the bank
of any brook that is but little disturbed by man. What will be likely to
happen to us will be told in the following chapters.




CHAPTER II.

Life-history of the water-rat--No science can stand alone--What is a
water-rat?--The voles of the land and water--Their remarkable teeth--The
rodents and their incisor teeth--The tooth and the chisel--The skate
"iron"--Chewing the cud--Teeth of the elephant--Feet of the
water-vole--A false accusation--Water-voles in gardens--Winter
stores--Cats and water-voles--Subterranean pioneering--Mental character
of the water-vole--Standing fire--Its mode of eating.


Plop!

A water-rat has taken alarm, and has leaped into the brook.

A common animal enough, but none the less worthy of notice because it is
common. Indeed, it is in many respects a very remarkable creature, and
we may think ourselves fortunate that we have the opportunity of
studying its habits and structure.

There is much more in the animal than meets the eye, and we cannot
examine its life-history without at the same time touching upon that of
several other creatures. No science stands alone, neither does any
animal, however insignificant it may appear to be; and we shall find
that before we have done with the water-rat, we shall have had something
to say of comparative anatomy, ornithology, ichthyology, entomology and
botany, beside treating of the connection which exists between man and
the lower animals, and the reciprocal influence of civilisation and
animal life.

In the first place, let us define our animal.

What is a water-rat, and where is its place in zoological systems of the
present day? Its name in science is _Arvícola amphíbius_. This title
tells its own story.

Though popularly called a rat, the animal has no right to the name,
although, like the true rat, it is a rodent, and much resembles the rat
in size and in the length and colour of its fur. The likeness, however,
extends no further.

The rats are long-nosed and sharp-snouted animals, whereas the water-rat
has a short, blunt nose. Then, the ears of the rats are large and stand
out boldly from the head, while those of the water-rat are small, short,
and rounded. Again, the tail of the rat is long and slender, while that
of the water-rat is comparatively short. Place the two animals side by
side, and you will wonder how anyone could mistake the one for the
other.

The teeth, too, are quite different.

Instead of being white, like those of the rat, the incisor teeth are
orange-yellow, like those of the beaver. Indeed, the water-rat possesses
so many beaver-like characteristics, that it was ranked near the beaver
in the systematic lists.

Now, however, the Voles, as these creatures ought rightly to be called,
are thought to be of sufficient importance to be placed by themselves,
and separated from the true beavers.

The voles constitute quite a large group of rodents, including several
animals which are popularly ranked among the mice.

One very remarkable characteristic of the voles is the structure of
their molar teeth.

Being rodents, they can have but two incisor teeth in each jaw, these
teeth being rootless, and so set in their sockets that they are
incessantly worn away in front, and as incessantly grow from the base,
take the curved form of their sockets, and act much like shears which
have the inestimable property of self-sharpening when blunted, and
self-renewal when chipped or actually broken off by coming against any
hard substance. Were the teeth to be without this power, the animal
would run a great risk of dying from hunger, the injured tooth not being
able either to do its own work, or to aid its companion of the opposite
jaw. Either tooth alone would be as useless as a single blade of a pair
of scissors.

There is another notable characteristic of these incisor teeth. If you
will examine the incisors of any rodent, whether it be a rat, a mouse, a
rabbit, or a beaver, you will see that the tips are "bevelled" off just
like the edge of a chisel. This shape is absolutely necessary to keep
the tooth in working order. How is this object to be attained?

In the solution of this problem we may see one of the many links which
connect art and nature.

Should our readers know anything of carpentering, let them examine the
structure of their chisels. They are not made wholly of hard steel, as
in that case they would be liable to snap, just as does the blade of a
foil when undue pressure is brought to bear upon it. Moreover, the
operation of sharpening would be extremely difficult.

So the blade of the chisel is merely faced with a thin plate of hardened
steel, the remainder being of softer material.

Now, it is not at all likely that the unknown inventor of the modern
chisel was aware of the analogy between art and nature, and would
probably have been very much surprised if anyone had stated that he had
borrowed his idea from the incisor teeth of the water-rat.

Yet he might have done so, for these teeth are almost wholly formed of
ordinary tooth matter, and are faced with a thin plate of hard enamel,
which exactly corresponds with the hardened steel facing of a chisel.

Any of my readers who possess skates will find, on examination, that the
greater part of the blade is, in reality, soft iron, the steel, which
comes upon the ice, being scarcely a fifth of an inch in length. The
hardened steel allows the blade to take the necessary edge, while the
soft iron preserves the steel from snapping.

Should the skate have been neglected and allowed to become a little
rusty, the line of demarcation between the steel and the iron can be
distinctly seen. Similarly, in the beaver and the water-rat, the
orange-yellow colour of the enamel facing causes it to be easily
distinguished from the rest of the tooth. In most of the rodents the
enamel is white, and the line of demarcation is scarcely visible.

Now we have to treat of a question of mechanics.

If two substances of different degrees of hardness be subjected to the
same amount of friction, it follows that the softer will be worn away
long before the harder. It is owing to this principle that the edges of
the rodent teeth preserve their chisel-like form. Being continually
employed in nibbling, the softer backing of the teeth is rapidly worn
away, while the hard plate of enamel upon the front of the tooth is but
slightly worn, the result being the bevelled shape which is so
characteristic of these teeth.

As all know, who have kept rabbits or white mice, the animals are always
engaged in gnawing anything which will yield to their teeth, and unless
the edges of their feeding troughs be protected by metal, will nibble
them to pieces in a few days. Indeed, so strong is this instinct, that
the health of the animals is greatly improved by putting pieces of wood
into their cages, merely for the purpose of allowing them to exercise
their chisel-edged teeth. Even when they have nothing to gnaw, the
animals will move their jaws incessantly, just as if they were eating, a
movement which gave rise to the idea that they chewed the cud.

It is worthy of remark that other animals, which, though not rodents,
need to possess chisel-edged incisor teeth, have a similar habit. Such
is the hippopotamus, and such is the hyrax, the remarkable rock-haunting
animal, which in the authorised translation of the Scriptures is called
the "coney," and which in the Revised Version is allowed in the margin
to retain its Hebrew name, "shaphan."

The enamel also has an important part to play in the structure of the
molar teeth. Each tooth is surrounded with the enamel plate, which is so
intricately folded that the tooth looks as if it were made of a series
of enamel triangles, each enclosing the tooth matter.

This structure is common to all the members of the group to which the
water-rat belongs. It is the more remarkable because we find a somewhat
similar structure in the molar teeth of the elephants, which, like the
rodents, have the incisor teeth largely developed and widely separated
from the molars.

There is nothing in the appearance of the water-rat which gives any
indication of its aquatic habits.

For example, we naturally expect to find that the feet of swimming
animals are webbed. The water-loving capybara of South America, the
largest existing rodent, has its hoof-like toes partially united by
webs, so that its aquatic habits might easily be inferred even by those
who were unacquainted with the animal. Even the otter, which propels
itself through the water mostly by means of its long and powerful tail,
has the feet furnished with webs. So has the aquatic Yapock opossum of
Australia, while the feet of the duck-bill are even more boldly webbed
than those of the bird from which it takes its popular name. The
water-shrews (whom we shall presently meet) are furnished with a fringe
of stiff hair round the toes which answers the same purpose as the web.

But the structure of the water-rat gives no indication of its habits, so
that no one who was unacquainted with the animal would even suspect its
swimming and diving powers. Watch it as long as you like, and I do not
believe that you will see it eating anything of an animal nature.

I mention this fact because it is often held up to blame as a
mischievous animal, especially deserving the wrath of anglers by
devouring the eggs and young of fish.

As is often the case in the life-history of animals as well as of men,
the blame is laid on the wrong shoulders. If the destruction of fish be
a crime, there are many criminals, the worst and most persistent of
which are the fish themselves, which not only eat the eggs and young of
other fish, but, Saturn-like, have not the least scruple in devouring
their own offspring.

Scarcely less destructive in its own insidious way is the common
house-rat, which eats everything which according to our ideas is edible,
and a good many which we might think incapable of affording sustenance
even to a rat. In the summer time it often abandons for a time the
house, the farm, the barn, and seeks for a change of diet by the brook.
These water-haunting creatures are naturally mistaken for the
vegetable-feeding water-vole, and so the latter has to bear the blame of
their misdoings.

There are lesser inhabitants of the brook which are injurious both to
the eggs and young of fish. Among them are several of the larger
water-beetles, some of which are so large and powerful that, when placed
in an aquarium with golden carp, they have made havoc among the fish,
always attacking them from below. Although they cannot kill and devour
the fish at once, they inflict such serious injuries that the creature
is sure to die shortly.

I do not mean to assert that the water-vole is never injurious to man.
Civilisation disturbs for a time the balance of Nature, and when man
ploughs or digs the ground which had previously been untouched by plough
or spade, and sows the seeds of herbs and cereals in land which has
previously produced nothing but wild plants, he must expect that the
animals to whom the soil had been hitherto left will fail to understand
that they can no more consider themselves as the owners, and will in
consequence do some damage to the crops.

Moreover, even putting their food aside, their habits often render them
obnoxious to civilised man. The mole, for example, useful as it really
is in a field, does very great harm in a garden or lawn, although it
eats none of the produce.

The water-vole, however, is doubly injurious when the field or garden
happens to be near the water-side. It is a mighty burrower, driving its
tunnels to great distances. Sometimes it manages to burrow into a
kitchen-garden, and feeds quite impartially on the different crops. It
has even been seen to venture to a considerable distance from water,
crossing a large field, making its way into a garden, and carrying off
several pods of the French bean.

In the winter time, when other food fails, the water-vole, like the hare
and rabbit, will eat turnips, mangold-wurzel, the bark of young trees,
and similar food. Its natural food, however, is to be found among the
various aquatic plants, as I have often seen, and the harm which it does
to the crops is so infinitesimally small when compared with the area of
cultivated ground, that it is not worthy of notice.

Still, although the harm which it does to civilised man in the aggregate
is but small, even its most friendly advocate cannot deny that there are
cases where it has been extremely troublesome to the individual
cultivator, especially if he be an amateur.

There are many hard men of business, who are obliged to spend the
greater part of the day in their London offices, and who find their best
relaxation in amateur gardening; those who grow vegetables, regarding
their peas, beans, potatoes, and celery with as much affection as is
felt by floriculturists for their roses or tulips.

Nothing is more annoying to such men than to find, when the toils of
business are over, and they have settled themselves comfortably into
their gardening suits, that some marauder has carried off the very
vegetables on which they had prided themselves.

The water-vole has been detected in the act of climbing up a ladder
which had been left standing against a plum tree, and attacking the
fruit. Bunches of grapes on outdoor vines are sometimes nipped off the
branches by the teeth of the water-vole, and the animal has been seen to
climb beans and peas, split the pods, and devour the contents.

Although not a hibernating animal, it lays up a store of food in the
autumn. Mr. Groom Napier has the following description of the contents
of a water-rat's storehouse:--

"Early in the spring of 1855, I dug out the burrow of a water-vole, and
was surprised to find at the further extremity a cavity of about a foot
in diameter, containing a quantity of fragments of carrots and potatoes,
sufficient to fill a peck measure. This was undoubtedly a part of its
winter store of provisions. This food had been gathered from a large
potato and carrot bed in the vicinity.

"On pointing out my discovery to the owner of the garden, he said that
his losses had been very serious that winter owing to the ravages of
these animals, and said that he had brought both dogs and cats down to
the stream to hunt for them; but they were too wary to be often caught."

I do not think that the owner of the garden knew very much about the
characters either of the cat or water-vole.

Every one who is practically acquainted with cats knows that it is next
to impossible to point out an object to a cat as we can to a dog. She
looks at your finger, but can never direct her gaze to the object at
which you are pointing. In fact, I believe that pussy's eyes are not
made for detecting objects at a distance.

If we throw a piece of biscuit to a dog, and he does not see where it
has fallen, we can direct him by means of voice and finger. But, if a
piece of meat should fall only a foot or two from a cat, all the
pointing in the world will not enable her to discover it, and it is
necessary to pick her up and put her nose close to the meat before she
can find it.

So, even, if a water-vole should be seen by the master, the attention of
the cat could not be directed to it, her instinct teaching her to take
prey in quite a different manner.

The dogs, supposing that they happened to be of the right breed, would
have a better chance of securing the robber, providing that they
intercepted its retreat to the water. But if the water-vole should
succeed in gaining its burrow, or in plunging into the stream, I doubt
whether any dog would be able to catch it.

Moreover, the water-vole is so clever in tunnelling, that when it drives
its burrows into cultivated ground, it almost invariably conceals the
entrance under a heap of stones, a wood pile, or some similar object.

How it is enabled to direct the course of its burrow we cannot even
conjecture, except by attributing the faculty to that "most excellent
gift" which we call by the convenient name of "instinct."

Man has no such power, but when he wishes to drive a tunnel in any given
direction he is obliged to avail himself of levels, compasses,
plumb-lines, and all the paraphernalia of the engineer. Yet, with
nothing to direct it except instinct, the water-vole can, though working
in darkness, drive its burrow in any direction and emerge from the
ground exactly at the spot which it has selected.

The mole can do the same, and by means equally mysterious.

I may casually mention that the water-vole is one of the aquatic animals
which, when zoological knowledge was not so universal as it is at the
present day, were reckoned as fish, and might be eaten on fast days. I
believe that in some parts of France this idea still prevails.

With all its wariness, the water-vole is a strangely nervous creature,
being for a time almost paralysed by a sudden shock. This trait of
character I discovered quite unexpectedly.

Many, many years ago, when I was a young lad, and consequently of a
destructive nature, I possessed a pistol, of which I was rather proud.
It certainly was an excellent weapon, and I thought myself tolerably
certain of hitting a small apple at twelve yards distance.

One day, while walking along the bank of the Cherwell River, I saw a
water-vole on the opposite bank. The animal was sitting on a small stump
close to the water's edge. Having, of course, the pistol with me, and
wanting to dissect a water-vole, I proceeded to aim at the animal. This
was not so easy as it looked. A water-vole crouching upon a stump
presents no point at which to aim, the brown fur of the animal and the
brown surface of the old weather-beaten stump seeming to form a single
object without any distinct outline; moreover, it is very difficult to
calculate distances over water. However, I fired, and missed.

I naturally expected the animal to plunge into the river and escape. To
my astonishment, it remained in the same position. Finding that it did
not stir, I reloaded, and again fired and missed. Four times did I fire
at that water-vole, and after the last shot the animal slowly crawled
off the stump, slid into the river, and made off.

Now in those days revolvers and breech-loaders did not exist, so that
the process of loading a pistol with ball was rather a long and
complicated one.

First, the powder had to be carefully measured from the flask; then a
circular patch of greased linen had to be laid on the muzzle of the
weapon, and a ball laid on it and hammered into the barrel with a leaden
or wooden mallet; then it had to be driven into its place with a ramrod
(often requiring the aid of the mallet), and, lastly, there was a new
cap to be fitted. Yet although so much time was occupied between the
shots, the animal remained as motionless as a stuffed figure.

When I crossed the river and examined the stump I found all the four
bullets close together just below the spot on which the animal had been
sitting, and neither of them two inches from its body. Although the
balls had missed the water-vole, they must have sharply jarred the
stump.

I was afterwards informed that this semi-paralysis from sudden fear is a
known characteristic of the animal. It seems to be shared by others of
the same genus, as will be seen when we come to treat of the field mice.

In its mode of eating it much resembles the squirrels, sitting on its
haunches and holding the food in its forepaws, as if they were hands. I
am not aware that it even eats worms or insects, and it may be
absolutely acquitted from any imputation of doing harm to any of the
fish tribe.

(_To be continued._)




"SHE COULDN'T BOIL A POTATO;"

OR,

THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

BY DORA HOPE.


"The late Miss Ella!"

"When are you going to turn over that new leaf you spoke of, my
daughter?"

"There's a little coffee left, but the bacon is quite cold."

These were the exclamations that greeted a tall bright girl, as she
entered the breakfast room one morning.

"I am very sorry, papa. I really meant to be down in time, but I suppose
I must have gone to sleep again after I was called." And being really
vexed with herself for having so soon broken her good resolutions,
formed for the hundredth time the day before, Ella Hastings accepted the
cold bacon meekly, and even turned a deaf ear to the withering sarcasms
of her two schoolboy brothers, who were leisurely strapping together
their books, and delaying their departure till the last moment.

"There is the postman coming up the garden; run and get the letters,
Hughie."

A solemn-looking boy of six years old climbed down from his chair, in
obedience to his father's request, and soon came back with a handful of
letters, and settled himself patiently by his father's side to wait for
the empty envelopes, which formed his share of the morning's
correspondence.

An exclamation of surprise from Mr. Hastings caused his wife to look up
inquiringly from the letter she had just opened, and he handed her
silently a telegram which had been forwarded, with other papers, from
his office, where it had evidently been delivered late the previous
evening. Kate, the eldest daughter, leaning over her mother's shoulder,
read aloud the short notice:--

"Mrs. Wilson dangerously ill; letter follows."

Mrs. Wilson was Mr. Hastings' only remaining sister. His mother had died
when he was almost an infant, and this "sister Mary" had slipped into
her place as mother, teacher--everything, to her little brothers and
sisters; never leaving them, till the father having died also, and her
young charges being all old enough to settle in life for themselves, she
had rewarded the faithful waiting of her old lover, and they had settled
down together in a quiet village a few miles from the noisy town where
his business lay. Her happy married life lasted but a short time,
however, and for the many years since her husband's death she had
preferred to live entirely alone with her two maids and a strange medley
of pet animals--finding employment and interest for her declining years
in her books and her garden.

From being so long alone she had grown eccentric in her ways, and very
odd and decided in her views; but she kept a warm corner in her heart
for her favourite brother and his children, who heartily returned their
aunt's affection, though they stood a good deal in awe of her keen
penetrating gaze and sarcastic criticisms.

She had always prided herself on her good constitution, and despised
doctors and dentists as people who pandered to the fads and fancies of a
degenerate generation--a generation who, according to her creed,
weakened their backs and ruined their health by lounging on sofas and
easy chairs, while, for her part, though seventy years of age, she was
thankful to say a straight-backed chair was good enough for her. It may
be imagined that for this self-reliant, vigorous Aunt Mary to be taken
seriously ill, so ill as to have to summon help, was a great shock, and
Mr. Hastings decided at once that he must go to see his sister, and that
one of his daughters should accompany him; but the telegram was so
short, and gave so little information, that nothing further could be
arranged till the noonday post arrived, which always brought the letters
from Hapsleigh.

The morning seemed endless, but noon came at last, and with it the
promised letter, which was eagerly opened and read. It was from Mrs.
Mobberly, a near neighbour of Mrs. Wilson's. She described the sudden
illness, and all that had been done for the sufferer. "The doctor says
that for a day or two he cannot tell what the result may be, though we
may hope for the best. He has sent in a thoroughly trustworthy trained
nurse, but he agrees with me that it would be a good thing if one of
your daughters could come to take charge of the household, for even if
all goes as well as possible it will be a long and tedious recovery, and
the invalid must be kept perfectly quiet and free from all worry."

"Well, girls," said Mr. Hastings, as he finished reading the letter,
"you must decide between yourselves which of you will go. As there seems
no immediate danger, we need not leave till to-morrow morning, so you
will have a little time for preparation; but however great a sacrifice
it is for you to go, and for us to part with you, there is no question
about it. Aunt Mary must not be left alone till she is quite herself
again, so I will telegraph to Mrs. Mobberly that one of you will go with
me by the first train to-morrow."

There was no room for disputing the point when Mr. Hastings spoke in
that decided tone; moreover, the girls themselves would have said just
the same--that someone must go; but the question was, "who?"

"Kate, it must be you," said Ella, eagerly. "I do not know anything
about nursing or housekeeping, or anything of that sort, and you know I
always say and do the wrong thing."

Mrs. Hastings looked anxious and perplexed. "I really do not know what
to do for the best," she said. "I do not see how I can spare you, Kate;
for if I have one of my bad attacks I must have you at hand; and you
see, Ella, you would have everything to learn here just as much as at
Hapsleigh, and I think you would find teaching the children very hard
work."

Kate, the eldest daughter, was her mother's unfailing assistant, and
almost entirely relieved her of the care of the three little ones;
indeed, during Mrs. Hastings's frequent attacks of asthma, Kate was both
ready and able to take entire charge of the household, and she felt
that to leave her mother with only Ella's help would be throwing more
care upon her than her delicate health could bear. She spoke decidedly,
therefore; and, after a little more discussion, it was agreed that Ella
should accompany her father, prepared to stay as long as she might be
required.

The rest of the day was fully occupied with packing and making
arrangements. Ella was rather apt to let her clothing take care of
itself, and, in a sudden emergency such as this, had to borrow right and
left. Indeed, Mrs. Hastings and Kate were both kept busy all the
afternoon looking over and supplying the deficiencies in her outfit.

"That dressing-gown will not do at all, Ella. It is most important to
have a thoroughly warm one when you have to sit up at night. Yours is
very pretty, but blue cashmere and lace are not suitable for a sick room
in cold weather. You will have to borrow Kate's thick flannel gown. You
should have my quilted silk one, but in such a great thickness of
material one's arms do not feel quite free to help an invalid, or shake
up a bed."

"Here it is, Ella," rejoined Kate; "and I have brought you my thick
bedroom slippers, too. They are not so elegant as your Turkish ones, but
they are much warmer. Be sure you keep them by the side of your bed, so
that you can slip them on directly if you are called up suddenly. You
know you take cold so easily, and it would be so awkward if you had one
of your bad throats at Hapsleigh."

Mrs. Hastings felt very anxious about her daughter, called upon so
suddenly to take up such important and unexpected duties, and gave her a
great deal of loving counsel.

"You will have to manage to get up earlier, dear child," she said. "You
know Aunt Mary's servants are always rather inclined to go their own
way, and they may perhaps try to take advantage of her illness to keep
irregular hours and slight their work; and you must remember that you
will be responsible for good order in the house, and that is impossible
unless all the household are regular and punctual in beginning their
day's work at the proper time. I will let you have my little clock, and
you can set the alarum at whatever time you wish to get up."

"Yes; I really am going to turn over a new leaf about that; but you
know, mother, I shall feel more obliged to get up now when I am
responsible for things going right. Oh, dear! what a dreadful thought! I
am sure I shall never manage. Why, I can't cook, and I can't keep
accounts, and I have no idea how many pounds of meat people want for
dinner. I shall order a tin of Australian meat, and just have it at
every meal till it is finished, and then get another."

"I am afraid the servants will soon give you notice if you do, Ella,"
said Mrs. Hastings, laughing at her daughter's ideas of housekeeping.
"You will soon get accustomed to the size of joints and puddings, if you
get into the habit of noticing them, remembering how long they last. But
there are two other pieces of advice which I want you to remember and to
act upon. If your father decides that it is necessary for you to stay
and act as mistress, he will tell the servants so; but you must assert
yourself as mistress at once, and take everything into your own hands.
You will find it rather difficult at first, but it will save you a great
deal of trouble in the end. I have seen endless discomfort caused by
young and timid housekeepers not liking to take the reins into their own
hands. But, at the same time, be very careful never to interfere or
complain, unless you are quite sure that it is necessary, and that you
are in the right. If you are in any doubt you can always consult Mrs.
Mobberly; and you must make allowances for the fact that the servants
have always been allowed to do pretty much what they liked, and will
naturally expect to continue doing so; therefore do not complain unless
you have unmistakable grounds for it, and never, under any
circumstances, speak hastily or angrily. If you are put out, wait till
your vexation has cooled down a little; and then, if you are quite sure
you are in the right, speak quietly and kindly, but so decidedly that
there may be no mistake about your intention of being obeyed."

"Oh, dear!" groaned Ella, who was almost reduced to tears at the
prospect of such serious responsibility. "I am sure I shall come home
ignominiously in a week. I know just how it will be. Just think of Aunt
Mary's scorn when she finds I don't even know how to boil a potato!"

There was no time for lamentations, however, and her mother and Kate
both comforted her with the assurance that at any rate no one would
blame her if she did her best, and they would expect a few mistakes from
a girl only just home from school.

The next morning, at any rate, Ella was punctual, and at eight o'clock
they all sat down to breakfast.

"I made tea for you, Ella," said Mrs. Hastings. "I thought it would be
better for you before such a long journey. Coffee sometimes disagrees
with people who are not very good travellers. And I advise you not to
take bacon; it so often makes one thirsty. Here is potted meat; that
would be better for you."

Ella felt in very low spirits, and her mother's and Kate's affectionate
kindness only brought the despised tears into her eyes. She could hardly
touch her breakfast, and was relieved when Kate left the table, and
began to look after the small articles of luggage.

"Robin, did you strap up the rugs? Oh, what an untidy bundle!" and the
methodical Kate unfastened the straps and rearranged the contents. First
the large rug was folded lengthwise till it was just as wide as the
length of the bundle should be when finished. Then came Ella's shawl, an
awkward one for a neat roll, as it had long fringe; but Kate turned in
the fringe all round first, and then folded the shawl itself till it was
just a little narrower than the rug; the ulster was carefully folded
also to the same size, and both were laid on one end of the rug.
Finally, Ella's umbrella and sunshade were laid across the pile of
wraps, and all were rolled round carefully, so that none of the articles
inside protruded, and the rug, being longer than the others, hid all the
ends, and, when strapped round just tightly enough to hold all together
comfortably without unnecessary squeezing, it made such a neat-looking
roll as compelled even Robin's admiration. Ella's travelling-cap had
been inside the bundle before, but Kate took it out and advised her to
carry it in her hand-bag, as being easily accessible if she did not wish
to undo the strap.

All was ready at last, the rugs, the hand-bag, and the tin trunk, to
which at the last moment Kate came running to tie a piece of red braid,
by which to distinguish it, making Ella and the boys laugh at what they
called her "incurable old-maidishness."

"Never mind," she replied, nodding sagely, "you will thank me when you
have to hunt for your box amongst twenty others exactly like it."

Kate had suggested going to the station to see them off, but her father
objected.

"We shall get on better alone," he argued. "We settle ourselves
comfortably in our corners at once, unroll our rugs, and make everything
ready before we start, instead of having to make spasmodic efforts to
think of last remarks and messages. Of course, if Ella were going alone
I should go to see her off, but as it is I would rather not have anyone
with us."

Mrs. Hastings thought this a rather hard-hearted way of looking at the
matter; but as Ella quite agreed with her father, feeling convinced she
could not be able to keep from crying if the farewells were too long
protracted, there was nothing for it but to yield, and as soon as the
cab came to the door the parting was hurried through, and, almost before
she had time to realise that she was really going, Ella found herself
halfway to the station.

The railway journey was a long and troublesome one, involving several
changes. Before midday Ella had recovered her spirits and her appetite,
and acted on Kate's advice. "Do not wait for father to suggest lunch,"
she had said; "you may be sure he will not begin to feel hungry till you
are quite ravenous." Remembering this, Ella laughed to herself at Mr.
Hastings's surprise when she suggested that she was ready for her lunch,
and proceeded to unpack her stores.

"This is the first course, I suppose," she said, as she produced two
neat white-paper packages, each with the name of the contents written on
it. "This one contains potted meat sandwiches, and these are chicken.
They look very nice, too. These sprigs of watercress between the
sandwiches are a great improvement."

"Yes, I must confess they are very good ones," assented Mr. Hastings,
after trying one of each kind. "I think someone must have been giving
the cook a lecture on the art of cutting them. Home-made sandwiches have
generally too much butter, so that they are too rich to eat, and the
paper they are wrapped in is greasy and disagreeable; but these have
just the right quantity, and they are made with suitable bread--not, as
I have often had them, of spongy bread, full of holes, through which the
butter and meat oozes on to one's fingers."

In addition to these there were, for Ella's benefit, a few sandwiches
made with damson jam, from which the stones had been extracted. The next
course consisted of some small cakes and a few ripe pears. By way of
beverage, Mrs. Hastings had supplied Ella with a flask of cold tea, made
weak, and with a squeeze of lemon in it, which she had always found the
best possible drink for quenching thirst; when travelling herself she
always took either this or lime-juice and water. Finally, knowing that
Ella had a good appetite, and would probably get very hungry before
reaching her journey's end, her mother had told the cook to fill a small
jam pot with lemon jelly, and to provide a teaspoon to eat it with. Ella
found this most refreshing, and her lunch altogether was very
satisfactory; certainly the supply was rather too bountiful, but that
fact did not trouble her much, for she soon noticed a poor,
hungry-looking boy on one of the stations, who thankfully accepted all
that was left.

In spite of the length of the journey, Ella quite enjoyed the day; her
father was so kind and took such good care of her. He insisted on her
getting out of the carriage and walking up and down the platform
whenever the train stopped long enough, that she might not be tired of
sitting still; and when it began to get dark he made her put her feet up
on the seat and tucked her up with the rug, and made her so comfortable
that, to her own great surprise, she went fast asleep, and only awoke as
her father was collecting their books and wraps on nearing their
destination.

(_To be continued._)




MERLE'S CRUSADE.

BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of "Aunt Diana," "For Lilias," etc.


CHAPTER III.

THE NEW NURSE.

In looking back on those days, I simply wonder at my own audacity. Am I
really and truly the same Merle Fenton who rang at the bell at Prince's
Gate and informed the astonished footman that I was the person applying
for the nurse's situation? I recall that scene now with a laugh, but I
frankly own that that moment was not the pleasantest in my life. True,
it had its ludicrous side; but how is one to enjoy the humour of an
amusing situation alone? and, to tell the truth, the six foot of plush
and powder before me was somewhat alarming to my female timidity. I hear
now the man's startled "I beg your pardon, ma'am."

"I have come by appointment," I returned, with as much dignity as I
could summon under the trying circumstances; "will you inform your
mistress, Mrs. Morton, that I have come about the nurse's situation?"

Of course, he was looking at me from head to foot. In spite of the
disguising plainness of my dress, I suppose the word gentlewoman was
clearly stamped upon me. Heaven forbid that under any circumstances
that brand, sole heritage of my dead parents, should ever be effaced.
Then he opened the door of a charming little waiting-room, and civilly
enough bade me seat myself, and for some minutes I was left alone. I
think nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before he reappeared with the
message that his mistress was now disengaged and would see me. I
followed the man as closely as I could through the long hall and up the
wide staircase; not for worlds would I have owned that a certain
shortness of breath, unusual in youth, seemed to impede me. At the top,
I found myself in a handsome corridor, communicating with two
drawing-rooms of noble dimensions, as they call them in advertisements,
and certainly it was a princely apartment that I entered. A lady was
writing busily at a small table at the further end of the room. As the
man spoke to her, she did not at once raise her head or turn round; she
was evidently finishing a note. A minute later she laid aside her pen
and came towards me.

"I am sorry that I could not attend to you at once, and yet you were
very punctual," she began, in a pleasant, well-modulated voice, and then
she stopped and regarded me with unfeigned surprise.

She was a very lovely young woman, with an indescribable matronly air
about her that spoke of the mother. She would have been really quite
beautiful but for a certain worn look, often seen in women of fashion;
and when she spoke there was a sweetness and simplicity of manner that
was most winning.

"Pardon me," with a shade of perplexity in her eyes, "but I suppose my
servant was right in stating that you had come by appointment in answer
to my advertisement?"

"Yes, madam," I returned, readily; for her slight nervousness put me at
my ease. "I have your letter here."

"And you are really applying for the nurse's situation--the upper nurse,
I mean; for, of course, there is an under nurse kept. I hope" (colouring
a little) "that you will not think me rude if I say that I was not
prepared for the sort of person I was to see."

I could have groaned as I thought of my note. Was it possible that I had
spelt "advertisement" wrongly, and yet I had the paper before me; my
handwriting was neat and legible, but evidently Mrs. Morton was drawing
some comparison between my letter and appearance, and I did not doubt
that the former had not prepossessed her in my favour.

I became confused in my turn.

"I hope to prove to you," I began, in a very small voice, "that I am a
fit person to apply for your situation. I am very fond of children; I
never lose my patience with them as other people do, or think anything a
trouble; I wish to take up this work from love as well as necessity--I
mean," correcting myself, for she looked still more astonished, "that
though I am obliged to work for my living, I would rather be a nurse
than anything else."

"Will you answer a few questions?" and, as though by an afterthought,
"will you sit down?" for she had been standing to keep me company out of
deference to my superior appearance.

"I will answer any question you like to put to me, madam."

"You have never been in service you tell me in your letter. Have you
ever filled any kind of situation?"

I shook my head.

"You are quite young I should say?"

"Two and twenty last Christmas."

"I should hardly have thought you so old. Will you oblige me with your
name?"

"Merle Fenton."

A half smile crossed her beautiful mouth. It was evident that she found
the name somewhat incongruous, and then she continued a little hastily,
"If you have never filled any sort of situation, it will be somewhat
difficult to judge of your capacity. Of course you have good references;
can you tell me a little about yourself and your circumstances?"

I was fast losing my nervousness by this time. In a few minutes I had
given her a concise account of myself and my belongings. Once or twice
she interrupted me by a question, such as, for example, when I spoke of
Aunt Agatha, she asked the names of the families where she had lived as
a governess; and once she looked a little surprised at my answer.

"I knew the Curzons before I was married," she observed, quietly; "they
have often talked to me of their old governess, Miss Fenton; her name is
Keith now, you say; she was a great favourite with her pupils. Well, is
it not a pity that you should not follow your aunt's example? If you are
not clever, would not the situation of a nursery governess be more
fitting for you? Forgive me; I am only speaking for your good; one feels
a little uncomfortable at seeing a gentlewoman desert the ranks to which
she belongs."

My face was burning by this time; of course it must all come out--that
miserable defect of mine, and everything else; but raising my eyes at
that moment I saw such a kind look on Mrs. Morton's face, such quietly
expressed sympathy for my very evident confusion, that in a moment my
reserve broke down. I do not know what I said, but I believe I must have
been very eloquent. I could hear her say to herself, "How very
strange--what a misfortune!" when I frankly mentioned my inability to
spell, but I did not linger long on this point.

Warmed by her strong interest, I detailed boldly what I called my
theory. I told her of my love for little children, my longing to work
amongst them, how deeply I felt that this would indeed be a
gentlewoman's work, that I did not fear my want of experience. I told
her that once I had stayed for some weeks at the house of one of my
schoolfellows, and that every night and morning I had gone up to the
nursery to help the nurse wash and dress the babies, and that at the end
of a week I had learned to do it as well as the woman herself, and that
she had told my schoolfellow that she had never seen any young lady so
handy and patient with children, and that they were happier with me than
with their own sister.

"The second child had the croup one night," I continued; "the mother was
away, and nurse was too frightened to be of any use. When the doctor
came he praised her very much for her prompt remedies; he said they had
probably saved the boy's life, as the attack was a severe one. Nurse
cried when he said that, and owned it was not she who had thought of
everything, but Miss Fenton. I tell you this," I continued, "that you
may understand that I am reliable. I was only nineteen then, and now I
am two and twenty."

She looked at me again in a gentle, scrutinising way; I could feel that
I was making way in her good opinion. Her curiosity was piqued; her
interest strongly excited. She made no attempt to check me as I launched
out into further defence of my theory, but she only smiled and said,
"Very true, I agree with you there," as I spoke of the advantage of
having an educated person to superintend the nursery. Indeed, I found
myself retailing all my pet arguments in a perfectly fearless way, until
I looked up and saw there were tears in her beautiful brown eyes.

"How well you talk," she said, with a sort of sigh. "You have thought it
all out, I can see. I wonder what my husband would say. He is a member
of Parliament, you know, and we are very busy people, and society has
such claims on us that I cannot be much with my children. I have only
two; Joyce is three years old, and my boy is nearly eighteen months. Oh,
he is so lovely, and to think I can only see him for a few minutes at a
time, that I lose all his pretty ways; it is such a trouble to me. His
nurse is leaving to be married, and I am so anxious to find someone who
will watch over my darlings and make them happy."

She paused, as the sound of approaching footsteps were audible in the
corridor, and rose hastily as an impatient, "Violet, where are you, my
dear?" was distinctly audible.

"That is Mr. Morton; will you excuse me a moment?" And the next moment I
could hear her say, "I was in the blue drawing-room, Alick. I have sent
off the letters, and now I want to speak to you a moment," and her voice
died away as they moved farther down the corridor.

I felt a keen anxiety as to the result of that conversation. I was very
impulsive by nature, and I had fallen in love with Mrs. Morton. The worn
look on the beautiful young face had touched me somehow. One of my queer
visionary ideas came over me as I recalled her expression. I thought
that if I were an artist, and that my subject was the "Massacre of the
Innocents," that the mother's face in the foreground should be Mrs.
Morton's. "Rachel Weeping for her Children;" something of the pathetic
maternal agony, as for a lost babe, had seemed to cross her face as she
spoke of her little ones. I found out afterwards that, though she wore
no mourning, Mrs. Morton had lost a beautiful infant about four months
ago. It had not been more than six weeks old, but the mother's heart was
still bleeding. Many months afterwards she told me that she often
dreamed of her little Muriel--she had only been baptised the day before
her death--and woke trying to stifle her sobs that she might not disturb
her husband. I sat cogitating this imaginary picture of mine, and
shuddering over the sanguinary details, until Mrs. Morton returned, and,
to my embarrassment, her husband was with her.

I gave him a frightened glance as he crossed the room with rapid
footsteps. He was a quiet-looking man, with a dark moustache, some years
older than his wife. His being slightly bald added somewhat to his
appearance of age. In reality he was not more than five and thirty. I
thought him a little cool and critical in manner, but his voice was
pleasant. He looked at me keenly as he spoke; it was my opinion at that
moment that not an article of my dress escaped his observation. I had
selected purposely a pair of mended gloves, and I am convinced the
finger ends were at once under his inspection. He was a man who thought
no details beneath him, but would bring his masculine intellect even to
the point of discovering the fitness of his children's nurse.

"Mrs. Morton tells me that you have applied for the situation of upper
nurse," he began, not abruptly, but in the quick tones of a busy man who
has scant leisure. "I have heard all you have told her; she seems
desirous of testing your abilities, but I must warn you that I distrust
theories myself. My dear," turning to his wife, "I must say that this
young person looks hardly old enough for the position, and you own she
has no real experience. Would not a more elderly person be more
suitable, considering that you are so seldom in your nursery? Of course,
this is your department, but since you ask my advice----" with a little
shrug that seemed to dismiss me and the whole subject.

A wistful, disappointed look came over his wife's face. I was too great
a stranger to understand the real position of affairs, only my intuition
guided me at that moment. It was not until much later that I found out
that Mrs. Morton never disputed her husband's will, even in trifles;
that he ordered the plan of her life as well as his own; that her
passionate love for her children was restrained in order that her wifely
and social duties should be carried out; that she was so perfectly
obedient to him, not from fear, but from an excess of womanly devotion,
that she seldom even contested an opinion. My fate was very nearly
sealed at that moment, but a hasty impulse prompted me to speak. Looking
Mr. Morton full in the face, I said, a little piteously, "Do not dismiss
me because of my youth, for that is a fault that time will mend. Want of
experience is a greater obstacle, but it will only make me more careful
to observe every direction and carry out every wish. If you consent to
try me, I am sure neither you nor Mrs. Morton will repent it."

He looked at me very keenly again as I spoke; indeed, his eyes seemed to
search me through and through, and then his whole manner changed.

I have been told that Nature had been kind to me in one respect by
endowing me with a pleasant voice. I believe that I was freer from
vanity than most girls of my age, but I was glad in my inmost heart to
know that no tone of mine would ever jar upon a human ear, but I was
more than glad now when I saw Mr. Morton's grave face relax.

"You speak confidently," he returned. "You seem to have a strange faith
in your own theory, and plenty of self-reliance, but I am afraid that,
like most young people, you have only regarded it from one point of
view. Are you aware of the unpleasantness of such a situation? If you
came to us you might have nothing of which to complain from Mrs. Morton
or myself, but we could not answer for the rest of my household; the
servants would regard you as a sort of hybrid, belonging to no special
sphere; they might show you scant respect, and manifest a great deal of
jealousy."

"I have faced all that," I returned, with a smile, "but I think the
difficulties would be like Bunyan's lions--they were chained, you know.
I do not believe these sort of things would hurt me. I should never be
away from the children in the nursery; I should be unmolested and at
home."

"Alick!" I could hear a whole petition breathed into that softly uttered
word. Mr. Morton heard it too, for he turned at once and then looked at
his wife.

"Do you really wish to try this young person, Violet, my dear? It is for
you to decide; this is your province, as I said before."

"If she will love our children and watch over them in our absence," she
whispered, but I caught the words. Then aloud, "Yes, thank you, Alick, I
should like to try her. I think she would make Joyce happy. I can go and
see Mrs. Keith this afternoon when I am out driving, and perhaps I could
arrange for her to come soon."

"Very well," he returned, briefly, but he spoke in the old dry manner,
as though he were not quite pleased. "When you are disengaged will you
join me in the library? I have some more letters I want copied."

"I will be ready soon," she said, with a sweet grateful glance at him,
as though she had received some unexpected bounty at his hands, and as
he wished me good morning, and left the room, she continued, eagerly,
"Will you come with me now and make acquaintance with the children. I
have seen them already this morning, so they will not expect me, and it
will be such a surprise. My little girl is always with me while I dress.
I have so little time to devote to them; but I snatch every moment."

She sighed as she spoke, and I began to understand, in a dim, groping
sort of way, that fate is not so unequal after all, that even this
beautiful creature had unsatisfied wants in her life, that it was
possible that wealth and position were to her only tiresome barriers
dividing her from her little ones. Her sweetest pleasures only came to
her by snatches. Most likely she envied humble mothers, and did not pity
them because their arms ached with carrying a heavy infant, aching limbs
being more bearable than an aching heart.

A flight of broad, handsomely-carpeted stairs brought us to a long
shut-in corridor, fitted up prettily with plants and statuettes. A
rocking-horse stood in one corner; the nursery door was open. It was a
long, cheerful room, with three windows, looking over the public garden,
and fitted up with a degree of comfort that bordered on luxury. Some
canaries were singing in a green cage, a grey Persian kitten was curled
up in the doll's bassinette, a little girl was kneeling on the cushioned
window-seat, peeping between the bars at some children who were playing
below. As Mrs. Morton said, softly, "Joyce, darling," she turned round
with quite a startled air, and then clambered down hastily and ran to
her mother.

"Why, it is my mother," in quite an incredulous voice, and then she
caught hold of her mother's gown, and peeped at me from between the
folds.

She was a pretty, demure-looking child, only somewhat thin and fragile
in appearance, not in the least like her mother, but I could trace
instantly the strongest resemblance to her father. She had the straight,
uncurling hair like his, and her dark eyes were a little sunken under
the finely-arched brows. It was rather a bewitching little face, only
too thin and sallow for health, and with an intelligent expression,
almost amounting to precocity.

"And where is your brother, my darling?" asked her mother, stooping to
kiss her, and at this moment a pleasant-looking young woman came from
the inner room with a small, curly-haired boy in her arms.

As she set him down on the floor, and he came toddling over the carpet,
I forgot Mrs. Morton's presence, and knelt down and held out my arms to
him. "Oh, you beauty!" I exclaimed, in a coaxing voice, "will you come
to me?" for I quite forgot myself at the sight of the perfect baby
features.

Baby pointed a small finger at me, "O' ook, gurgle-da," he said, in the
friendliest way; and I sealed our compact with many kisses.

"Dear me, ma'am," observed nurse, eyeing me in a dubious manner, for
probably the news of my advent had preceded me to the upper regions,
"this is very singular; I never saw Master Baby take such a fancy to
anyone before; he always beats them off with his dear little hand."

"Gurgle-da, ook ook," was baby's unexpected response to this, as he
burst into a shout of laughter, and he made signs for me to carry him to
the canaries.

I do not know what Mrs. Morton said to nurse, but she came up after a
minute or two and watched us, smiling.

"He does seem very friendly; more so than my shy pet here," for Joyce
was still holding her mother's gown.

"She will be friends with me too," I returned, confidently; "children
are so easily won." And then, as Mrs. Morton held out her arms for her
boy, I parted with him reluctantly.

There was no need for me to stay any longer then. Mrs. Morton reiterated
her intention of calling on Aunt Agatha that afternoon, after which she
promised to speak to me again, and feeling that things were in a fair
way of being settled according to my wishes, I left the house with a
lighter heart than I had entered it.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKS.

BY CLARA THWAITES.


    Sing among the hollyhocks,
      "Summer, fare thee well!"
    Ring the drooping blossoms
      For a passing bell.

    Droop the sunflowers, heavy discs
      Totter to their fall.
    Up the valley creep the mists
      For a funeral pall.

    Lingering roses woefully
      In the cold expire.
    Heap the dead and dying
      For a funeral pyre.

    While the gale is sighing,
      While the wind makes moan,
    Sigh among the hollyhocks
      Of the summer flown.

[Illustration:
    "SIGH AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKS
      OF THE SUMMER FLOWN."]




NOTICES OF NEW MUSIC.

[Illustration]


STANLEY LUCAS AND CO.

_O, hur vidgas ej ditt bröst. Liebe, liebe._ Two Lieder. By Maude V.
White.--The first, from the Swedish, has also an English set of words;
the setting of the second is in German only, being a translation into
that language from the Hungarian.--There is a dreamy charm pervading
both of these little ballads, which will be best appreciated by truly
musical and well-educated singers.

_Two Locks of Hair._ Song to Longfellow's poetry. By Sabine E.
Barwell.--Very simple. The music is dedicated to Charles Santley, our
great baritone singer.

_Alone with thee._ Song by Gilbert R. Betjemann. Compass E to F
sharp.--An ambitious song, full of striking modulations and really
dramatic effects. The accompaniments are charming.

_Ivy Green._ A good song for basses or baritones. The words by Charles
Dickens, the music by Arthur C. Stericker.--Plenty of go about it, and
quite the song for strong, manly voices.

_Wandering Wishes._ Poetry by Lady Charlotte Elliot (from "Medusa" and
other poems). Music by Robert B. Addison.--A very poetical setting of a
very fanciful poem.

_Our Darling._ Ballad by Robert Reece, with music by Berthold
Tours.--This justly favourite composer has written the simplest, most
touching, and melodious music to a very touching and sad story. It is a
compliment to this ballad to recommend it to all who wish for a good
cry. It has this advantage over the maudlin griefs of the discontented
folk to whom we have called attention in previous notices, that the poor
bereaved parents who miss their little darling from the chair in which
he used to listen to their fairy stories and tales of distant lands over
the sea, are content to regard him as at rest in the heavenly country,
and in the angels' care. After all, if you do get the song, your tears
will be happy ones.


EDWIN ASHDOWN.

_Inez._ _Zamora._ Two Spanish dances for the pianoforte by Michael
Watson.--The first is a Habanera, and is redolent of _Carmen_ and
Spanish want of energy. It is more characteristic than the second,
although that is a very good reproduction of the typical peasant dance
of all districts of the Peninsula.

_Daphne._ Valse brillante. _Celadon._ Gavotte. Two drawing-room pieces
of more than ordinary merit by J. H. Wallis.--Fairly easy to learn, and
effective when learnt.

_May-Dew._ By Sir Sterndale Bennett; transcribed for the pianoforte by
Jules Brissac.--We complained a few months back of someone having
converted this lovely song into a part-song; we can only say of the
present transformation, that when the voice part is at work all goes
fairly well, and from a piano point of view represents the original; but
the two bars of symphony before the first and second verses of the song
are stripped of all their original life, and a very mangled substitute
is offered.


LONDON MUSIC PUBLISHING CO.

_The Broken Strings of a Mandoline._ Words and music by Edith Frances
Prideaux.--The story of a little Italian street-player. The compass is
for sopranos; the melody is simple and not very original.

_Sketches in Dance Rhythms._ 1. Waltz; 2. Minuet; 3. Tarantella. By
Erskine Allon.--We have before alluded to these sketches, of which Mr.
Allon has composed such excellent examples. We prefer No. 1 of the
present series, but do not consider these to be equal to former numbers.


WEEKES AND CO.

_Abendlied._ _Im Rosenbusch._ Two songs by J. H. le Breton Girdlestone;
the words, by Hoffman von Fallersleben, being translated into English by
Dr. Baskerville.--Most interesting little songs, and sure to give
pleasure by their sweet simplicity.

_Andante._ Varied for the pianoforte, and composed by Henry A. Toase. A
very quiet, harmless production. Only three variations, and those not so
much of the andante as of its accompaniment.


J. AND J. HOPKINSON.

_Intermezzo and Minuet for Pianoforte._ By George A. Lovell.--Two very
nicely-written little pieces. The minuet is especially attractive.

_Barcarole for Pianoforte._ By Carl Hause.--A good drawing-room piece.
The middle movement in F minor makes an effective contrast to the first
part.


HUTCHINGS AND ROMER.

_The Little Sweep._ Song. Written and composed by James C. Beazley,
R.A.M.--There is no such title as R.A.M. A.R.A.M. and M.R.A.M. we know,
but we must protest against this unlawful use of the name of our oldest
academy of music. The song is a stirring and dramatic account of how a
lost child was recovered by his mother. It is to be declaimed by a
contralto.


HUTCHINGS AND CO.

_The Christian's Armour._ Oratorio. By Joseph L. Roeckel; the text
compiled by Mrs. Alexander Roberts from Ephesians vi.; interspersed with
hymns from several sources.--A useful work for services of song or
chapel festivities. There is a sameness about the work, and it suggests
a weary feeling towards the close. The choruses are mostly rather weak
chorale. Occasionally an evidently fugal subject is announced, which is
never destined to form the subject for a fugue. However, the story is
well put together, the music is quite easy, and many choirs, unable to
conquer greater difficulties, will feel at home in this so-called
"oratorio."

_Six Morceaux de Salon._ Pour violin, avec accompagnement de piano. Par
Guido Papini. Op. 66.--The author of "La Mécanisme du jeune Violiniste"
has given us in these little pieces a charming addition to the
_répertoire_ of the amateur violinist. Specially tender and expressive
is No. 4. The piano shares with the violin both the difficulties and the
interests of each of the _morceaux_.

_Victoria Gavotte._ For piano. By Tito Mattei.--A capital piano piece.
We presume from the title that this is Signor Mattei's contribution to
the Jubilee Commemoration.


ROBERT COCKS AND CO.

_Gladys._ Rustic Dance. Composed for the pianoforte by Howard Talbot.--A
bright, telling piece. It would be very useful as an _entr'acte_ in your
Christmas charades.

_For Old Sake's Sake._ Song for contraltos. By Behrend.


W. MORLEY AND CO.

_Watching the Embers._ Song. Composed by Ciro Pinsuti to Weatherly's
words.--With a pretty refrain, but for the most part made up of a series
of common phrases. It is to be obtained in B flat, C, and D minors.

_Childie._ Song. By Behrend. Published in keys to suit all voices.--The
song is very similar to all his others. An old lady advising a child to
die young.

_The Biter Bit._ Song. Words and music by Henry Pontet.--A warning to
any who would marry for money, and not for love. In learning the above
three songs I am sure that singers will be as much distracted as I have
been by little squares like lottery coupons announcing that somebody
else's song cost £250. If this statement could appear elsewhere--say on
separate slips--the songs would be more pleasant to read.


HENRY KLEIN.

_The Land of Song._ Song for tenors and sopranos by that clever
composer, Franz Leideritz. Not so original as "Flowers from Home," the
memory of which still delights us.


ORSBORN AND TUCKWOOD.

_Sailing Across the Sea._ Song. By Vernon Rey.--Prettily told and easy
to learn.

_Merry Melodies._ A series of duets for two violins for schools and
classes, arranged by Arthur Graham. We see from the title-page that
there are to be arrangements of the works of eminent composers, but the
names are not given.


W. J. WILLCOCKS AND CO.

_Offertoire and Fugue in B flat._ _Grand Offertoire, founded upon
subjects in Schumann's Quintet, op. 44._--These are two finely-written
organ solos by George F. Vincent. Valuable additions to our stock of
English organ music.


MARRIOTT AND WILLIAMS.

_Twenty Miles to London Town._ Song. Written and composed by Gerald M.
Lane.--Mr. Lane is more fortunate in his music than in his words. The
ballad--for genuine English ballad it is--is of the "Bailiff's Daughter
of Islington" type, and is published in F, G, and A.

_Captor and Captive._ A song of Araby. By Edwin J. Quance.--A good
stirring song for baritones.


BOWERMAN AND CO.

_Deuxième Nocturne pour Piano._ Par G. J. Rubini.--An unpretending piano
piece of the Gustave Lange type.




EXPLANATION OF FRENCH AND OTHER TERMS USED IN MODERN COOKERY.

PART I.


_Allemande._--Concentrated white velouté (see velouté) sauce, seasoned
with nutmeg and lemon juice, and thickened with yolks of eggs and cream.

_Angelica._--A plant, the stalks of which are preserved with sugar; as
it retains its green colour it is pretty for ornamenting sweet dishes,
cakes, etc.

_Appareil._--This word is applicable to a preparation composed of
various ingredients, as appareil de gateau (mixture for a cake).

_Aspic._--Name given to clear savoury jelly, to distinguish it from
sweet jelly. Cold entrées, which are moulded and have the ingredients
set in jelly, are also called aspics.

_Assiette volante._--A small dish (holding no more than a plate) which
is handed round the table without ever being placed on it. Things that
must be eaten very hot are often served in this way. Little savouries,
foie-gras, or cheese fondus in paper cases are thus handed.

_Au bleu._--An expensive way of boiling fish. A broth is made by boiling
three onions, two carrots, two turnips, some parsley, pepper, salt,
sufficient water, a tumbler of white wine, and a tumbler of vinegar
together; the scum is removed as it rises, the fish is simmered in the
broth. This broth is called Court bouillon. Fish cooked thus is eaten
hot or cold, with suitable sauce.

_Baba._--A Polish cake of a very light description.

_Bain marie._--A sort of bath-saucepan, which stands on a stove with hot
water in it, and has small bright saucepans stood in the water for the
contents to cook slowly without reducing or spoiling them. A bain marie
has no cover.

_Bande._--The strip of paste that is put round tart; sometimes the word
is also applied to a strip of paper or bacon.

_Barde de lard._--A slice of bacon. To barder a bird is to fasten a
slice of bacon over it.

_Béchamel sauce._--Equal quantities of velouté sauce and cream boiled
together. The sauce was named after a celebrated cook.

_Beignets._--Fritters.

_Beurre noir._--Butter stirred in a frying-pan over a brisk fire until
it is brown, then lemon-juice or vinegar, and pepper and salt are added
to it.

_Beurre fondus._--Melted, that is to say oiled, butter.

_Bigarade sauce._--Melted butter, with the thin rind and the juice of a
Seville orange boiled in it.

_Blanch._--To parboil or scald. To whiten meat or poultry, or remove the
skins of fruit or vegetables by plunging them into boiling water, and
then sometimes putting them into cold water afterwards, as almonds are
blanched.

_Blanquette._--A kind of fricassée.

_Boudin._--A very delicate entrée prepared with quenelle forcemeat or
with fine mince.

_Bouquet garni._--A handful of parsley, a sprig of thyme, a small bay
leaf, and six green onions, tied securely together with strong thread.

_Bouilli._--Boiled meat; but fresh beef, well boiled, is generally
understood by this term.

_Bouillie._--A sort of hasty pudding. Bouillie-au-lait is flour and milk
boiled together.

_Bouillon._--Thin broth or soup.

_Braise._--To stew meat that has been previously blanched, very slowly
with bacon or other fat, until it is tender.

_Braisière._--A saucepan with a lid with a rim to it, on which lighted
charcoal can be put.

_Brider._--To put thin string or thread through poultry, game, etc., to
keep it in shape.

_Brioche._--A sort of light cake, rather like Bath bun, but not sweet,
having as much salt as sugar in it.

_Brandy butter._--Fresh butter, sugar, and brandy beaten together to a
cream.

_Caramel._--Made by melting a little loaf sugar in a saucepan, and as
soon as it is brown, before it burns, adding some water to it. Sometimes
used as a colouring for stews. Made into a syrup by adding more sugar
after the water, it is a very good pudding sauce.

_Casserole._--A stew-pan. The name given to a crust of rice moulded in
the shape of a pie, then baked with mince or a purée of game in it.

_Cerner._--Is to cut paste half way through with a knife or cutter, so
that part can be removed when cooked to make room for something else.

_Charlotte._--Consists of very thin slices of bread, steeped in oiled
butter, and placed in order in a mould, which is then filled with fruit
or preserve.

_Chartreuse of vegetables._--Consists of vegetables tastefully arranged
in a plain mould, which is then filled with either game, pigeons, larks,
tendons, scollops, or anything suitably prepared.

_Chartreuse à la Parisienne._--An ornamental dish made principally with
quenelle forcemeat, and filled with some kind of ragoût, scollops, etc.

_Chausse._--A jelly bag.

_Compote._--Fruits preserved in syrup. Apple and any other kind of fruit
jelly. This term is also used to designate some savoury dishes, prepared
with larks, quails, or pigeons, with truffles, mushrooms, or peas.

_Consommé._--Strong and clear broth used as a basis for many soups and
gravies.

_Conti_ (_potage_). Lentil soup.

_Contise._--Small scollops of truffles; red tongue, or other things that
are with a knife inlaid in fillets of any kind to ornament them, are
said to be contisés.

_Court bouillon._--See _au bleu_.

_Croquettes._--A preparation of minced or pounded meat, or of potatoes
or rice, with a coating of bread-crumbs. Croquettes means something
crisp.

_Croquantes._--Fruit with sugar boiled to crispness.

_Croustades._--An ornamental pie-case, sometimes made of shaped bread,
and filled with mince, etc.

_Croutons._--Sippets of bread fried in butter; used to garnish. They are
various sizes and shapes; sometimes served with soups.

_Cuillerée._--A spoonful. In most French recipes I have found ten
spoonfuls equal to a quarter of a pint of fluid.

_Cuisson._--The name given to the liquid in which anything has been
cooked.

_Dariole._--A sort of cake served hot. The name of small round moulds in
which various little cakes are baked or puddings steamed.

_Daubière._--An oval stew-pan in which daubes are cooked. Daubes are
meat or fowl stewed in sauce.

_Dégorger._--To soak in water for a longer or shorter time.

_Dés._--Very small square dice.

_Désosser._--To bone; to remove the bones from fish, meat, game, or
poultry.

_Dorer._--To paint the surface of tarts or cakes with a brush, with egg
or sugar, so that they may be glazed when cooked.

_Dorure._--The glaze one uses for pastry; sometimes beaten white of egg,
sometimes yolk of egg and cold water, sometimes sugar only.

_Entrées._--A name for side dishes, such as cutlets, fricassées,
fricandeaux, sweetbreads, etc.

_Entrées_ (cold).--Consist of cutlets, fillets of game, poultry, &c.;
salads of various kinds, aspics, ham, and many other things.

_Entremets._--Second course side dishes. They are of four kinds--namely,
cold entrées, dressed vegetables, scalloped shellfish, or dressed eggs,
and lastly, sweets of any kind, puddings, jellies, creams, fritters,
pastry, etc.

_Escalopes._--Collops; small round pieces of meat or fish, beaten with a
steak beater before they are cooked, to make them tender.

_Espagnole._--Rich, strong stock made with beef, veal and ham, flavoured
with vegetables, and thickened with brown roux. This and velouté are the
two main sauces from which nearly all others are made. The espagnole for
brown, the velouté for white.

_Etamine._--See Tammy.

_Etuver._--To stew meat with little moisture, and over a very slow fire,
or with hot cinders over and under the saucepan.

_Faggot._--A bouquet garni.

_Fanchonettes and florentines._--Varieties of small pastry, covered with
white of egg and sugar.

_Faire tomber à glace._--Means to boil down stock or gravy until it is
as thick as glaze, and is coloured brown.

_Farce._--Is ordinary forcemeat, such as is used for raised pies.

_Feuil etage._--Very light puff paste.

_Flamber._--To singe fowls and game after they have been plucked.

_Flans._--A flan is made by rolling a piece of paste out rather larger
than the tin in which it is to be baked, then turning up the edge of the
paste to form a sort of wall round. Flans are filled with fruit or
preserve, and baked.

_Foncer._--To put slices of ham or bacon in the bottom of a saucepan, to
line a mould with raw paste, or to put the first layer of anything in a
mould--it may be a layer of white paper.

_Fontaine._--A heap of flour with a hollow in the middle, into which to
pour the water.

_Fondu._--Or fondue. A cheese soufflé.

_Fricandeau._--Fillets of poultry or the best pieces of veal, neatly
trimmed, larded, and well glazed, with their liquor reduced to glaze.
They are served as entrées.

_Fricassée._--A white stew, generally made with chicken and white sauce,
to which mushrooms or other things may be added.

_Fraiser._--A way of handling certain pastry to make it more compact and
easier to work.

_Frémir_, _frissonner._--To keep a liquid just on the boil--what is
called simmering.

_Galette._--A broad flat cake.

_Gateau._--Cake. This word is also used for some kinds of tarts, and for
different puddings. A gateau is also made of pig's liver; it is
therefore rather difficult to define what a "gateau" is.

_Gaufres._--Or wafers. Light spongy biscuits cooked in irons over a
stove.

_Glacer._--To glaze; to brush hot meat or poultry over with concentrated
meat gravy or sauce, so that it shall have a brown and shiny appearance.
Glaze can be bought in skins. Glacer, in confectionery, means to ice
pastry or fruit with sugar.

_Gniocchi._--Small balls of paste made with flour, eggs, and cheese to
put into soup.

_Gramme._--A French weight. An ounce avoirdupois is nearly equal to
thirty grammes.

_Gras._--Made with meat and fat.

_Gratins_ (_au_).--Term applied to certain dishes of fish, game,
poultry, vegetables, and macaroni dressed with rich sauces, and
generally finished with bread-crumbs or bread-raspings over the top.

_Gratiner._--Is to brown by heat, almost burn.

_Grenadins._--Similar to a fricandeau, but smaller; grenadins are served
with vegetable purées.

(_To be continued._)




THE SHEPHERD'S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

BY DARLEY DALE, Author of "Fair Katherine," etc.


CHAPTER III.

DAME HURSEY THE WOOLGATHERER.

[Illustration: "HE STRUCK ACROSS UNBEATEN PATHS."]


When John Smith, as for reasons of his own he called himself, left
Pierre, he pulled his hat well over his eyes and started off across the
downs in the direction of Lewes. He knew the country well, and partly on
this account, partly because he did not wish to be recognised, he struck
across unbeaten paths, where he was not likely to meet anyone, avoiding
the high roads as much as he could, and travelling as near as possible
as the crow flies, over downs and meadows to the village he was seeking.
It was a good six miles, and he had neither time nor inclination to
pause and look at the scenery around him, so full of charm to those who
live among it, so repellent at first to the stranger's eye, which has
not been educated to notice the various tints and colours which sweep
over the soft rounded outlines of those purple downs, but is at once
caught by the grey hollows of the hills and the patches of white chalk
which peep out every here and there on the steeps, and at a distance
look like the perpetual snow of Alpine regions. The scenery of the
Sussex Downs is like the Sussex people in this respect--it requires to
be well known to be thoroughly appreciated; cold and reserved at first,
it is only on better acquaintance you learn the sterling worth, the
truth, the real kindness of heart, and the hospitality which
characterise the Sussex people. And the downs themselves will not yield
all their beauty at once; you must live among them to thoroughly know
and love them; cold and grey and monotonous as they look at first, in
the autumn especially, you will see what a variety of colours they can
show when the fields are golden with corn, and the downs themselves
richly dotted with wild flowers, and the clouds cast fleeting shadows
over the slopes, and the purple and green of the nearer hills melt away
into delicate blues and rosy greys in the distance. And then in winter
the clouds play such tricks with the soft rounded hills and their white
chalk sides, which chalk will reveal itself in all its nakedness every
here and there, that it is often easy to imagine yourself in
Switzerland, and difficult exceedingly to tell where the downs end and
the clouds begin, so softly have they blended together, those grey
clouds, those white and purple downs. No, the downs are not monotonous
to those who look with careful eyes, at least, though the casual
observer may see nothing in them but multitudes of sheep. Unique they
may be, unlike the rest of England they certainly are, but not
monotonous. And then the dales, with the villages nestling in the
bottom, are so picturesque, and the green pastures, separated by dykes,
have a homelike appearance, with the small black Sussex cattle with
their long white horns, at least to a Sussex eye.

Over some of these meadows the carpenter, with the little French baby in
his arms, now made his way. Hitherto he had been lucky and had met no
one, but now he was approaching a village a few miles from Lewes, which,
for the purposes of this story, we will call Bournemer, and though the
sun had set, it was still too light for him to risk being recognised, so
he still kept to the fields, which he could the more easily do, as the
house he sought was nearly a mile from the village. At last he saw it
standing in the next field with a clump of trees on one side of it; it
was little more than a cottage, though from the sheds adjoining it might
have been taken for a small farmhouse; it was sheltered from the north
by the down at the foot of which it lay, its red roof telling well
against the soft grey background in the evening light. It faced the
field, the road at the foot of the down running at the back of it, and
already there was a light in one of the lower rooms; the front door was
closed, but the gate of the field was open, details which the carpenter
took in at a glance, and interpreted to mean that the shepherd was gone
to fold his sheep for the night, and his wife was at home awaiting his
return to supper.

"He will be back soon. I must be quick; now is my time," said the
carpenter to himself, making his way towards the house by the clump of
trees, which afforded him a little shelter. Here he paused for a few
minutes, and, after listening intently, put the baby on the ground while
he took off his shoes. Then, picking it up, he crept quickly and
noiselessly across the path towards the front door, on the step of which
he laid his burden, and then crept back to the trees, where he put on
his shoes, and with the purse which Léon had given him for the baby's
maintenance in his pocket, he made his way back to the boat on the
beach, congratulating himself on the success of his scheme. No one, he
argued, was any the worse for it, while he was one thousand francs the
better. He had wronged no one, as the baby was sure to be well taken
care of. John Shelley was certain to take it in, and would probably
think the Lord had sent it to him, and, with a chuckle over the
shepherd's simplicity, he went his way.

The baby was asleep when he deposited it on the doorstep, but it woke
shortly after, and began to cry lustily for food, but the doors and
windows being all closed, its wailing did not penetrate to the inside of
the house. But before the carpenter had been gone half an hour footsteps
approached the house, and the shepherd and his dog entered the gate of
the field in which it stood. A fine, big, handsome man looked this
shepherd as he paused to fasten the gate; about thirty years old, fair,
with a florid complexion, blue eyes, and a long, yellowish beard, a face
more remarkable for its kindly good humour than for its intelligence. He
was dressed in a long smock, and he carried a crook, so that there was
no mistaking his occupation, of which, by the way, he was very proud;
his father and his grandfather and their fathers and grandfathers had
been shepherds before him for many generations, and that he should ever
be anything else than a shepherd was the last idea likely to enter John
Shelley's mind. A shepherd by birth and education, he followed his
calling with an ardour which would have amounted to passion in a warmer
temperament. His sheep were his first thought on waking, his last as he
closed his eyes at night, and he understood them and their ways
thoroughly. The life suited him exactly; it might be a lonely life,
wandering for hours on the downs without meeting a living creature day
after day, except, perhaps, occasionally a neighbouring shepherd, but he
was used to it. It might be an anxious life, especially in lambing time,
but he was lucky, and rarely lost any lambs. It might be a dangerous
life sometimes in the winter fogs, rambling about on the hills with the
risk of falling into a chalk pit and breaking his neck, but he was
always too anxious about his sheep when overtaken by a fog to think of
his own danger. Then the wages were good, and the same all the year
round, with the chance of making some extra money in the shearing
season, and so much a head on each lamb that he reared; and to all
intents and purposes he was his own master, for the farmer to whom the
sheep belonged entrusted the management of the flock entirely to him.

But while the shepherd was fastening the gate the dog ran to the baby,
whose cry had reached his quick ears before it did his master's, and
having sniffed all round it, he set up some short, quick barks, and ran
back to the shepherd, calling his attention to the baby as plainly as
his inability to speak would allow him.

"What is it, Rover? what is it? Down, sir, it is only the baby crying;
the window must be open," said the shepherd, as he approached the house,
but Rover, as if to contradict his master, ran up to the bundle on the
doorstep, and barked louder than ever.

John Shelley took longer to take in the fact that an infant was lying
crying on his doorstep than his dog had done. He stooped and looked, and
took off his hat to rub his head thoughtfully and stimulate his brain
that he might grasp the idea, and then he stooped again, and this time
picked up the baby, and throwing open the door of the large kitchen,
with its sanded floor of red bricks, stood on the threshold, holding out
the wailing child, and saying--

"Look here, Polly, see what I have found on the doorstep."

Mrs. Shelley, who was sitting working, with her foot on a cradle which
she was rocking gently to and fro, more from habit, since the baby was
asleep, than for any real reason, looked up and saw in her husband's
arms a bundle wrapped in a red shawl embroidered with gold.

"What is it, John?" she asked; but a cry from the bundle answered the
question, and she sprang to her husband's side in astonishment.

She was a tall, good-looking woman, five or six years younger than the
shepherd, with brown hair and eyes, and a rich colour in her cheeks,
which came and went when she was excited; a bright intelligent face,
not beautiful, scarcely handsome in repose, but which at times was so
animated that she often passed for a very pretty woman.

"Give it to me. Oh, John! John! where can it have come from? The dear
little creature! And see what lovely things it has? Only look at this
satin quilt in which it is wrapped, and, see, John, a toy of coral with
gold bells! My pretty one, hush! hush! hush!" And Mrs. Shelley rocked
the child in her arms; but her astonishment and admiration got the
better of her motherly instinct for a moment, and she proceeded with her
examination of its clothes. "Its nightdress is the finest cambric and
trimmed with real lace, and see this exquisite handkerchief tucked in
for a feeder; look! there is a coronet on it, John. I verily believe the
'Pharisees,' as the children say, brought it. Do go and see if there is
a fairy ring in the meadow, then I shall be sure they did!"

Now, Sussex peasants--shepherds, especially--were very superstitious in
the days in which this baby was found, and both John Shelley and his
wife half believed that the fungus rings, so often found on the downs,
were made by the fairies, or "Pharisees," as they called them. So,
partly to see if he could find any further clue to the child, partly to
look for the fungus ring, John Shelley took a lantern and went out to
explore the premises.

As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Shelley, who was an impulsive woman, gave
the little stranger the supper that by right belonged to her own infant.

[Illustration: A VISIT FROM DAME HURSEY.]

"My boy is stronger than this little fragile creature, and he must wait
till I have fed it," she said to herself. "Poor little mite, I don't
believe it has been undressed for days, its beautiful dress is so dirty.
I shall have time to bathe it and put it on some of Charlie's clean
things before John comes in to his supper."

And as John was very slow and deliberate in all his actions, and his
wife very quick in all hers, by the time he came back the little
stranger was washed and dressed, and fed, and sleeping quietly in the
cradle, while Mrs. Shelley nursed her own boy.

"Well, John, have you found any fairy rings?"

"No, Polly; no, I can't make it out at all; it is very odd--very odd
indeed. I can't think where the child came from," said John, shaking his
head, slowly. "I don't believe the fairies brought it, though," he
added, after a pause.

"Who do you think did, then?" asked Mrs. Shelley, quickly.

"I don't know who brought it, but I tell you what, Polly, I believe God
sent it and means us to take care of it."

"Take care of it! Why, of course we must, John. You don't suppose I
dreamt of sending it to the workhouse, do you? Little darling! Why, it
is the very thing we have been longing for, a little girl; it shall be
Charlie's foster-sister. All I hope is, whoever brought it will let us
keep it. I love it already!"

"But, Polly, it isn't our child. We must take care of it, of course, for
to-night, but you will have to go to Parson Leslie to-morrow and ask him
what we ought to do to find out who it belongs to."

"Indeed, and I shall do no such thing," said Mrs. Shelley, hastily.

But the shepherd was master in his own home, and announced decidedly--

"Then I must go to-night, late as it is."

"And knock the parson up? It will be eleven o'clock before you get
there. Sit down and get your supper, do, John, and we can talk about
consulting him to-morrow."

"That won't do, Polly; either I must go to the rector to-night or you
must promise to go to-morrow. Which is it to be?"

"There never was such a pig-headed man as you. If you set your mind on a
thing there is no turning you. I suppose I shall have to go, or you'll
be rushing off now, and I want my supper. One thing I am sure of, John,
and that is, the baby belongs to rich people, and, I think, to some
nobleman, for all the things have a coronet on them, and its clothes are
all so fine."

"Is there no name on any of them?"

"No, nor anything to give us the least idea who the child is. It has
evidently been accustomed to luxury, though, and somehow I fancy it is a
foreign child. I never saw any baby's clothes made as these are," said
Mrs. Shelley.

A foreign child was an idea John Shelley could not accept so suddenly.
His slow phlegmatic mind could not travel beyond his own
country--scarcely beyond the Sussex downs.

"More likely to be one of the quality's children. They don't make their
clothes as we do, I expect; but if you show Mr. Leslie that coronet he
may be able to make something of it."

And so it was arranged that Mrs. Shelley should go the next day and
consult the rector about their new-found treasure; but she fully made up
her mind to use all the eloquence in her power to persuade Mr. Leslie to
convince John it was plainly their duty to keep the baby which had been
so mysteriously brought to them until its rightful owners claimed it.

The next morning John Shelley was up betimes, as, indeed, he always was;
but it was shearing time, and he was unusually busy, and it was,
moreover, Saturday, and he hoped, with the help of the men who went
round the country shearing in the month of June, to finish his flock
that evening, so taking his breakfast and dinner with him, he told Mrs.
Shelley not to expect him back till the evening. Across the dewy meadows
in the fresh June morning, the loveliest part of the day, went John
Shelley, startling a skylark every now and then from the ground, from
whence it rose carolling forth its matin song, gently at first, but
louder and louder as it sprang higher and higher, until lost to sight,
its glorious song still audible, though John Shelley was too much
occupied with his own thoughts, and, perhaps, too much accustomed to the
singing of the lark, to pay much attention to it. Even his dogs, Rover
and Snap, failed to wake him from his meditation, until he reached the
meadow where he had folded his sheep for the night, and then every
thought, except whether the sheep were all safe, vanished from his mind
as he stood counting them. A few words to the dogs explained his wishes
that the shorn sheep were to be driven out and the unshorn left in the
fold for the present; and then, after a great deal of barking on the
part of the dogs, and shouting from the shepherd, and rushing and
scrambling on the part of the sheep, their bells jingling a not
unmusical accompaniment to the thrushes and blackbirds, which were
pouring out their morning song in the adjoining copse, this manoeuvre
was effected, and John led his shorn flock to the downs, walking in
front with his crook in his hand, while the dogs brought up the rear,
yelping and barking at the heels of any erring sheep that strayed
outside the flock.

The shepherd was a man who concentrated all his thoughts on the business
he had on hand, and as he led his sheep to the down on which he meant to
leave them to the care of the dogs for the day, he was making a nice
calculation of how long it would take him and his assistants to finish
the shearing, when, just as he was about to leave the sheep, he was
accosted by an old woman. She was tall, thin, with a slight stoop, a
hooked nose, bright black eyes, and rough, crisp, grizzly hair, which
gave her rather a witch-like appearance; nor did the bonnet perched on
the top of her head, its crown in the air, tend to dispel this notion.
She had a knotted stick in one hand, and a basket with some pieces of
wool off the sheeps' backs which she had collected from the bushes in
the other. It was Dame Hursey, the wool-gatherer, well known to John
Shelley and every other shepherd in the neighbourhood, with all of whom
she often had a gossip, and celebrated in the district as the mother of
an unfortunate son, a fine, promising young sailor, who, having been
convicted of robbery some years ago, and served a long sentence in Lewes
gaol, had never been heard of since, unless his mother was in his
confidence.

A great gossip was Dame Hursey; she always knew all that went on in the
neighbourhood, for she led a wandering, restless life, never at home
except at night, sticking and wool-gathering in the autumn and winter,
haymaking and gleaning in the summer, gossiping, whenever she had a
chance, at all seasons. If anyone were likely to know anything about
this strange baby, always supposing the fairies had had nothing to do
with it, it was Dame Hursey, and the shepherd, being relieved of any
further anxiety about the sheep, walked with her and told her the story.

John Shelley was neither a quick-witted nor an observant man, except
with regard to the weather, every sign of which he took in, or he would
have noticed that Dame Hursey started perceptibly when he told her the
time he found the baby, and that a glance of quick intelligence shot
into her bright eyes as she heard the story; but when he had finished
she gave it as her firm opinion that the "Pharisees," and no one else,
must have brought the child, and she urged John on no account to part
with it, as there was no telling what revenge the fairies might take if
their wishes were set aside. And the old wool-gatherer proceeded to tell
such wonderful stories of the terrible vengeance wrought by these
mysterious little beings on people who had despised their gifts, that
the shepherd was glad to put an end to such unpleasant suggestions by
walking off at a rapid pace to his unshorn sheep.

"It is strange, very strange, that I should have met my George the very
same night, coming from Shelley's place too. He has had something to do
with this baby as sure as wool is wool. I'll go round by Mrs. Shelley's
and have a look at this wonderful child; perhaps I may find out
something. I doubt it will be a bad thing for George if he is found out
this time, if, as I suspect, he knows a deal more about it than we do,
and he was up to no good last night or he would not have made me swear
not to say I had seen him as he did. Well, the child is safe enough with
the Shelleys, and I'll do my best to frighten them into keeping it,"
muttered Dame Hursey to herself, as she bent her steps towards the
shepherd's house.

(_To be continued._)




VARIETIES.


"EXCELLENT HEART."

Take a good-sized, tender heart. Extract all seeds of selfishness, and
proceed to stuff as follows:--

1 lb. crumbs of comfort.

1 quart milk of human kindness.

Several drops essence of goodness and happiness.

Good dripping from the eaves of Love's dwelling.

Blend these well with a little of the oil of Time to mellow and soften.

Place the heart on a warm hearth with Love's rays full upon it and some
of the light of other days. Move it now and then, but do not probe it.
Keep the world's cold blasts from it if possible, but do not allow it to
be absorbed in its own juices. It will take time to prepare, but when
ready is fit for king or peasant and welcome at any table.

SAUCE FOR ABOVE.

Pint or more good spirits, a few honeyed words; a little cream of
society may improve, but is not necessary. Carefully avoid cold water,
vinegar, or pepper, or acidity in any form.

The above will keep for years.--S. L.


CONTENTED.--If you can live free from want, care for no more, for the
rest is vanity.


THE STORMS OF ADVERSITY.--A smooth sea never made a skilful mariner,
neither do uninterrupted prosperity and success qualify anyone for
usefulness and happiness. The storms of adversity, like the storms of
the ocean, arouse the faculties and excite the intention, prudence,
skill and fortitude of the voyager.


A WISE MOTHER.--The celebrated Orientalist, Sir William Jones, when a
mere child was very inquisitive. His mother was a woman of great
intelligence, and he would apply to her for the information which he
desired; but her constant reply was: "Read, and you will know." This
gave him a passion for books, which was one of the principal means of
making him what he was.


TWENTY-FOUR NOTES IN ONE BOW.--The _Daily Post_ of February 22nd, 1732,
contains a curious announcement with regard to Castrucci, the violinist,
namely, that he would play a solo "in which he engages himself to
execute twenty-four notes in one bow." This piece of charlatanism, so
misplaced in a truly able musician, was excellently capped on the
following day by a nameless fiddler advertising his intention to play
twenty-five notes in one bow.


A CAT STORY.--There was a favourite Tom cat owned by a family in
Callander, in Scotland, and it had on several occasions shown more than
ordinary sagacity. One day Tom made off with a piece of beef, and the
servant followed him cautiously, with the intention of catching him and
administering a little wholesome correction. To her amazement, she saw
the cat go into a corner of the yard, in which she knew a rat-hole
existed, and lay the beef down by the side of it. Leaving the beef
there, puss hid himself a short distance off and watched until a rat
made its appearance. Tom's tail then began to wag, and just as the rat
was moving away with the bait he sprang upon it and killed it.


HEARING WITH DIFFICULTY.--"Dr. Willis tells us," says Burney, in his
"History of Music," "of a lady who could _hear only while a drum was
beating_; insomuch that her husband actually hired a drummer as a
servant in order to enjoy the pleasure of her conversation."


COURAGE.--Courage which grows from constitution often forsakes people
when they have occasion for it; courage that arises from a sense of duty
acts in a uniform manner.


THE INFLUENCE OF FORTUNE.--Fortune, good or ill, does not change men or
women; it but developes their character.


WEAK MINDS.--Two things indicate a weak mind--to be silent when it is
proper to speak, and to speak when it is proper to be silent.--_Persian
Proverb._


A SUCCESSFUL WEDDING.--A New York girl has just enjoyed the triumph of
having the biggest wedding given in that city for years. She whispered
around that the man she was to marry had a red-haired wife somewhere,
who would be at hand to interrupt the ceremony. The church was crowded.


TWO SIDES TO PLEASURE.--Pleasure is to woman what the sun is to the
flower; if modestly enjoyed it beautifies, it refreshes and improves; if
immoderately, it withers and destroys.--_Colton._


THE ILLS OF LIFE.--There are three modes of bearing the ills of life: by
indifference, which is the most common; by philosophy, which is the most
ostentatious; and by religion, which is the most effectual.


AN OBSERVATION ON ROGUES.--After long experience of the world, I affirm,
before God, I never knew a rogue who was not unhappy.--_Junius._


ANSWER TO DOUBLE ACROSTIC (p. 30).

 1. L i P
 2. A ristotl E (a)
 3. M a r t y R
 4. B l o c K
 5. E l I
 6. R e s i N (b)
 7. T h ur lo W
 8. S coevo l A (c)
 9. I ndicato R (d)
10. M e r a B (e)
11. N a z E
12. E clipti C
13. L o K (f)

Lambert Simnel. Perkin Warbeck.

(a). His adage was "Amicus Plato, amicus Socrates, magis tamen amica
veritas." From his custom of delivering instruction whilst walking, his
disciples were styled "Peripatetics."

(b). Familiarly pronounced "rosin."

(c). Left-handed.

(d). Indicator Major, the great honeybird of South Africa.

(e). See 1 Samuel, xviii.

(f). Lo(c)k.




[Illustration: A CROWN OF FLOWERS

being

POEMS and PICTURES

Collected from the pages of

THE GIRLS OWN PAPER]

EDITED BY CHARLES PETERS.


The Poems are written by the Author of "John Halifax Gentleman," Sarah
Doudney, Helen Marion Burnside, F. E. Weatherly, Annie Matheson, Anne
Beale, Mrs. G. Linnæus Banks, the Rev. W. Cowan, Sydney Grey, Edward
Oxenford, Isabella Fyvie Mayo, Clara Thwaites, Harriet L.
Childe-Pemberton, the Dowager Lady Barrow, and others.

Illustrated by Frank Dicksee, A.R.A., M. Ellen Edwards, W. J. Hennessy,
Davidson Knowles, John C. Staples, Robert Barnes, Charles Green, Arthur
Hopkins, William Small, Frank Dadd, the late Cecil Lawson, and others.

       *       *       *       *       *

"As _A Crown of Flowers_ is carefully printed upon fine paper, full
value is given to the engravings, which is one of the features of the
magazine from which they are selected, and shows what a marked advance
has been made of recent years in the character of such illustrations,
which will, in the present instance, vie with anything of the kind
produced on this or the other side of the Atlantic."--_The Pictorial
World._




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

E. A. T.--There is a School of Telegraphy in Moorgate-buildings, at the
back of Telegraph-street, E.C. All candidates for free admission must
have passed an examination in handwriting and the first four rules of
arithmetic under the Civil Service Commissioners, in Cannon-row, W.C.,
aged not under fourteen nor over eighteen years. They must be gifted
with quickness of eye and ear and a delicate touch. In three or four
months they have acquired the art, working four hours a day. They must
be proficient in the use of four instruments. The pupils in this school
are only intended for service in London.

CEDRICA.--In reference to Gall's or Mercator's projection, you may
perceive that by doing away with perspective you obtain the relative
distances, as well as the height of the mountains compared with the
general surface, without deducting through foreshortening. You write
fairly well, but too large to be pretty.

SINE.--The auroræ are closely connected with the earth's magnetism,
although their exact relationship is unknown. The appearance takes place
equally round both magnetic poles. The most general opinion seems to be
that they are illuminations of the lines of force which undoubtedly
circulate round our earth. At all events, the corona forms itself round
the magnetic poles, and its lines correspond to the earth's magnetic
field. Displays of auroræ are almost always accompanied by magnetic
storms, which so much affect our telegraph instruments, although the
latter may occur when there is no visible aurora. An artificial aurora
was produced by electrical means by Professor Lindstroem, in 67° north
latitude, which was found to exhibit the spectrum of the true aurora.
You will find all information respecting the "Zodiacal light" in
"Guillemin on the Heavens."

C. H. C.--No examinations are required for teachers in high schools; but
of course preference is always given to those who have passed
examinations, and they obtain better salaries. The senior or the higher
Cambridge examinations for women would be the best, and would ensure a
good position.


MISCELLANEOUS.

MARIE.--Your having given your parrot meat has given her a taste for raw
meat. Perhaps a chemist could suggest a wash or powder to shake in under
the feathers, that would taste bitter and disagreeable and yet prove
harmless. Possibly your bird is troubled with small vermin, which
irritate the skin and induce it to pick at the roots of the feathers.
Examine the skin and plumage. We have given a long recipe for destroying
the vermin in canaries.

TUM YUM.--You had better buy a little bottle of oil-gold and paint your
picture-frame with it. See our article, "Lissom Hands and Pretty Feet."

ERICA RAEBURN.--Your verses are not correctly written, but the
sentiments expressed are good. When you make an adverb of the word
"true" you should drop the final "e."

M. H. M.--Write or see a map-setter, such as Wyld, or any other of
those in or near Trafalgar-square and Charing Cross. The ways and means
of colouring and disposing of your maps will be explained to you by
these people.

PECKHAM RYE.--The poet Wordsworth had an only daughter, Dora, married to
Mr. Quillinan. She was burnt to death in 1847, and left two daughters.
The bishops are nephews of the poet.

PHARMACEUTICAL.--The word "Pharmacon" can be found in all Greek
lexicons. It is probably of Oriental extraction. It originally meant any
medicine taken internally or externally, and apparently its original
signification was good--or, at all events, not bad. Then, secondly, it
came, like the word "accident," to get a bad sense attached to it, and
it was used for a "poisonous drug," from which is derived its third and
last sense, an "enchanted potion," or "enchantment." In the New
Testament the word is translated "sorcery," not "drugs." See Rev. xxii.
15.

DAFFODIL.--Pampas grass may be cleaned by putting it into a large vessel
of clean cold water, when after some time all the dust and dirt will
come out, and it may be lightly shaken till dry. It may also be bleached
with chloride of lime.

SUNBEAM.--Do not on any account do so dangerous a thing as to put
paraffin oil on your hair. Besides, the very bad smell of the oil would
be most offensive to others if not to yourself.

DELIA T. (Lausanne).--From your writing we conclude that you are very
young. If so, your verses give some promise of better ones when older.

JACKDAY.--It is suitable for every day. You write very well. There is no
"e" in truly.

LITTLE EMILY.--See "Girls' Christian Names," pages 39, 134, 235, 381,
vol. iv.

OCKLAWAKA.--Certainly, it is quite improper to walk about alone with a
man to whom you are not engaged. We know of no cure suitable for all
alike for sea-sickness. Lie down on deck, drink water before being sick,
and beware of starving. At the same time, do not select pork nor a suet
dumpling just at first. In cases of very severe sickness, swallowing
small scraps of ice before and after a spoonful of _consommé_ or jelly
is desirable, and an icebag should be applied to the spine.

A TRING GIRL should consult a doctor about the moles if very
unornamental.

LADY JANE GREY.--The "seven whistlers" are curlew, or herringspear
birds, thought to be storm-bringers when heard overhead at sea. You will
find a story in Buckland's "Curiosities of Natural History" about them.

ANNIE SPIKE should write to the Religious Tract Society, 56,
Paternoster-row, E.C., for the tracts she needs. The lines are not
poetry--nothing but badly-rhymed prose.

HARTY.--Wills can be inspected at Somerset House, in the Strand, W.C.

UNE PETITE FLEUR.--No one could interfere with you in keeping a private
school, so far as we know.

JAMIE'S DARLING.--We thank you warmly for your kind letter, and wish you
much happiness in your new life and position.

NO STONE UNTURNED must send her tale to a publisher; but we do not think
she will get much--probably nothing; but, on the contrary, will have to
pay, for a first attempt.

ASPHODEL.--The 29th of April, 1870, was a Friday. When a man says he is
"very much in love" with the girl to whom he is speaking, he means her
to give him some encouragement to say more, and in a business-like,
practical way.

A FEARFUL ONE.--A polypus in the nose has to be cut out, but the patient
must be under the influence of chloroform. It is more usually a man's
than a woman's disease. Your letters should be rounder.

UNE DEMOISELLE.--It is our ordinary form of greeting to say "How do you
do?" It is an idiomatic phrase, and does not exact an answer as to the
state of your health any more than the salutation "Good day." If anxious
for information as to how you are, more direct inquiries will follow the
salutation. Only ignorant persons reply to "How do you do?" "Very well,
thank you; how are you?"

A. B.--The first and second volumes of the G. O. P. are entirely out of
print, as also are all the indexes, excepting that for vol. vi. None of
these will be reprinted. We request our readers to take note of what we
say, as it will save them waste of time in writing for them.

RUBY KINGSLEY.--We cannot continue giving space for repeating the story
of the willow pattern.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS KING, the Secretary of the Society for Promoting the Employment of
Women, 22, Berners-street, Oxford-street, W., writes:--In the G.O.P. for
September there is an article (one of a series) on wood engraving by Mr.
R. Taylor. I have read the articles with great interest, and I entirely
agree with the greater part of what Mr. Taylor says. But he writes as if
there were no opening for girls in the trade. I fully admit that only a
small number are at present employed in it, but he writes that he does
not believe that engraving can be effectually taught in schools or
classes, and that he has not met with a single individual who has
attained by this means skill enough to earn a livelihood. Now it is a
fact that there are 12 or 14 girls employed at an engraver's in the
City, who have learnt engraving at the City and Guilds of London Art
School, which was established about six years ago, and some of these
girls are doing excellent work and earning very good wages. Engraving is
an art which requires persevering study for four or five years at the
least, so that the school has not yet been established for a
sufficiently long time to have trained a large number of girls, but the
instruction given there is thoroughly good, and if the girls will
persevere as long with it as they would be obliged to do if they were
regularly apprenticed, I do not think there is any fear but that they
will succeed in getting employment; but their work must be good. If you
will kindly look at page 9 of our Report, published in May last, you
will see an account of the school. There are vacancies now in the
school, particulars of which I shall be happy to give to anyone who will
call here between 11 and 5. I shall be greatly obliged if you will
mention this school and its successful work in the next number of the
G.O.P., for I fear that Mr. Taylor's statement is calculated to injure
it materially.

I am, dear sir,
    Yours obediently,
        GERTRUDE J. KING, Sec.

A full account of the Kennington class was given in the G.O.P., January,
1884, page 180, in the article on Art in the series of "Work for All."