Chatterbox 1874

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PLEASING SKETCHES, r S The most Elegant JUVENILE BOOKS ever Published . THE CHILDREN'S PRIZE New Volume for 1874, IS FILLED WITH RICH ENGRAVINGS INTERESTING STORIES, R H Hi *5 TJ O R H R LIVELY MUSIC, &c. &c. Selected with the greatest care, as especially fitted to y^jviusE and Jnstruct THE j^HILDREN. The previous Volumes have been universally acknowledged as among the PRETTIEST AND BEST ILLUSTRATED Books for BOYS and GIRLS ever published. Small Quarto, Boards, Coloured Cover, 75c. j/JUl;,,, . Iff mm i

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The most Elegant JUVENILE BOOKS ever Published. SUNDAY. READING FOR THE YOUNG. NEW VOLUME FOR 1874. The design of this Publication is to furnish reading suitable for the Sabbath, in such a form as to make it attractive as well as instructive. THE VOLUME IS PROFUSELY AND HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED; and contains, besides the Engravings, Original Stories, Poetry, and other pleasing Reading Matter appropriate for use in the Sunday School or at home. All who wish to MAKE THE SABBATH A BRIGHT AND HAPPY DAY AS WELL AS A SACRED ONE will be pleased with this Volume. Sunday-school Teachers, and others, who wish to secure WHOLESOME SUNDAY LITERATURE FOR THE YOUNG, * will find this book exactly suited to their purpose. Quarto, uniform with * CHATTERBOX.* Boards, handsome coloured cover, $1.50. In Cloth, full-gilt back and sides, very handsome, $2.50,

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Page A Rogue caught in Lis own Trap ... 2 Amo :uul Stephen, the Foster-bro¬ thers . G, 10, IS, 30, 42, 50, 61 A Hi cli Crossing-Keeper A Week out of Joan Gervasc’s Day book ... \ . ’. A Friend to November . ... 3S2 December . ... 406 Pngc From Hay to Harvest at Waltonleigh 52 Fdlicie’s Future . 181 Facts about the Lizard . 195 Gloves ... . 63 ‘ Girls are of no use ’ . 406 Horse and Bantams . • ... 7 How John got his Cousins a Holiday 38 Hayling Lobster-pots . 47 Harry’s Letter . 115 Hindoo Jugglery . 135 Herring Fishing . ... 188 Idle Hands . 34 Key to Double Acrostic . ... 95 Keeping one's Word . 171 Hurra . 394 Kenneth’s Success . ... 403 Love Birds . 71 Little Hans’ Night-walk . 110, 118 Linnet singing in the Gorse . 122 Lokc and the' Shadow . 126 Luck and Labour . 199 Little Syd . 290, 302, 306, 318 Muff Meredith . 12 Mother-love in a Rat . 42 Married in .Haste . 45 My First Valentine . 94 Man for Man . 142 My Wife . 157 My First Place . 294 Monkey and Child . 31], Magpie and Knife . 314 No Inaction in Nature . 46 Never Parted . 76 National Salutations . 15S Old Stephen’s Death-blow . 91 Our. Balloon Trips .- — I. — From Home to Bombay ... ... 213 II. — From Home to Constantinople 227 III. — From Home to China . 282 IV. — From Home to Peru . 3*41 Old W alnut-tree at -Mentmorc . 300 Our Angora . 411 Paris to Norway in fourteen hours, 166, 174- Pussy’s strange Family . ISO Poor White’s Trouble . . 258 Professor Faraday . 402 Socrates and his Pupil . 103 • Summer Time . 252 Steady John . 266 Some Idle Words ... 314, 322, 334, 338, 350 ‘ Squib ’ and the Feather . 322 Sea Cucumbers . 356 r:iR« Sea' Cucumbers and Star Fi>h . 365 Shetland Pony . 407 Two Brothers . 3 The Forget-me-not . 14 The Scotch Deer-hound . 26 The Beggars Outwitted . 47 The Lost Watch, Chain, &c. ... 58, 66, 78 ‘ Time aiub'Tide wait for no Man ’ . . . 63 True Heroism . 67 The Ant . 94 The Pleasure of doing Nothing ... 102 The Market-Cart . 107 Tea . 108 Tho Fleet . 124 The South Stack Lighthouse . 132 The Origin of the Postage Stamp ... 134 The Dishonest Peasant . . 135 The Pixy Workmen . 14-3 The Bear and the Kettle f . 146 The Little Vagabond . 148 The New Shirts . 150 The True Story of Little Peter 186, 198 The Four Elements . 18S The Railway Signalman and liis Family ... 194, 202, 210, 21S, 226, 234, 242, 247, 254, 262, 270, 278 The Horse and the Purse . 203 The White Sparrow . 207 Tho Stag in Trouble . 223 The Story of Jeremiah HorrOeks ... 238 Travellers’ Tales . 250 The Needle . 255 The Great Fair of Amsterdam . 258 The Egg-Collector . 266 The End of a Dogs’ Quarrel . 274 . Tho Tame Crow . 282 The Kind Word . 292 * The Lady Artist . 298 The Watch and tho Turkey . 310 The Devil Fish . 324 The Old House . 326 The King and his Old Schoolmaster 333 Timothy . 338 Through the Ripples . 343 The Emperor and the Sergeant ... 347 The Stock-Doves . ' . 351’ The Toad . 351) The Black and Yellow Rosette 382, 390, 398 The Little Jail-bird . 386 The Skater and the Wolves . 410 Words in ‘Chatterbox’ . 23, 298 * Where’s the Harm of it ? * 26 Why the Swallow builds only half a nest . 159 Wonderful Sagacity . 242 Wolfe at Culloden . 311 Without Chloroform . 315 ‘Wooden Clara’ ... 362, 370, 378

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IV CONTENTS A Christmas Song1 . A Child’s first Impression of a Star Banking the Door . * Bird- starving * . Bedd Gelert . Catch . Do it Well . . . Double Acrostic . Friendship . . •• Garlands of the Months : — J anuary . February . March . April . . •• May . Juno . July . August . September . October . . * . November . December . Pa"c 37 247 87 331 387 111 63 87 134 29 60 101 141 173 205 245 277 309 349 381 405 POETRY. HaymoJking . Look before you Leap Liberty . Man the Life-boat Made Happy . My Boy’s Song ... Music m the Street ‘ One good turn deserves another Paddle your own Canoe Presence of Mind . Rat-catching . Robin on the Apples ... Running after the Raiubo Street Music . Summer Song . Saturday Night . The Ship on Fire . The Swan and the Crow: The Folded Flock . The Two Ends of the Bandage The Wife’s Appeal The Beggar-Man .. PrtgO 243 196 317 84 127 165 386 389 142 258 44 330 o33 2 237 252 20 23 31 39 47 50 True Nobility . Tho Wreck . The Siege of Belgrade . The Train . The Shepherd’s Dog and the W olf The Rain . The Hen and her Ducks ... • ... * The Workman’s Wife . To-dav and To-morrow . - The Two Mules and the Robbers The Engine-Driver . The Happiest Man . The Lost Thimble . The Savoyard’s Song . The Ship-boy’s Letter . The Little Tomtit . The Jackdaw . The Cricket and the Butterfly... The Rooks and the Starlings ... The Glove . . . Unkindness . "Worn Out . ‘ We’ll bide together ’ . rage .. 100 .. 134 .. 143 .. 151 .. 212 .. 246 .. 250 .. -268 .. 273 .. 318 .. 324 .. 355 .. 357 .. 372 .. 378 .. 379 ... 382 .. 390 ... 407 .. 411 ... . 43 ... 15 ... 206 ILLUSTRATIONS. COLOTJBED FRONTISPIECE - Temptation.' Page A Rich Crossing-sweeper . . . 17 ‘ Ashton held the packet of papers in his hand ’ ... 28 Aleck and Billy . . 33 A Pet Jack . 104 A Balloon Voyage during the Siege of Paris . 163 A Brave Dog . ... 134 A True Story from India... 220 A Cott'ee-shop in Stamboul 229 A Chinese Barber . 285 A Novel Boot-jack . 336 A Bad Shot . 345 A Lark .in a Cricket-ground 361 376 401 412 9 21 A Prickly Pet A Military Nurse Angora Cat ... . Bess and the Kitten ... Blackwood’s Grandchild Banging the Door . 88 ‘ Bertie was gone forth into the great cold world ’ 113 Bertie and the Cabman ... 129 Bertram suddenly awaken¬ ed by Nurse’s Story ... 137 Bertram saving Aline . . . 140 Bertram and Lady Julia... 161 Bertram and the Surgeon 192 Boy overhearing the Con¬ spirators’ Conversation 257 Christmas-tide . 36 ‘ Crib ’ . Caught by tbe Tide . Cecil’s Accident . Clara Mai* chant’s Roses ... Colonel Dcrrington relating Uncle Lancelot’s History Cecil reading the Telegram 177 Chinese at Dinner . 284 Calves . 369 * Do not wake your Father 73 Dog waiting on Cat . 9G Delorme and Bertram . . . 169 4 Did ycur servant open the gate ? ’ asked the notary 264 Evy and Annie . 80 Entertaining Strangers . . . 221 Eastern Women . 228 4 Everybody’s in luck but me,’ said Wilton . 305 Evening after the Battle... 392 Felicic and Jerome . 181 Going to ask permission ... 13 Grandfather on Dapple at Waltonleigh . 53 * Granny dear, what are you thinking aboiit ? ’ ... 248 56 64 81 85 89 Page Garlands of The Months January . 29 February . 60 March . ... 101 April . 141 May . 173 Juue . 205 July . 245 August . 277 September . 309 October ... . 349 November . 381 December . * . 405 Horse and Bantams . 8 Hauling Lobsters on the Norfolk Coast . 48 Henry reading the Letter 77 Herring Fishing . 189 Hunting Mare . 241 Haymaking . 244 ‘ Here’s your tea ’ 292 ‘ It was Minna ’ . 45 4 Into the hot fray I rushed,’ 69 4 Is this your writing, master ? ’ . 92 Indian Carriage . 213 Indians Fishing . 341 John and Miss Forbes ... 40 Joshua Marlowe finding the lost Watch and Seals 65 Jeremiah Horrocks . 240 Kurra at the Window ... 393 Kurra in the Enclosure . . . 397 Kenneth’s Success . 404 Lost Watch . 57 Love Birds . 72 Linuet singing in the Gorse 121 4 Look before you Leap ’ ... 197 Liberty . 316 Mother-love in a Rat ... 41 Man the Life-boat . 81 My first Valentine . 93 Mima Phillips explaining the Country to Carrie Made Happy . 4 Max’s friends honoured us by a procession ’ 157 My Boy’s Song . 161 My First Place . 296 Margaret helping little Syd -'104 Monkey and Child . 312 Magpie and Knife . 313 Margaretlia blessing her Son . 384 Music in the Street .. 4 My Picture, which my mother gave me ! ’ 97 128 , 385 . 400 Page 4 Oh, Bertie dear, don’t say such things ! ’ said Cecil Oft’ the Azores . 4 One good turn deserves another’ . ... Pussy’s strange Family Peter driving the Geese Peter listening to what the Master said . Poor White’s Trouble Rat-catcliing . Robin on the Apples... ... Running after the Rainbow Street Music . Scotch Deer-hound . 4 Snap went the thread, aud gone was the bird ’ South Stack Lighthouse Swallow and the Thrush... Sir William Napier and the Child . Street in Constantinople... Scene in Venice . Summer Song . Summer Time . ‘Squib’ and the Feather... Sea Cucumbers and Star Fish . .• . 356, Seal-Hunters’ return Home Shetland Pony . ••• Two Brothers . The Ship on Fire . The Swan and -the Crows . The Folded Flock . The Beggar-Man . The Market-Cart . ‘The Bear stood on the table, legs, ears, and all ’ The Fleet . The Wreck . The Dishonest Peasant ... The Pixv Workmen . The Bear and Tea-kettle ... The Train . The Firo at the Manor- House . The Travellers in the Pea¬ sants’ Cottage . The Signalman and his Mother . The Signalman and his Boy The Horse and the Purse... The White Sparrow ... ... The Signalman and liis Wife finding the Notary The Shepherd’s Dog and the Wolf . 105 . 340 ! 388 . ISO . 185 ' 200 . 260 . 4-4 329 r 364 1 117 132 160 172 228 232 233 253 321 365 368 408 5 20 24 32 49 109 112 125 133 136 144 145 152 153 176 193 201 204 208 209 212 Page The Signalman seeing the Strange Gentlemen ... 217 The Stag in Trouble . 224 The Signalman taken to Prison . 225 The Signalman in Prison... 233 The Hen and her Ducklings 249 The Deputy and Frederic 256 4 Think o’ yer Mitlier’ ... 261 The Egg-Collector . 265 The Heavy Tidings . 268 The Workman’s Wife ... 269 The End of a Dogs’ Quarrel 273 The Emperor looking from • the window of the Inn... 276 The Gaoler leading Mie- Wanua out of the Cell ... 280 Tho Tame Crow . 281 The Emperor’s Visit . 28S 4 The poor lad lin-d such a look of care on his face ’ 293 The Sick Monkey . 297 The Lady Artist . 300 ‘Tell me what it is,’ said Syd . The Devil Fish . The Eugine- Driver . The Old House ... . Tommy Asleep . The King and his old Schoolmaster . Timothy, our pet Hedgehog 337 Through the Ripples ... 344 The Emperor aud the Ser¬ geant . The. Stock-Doves . - The Seal-Hunters calling for help . The Lost Thimble ... The Toad ... . The Savovard Girl ... The Ship Boy’s Return The Little Tomtit . The Skater and the Wolves 409 Worn Out . 16 4 Who is there at this time . of night ? ’ 120 4 What a jolly fellow your gardener is, Bob ! ’ . 149 Willv and the Monkey ... 216 4 What may you want P ’ asked the Porter ... ... 22/ 4 Who is lonely. Mother?’ 2b9 Walnut-tree at Mentmore 301 Wilton and little Syd ... 308 4 You are so beautiful, ma¬ dam, I wish to marry you ’ 156 . 320 . 324 . 325 . 328 . 332 . 333 . 348 . 352 . 353 . 357 . 360 373 : 377 . 380

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CHATTERBOX.

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2 CHATTERBOX. No. T. STREET MUSIC. By Rowland Brown. WHEN from the street, in Winter drear, The sound of music sweet I hear, A scene of pity touched with pain Comes like some half-forgotten strain. It was a day in Christmas week ; The north-east wind blew hitter bleak ; Sharp was the cold to shoeless feet Oi weary wanderers in the street. There was so much of want and woe, That, looking out upon the snow, I wished the drifts heaped by the door Manna had been to feed the poor ; And that the falling flakes there seen Morsels of angels’ bread had been, To feed the famished young and old Who shivered in the piercing cold. I saw so many in the crowd With sharp pinched faces, sorrow-bowed, Hurrying past, I wondered why God could permit such misery. At length, and almost opposite The house from which 1 gazed, a sight Mine eyes beheld of suffering, _ Which answered all such questioning. A poor young starving organ-boy, A wandering natiVe of Savoy, Dropped on a door-step, with a cry Of bitterest grief and agony. Such wind as never stirs the flowers Of orange in his native bowers, Seemed drifting, with its piercing breath, Towards the boy the frosts of death. He strove, amidst the snow, in vain The organ-pipes to sound again ; His fingers so benumbed had grown, They were as frozen as the stone. Past manv a house and many a church, Alas ! he’d tramped in weary search Of pitying heart and helping hand,— So scarce e’en in a Christian land Till, at the outskirts of the town, On this doorstep the boy sank down ; And, but for succour near, I ween That stone his dying bed had been. He looked around, with piteous eye, To window and to balcony, Until a little child at play Beheld him as he frozen lay. And, answering the despairing glance Of his appealing countenance, With eager feet, the little maid Ban forth the dying boy to aid. This lamb of the Good Shepherd’s fold Bent o’er the sufferer in the cold, And whispered softly words of cheer, In the poor hapless wanderer’s ear. I only wish that there was more Of such ‘street music’ for the poor, The famished ones, who even now May be half perished in the snow. A HOGUE CAUGHT IN HIS OWN TBAP. HE inns in Bussia are all very much alike; the rooms, for the most part small, are separated from each other only by a thin partition. Now it happened that during the reign of the Czar Nicholas a courtier had to travel to a town on an important mis¬ sion. He went to one of the first hotels in the place. Almost on ^ the first day lie remarked that ;here was a guest in the adjoining room who got up it the same time every day, went out, and returned home exactly at the same hour. This punctuality seemed very strange to him, and he made use of that my system which is so very common in Russia. He soon learned that his neighbour was a Jew, and by looking through the key-hole he observed how this Jew, every time he went out or came in, drew a chest out from under the bed, and put it on the table. Then he looked round timidly and anxiously to see if any one was listening to or watching him, slowly opened the chest with a little kev, took a second and smaller chest out of the first, and out of the second yet a third. Into this last the Jew looked with such an eager gaze and sweet smile, that the courtier supposed it must contain something very precious, perhaps the whole of the Jews property. The Jew’s hands at last followed Ins looks, and after long search he drew out a carefully wrapped-up packet of brand-uew bank-notes. J-ke chest plainly contained papers of great value. -Day after day did the Russian courtier observe these pro- cccdin^s. The immense wealth of this Jew was always3 floating before his eyes. ‘ That chest and its contents shall be mine,’ the Russian noble said to himself. ‘ What do I care for a Jew if I can only get his money? How shall I manage it . An. I know ;’ and he went at once to the first police agent. ‘Police-officer,’ he said, ‘I have been tenibly robbed, — almost all my property has been taken tl ‘l\Vhat! What do 1 hear.?’ said the policeman in amazcpient ; 6 have you any traces or suspicion as to who this hold thief may he?’ . ‘Not suspicion only, replied the Russian , it is certainly a Jew, my neighbour m the hotel, lie must last night, while I was out, have got through the door which leads from his room into mine, and robbed me : he took all my paper money, as well as three chests in which they were enclosed. ? ‘An investigation shall take place at once, said the police-officer. He took eight men with mm, and

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iii company with the nobleman, who pretended he had been robbed, he went to the hotel. The J ew had just returned to his apartment. With the words, ‘ Open the door in the name of the Czar,’ the police-officer knocked at the door of the Jew’s room. The Jew opened it himself. When lie saw the police he changed colour, a horrible look of despair and rage came over his. coun¬ tenance, and he sprang from the door to his bed. The police were scarcely in the room before there was the report of a pistol-shot. The Jew sank down upon his bed, his brains were scattered on the wall : he had sent a bullet through his head.. They supposed that the Jew thus wished to avoid being arrested. They searched at once for the chest, which was soon found, and minutely examined. On looking through the bank-notes, the face of the police-officer suddenly assumed a severe expression. Still with an apparently cheerful, voice he turned to the Russian baron with the question, — 4 Are you quite sure that these bank-notes are your property?’ ‘How can you doubt it?’ replied the courtier surprised. 6 Certainly they are my property.’ 4 Can you swear to it ?’ 4 At this very moment, if you like.’ 4 Well,5 said the police-officer solemnty, 4 then I arrest you in the name of the Czar, for the notes are all forged!’ The Russian courtier stood speechless with horror, what could he reply ? Falsehood is its own punish¬ ment. Fie had dug a pit for the Jew and fallen into it himself. He was condemned to labour for life in the mines of Siberia. The reason why the Jew shot himself was because he saw that he was discovered to be guilty of forging bank-notes, so he took his own life to escape the penalty in Siberia. J. F. C. TWO BROTHERS. IIEY were own brothers, though few would think so, since they bore no likeness to each other, either in face or disposition. They were not openly unfriendly, but Wilfred Willoughby thought his elder brother hard and cold, while John thought the lad ten years his junior, selfish and thoughtless. They came of a large family, these two: first John, then a gap where three other bo^s had died infants, then Wilfred, followed in quick succession by Arthur, Basil, George, and May, the only girl. Mrs. Willoughby had barely lived to see this last little one beyond babyhood, and now they were mourning the loss of the widowed father ; he had died rather suddenly, and though supposed to be at the head of a prosperous business as a West India merchant, his affairs were discovered to be in bad order. John, the careful elder brother, pondered deeply over ways and means at this time; — the future of Wilfred, the gay young officer, Arthur at college, Basil and George at school, all heavy items in the list of expenses. Little May was a care, too: eleven years old and out-growing her strength, she was to have spent, the winter in Jamaica with her father had he lived, as a precautionary measure, while lie overlooked the business out there. How what was to be done? John was wanted in Liverpool at the office there, Arthur had set liis heart on talking Holy Orders, and Basil was too young for work at present. As a beginning, the large house and grounds in the suburbs of Liverpool must be let or sold ; W ilfred must be warned that his expensive tastes could no longer be gratified ; and the boys must be put to a cheaper school, or even recalled home and placed in offices. He would write to Wilfred now on the subject. The younger ones had been summoned to their father’s funeral three weeks since, but Wilfred had been on a fishing expedition in Norway J and letters had failed to reach him in time : by now, however, he would have rejoined his regiment, and it was . right he should seriously consider the altered position of the family. John wrote his letter, and in due time his brother Wilfred received it. A vexed look came over his handsome face as he read. 4 Why does he take it for granted I am such a selfish fellow?’ said the young officer aloud, as he tore the paper in two. 4 I’ll go home to-morrow, and see what it’s all about : I’m next eldest brother to John, and ought to be consulted.’ John was at the office when Wilfred arrived, so the lad sauntered out into the fields near to while away the time. There John saw him from the distance. 4 Barely a scrap of mourning about him, and caring for nothing but his pipe!’ thought the elder brother severely, vexed that the chief clerk, who had ac¬ companied him home, should see Wilfred in this guise. John was hard on Wilfred, but he was worried and worn with the burden thrown so suddenly on his shoulders. 4 Scowling at me as usual ! ’ thought Wilfred. 4 It will be worse than ever now my poor father’s gone : but I won’t be bullied by him ; he’s only my brother.’ So the two met but coldly, and the distance between them seemed widened by the very troubles that should have drawn them closer.. John, aided by the clerk, gave his brother a dry account of business matters, which looked very un¬ promising just then. Wilfred had meditated once, suggesting that he should give up all, or nearly all, of the 200 Z. a-year allowed him by his father in addition to his pay ; but John’s manner was so un¬ pleasing that he never gave utterance to the plan, and left his elder brother to imagine that he. would sacrifice nothing at this time. He only listened moodily to the proposals for domestic retrenchment, and said somewhat coldly at last that John seemod to have arranged everything to liis own satisfaction. ‘Indeed, no !’ said John wearily, passing his hand over his forehead. 4 1 am sorely at a loss for another trusty head and hands. If only the training had been given to Arthur that was wasted on you, Wilfred, I might have had some one to help me.’ Wilfred reddened. Why should John seem to despise him so ? It was true he had been brought

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4 CHATTERBOX. No. I. up to the business, and showed no mean capacity for such matters, and it was at his own request that he had been allowed to enter the army. If only John had showed any brotherly feeling towards him, he might in this crisis have thrown up his profession, and gone back to the office. Gay young fellow that he was, he had a good head, he knew, and had often been regretted by his father as a loss to the office. But work with John, who despised and slighted him? No, that he never would! Back went all the tender feelings which the deso¬ lation of the fatherless home had aroused in him : he answered John sharply, and finally sauntered off with his pipe, as good an imitation of a don’t-care young fellow as need be. ‘ He never did care for business,’ said John to the clerk. ‘ Well, I must do the best alone, till Basil and George grow up, though it is more than I can manage.’ Wilfred rejoined his regiment, declaring to himself no one could do anything with such a cut-and-dried hard fellow as John. And then one day came a letter from little May, his only correspondent at home. It was very short; just to beg her dear Wilfred to come home quick, for John was ill — so ill that nurse was frightened, and so was she. ‘John was in bed talking strangely,’ said the postscript. ‘ Over- wrought,’ said the doctor to Wilfred, as he stood by his brothers bedside. ‘A touch of brain-fever.’ Ay, more than a touch ; for weeks the strong man lay like a helpless baby : only that at times he talked low and fast of business, of his home, of ‘ the children,’ even of Wilfred. ‘ It will fall hardest on him,’ said the sick man repeatedly, and the tone was sorrowful, almost loving, in which he said it. Wilfred had his hands full then ; he was John’s head nurse, and withal frequently called away by messengers from the office, he understood business fairly well, as he said, and he threw his whole heart into it then. ‘John shall see I am not such a poor fellow when he picks up the reins again,’ he thought. But John seemed still far enough from that. The anxieties of his position had been too much for him ; hard as he looked, he was not strong enough to battle with them. The boys came home at Christmas, and had to tread softly and speak in hushed voices, for John was still very ill. May was altogether kept in the house, the English winters tried her severely just now. The large house was still on their hands", John’s illness had stopped any plans for letting or selling it. Wilfred had a taste now of real work, real anxiety. He thought deeply over the state of the family, consulted one or two friends, and then sold out without distressing John on the subject. ‘If I do continue in the army 1 shall be better in a less expensive regiment,’ he said to himself, though he drew a deep sigli on relinquishing his connexion with the gallaut Bashers. One consola¬ tion was, that ‘business’ was going on well. Wilfred had a clear head, and had given advice on one or two matters which had proved really valuable. The clerks, old fellows of twenty years’ standing, some of thom, quite looked up to him. ‘ You’ve been a great loss to the firm, sir,’ said one. ‘How would you like me now?’ asked Wilfred, half jokingly. ‘ You would be worth a thousand a-year to us*, sir,’ said the greyest of the clerks. Wilfred went back to John’s sick-bed with a new light in his eyes. He was very gentle with his suffering brother now, and John would look to him with a piteous depen¬ dence for help and comfort. ‘ You are very good to me, Will,’ he said one day, when returning reason made him anxious: ‘ but you can’t do everything, the office must be wanting me.’ ‘ See Edwards, and ask him,’ said Wilfred, in a would-be indifferent tone. Edwards, the white-headed clerk, was called in, and in few words laid such satisfac-' ory accounts of the office before Mr. John, that the doctor, who was very suspicious of business interviews for his patient, was compelled to confess that this one had done him good. ‘ It’s all Wilfred’s doing,’ said John, who, to do him justice, was ready to acknowledge worth when he saw it. ‘He’s a far cleverer fellow than I ever was, and now lie’s thrown up his own profession to help me, I don’t know how 1 can thank him. I’ve been but a stupid fool towards you, Wil1, my boyr.’ But Wilfred would not let him say this. ‘ You’ve been a good fellow always, John, I’m sure,’ he said : ‘ but we didn’t understand each other. Now it’s all right, and for the boys’ sake and May’s I am glad we can work together. “ Union is strength,” you know the proverb says, and I mean to row in the same boat with you for the future.’. John soon picked up strength after this conversa¬ tion, but as change of scene was insisted on by the doctor, it was arranged that he and little May, with her old nurse, should spend the next few months in Jamaica, doing the work his father meant to have done, while Wilfred remained in charge at home. So the large house was let for six months, and Wilfred went into lodgings near the office, prepared to do his very best. He got laughing letters from his brother-officers; it seemed like a joke to them that the gay young subaltern should settle down into a steady business man, but they did not know the reserve of strength and good sense that lay behind young Willoughby s pleasant, careless manner. ‘Let those laugh that will,’ wrote Wilfred in return. ‘ 1 am working for my bread, which is an occupation I find very interesting for a change.’ When John came home in the early summer business had taken a good tuni, and there seemed ho reason why the family should not return to their pleasant home in the country. Many things had been put on a lower footing in the office, and though there must be ups and downs in their line of life, the Willougbbys hoped never again to pass through such a crisis as. their father s death had brought upon them. John and Wilfred worked hand-in-hand now, the boys looked up to them and respected them, and

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No. I. CHATTERBOX. little Mav. grown stronger and brighter, was the sunshine of the house. Union was not only strength, hut peace and happi¬ ness to all. That illness of John’s had done much for the two brothers. Each now saw the hidden good in the other’s character. Wilfred was conscious of the tenderness and care for his belongings he concealed beneath his elder brother’s hard exterior, while John owned that there was real work to be got out of Wilfred’s apparently careless nature. They say love is blind, but in this case it had opened the eyes of both brothers. H. A. F.

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6 CHATTERBOX. No. I. ARNO AND STEPHEN, THE FOSTER-BROTHERS. From tlie German of Hans Tharan. CHAP. I. b EFORE a modest cottage in a small vi if JRo| village on the Rhine, and at the step ^ie °Pen door, a little girl is sitting, eating bread and butter; /^Lij close before her is a Pomeranian dog. He is of a good breed, and has a thick ruff round his neck. His eyes are fixed on- the child, anc^ eIes ^ow ea°h« her movements. From time to time she throws him a piece of bread, which he cleverly catches in his mouth ; he whines a little if she keeps him too long waiting. ‘ Haven’t you had enough. yet, Spitz?’ asks the little girl, as she breaks another piece off for him. ‘ Miechen ! Miechen ! ’ calls a merry voice, and over the hedge of the neighbour’s garden jumps a strongly-built, fair-haired boy. 4 You must come over quickly, Miechen; the child¬ ren from the Castle are here, and we want to play.’ A pleasant woman who had heard his call now stood in the open door. She looked lovingly on the children. She had the same clear eyes as the little girl at her feet : probably she had the same long, light-brown hair, but a stiff, white cap, as all married Rhineland women wear, covered her head, and its black ribbons showed that she was a widow. 4 May I, mother?’ asked Marie, looking up. ‘Yes, go,’ she nodded to her. 4 How are your parents, Stephen ? ’ 4 Thank you, they are quite well;’ and away skipped the children hand in hand. Instead of going round the corner to the garden- gate, Stephen made his little companion creep through an opening in the hedge, which he jumped over himself. ‘Ah ! there she is !’ were the words which met her from two other children who advanced towards her. Their refined appearance did not prevent them from being on intimate terms with their two playfellows. ‘But where is Spitz?’ asked the eldest of the child¬ ren, the Countess Agnes, with long brown curls. ‘He must come too.’ ‘Here he comes!’ cried her brother; and their four-legged comrade, who had just worked his way through an opening in the hedge, was welcomed with shouts and laughter. And now they all hastened off to a neighbouring house, before the door of which the bailiff was sitting. His wife was bustling to and fro between the house and a table which was standing under the trees, and carrying milk in glasses, and white bread and honey. ‘ Now come, then, Countess Agnes ; and I hope •^ou will like it. The milk is fresh from the cow, and the bread has just come out of the oven.’ Thus chatting kindly, she placed it before the children, while her eyes rested with peculiar tender¬ ness on the little Count Arno, who was about the size of her own son Stephen, but of a much more delicate build. When the children had returned to their games in the shady garden she gazed thought¬ fully after them for some time. 4 It seems like a dream to me,’ she said to her husband, 4 that it should be ahead}"' ten years since Stephen was born ; and then they brought me Arno too. Ah ! what a weak little one he was then ! I never could have believed that he could be reared. Stephen looked full half a year* older, though there was only a few days’ difference between them.’ 4 He is of quite a different race,’ grumbled tin* bailiff, as he threw his head proudly back, so that lr.s broad chest looked broader still. ‘ Don’t say so, father ! don’t say so !’ said his wife eagerly, for her son’s foster-brother was almost as dear to her heart as himself. 4 Where will you see a handsomer gentleman than our lord the Count? and Arno will certainly be as tall and broad in the shoulders, you will see.’ 4 1 don’t believe it,’ replied the bailiff ; ‘he is like his mother, and she was out a pale doll.’ ‘Ah, the good Countess !’ said his wife; ‘she looked like an angel indeed, with her pale face. Countess Agnes is not much like her, she is too fresh and rosy. Who would ever have thought that I should have nursed at my breast the little Count, so long wished for, because no nurse was to be found in the whole village, and every one at the Castle was dis¬ tracted at the death of the Countess? And how I have been rewarded for what I did for the child ! ’ ‘Well, you didn’t want to do anything for a reward,’ said her husband, proudly, as he plunged his hands deep into his pockets. 4 Yes, Franz, I know well I did it all for Grod’s sake, and out of pity ; for otherwise the poor child must have' perished. And you know that I scarcely used one of the Count’s beautiful presents ; the gold chain, indeed, with the cross, I have put away for Stephen’s bride. No, I thought of nothing but the joy which I had in that child; and he loves me almost as much as if I were his real mother ; and to Stephen he is as loving as if he were his own brother ; and Stephen. is the same to him ; it does one good to see them together.’ 4 Whether it can be called fortunate for Stephen we can’t say yet,’ said the bailiff, rising from his seat. ‘My son has no need to ape people above his own station, he shall be an honest, sturdy peasant, and that’s enough;’ and so saying he went off to the stable. 4 Father has missed hi3 afternoon nap to-day,’ said his wife to herself. 4 1 am sure I don’t want Stephen to be anything else but an honest peasant’s son, but at the same time he can be good friends with his foster-brother.’ The children meanwhile, after a good game of romps, had sat down to rest at their favourite spot, quite at the end of a large orchard. Agnes was sitting down on the trunk of an old apple-tree, a book open before her, in which she seemed to be deeply interested. 4 Come, read us a stoiy, Agnes!’ cried her brother, as he threw himself on the grass at her feet. 4 Yes, but a true one,’ added Stephen, as he did the same. 4 Come, Miechen, here is room for you,’ said Agnes, as she held out her hand to her little friend.

Page 14

The dog, too, had chosen a snug resting-place it was a lovely summer afternoon. Golden sun¬ beams penetrated through the leaves and danced on the heads of the children. The little Countess Agnes then began to read ‘ The Brothers is the name of this story, lliey lived in two castles, long since fallen into rums, each built on a steep crag,— Steinberg and Liebenstcm, only separated by a deep ravine - Here the boys raised a loud shout. ‘ What, our mountains up there? Is your new book about them? and have they a real history C Oh, but that is all a joke !’ . ‘ Miechen can quite understand that, added Amo, 4 for she sees them every day/ And now Agnes read them the well-known legend of the two brothers of noble race, who both tell m love with the beautiful Hildegard. The combat between them, and TIildegard’s intervention in le middle of it, was listened to with breathless attention, and when Agnes had finished the boys promised to cross over t?ie next day to the other side of the Rhine and to make a climbing excursion up to the castles, which now had much more interest in then eyes than they had ever had before. Little Marie had been silent all the time, it was scarcely to be expected that, she could quite follow the story : but at the conclusion she said to otephen, pointing to Arno, 4 And you two are brotheis also. The boys laughed, and Arno said quietly, bostei- brothers they call us, and that is why we love each other so much ! But we shall never quarrel like Heinrich and Conrad, of whom we have just heard : shall we, Stephen?7 ,, „ , Stephen’s looks showed that he returned the feel¬ ing, though he did not reply. ^Ah 1 I have found you at last!’ cried a voice behind them, and an elderly lady, Agnes’s governess, came up to the children. She seemed tired and heated after the long search for her pupils, and not in the best humour. 4 It is quite time that you came home to your French lesson, Agnes; you know that I do not think these games with peasant children at all proper for •you now you are twelve years old. 4 My father gave me leave to accompany my brother this afternoon,’ the little Countess replied, respect¬ fully but decidedly, as she prepared to follow her governess. . , , 4 1 think it is quite a misfortune for you that the Count lives such a retired life, both summer and winter, here in the country. If you lived in a large town, you would see how other children of your -rank arc educated.’ ' 4 But I should not like to live in a town, Agnes replied, 4 where one always has to go over paved streets instead of through meadows and fields. And my father,’ she added seriously, 4 has no. pleasure either in the town, nor in large parties, since dear mother died.’ . - 4 If you only had some suitable society, sighed the governess ; 4 but these common children here - 4 You forget Stephen is Arno’s foster-brother,7 added Agnes. 4 We have always grown up together ; he is such a good boy.7 Well, I won’t say much about him, but that little, stupid, peasant girl- - 7 4 My little darling Miechen ! the young Countess interrupted her eagerly. 4 1 thought that everybody who saw her must love her at once. She is quite like Stephen’s sister, because they live so close to¬ gether, and always plays with him, and she can t help it that her mother is a poor woman. But stupid she is not, that I assure you. And do you know what I propose ? I will, if my father allows it, give Miechen lessons in m}r spare time, that she may make good progress.7 . The governess shrugged her shoulders., one knew that in such matters the Count gave his daughter perfect liberty. ITe himself, the proud, reserved man, who had buried all the. joys of life m his. wife s grave, and now only found interest in his children, rarely denied them anything. He. smiled at the governess’s counsels that the daily intercourse with the peasant children might have an evil influence on his own. „ i i *i* In the house of the well-to-do-baihn also similar words had fallen as in the Castle. Here it was the father who wished to put an end to the intercourse between his Stephen and the little daughter of the poor widow in the neighbouring cottage. But his wife, in her quiet, gentle way, succeeded in peisuad- in°’ him to allow the children the harmless pleasure of° being together; later, Stephen would naturally choose companions of his own age and sex. She had often pressed that child, with her beautiful, clear, gazelle-like eyes, to her heart, and many a time wished that God had given her such a daughter. Every day when school was over, and Miechen had helped her mother in her. little household, slia went with her books and copies, faithfully accom¬ panied by Spitz, to the Castle, as the laige, old Manor-house of the Count’s family was always called in the neighbourhood, and it. was a question whether the young teacher or the industrious pupil found the greatest pleasure in the lesson. Ames, who could foresee the dangers which threatened Marie if she was taken out of her station, tried always to keep this in view, and to instruct hei in all that would be useful and becoming m her future position in life. Marie, on her side, looked up to the young Countess with love and veneration. [To be continued.) HORSE AND BANTAMS. SOME years ago among my fowls I had a couple of bantam& which took a great fancy to a large black horse that was stabled on the . adjoining premises. So strong did their friendship toi the horse become, that at last they would roost no¬ where else but on his back, unless they were shut up away from him. This short anecdote shows how capable dumb animals are of forming attachment one to another, and teaches us a lesson of fnendship which should not be forgotten. H. Vv .

Page 15

- t CHATTERBOX. No. I.

Page 16

Page 17

10 CHATTERBOX. No. IF. BESS AND THE KITTEN. HAVE a sheep-dog, a most intel- ligvut animal, and very gentle, and y* , yet, whenever she comes into the A house, my cats set upon her, and scratch her furiously. One day, after being very badly treated, she went off with a kitten that one of them had got, and placing it between her fore-legs when she lay down, she fondled it and licked if. Soon the kitten became quite attached to her, and after a while would seldom leave her, but when she lay down, would go and sit between her legs, as if for protection. How often others would befriend us. if only we would let them, or give them the Opportunity of doing so! 1 II. W. ANNO AND STEPHEN, THE FOSTER-BROTHERS. (Continued from p. 7.) CHAPTER H. T is winter time, and the Christmas festival is approaching. The Rhine flows swiftly on, bearing huge blocks of ice along in its course, and the ruined castles peep grimly out from the snow. A bright fire is burning on the hearth of the Countess Agnes’s room, and by its light— for there is no other in the room — we recognise the figures of two girls. Agnes is reclining in an. easy- ebair, just opposite the fire-place, her head resting on her hand, and Micclien, now grown up to be a tall young woman, is sitting on a stool at her feet. The eyes of both are gazing in' o the fire, as if they were reading something in the flames. At fast the Countess broke the silence. c To-morrow at this hour, if (rod permit, my brother will be here/ she said; ‘and for the present, at all events, he will remain altogether with us. It is now six years since he passed his holidays at home. W hat a difference it will make to us all, especially to my father, to have him with us again ! ’ ‘ And as Marie was still silent she. continued, as if talking to herself, — ‘ How strange is life ! every¬ thing turns out so differently from what we expect. It is now five years since father decided to go and live altogether in the city,, that we might not he separated from Arno, and it seemed to me so doubtful that we should ever return here ; and then he had the illness, which left that t lameness which makes it almost impossible to move him now, so going away from here is no longer to be thought of.’ ‘ Are you not sorry to be obliged to remain here ? asked Marie, as she looked up to her friend. ‘ No, my child,’ she replied ; 4 you know I like living in the country best : and . now,, if I have Arno back again - JBut I forgot,’ she interrupted herself. ‘Ours is not the only house expecting a dear guest ! There is great joy at the bailiff’s, too, that Stephen is coming hack, having finished his time of service.’ ‘Ah! certainly,’ said Marie, quietly ; ‘ his mother told me to-day she was counting the hours till lie arrived : she hopes that Count Arno will bring him with him.’ ‘I think he will,? added Agnes: ‘the old love between the foster-brothers has remained the same : or, rather, it has increased with their growth.’ * You arc right, dear sister,’ cried suddenly a voice behind them. The two girls sprang up, and a noble¬ looking youth pressed the Countess in his arms. A second figure remained standing at the open door. ‘ Arno ! you here ! Why, we did not expect you till to-morrow ! ’ cried Agnes. ‘ How quietly you must have crept into the house ! And you must have come without a carriage, too ! ’ ‘ That is too long a story to tell you now in my snow-boots, but you shall hear all about it afterwards,’ was the merry answer. ‘ But we must greet old friends,7 he continued, as he held out his hand to Marie. ‘ Stephen ! why are you remaining there in the back¬ ground? Come and show yourself, and how you have overtopped me ! ’ . The young Landwchrman modestly came up to the group. The Countess shook him warmly by the hand, and Maine too greeted him kindly. His broad, strong figure was decidedly taller than that of his foster-brother, though one would ^scarcely have perceived it at a short distance, so hancEome and well built was the young Count. With almost a motherly look Agnes regarded her brother as she pushed his dark curls away from his forehead. At this moment a servant brought in a lampv ‘That’s right!’ cried Arno. ‘Now we need no longer strain our eyes to make each other out in the dark ; it is our turn now,’ he. continued, as he drew his sister gently towards the light. Then he looked at Marie. ‘ITow tall you are grown!’ he said: ‘but other¬ wise you have not at al£ altered. Only you have plaited up your hair, and. one must not call you Miechen any longer. — may we?’ ‘ Marie is no longer a child,1 said Agnes, in a serious tone. , { f» ‘ Yes ! childhood is over/ said Arno, with a sigh. ‘ It was very pleasant. Do you remember, Marie, how Agnes used often to read us her favourite legend, Liehoi. stein and Steinberg, till Stephen and I at last called ourselves after the. two mountains?’, And so they stood chatting together till Agnes reminded her brother that he ought to go to his father, and intrusted Marie to Stephen’s care. • gj • ^ Marie had much to tell her mother that evening — how handsome Count Arno was, and how brown and nianlv Stephen had grown; and when the latter came himself the next day, not over the hedge as he used to do, the widow greatly admired the fine, vigorous, young peasant, and liked to look into his true, honest eyes, which still spoke more eloquently than his tongue. The bailiff was not at all pleased that Ins sons first visit should be to the neighbour’s house, and he plainly stated that he wished to break off the inter¬ course ; hut in the middle of his explanation Count Arno entered, and in the pleasure of the meeting between his wife and her foster-child the old man was obliged, for the moment, to restrain his wrath.

Page 18

CHATTERBOX. old Count always retired early) he put to her the same question as lie had asked Marie in the after- Soon the old intimate relation between the foster- brothers was revived, just as if they had never been separated, and when spring came they were always seen wandering together over mountain and valley ; Count Arno was "being instructed by Stephen in practical farming. Marie came less than usual to the Castle. Her mother was sickly, and the household duties rested chiefly on her shoulders. Besides these, she spun and sewed for the Count’s family, in order to increase their income. It seemed to her too, though she had not told her mother so, as if Countess Agnes did not press her to come so much as formerly : perhaps, because she had her brother, now she could better dispense with Marie ; still, Agnes was as kind as ever. ‘Why do you come so seldom to see my sister?’ Arno asked Marie one day, as she was sitting at work ontside her home. It was a warm evening in the height of summer, and he had just returned from a sail on the Khine. I-Ie had asked Marie’s mother to allow him to keep the rudder of a new boat which he had lately purchased at her cottage, as it was close to the Rhine —closer than the bailiff’s, and the Castle was some way inland. It happened thus that about twice a-wcek, going to and from the Rhine, the young Count saw Marie, so it was to-day. ‘ I don’t know, Count Arno,’ replied Marie to his question, as she looked him plainly in the face. ‘ If any one in the great world gave such an answer as that, one would think they meant an evasion by it,’ said Arno ; ‘ but with you it is different.’ ‘Are people in the world so deceitful?’ she in¬ quired; ‘ if so, I wish never to go among them.’ ‘ Well, not all so bad,’ he added ; ‘ there are some honest people. I have lived in the world, and must do so again ; but you will believe my words, won’t you ? ’ ‘ Always,’ she said, in a tone of perfect con¬ fidence, and in joyful excitement the young man seized her hand as he said, — ‘ Thank you, Marie ! Do you know, too, that it is the best thing which one man can say of another, “ I believe in you ?” ’ At that moment Stephen came up the narrow, steep path from the Rhine. He, too, had been in the sail on the Rhine, and had remained behind to make the boat sure. . Arno let go Marie’s hand. ‘ How pale you look, Stephen !’ he said; ‘you have been exerting yourself too much in rowing.’ A forced smile played round Stephen's lips; he shook his head and said, — ‘ I don’t feel it in the least.’ Just then Marie was called by her mother into the house: and wishing the young men ‘ good-niglit,’ she vanished. They silently turned away, and walked along side by side as if neither of them knew what to say to the other. At the house of Stephen’s parents they separated. Arno seldom passed it without going in to see his foster-mother ; to-day he was too much occupied with his own thoughts to do so. When he sat with his sister in the evening (the I jliuuu. . . , ‘ Tell me, Agnes, why does Marie come so seldom to see you now ? ’ The question seemed to surprise Agnes : she was silent for a moment, then she replied, ‘ I have already told you, Arno : we are no longer children, Marie has her household duties.’ ‘ She had them before, three or four years ago, when I came home now and then for a few days’ visit.’ . ‘Then she had a reason for coming, said Agnes; ‘ I used to teach her.’ ‘ And now she has learned everything?’ ‘ As much as is necessary for her to know.’ ‘Ah!’ said Arno, with slight bitterness, ‘I per¬ ceive my sister does not think well to give a poor village maid instruction beyond certain limits.’ _ Agnes cast an anxious look at her brother ; it was the first time he had ever spoken to her not quite kindly, and it pained her. But she soon recovered herself. ‘ I should think it neither prudent nor right, she said, ‘if I were to teach Marie things for which she would have no use in her station, and which, in fact, might be hurtful to her.’ ‘And yet she. possesses a tact and good feeling in which many noble ladies are behind her,’ said Arno. ‘I don’t dispute it,’ replied, his sister: ‘and I allow her to continue to educate herself, and give her books and advice to that intent, without, at the same time, losing sight of her future lot in life.’ ‘And what may that be in your opinion?’ said Arno, with feigned indifference. ‘ Well,’ replied Agnes, with warmth, ‘ I hope as a happy wife and mother : a secret wish 1 naturally have for her, but which I do not desire to express.’ ‘ Bat. you will to me, I hope?’ Agnes appeared to reflect for a moment, then she said, without looking up from her work, ‘ I hope one day to see her Stephen’s wife.’ ‘ Ah ! ’ said her brother, then both were silent for a long time. It was late, but Agnes proposed to take a turn in the garden before they retired to rest. Brother and sister strolled along the avenue in the moonlight ; suddenly Arno said, ‘ Do you think you have any real ground for your hope, Agnes?’ ‘ What hope ? ’ she asked, though she understood what he meant. ‘ That Marie and Stephen should make a match !’ ‘ No,’ she replied, ' ‘ except my interest for them both. On the contrary, I fear that any affection of Stephen for Marie would meet with violent oppo¬ sition from his father. The bailiff, as his wife has told me, has the most high-flown plans for Stephen to make a match according to his station ; and we both know enough of the relations of the rich pea¬ sant farmers in the country to understand that in their marriages the heart generally has less to do with them than the purse.’ ‘ But Stephen is his only child,’ said Arno; ‘he would not so lightly deprive him of his happiness for life!’

Page 19

12 CHATTERBOX. No. II. Agnes shook her head. ‘ What does the old man know of our romantic ideas of happiness and love ? To him, Marie is only a poor girl, who can bring her lover no dowry. I think that he would rather his son - but,’ she interrupted herself merrily, ‘we are still quite children, Arno, talking thus about a matter which is nothing but fancy. Or do you think, per¬ haps, that you have discovered any other than a brotherly feeling to Stephen for Marie?’ ‘ No, certainly not.’ ‘ Well, then, don’t let us give ourselves any useless anxiety on the matter ! God will dispose everything for the best without our interference. Tut now good-night; are you not coming in yet?’ They had reached the Castle. Agnes put her arms round her brother’s neck, he kissed her forehead. * Good-night, sister,’ he said ; ‘ it is still too hot for me. I cannot sleep. I shall thkc another turn, then I shall come in.’ A moment after she stood at the door, and gazed after him as his figure vanished in the deep shade of the trees. She had clasped her hands as if. in prayer. ‘ Oh, Lord, only — not that !’ she whispered, gently. Tut Arno went out from the garden, and took the well- known path down towards the Thine. The bailiff’s farm and his neighbour’s cottage lay in deep silence. The moon had set, and the majestic river rolled silently past him as he stood with folded arms on its banks and gazed into the darkness. Then there was a. flash of lightning on the oppo¬ site shore which illuminated the castles of the Two [Brothers. It was only for a moment, and as a vision they had vanished. A shudder passed over the young Count; he pressed his hand to his eyes, and from his lips passed the words, ‘Oh! not that — not that ! \ ( To be continued.) note was handed to him over the school -gate by a grinning rustic, to the effect that Mr. Greerson’s school in the next village, which did not break up for some days, was to have a paper-hunt that morning through Brickley, Home-wood, &cy, and requested 1 the pleasure of any gentleman’s company who might be left at Mr. Branson’s. Jack politely passed the note to Meredith, saying,— ‘ I suppose you won’t care ?’ But [Meredith said, — ‘ I should like it of all things, if Sammy doesn’t mind being left.’ Jack smiled scornfully at the idea of consulting the Softy — just like the Muff, though ! ‘ Come on to the study then,’ said Jack. And off they went to ask permission. Mr. Branson was quite willing to let them go. ‘ It will be very tiring for you, Meredith,’ he said. ‘ I’ve read Tom Brown , sir,’ said Meredith, smiling, ‘and I should like to try.’ ‘ And you can drop off after a field or two,’ said Jack, patronisingly. ‘ I always stick to it to the last.’ ‘But the young fellows and the muffs are not expected to keep up,’ said Meredith. Jack looked hard at his companion; but, no! it was impossible the new fellow — the Muff — could be laughing at him. He was rather a pleasant fellow, this Muff, to beguile the tedious highroad walk to the place of meeting. Of course he knew nothing about Eng¬ lish sport, but lie had travelled and seen queer things, of which he spoke modestly enough. He was far better than the Softy to spend the holidays with, Jack decided. The paper-hunt once begun, the [Muff began to show signs of spirit, which surprised Jack. He often put them on the right scent, and grew intensely in¬ terested in the matter, though Jack thought it foolish of him to wait once to help a very little lad over a high hedge, and again to caution another against taking long draughts of water from an icy-cold well. The fun grew fast and furious. Jack, the [Muff, and the little lad of all, who was as fleet as a deer, were all together, when the small boy tripped and fell, rolling down a steep bank. ‘Forward! every man for himself!’ said Jack, running on. ‘Come on!’ he shouted angrily, for the Muff had stopped to pick up the little boy. ‘ Come on ; he’ll shake right!’ said Jack, who did not want to lose the Muff’s company — he had such a capital nose for a scent ; but just like him ! the Muff would stay, would pick up the boy. Jack saw no more ; he couldn’t lose the fun, whatever happened. That evening/ footsore, weary and jaded, Jack reached home to find no Meredith. ‘He is at Fairholm Castle/ explained Mr. Bran¬ son. ‘It seems Sir John Fairholm’s little hoy met with an accident at the paper-chase, and Meredith picked him up and carried him to the nearest farm¬ house, which happened to be on his father’s estate. Lady Fairholm has written to me requesting that Meredith may remain with them for a time, as little Reginald has taken a great fancy to him. The boy’s arm is broken, and he is much bruised.’ MUFF MEREDITH. ( DON’T know what to make of the fellow,’ said Ralph Jenkins, the head (W jj I *§\( boy at Mr. Branson’s private school ; MM) ‘ he’s so quiet. I suppose lie’s one m&M {§§P/_*> of the muff tribe.’ A 1 mlWm Very little gives a lad a name, and J JB\r*7 young~ Charles Meredith was in- BjJJjjgm ^ stantly dubbed ‘ [Muff Meredith ’ by his school-fellows. Tic had arrived from his home in the south of France ° late in the half-year, and the boys had not time to find out what he was made of before thev separated for the holidays. Two or three, how¬ ever, were sure he must be a muff, since he amused himself when out walking by botanizing. He had said aloud that he enjoyed the history lesson, and he had twice been seen in conversation with Soft Sammy, the butt of the school. Two boys beside himself were left at Mr. Bran¬ son’s for the holidays — Jack Travers and Sammy Wilks. Jack looked very sad when the rest drove off, pitying him for being left with the Muff and the Softy; but his spirits were cheered when a dirty

Page 20

‘ Olf they went to ‘ Poor little chap !’ said J ack. 4 Luck for Muff, if he knew how to use it,1 he added to himself. ‘ Sir John has splendid horses, and the trout-stream at Pair holm is a stunner. I wish I was there. Heigho ! and now I’m left with Softy !’ Next morning, however, came another note for J ack, less dirty than the one of the previous day. It ran : — ‘ Lear Jack, — Ask Mr. Branson’s leave to come over here for the day. Lady Fairholm wishes it. The little boy is better, and we are to have some fun. ‘Yours, Charles Meredith. ‘ P.S. The groom is to go for you with the pony and wait.’ Mr. Branson readily gave Jack leave to go to Fairholm, and he enjoyed his day mightily, riding, ask permission.’ fishing, and lying on the grass with Meredith, who could do all three as well as Jack himself. Sir John was most kind, and Jack, who felt a trifle shy before him, was amazed at the quiet, gentlemanly way in which Meredith answered all his questions, seeming perfect^ at home. ‘You must come again soon,’ said Sir John, as Jack bid him good-bye ; ‘ and bring your other school¬ fellow with you. We can mount you all three, and I feel I can hardly do enough for my friend here, who makes such a capital head nurse/ Fairholm Castle was a charming place to spend the holidays in Jack found; and even Soft Sammy liked the change, though he declined the mount. FLere Jack discovered, directed by Sir John, that Meredith was a first-rate rider and an excellent shot,

Page 21

14 CHATTERBOX. No. II. besides being gifted with a guiet presence of mind in danger, which was better than Jack’s boldness. There was one event which for fever, wiped out the ill-deserved epithet of ‘ Mutt' ’ from Meredith's name. The keeper’s thatched lodge took fire one night when Jack, too, was sleeping at the Castle. The whole place was roused, but it was Meredith who was first in climbing the shaky verandah, cind res¬ cuing the twin children of the keeper at the risk of his life. There was much to tell the other boys when they returned from their holidays. Meredith was Jack’s bosom-friend and hero now, and the other boys were very dull not to have found him out before they left. Because a fellow liked flowers, need he be soft ? Because his lessons came easy to him, was he a sap ? So ran Jack’s remarks on the subject, all the more glibly that Jack himself had at first shared the common error about the new boy. And why shouldn’t he say a word now and then to Soft Sammy if he liked ? Mr. Branson said Sammy would turn out a clever man if he wasn’t badgered : he would be a chemist ! Yes, they might laugh ! Not a blue-and-red bottle chemist, but a fellow with a labo¬ ratory, and all that. There was a laboratory at Fair holm, and Sammy nearly blew himself up there once ; but Sir John only laughed, and said it was in the pursuit of science ; and so Jack rattled on. There is no space left to give more of the history of Charles Meredith, but he is first favourite in the school now, and the lads have found out that to be fond of study, and to be kind to the young and ignorant, is in no way beneath the dignity of a boy who yet can ride and play with the best of them. So ends my story of the Muff. H. A. F. THE FORGET-ME-NOT. IIE lessons we have received in our child] mod remain more vividly stamped on our memories than any others. We often find that old people, who forget from one day to another events of which they have been witnesses, are yet able to recall facts which took place more than half a century aS°; . This is a truth from which we may draw useful instruction. Those who are parents or teachers ought never to forget the importance of the examples which they set' to their, children ; re¬ membering how their acts and words will remain graven upon the memory of the young, having much influence over their future in this world as well as in the next. The following simple story illustrates the impor¬ tance of good parental example and pious early training. In the little French town of Concarneau in Brit¬ tany there lived some years ago a family named Kerven. It consisted of a father, a mother, and a son of eighteen. The father was a cutler ; he was a native of Con¬ carneau, he had been brought up there, he had learned the first lessons of his trade there as a simple workman, . then he had come to Paris to perfect himself in it. He had remained in the capital two years, and then, on his return to Concarneau, he established a little cutlery shop, which soon, owing to his character for honesty, throve wonderfully. 'He had married a wife worthy of him. A child was born to them : he was healthy and strong ; all seemed to smile upon this happy family, when suddenly a ter¬ rible misfortune befell them. M. Iverven was smitten with an incurable malady, one which never releases its grasp on its victim— a creeping paralysis. _ The disease had first seized the lower members of his body, and then gradually ascended. At the time when our story begins the unfortunate man was completely paralysed in all his limbs; but his intellect was as clear as ever. This terrible blow ruined all the hopes of the little household ; they had been obliged to sell their stock, and with their scanty means they purchased a cottage at the extreme end of Concarneau, with a tiny garden. Here poor M. Kerven lived, solaced by the kind care of his wife and the affection of his son. _ Every day both might be seen carrying or drawing the dear invalid to place him in the sun, and to warm his limbs, always so cold. His son Jules, a pleasant lad, brought up to honest and Christian ways, had wished to follow his father's trade; he was a working cutler, and had worked at the shop of his father’s successor for several years. At the age of eighteen he knew all that a cutler of Concorneau could teach him, but he felt that he was still ignorant of much that lie ought to know, and was anxious to go and continue his apprenticeship in the great city of Paris. Father and mother conversed long and anxiously about it. Madame Kerven was very anxious; her love a3 a mother made her fear this cruel separa¬ tion, but she especially feared lest her son should be tempted out of the path of virtue. At last the journey was decided upon. At the moment of departure M. Kerven gave bis son the wisest advice, and, commending him to the care and protection of God, gave him his blessing. Madame Kerven accompanied her son to the door of the house, crossing the little garden before mentioned. Then she stopped for a moment, and drawing from her pocket a little well-worn Bible, she said to her son, 4 Take this, a book which has often given me joy, hope, and consolation ; keep it in remembrance of me.’ Then stooping down, she gathered a little flower, which was blooming in a bed at her feet. It was that charming flower so sweetly called 4 Forget- me-Not.’ Madame Kerven gathered a sprig of these flowers, and giving it to her son she said, ‘ Take this flower, my dear boy, and do not forget me.’ Then pressing a last kiss on her son’s forehead, she turned away almost blinded by her tears. Jules set off then ; he arrived in the great city, and entered one of those workshops where nonesty and religion are too often despised. His life remained honest, pure, and truly Christian. He kept up a regular correspondence with his mother. His companions sometimes attacked and mocked him, but he knew how to defend himself and to make himself respected by all : sometimes he re-

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No. II. CHATTERBOX. 15 plied with spirit, sometimes he proudly claimed his right to do good when others assumed to themselves the license of doing evil. Nevertheless, the constant society of bad com¬ panions is everywhere and always dangerous. One day, it was the fete day of the establishment, all the workmen took an excursion into the country, and went to the play in the evening. Jules went too, and witnessed a performance the morality of which was very doubtful. Naturally, as lie became attached to these plea¬ sures, lie began to care less for his family. His correspondence with his poor mother was not so constant, his letters were not so marked by expres¬ sions of tenderness and affection. Her letters to her son were as affectionate as ever, but the alarm which troubled the good woman might easily be seen in them. Jules, warned by his conscience, could not fail to perceive this change, so that he often felt a real pain in reading his mother’s letters. Some¬ times a letter remained on his table for a whole day after he had received it, with the seal unbroken, as if he were ashamed to read in it reproof of his wrong-doing. One day a party was made up in the workshop to go in the evening to a place of vice. The evening had come, and it was quite time to start for the place of meeting. Jules was in his • room hastily finishing his toilette. As lie was looking hurriedly for something in one of his drawers his hand came upon that book which his mother had given him on the da}7 of their separation. In moving it the book opened, and the piece of h^orget-me-not which his mother had given him at the same time, as well as a letter from her, which he had received several days ago, and never had courage to. open, fell out before his eyes4> The sight of the book, of the flower, and of the letter, drew from him a sigh of regret and remorse. I-Ie took up the letter, broke the seal, and read it hastily. His mother told him that she was in sad anxiety, for his father had just had a new attack of such a terrible nature that his life was in im¬ minent danger. Jules was cut to the heart by this terrible news ; he fell on his knees, lie prayed God to have pity on his father, on himself, anil on his mother. He wept bitterly. He soon rose from his knees, he no longer thought of joining his com¬ panions. He thought only of his father and mother. He looked at his clock ; it was nine— the last train for Brittany started at ten. He might catch it if he made haste. He hurriedly changed his clothes, and then ran off to the station, which he reached just before the train started. The next evening lie arrived at Concarneau ; his father was very ill : however, he was able to recognise his son, and give him a last blessing. After his father’s death Jules remained with his mother ; he became a loving and excellent son again, and a fervent and devout Christian. He is now twenty-seven years of age; he has established him¬ self at Concarneau, bought his father’s former busi¬ ness, and is doing well in it. He is the consolation of his poor mother, and a good example to his corn- nan ions. Such a change God brought about by a mother’s ft and a sprig of 4 Forget-me-not.’ J. F. C. WOBNT OUT. If ’M as deaf as a post, and I hardly can see, A Yet i know that those horses are talking of me ; And I know what those happy young quadrupeds sa}r. 4 Y on lucky old fellow does nothing but pla}7, He goes, at his leisure, wherever he will, And when he is hungry he gathers his fill ; He surely forgets how a horse-collar feels, And the shafts of those horrible boxes on wheels; He fears not the crack of the waggoner’s whip, Nor feels the sharp edge of the curb on his lip : Oli, would not I caper, a quadruped gay, If my life were his now, all work and no play ; If I’d nothing to do, but to cat and to muse, And roam the soft meadow without any shoes ! ’ And so those young fellows go talking along Their juvenile nonsense, half right and half wrong. True— youth has its labours, but — youth lias its joys, And rest is a pleasure, 1 know, mv brave boys: But glad would I be of the curb and the rqjn, If I might be as youthful and active again. How often of happy old byegon A 1^ dream, When over the thorn-bush I gaze on the team : I’ve toiled at the harrow, the wain, and the plough, But, believe me, I never knew sorrow till now. I would barter old age and its favours this morn, To work in the furrow or carry the corn. What weakness all over ! what pains in each limb ! - One e}rcball is darkened — the other is dim — And though Master provides me most capital meat, If grinders are wanting, how can a horse eat ? Why tell all my ailments ? there is not a doubt, I am what they call me— 4 used up ’ and 4 worn out.’ I’ve beard of some masters who make it a plan To got from their horses as much as they can ; And when they are feeble, and weary, and slow. No pity they find — to the kennels they go. Now I think my good master has too much regard For a faithful old servant to treat* me so hard ; Yes, I hope my kind master, whenever I die, Will let m37 old bones in tranquillity lie, Where buttercup % cowslips,* and grasses will jvave Upon the green hillock that covers my grave. And you, my fine fellows, who envy my rest, My counsel to }7ou is— Do ever your best ; Be the best in the team, and the best in the stall, Be quiet and cheerful, and come at a call ; Be willing, as I was, to work while you may, And when you have come to the end of your day, It may be your Master will treat you the same, Though the joys you think much of deserve not the '■’frame. G. S. O. - -

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D

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18 CHATTERBOX. No. 111. A KICK CROSSING-SWEEPER. "N the first quarter of this century there f| rykjjf lived in London an old man who (Jj& B used to sweep a crossing near St. B sW James’s Park, of whom a very singu- |v/3 lar story is told. This old crossing- V | m |/3Jh sweeper, whatever was the amount of J JH 1*7 the alms bestowed upon him, always * used 0D^r retain a halfpenny, and c^g|®||l|^o return the rest to the donor. This very strange custom having become known procured him many half¬ pennies. It happened one day that the late Mr. Simcox of Harbourne, near Birmingham, a nail-manufacturer, who was in the habit of going frequently to London on business, was surprised by a heavy shower while in the streets. ITe took refuge under an archway, and had stood there for some time waiting for the storm to clear away, when the door of a handsome house opposite was opened, and a footman in livery, with an umbrella in his hand, crossed the street, and, pre¬ senting his master’s compliments, requested Mr. Simcox to fake shelter in the house. That gentleman gladly accepted the invitation, and following the man, was ushered into a handsomely furnished drawing-room, where he was received by the master of the house. Mr. Simcox was struck at once with a vague recollection of having seen the same gentleman be¬ fore, but where, or under what circumstances, he was unable to recall to mind. His inquiring glances during their conversation did not escape his host. 4 You seem, Sir,’ said he at last, 4 to look at me as if you had seen me before.’ Mr. Simcox replied that he thought such was the case, but that he could not recall the occasion. 4 You are right, Sir,’ replied the old gentleman ; 4 and if you will pledge your word of honour to keep my secret until you have seen the notice of my death in the papers, I have no objection to remind you where and when you have seen me.’ He then told Mr. Simcox that he was the crossing- sweeper in St. James’s Park, who never accepted more than one halfpenny. 4 Many years ago,’ he said, 4 1 first hit upon this expedient for the relief of my then pressing necessities. I was at that time destitute, but finding the scheme to answer beyond my expectations, I was led to carry it. on, until I had at last, with the help of profitable investments, realised a handsome fortune, enabling me to live in the comfort in which you find me to-day. And now, Sir, such is the force of habit, that though I am no longer under any necessity for continuing this plan, I find myself quite unable to give it up. Accordingly, every morning I leave home, apparently for business purposes, go to a room where I put on my beggar’s clothes, and continue sweeping my crossing in the Park till a certain hour in the after¬ noon, when I go back to my room, resume my usual dress, and return home in time for dinner, as you see me tliis day.’ — From LariuoocVs 4 Story of the London Farlcs.7 ARNO AND STEPHEN, the EOSTER-RROTHERS. ( Continued from p. 12.) * ^ CHAPTER III. ©im J/xXAp'ioHEN autumn came, and the first grapes were gathered, there was a merry festival in the village. W* The little village was gaily de- ^W*8®** corated, but the bailiffs house , was ^10 gayest ah with its flags r and ha111161’8* °U man was ■e4f vy.v. very proud that on such occasions ' 110 oue? n°t even the lord of the ' castle, ceukl surpass him. * In a meadow close by there was dancing in the afternoon. Marie, hitherto, had taken no part in these fes¬ tivities, as her mother’s illness did not allow her to accompany her daughter; but to-day Agnes had yielded to her brother’s entreaties, and appeared herself for a couple of hours at. the dancing-place, bringing Marie under her protection. The bailiff had united to the day’s rejoicings the celebration of his son’s coming of age which could not be kept at the right time last year, owing to Stephen’s absence, and Agnes felt that she owed this attention to Arno’s foster-mother and foster- brother. That she took Marie with her was at the particular request of Stephen’s mother, who loved no one so well among the maidens of the village. It may easily be imagined that there was plenty of ill-natured gossip in the village about Marie’s friendliness with the family at the Castle. Now when Agnes danced the first dance with Stephen, and Count Arno led out Marie opposite to them, here and there whispers might be heard about 4 Certain people who always put themselves forward;’ and, 4 Now look at the stupid thing! how she throws her head back! and how vain she is because the young Count is dancing with her, while many rich ’ farmers’ daughters are standing by unnoticed: and she only the daughter of a poor vinedresser !’ But Marie, in happy unconcern, gave herself up to the enjoyments of the day, and neither heard the envious remarks nor observed the jealous glances of some of the other girls of the village. Her re¬ tiring disposition, as well as her superior refinement and education, did not make her popular among the villagers ; still she had friends among them, and Stephen’s mother was not the only matron of the village who wished to possess the clever, good- natured Marie for a daughter-in-law. Countess Agnes did not stay very long in the dancing-field, her serious disposition was little fitted for such amusements ; besides, she never left her father for long : but Marie remained under the pro¬ tection of the bailiff’s wife. The dance had lasted several hours : Count Arno, who was in a merry humour, was about to dance with Marie, but he was interrupted by a servant sent from the Castle, to inform him that an ^ unex¬ pected guest had arrived, an old friend of the family, who must leave in a few hours, and who was anxious to see the young Count.

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No. III. CHATTEEBOX. 19 Arno could not conceal his annoyance, and wished to finish the dance, but Marie urged him to go at once. 4 1 must find a substitute first, as is my duty/ he replied, looking round the circle. ‘Eight — ah, there is Stephen! he has, it appears, found no partner. Come, brother!’ he cried, beckoning to him. ‘I must go home,’ he added as Stephen came up : 4 take my place as well as you can and therewith he placed Marie’s hand in Stephen’s. He said the words hastily, and in strange excite¬ ment, and then he remained standing for a moment as if he had forgotten to go away. Marie looked at him amazed. 4 But you must go, Count Arno,’ she said simply. 4 Eight, I forgot,’ he replied absently. 4 Good¬ night;’ and then he went. Stephen had already engaged Marie for the next dance ; when this was over, and it was getting dark, she said she must go home to her mother, who certainly had long been expecting her. The bailiff was sitting with several village worthies, and as his wife had to wait on him, Stephen accom¬ panied Marie home. It was some distance, as they had to go round the bailiff’s field, and on such a day as this Marie could not very well return alone. They had scarcely left the dancing-ground, and were going along the narrow path which skirted the meadow, with a hedge on one side and a deep ditch half filled with water on the other, when they met five or six young men, each with a girl on his arm, sauntering along. Their loud voices and still louder laughter proved that these lads had already drunk more than was good for them. Marie and Stephen stood on one side to let them go b}r. The first couple were too much taken up with each other to take any notice of them, and Marie hoped the others would do the same. But those following stopped, and the young man, with the exclamation, ‘Why, whom have we got here?’ was about to touch Marie under the chin, had not Stephen quickly interposed his broad figure between them. Then cried a voice from .the group, 4 Aha ! that is the young Count’s sweetheart ! She won’t allow any one else to look her in the face.’ A burst of laughter followed the words, and with the cry, 4 Good-night, my Lady Countess,’ the rough band tried to press round her. It was all the work of a second. Stephen sprang forward. 4 Whoever dares to touch the girl shall repent it!’ he exclaimed. The others hesitated for a moment ; such conduct from the usually quiet Stephen was unexpected : indeed, owing to the effects of drink, some of them had not recognised him. Then another voice called out, 4 Ah, that is the bailiff’s Stephen, his mother’s darling ! surely he is not going to rob the young Count of his sweetheart ! He - ’ But in a moment Stephen was in their midst, and seizing the ringleader lie quickly caused the others to disperse. But Marie was now Stephen’s care ; he turned round to her, and as he held out to her his hand he said in a gentle voice, very different from the angry tones he had used a moment ago, — 4 Marie, we will go.’ Marie, during the whole incident, had stood quiet and speechless, like one when a whirlwind passes by. Now she showed neither weakness nor excitement. For a moment, indeed, she seized Stephen’s prof¬ fered hand, and bent her forehead over it, as if lier heart would break for shame and grief ; but it was only for a moment, then she walked on in silence beside him without accepting his support. Thus, they walked on to the cottage. When they reached it she remained standing for some moments, and then, as if awaking from a dream, she passed her hand over her forehead. Stephen looked anxiously at her. It had become so dark that he could scarcely see her features, only her eyes, as she looked sadly round as if all was strange to her. He wanted to say something, and stroking the old dog Spitz, who had come out to meet his mistress, he remarked, 4 1 always think of the time when we were children, when I see our old comrade here.’ 4 Ah ! we were very happy then,’ replied Marie. He would willingly have answered, but he could not express what he wanted to say. Fie saw her go up towards the house, then she turned round once more. 4 Stephen — the man there — in the ditch - ’ she began. Fie quickly understood what she meant. 4 1 know,’ he replied. 4 1 will go now and fetch him out, if no one else has done it ; it won’t have done him any harm. Good-night ! ’ 4 Good- night,’ she replied, and went away. Not a word was said by Marie or Stephen about the events of that evening. Marie even did not like to mention it to her mother, and to the Countess Agnes, who usually had her full confidence, she was also silent. Stephen’s instinctive gentleness closed his mouth, and the assailants of course took good care not to publish their defeat, and when they became sober they were really ashamed of their conduct. But no one who was intimate with Marie could fail to observe the change which came over her after that fete-day. She was still happy and cheerful, but it was not the childlike gaiety as before ; a shadow seemed to have passed over her sunny nature. She scarcely ever came to the Castle during the winter, and when business obliged her to do so she knew how to choose the time for her visits when Countess Agnes was alone: Agnes’s sharp eye had soon detected the change in her friend, but she did not like to ask her any questions. Marie avoided, as far as possible, any long inter¬ view with Count Arno or with Stephen. She could not hinder the former from sometimes coining up and giving her a friendly greeting as he came out of church and went rip to the Castle. Stephen’s visits too were as difficult to avoid ; he frequently came with a message from his mother, when he would sit down silently on his chair, and nearly every day he said 4 Good-morning ’ to her over the garden-hedge. Marie was as friendly as ever to both ; but there was no longer the old freedom, and when, in the even¬ ing, she sat alone in her room, many tears fell from her eyes when she thought of the old days that would never come again. (To be continued.)

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20 CHATTERBOX. No. III. THE SHIP ON FIRE. SHERE was joy in the ship as she furrowed the foam, For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home. The young mother pressed fondly her babe to her breast, And sang a sweet song as she rocked it to rest ; And the husband sat cheerily down by her side, And looked with delight on the face of his bride. 4 Oh, happy ! ’ said he, 4 when our roaming is o’er, Well dwell in a cottage that stands by the shore ! Already in fancy its roof I descry, And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky ; Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall, And the kind friends awaiting to welcome us all/ Hark ! hark ! — what was that ? shout ! — Hark ! hark to the 4 Fire ! fire !’ — then a tramp and a rush and a rout; And an uproar of voices arose in the air, And the mother knelt down, and the half-spoken prayer That she offered to God, in her agony wild, Was, 4 Father, have mercy ! look down on my child!/ . She flew to her husband, she clung to his side ; — Oh ! there was her refuge whatever betide ! Fire ! fire ! it is raging above and below ; And the smoke and hot cinders all blindingly blow. The cheek of the sailor grew pale at the sight, And his eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light. The smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher ! — 0 God, it is fearful to perish by lire !

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ISTo. III. CHATTERBOX. 21 Alone with destruction ! alone on the sea ! Great Father of Mercy, our hope is in Thee ! They prayed for the light, and at noontide about The sun o’er the waters shone joyously out. ‘ A sail, ho ! a sail ! ’ cried the man on the lee ; ‘ A sail ! ’ and they turned their glad eyes o’er the sea. ‘ They see us ! they see us ! the signal is waved ! They bear down upon us! — thank God, we are saved!’ C. Mack ay. BLACKWOOD’S LITTLE GRANDCHILD. UNTIE, my boots want mending — my fishing-boots ; may Samuel take them directly to old Blackwood, and say they must be back to-morrow ? ’ ‘Blackwood is away, dear — gone to his daughter’s funeral,’ said Miss Preston, a somewhat stiff old maid in the eye of the world, but really the devoted slave and admirer ot the young nephew who was spending the holidays with her. 4 Please, sir,’ said Samuel, who chanced to be in the room at the time, ‘Blackwood’s come hack — last night — brought a little girl with him, almost an infant,’ he added, glancing at his mistress, whom he knew the news would interest. k

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99 CHATTERBOX. No. III. ‘ A child! an infant! Not to keep in that dirty hole, I do hope!’ said Miss Preston. ‘Oh, dear, this must be seen to at once ! Blackwood can’t keep himself decent, much less a child. I must go down directly.’ Now Blackwood the shoemaker had greatly troubled and incensed well-meaning Miss Preston during the three years she had lived in Bridge! ev : he was dirty, he was silent, he was poor, and lie would neither clean himself, nor talk, nor accept alms at her hand. 4 He did well enough,’ was all the reply she could get from him. And this from a man who seldom afforded him¬ self meat, rarely had a clean shirt, and did not seem to take the least notice of Sunday. And he to have a child dependent upon him! Shocking! not to be permitted ! The workhouse was better for it. Miss Preston put on her bonnet in a state of virtuous indignation. Darling Beginald’s boots were quite forgotten. Down to the dirty, dark cottage, went the good lady ; returning, however, somewhat crestfallen. Blackwood was more silent and obstinate than ever, he had said he meant to keep the child, and that was all. Poor, little, neglected innocent! ‘ May he have my boots to mend?’ said Reginald, who was a man of one idea, and at the present moment it was the fishing-boots. ‘ Yes, deal*. Samuel, take them,’ said Miss Preston, who was positively depressed at the grievous prospects of Blackwood’s little grandchild. / And say they are to be back to-morrow, sharp,’ said Reginald. And, something to the young gentleman's surprise, the boots did come back on the morrow, well repaired, and even before he expected them. ‘ Auntie, Blackwood’s not such a slow coach these holidays,’ he declared. ‘ Look at these boots, he has made a very tidy job of them ; and that little girl of his is a jolly-looking little thing.’ ‘ How do you know, Reginald ? ’ asked his aunt. ‘He brought her to the back-door on his shoulder, and I gave her a new penny,’ said Reginald, proud of his essay in alms-giving. ‘Sadly neglected, I fear!’ said Miss Preston, shak¬ ing her head. ‘Pier face and her pinafore was very clean, mum,’ said the ever-attentive Samuel, who was in waiting for the boots. It was not in Miss Preston’s nature to let things be, so very soon she set out again on a visit to old Blackwood; this time hopeful, for she had some¬ thing with her he could not refuse : a nomination to Lady Courtley’s Orphan Home. Blackwood's cottage was as dim and dirty as usual, but there was a spot of bright colour in it to-day : on a little stool near the old man sat a yellow-haired child, whose crossed legs displayed a shining pair of scarlet shoes. ‘He made them,’ said the child, pointing to her grandfather, and imagining that all the world must be deeply interested in her new shoes. But Miss Preston -was too eager to be diverted from her purpose, she just nodded to the little thing, and then unfolded her scheme to old Blackwood. ‘Rosamond there (what a name for a child!) would be boarded, lodged, and educated for nothing, up to the age of fourteen, at her Ladyship s Orphan Home, and finally apprenticed or put into service without one atom of expense or trouble on the part of her grandfather.’ She paused for a word of gratitude from the old man ; he opened his mouth twice, and the third time spoke. ‘ Thank you, thank her ladyship, but she can’t go. I want her.’ And nothing would shake him. Miss Preston went home quite ill with vexation and anger. Every day for a week Reginald heard the tale of old Blackwood's ingratitude and obstinacy, till at last he said, — ‘ Aunty, don’t fret yourself so. I believe you try to do too much good ; leave Blackwood his child, I think he’d be very dull without her now — like you are when I’m away.’ ‘ But what a sad home for the child ! ’ said Miss Preston, a little influenced by the argument. ‘ Not so bad as you think,’ said Regy. ‘ I’m often Eassing, and he’s got an old woman to clean the ouse; you can see through the panes now, and the little thing — Rose he calls her — is always hopping about as merry as a bird, in red shoes and a black frock ; and Samuel says she is to go to school. And Blackwood himself is quite sharp over his work: I believe he only cared before to do enough cobbling to keep body and soul together, but now it is different, and he can work well if he chooses.’ Miss Preston meditated over this account, and thought, perhaps, she had better let well alone when she found that Rosamond Blackwood did regularly attend the infant-school, neatly and . cleanly attired : and even came to church, wonder of wonders ! drag¬ ging grandfather with her. They sat in the darkest corner of the building, but Miss Preston’s quick eye spied them out. Poor, old, miserable, dirty Blackwood ! a wonder¬ ful change had come over his life. Miss Preston found it all out later. In the autumn a fever visited the village, and little Rose took it severely. Poor old Blackwood was in despair. Two whole nights Miss Preston sat by the child’s sick bed, giving brandy and medicine to keep the little life in her. Towards daybreak she slept, and the busy doctor coming in on his earliest rounds wished the poor old shoemaker joj", the danger was past. Then the stiff, reserved old man broke down. ‘ I ask your pardon,’ he said to Miss Preston, ‘ for my shortness towards you ; but I never was one to speak much, and I had a bi^ sorrow always drying me up. I drove that child’s mother from home by my harshness, because she would marry a fellow I didn’t like, and who died a year after — she was my onty one, too. I was too proud to show her I was sorry and bid her come back, and I never saw her alive; but she left me the child and a message, “I know father will be good to it.” So I promised by her grave I would be good to it, it should never hear a hard word if I could help it, and after that I couldn’t send it away. Besides, I’m not so old ; I can work well yet, and I’m trying to get the place a bit brighter for the little one. I know it wasn’t fit for the like of her. I thought my heart would break last night when we thought t

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No. III. CHATTEEBOX. 23 she was going, for as long as 1 keep her, I feel as if she that’s gone, and Iiim as judges, could both forgive me. But she’s better now, thank Him! and thank you, ma’am.’ . The speech touched Miss Preston, perhaps the more that old Blackwood shrank reverently from uttering the name of the God he seemed to have forgotten so long. Miss Preston had tried, as Eegy said, to do too much good when she wished to deprive old Black¬ wood of his little grandchild. We must be careful how we sever these natural ties, for love on earth is a t}'pe of love in Heaven, and may not be thoughtlessly interfered with. At Christmas Eegy was quite delighted. ‘ Aunty,’ he said, 4 old Blackwood is quite a genius; he can clean my hunting-boots, he says, and he has a shop full of very respectable boots and shoes now. The little Lydiatts from the Grange were being fitted with blue dancing-shoes; think of that! and he’s putting money by for Eosy. She’s a regular little beauty, too ; it seems to have quite changed the old chap, having that pretty little thing in the house. Don't you remember what a dull, downcast old fellow he used to be before, never a smile for any one, sitting on that old stool of his? I think he must wash his face too now, and his shirt was as clean as mine.’ Yes ! Miss Preston saw it all, and took a lesson to herself from it — to be more considerate, even over her efforts to do good ; and the poor, who always respected her, now love her and welcome her freely into their homes. H. A. P. WOBDS IN CHATTEEBOX. PERHAPS few readers of Chatterbox have thought how many words are contained in the ten letters of its title. To give them an idea of the number, I have written down as many as I can think of ; and I dare say they will find it a pleasant game for a winter evening to find out how many small words are contained in a larger one. ‘Create,7 or ‘creation,7 are good words for trying the experiment. ace be cat hare hotter robe ache bear char hart 0! rot act beat chart hat oar Tab all ! berth chat hat-box oat tact are Bertha chatter hate oath tar art bet cheat hatter ochre tare at boa diet ah he oh! tart ate hoar - coat hear or tax axe boat cob heart orb tear hah ! bore core heat ore that bar both cot her other the hare bother crab Hector otter threat bat box ear herb ox throat batch Carafe eat hero race to bate brolli era lio ! rat toe hath cab exhort lioar rate tore bathe car extra hob reach tract bather care extract Horeb roach treat batter cart ha ! hot rob trot THE SWAH A35TD THE CROWS. /,CfLAD in plumage white as snow, On a lake a Swan was sailing ; On the margin stood a Crow, At the stately creature railing ; ‘ Pretty goose you look, I’m sure, In your glaring feathers, madam ! Call them chaste, forsooth, and pure ! Should be sorry if I bad ’em.7 So the saucy Crow went on, Of the swimmer’s beauty jealous. Calling to behold the Swan Quite a dozen of her fellows. Then, while some began to prate In their vulgar Crowisli chatter. Some were mimicking her gait ; Others making faces at her. But the noble-minded bird Calmly floated past the rabble, Deigning not to say a word In reply to all their gabble. Cried an ugly-Jooking Crow, Very old and very sooty : ‘ See, there’s some black mud below ; Let us paint the pretty beauty ! ’ So, to vent their envious ire, Filling up their beaks, they fluttered Round their victim, and the mire O’er her plumage thickly sputtered. Then the old malicious jade, Seeing their success in tainting All the fair white feathers, said : ‘We are first-rate hands at painting P When at last the work was done To the painters’ satisfaction, To the bank they one by one Flew to chuckle o’er their act. But the meek, insulted Swan, Diving down beneath the water, Rose, as they were looking on, Fairer than they ever thought her, — Saying: ‘You perceive, the slime That you dabbled in, poor creatures^ Serves at present to begrime, Not myself, but your own features.’ Human crows, with slander’s mud, Vainly smear your reputation : Truth will prove the cleansing fio/1 1 To undo the operation. W. E. E.

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E

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26 CHATTERBOX. No. IV. TI-IE SCOTCH DEER HOUND. SIE of the strangest things about the dog is, that he can take so many shapes and sizes. Some dogs are as smooth as satin, others are exceed¬ ingly rough and shaggy ; some are very big, others are very tiny. If I were to mention the names of all the dogs that exist you would be weary. The shepherd’s dog is thought the most sensible, and the pug is at the bottom of the class, called by a knowing man ‘ the stupid, helpless, and degenerate pug.’ It is believed that all have come from one stock, and it thus appears the dog may be moulded into any shape almost, and can be taught to do anything but talk. Place the noble head of the Scotch deer-hound by the side of the pug, and what a difference ! We see at once that the deer-hound is meant for the chase, but what the snappish, noisy pug is for, except to perform amusing tricks, which he can do very well, we cannot say. Man has been a hunter since the days of Nimrod, ‘ the mighty hunter before the Lord.’ In wild coun¬ tries there are no butchers’ shops, and you must go quite into the fields and forests to get your dinner ; and you find that a fleet hound, who has been taught to catch hares or deer for you, is a very useful friend. You are soon out of breath, and it is not pleasant to see your dinner disappearing through the hedge, whilst you are panting and puffing over the first half of the field. If you are hungry, as, np doubt, you are, you bless your four-footed companion, the dog, who, as much tor his own pleasure as for his master’s dinner, bounds after leveret or roebuck, until it is caught. As we are, however, so used to food which has given us no trouble or care, we overlook the services of the good dog, and forget what a true friend he is to a hungry man. Now, what do you think a perfect doer-hound should be like ? I will tell you what the old rhymer says. A good hound should be 4 Headed like a snake, Necked like a drake, Footed like a cat, Tailed like a rat, Sided like a bream, Chined like a beam.’ Those are the funny old lines which tell us what makes a first-rate greyhound. When 1 read the ballad of Chevy Chase , I wonder sometimes what the stag-hounds did, and what they thought, whilst their masters fought and died. It is said that the dog looks up to man as if he were a god. What could the poor animals do when then- happy hunting-day became a day of death ? . We do not hear that the dogs took any part m the battle. As all my readers may not remember the story, let me tell it again , _ A great lord, the Earl of Northumberland, once swore an oath that he would kill and carry away the best deer from the Scottish forests. So, one unlucky Monday, he and his men and deer-hounds began to hunt at daylight, and before twelve o’clock in the day they had killed a hundred fat bucks. But this in¬ sulting robbery could not be borne by the high- spirited Scots. The next morning early, the noble Earl Douglas came to the place where the English earl was hunting. Douglas wore bright armour, and rode on a milk-white horse. A very bloody battle followed. Soon many a gallant gentleman lay gasp¬ ing on the ground. An arrow from an English bowstring pierced Earl Douglas through the heart, whilst the English earl, in his turn, was stricken through the body by Sir Hugh Montgomery’s spear, so that it came out on the otner side a cloth yard in length. The battle lasted all day, and when the evening-bell was tolling, it ended. Two thousand Scots came to the battle-field, and fifty-five went home. The English had fifteen hundred in the morning, and only fifty-three escaped. ‘ The rest were slain in Chevy Chase, Under the greenwood tree/ Such were the rough and dangerous pastimes of the good old times. Men by hundreds came to hunt, and remained to die. It was not a noble quarrel to die in. Life is too precious to be flung away so. Let us thank God that the good old days are' past, and Englishmen and Scotchmen, instead of murder¬ ing each other, now stand together under the same flag, and fight only when they have a good reason. Their only strife with each other is, who. shall be the noblest, and the bravest, and the most loving, in peace or in war. But, however brave and noble men may be, they never can surpass, and they often fall far below, their faithful and attached servant the dog, specially in that brightest jewel of all, fidelity to his trust. Let his master fall into the depths of want or dis¬ grace, his dog will not forsake him. It would be well if we could always say the same of men ! G. S. O. ‘WHERE’S THE HARM OE IT?’ AERY ASHTON was all alone in the parlour. It was a half-holiday, and his great friend, George Saun¬ ders, was to call for him to go cricketing on the green: but it wasn’t quite time yet, and Harry lingered about wishing very much lie could find something to do for the quarter of an hour which must pass before the clock struck three. His mother had gone out, taking the key to let herself in when she returned ; so there was no one in the house but Harry, and the tabby cat, and the parrot, which shrieked ‘ \\ hat s a-clock ? most provokingly. At last the boy’s restless eyes fell on a letter Jie knew the postman had brought that morning; indeed, he firmly believed it was that very letter winch had taken his mother out, and Harry wanted desperately to know what was in it. He had already put the question, for letters were scarce there, and the post-

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No. iv. CHATTERBOX. 27 man’s coming was an event in the cottage, but his father hade him ‘ hold his tongue/ and his mother had looked reprovingly at him, and Harry had been feeling rather ill used in consequence all day. What was to hinder him reading the letter now ? no one would know, no one would see. But something seemed to tell him it was wrong, mean, dishonour¬ able, and the boy hesitated and took another look out of the window for George Saunders. Then he returned to the mantel-shelf where the letter lay so temptingly, looked at it, fingered it, and then saying, ‘ Where’s the harm of it?’ read it through. It did not give him any pleasure, there wasn’t a word in all the sheer of paper concerning him, and Harry felt vexed with his own curiosity, and inclined to think it was his parents’ fault that he had touched it. ‘They shouldn’t have made such a mystery about it,* he told himself; hut just then George Saunders appeared, and the hoys went off to tlieir game, and Harry forgot all about the letter, excepting a few twinges which his conscience gave him, and no one was any the wiser — excepting God. But the habit of deceit was begun. Five years rolled away, and Harry Ashton was a tall, well-grown lad of eighteen. The cricketing and all the games were over now, for there was a living to he got, and a way to be made in the world. He had a good situation under the best painter and plumber in the town, with a p>rospect of rising to some good position if he was steady and upright. But during those five years evil habits had grown with his growth, good principle was weaker than it had been, and the lessons of his childhood, the earnest training of his mother, and the example of his father, did not appear to bear fruit. But tnat one dishon¬ ourable action of his boyhood had borne its fruit ! Trifling as it seemed, it was the first wilful turning aside from what he knew to be truthful and right; but, unfortunately, it was not the last. From one thing to another Hai ry went on indulging in small deceits, until the habit grew strong, and he would now exclaim, ‘Where’s the harm of it?’ in cases which once he would have felt to be positive sin. Still time rolled on, the years which passed over his head brought him troubles enough. It grew to be a settled thing that no one believed his word ; if any suspicion rested on any one it was always on Ashton, and at last his employers found so much reason to mistrust him that he was dismissed from the place without a character, which nearly broke the heart of his mother, who was getting an old woman then. At thirty years of age Harry Ashton, with a wife and two little children, found himself in London seeking employment in his old trade, and being a clever workman he was not long idle. He had bid¬ den farewell to his native village, for he said he should ‘ never do any good there ; if a man wanted to get on, London was* the place for him ; ’ but he had not bidden farewell to his old habit of deceit. One day h happened that he was employed at a job of work in a London lawyer’s office. It was but a small matter of half -an -hour or so, so that the lawyer went on with his writing. Whilst Ashton seemed busy with his work, he glanced around him every now and then, observing the safes and drawers, and with the old curiosity of his boyhood he thought how much he should like to see into them, and ‘ rummage ’ amongst the lawyer’s fust}*- old papers. The secretary in the corner looked very tempting too ; many a secret lay hid in those drawers, Harry Ashton knew well; but the key was turned and taken away every time it had to be opened. There was no chance for prying eyes in that office certainly ! But a chance was coming, and this was how it happened. The lawyer had been seated at his desk, busy with his cheque-book, writing rapidly first on one slip of paper, then on another, as Ashton observed. Suddenly he was called away, and the message seemed to surprise and hurry him, for he crammed all the slips of paper and letters into one of the secretary drawers, and hastened from the room leaving the keys hanging in the lock. Ashton felt as if he could not resist the temptation of looking. ‘ He should uncommonly like to see what all those slips of paper were about,’ he said to him¬ self: if only he was sure he wouldn’t be caught, he’d have a look, that he would ; ‘ Where was the harm of it ? ’ Curiosity proved stronger than fear, in a second Ashton had opened the drawer and held the packet of papers in his hand. He understood quite well that they were cheques, some blank, some filled in ; evidently going off by post to different persons with whom the lawyer had business. Dear ! dear ! how good it would be if one of the cheques was for him. Couldn’t he rig himself out in new clothes, and couldn’t he make Bessie and the little ones comfortable ! That was the thought, but it never crossed his mind to steal one, that came after¬ wards. He stood with a cheque in his hand, gazing at the firm handwriting which directed the sum of lOZ. 10s. io be paid to ‘ George Graham.’ As he wondered who George Graham was, and wished it was himself, he heard a step outside in the passage ; to snatch up and hide the paper was the work of a moment, and when the door opened Harry Ashton was back at the win¬ dow-ledge he was painting, looking as if he had never stirred an inch from the spot. At first he chuckled inwardly at the thought of how well he had escaped ; then he began to wonder how he should replace the paper, and truly enough there was no chance of it, for the lawyer sat in his chair as if he had been glued to it long after Harry had done his work and gone home. That evening he seemed very absent and silent, and when he was alone he got the cheque out and liad another look at it. Well, he must burn it, and then it would be all right ; he even stretched out his hand towards the grate, but temptation had entered his heart. How easy it would be to make that 10Z. 10s. his own ! He had only to sign the name, ‘ George Graham,’ on the back, he had seen his old master do it many a time, and the money would be his. Five minutes after the thing was done, and Harry had ruined himself. If he nad but remem¬ bered the old, old words he had learned as a child, ‘Be sure your sin will find you out,’ but he did not. He had done so many trifling deeds of dishonesty which no one had ever been the wiser for; told so many lies and nothing appeared to come of them, that he had grown hardened.

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28 CHATTERBOX. No. IV. ‘ Ashton had opened the drawer and held the packet of papers in his hand.' Tt was a case which has happened many a time before — of the forgery being found out, of a trial, of a severe sentence, of the heart-broken wife and deserted home. Then, too late, came Harry Ashton’s repen¬ tance ; too late to save him from the consequences of his sin in this world, but not too late for God to give him pardoh. Then as he sat in prison, solitary and sad, he traced back his sin to the early faults of his boyhood, and when he kissed his wife and the crying children for the last time before he was sent far from Old England he whispered to little ITarry, who looked up wonderingly in his face : £ My boy, take a lesson from me, and don’t begin to say, “ Where’s the harm of it ? ” ’

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30 CHATTERBOX. No. IV. THE FLOWERS OF JANUARY. ING WINTER rules over the land, sending forth day by day the tierce winds, the biting frosts, or the driving snow. ‘Oh, he is very cruel and stern!’ we fancy we hear our young readers exclaim. ‘ We cannot love him, for he destroys all that is bright and beautiful. Even the sweet flowers that we so delight in he has taken from us. When he approached, oue by one they drooped their pretty heads, their colours faded, their perfumes passed away, and, all shrivelled and withered, they fell to earth and perished. And now the gardens and fields are ali bare and desolate, or else covered thick with the cold white snow ! Cruel, cruel Winter !’ But stay, my dear young friends ! King Winter is not so unkind as you fancy him. By means of the frosts he is preparing the soil, that it may bring forth a fresh crop of beautiful and useful plants in the year that has just commenced. The snow, too, that hides from view what remains above the ground of the flowers you so much love, is, strange as it may appear, keeping their roots warm, that they may not perish. But not only does King Winter thus protect the roots ; he allows a few, even in the very midst of his reign, to put forth their blossoms. Towards the end of the month you may see the ivory Snowdrops hanging gracefully upon their emerald stems, and gently swaying in the wind. Beautiful flpwers they are, but so delicate and frail that we cannot help wondering that they should venture into the chilly air while so many stronger plants yet hide beneath the soil. But the Snowdrop is not quite alone ; see here, growing close to the damp earth, where the mid¬ day sun has thawed away the snow, are some beau¬ tiful, yellow, cuf)-shaped blossoms, each surrounded with a frill of green leaves. This plant is * The Winter Aconite, With buttercup-like flowers that shut at night ; Its green leaf furling round its cup of gold, Like tender maiden muffled from the cold.’ In the shrubbery the Spurge Laurel, too, is in blossom ; its little star-shaped flowers, that grow in clusters amid its glossy green leaves, look as if they were cut out of pale green wax. We must gather a spray and place it with our Snowdrop and Aconite, to form a winters wreath. And now let us, spite of the melting snow, make our way into the country, and see if any flowers are to be met with there. Why, here is that ‘ bonnie gem,’ the Daisy, peeping up at our feet ! Dear as its little blossom is to us, when countless other flowers adorn the woods and fields, it seems doubly dear now, reminding us of the many happy days we spent in the grassy meadows in summers past. The * Little flower, With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour And weathers every sky,’ is indeed a true and constant friend, for having been with us in the bright days of summer it has remained to cheer us now in the gloomy winter. 4 The rose is but a summer flower, The daisy never dies.’ But what else can we find? Look ! over there, in that sheltered nook below the bank, the bright blos¬ soms of the Gorse are glowing yellow as gold upon the prickly branches. The Hazel, too, in the copse, is hanging out its pale-green catkins. Let us gather a spray from each, and so complete our January wreath ; whicn is, after all, veiy beautiful, and a cheering sight at this desolate season. H.B. A. ARNO AND STEPHEN, THE FOSTER-BROTHERS. {Continued from page 19.) CHAPTER IV. vas spring, in the year 1866. Ste¬ phen was resting under a cherry- tree in full bloom in his father’s garden. It looked as if he were counting the snowy blossoms, so intently were his eyes fixed on the branches. ‘ I will wait till the cherries are ripe,’ he said to himself ; ‘ then 1 must come to a decision ! I cannot wait aiy longer : I must know how it stands with him — with her '! My brother ! shall I be able to give her up to you without envy ? I don’t know. It almost seems to me as if my brotherly love wmuld be put to a severe test.’ ‘ What can be the matter with Stephen, that he lias avoided me so lately ?’ Count Arno was thinking at the very same time. ‘ He is more reserved and silent than ever. It can’t be — no; I have long since given up the thought, for I know he would have confided it to me : he can’t expect a rival in me : it is not possible. And yet it is strange that it should be so difficult for me to begin the subject with him ; for if I do not deceive myself, if the suspicion which came over me last autumn should turn out to be true, could I deny myself for his sake? I shall wait until Whitsuntide, not a day longer ; and if Stephen too is silent then I shall speak to him ! ’ But before Whitsuntide the cry ‘To arms!’ sounded through the land, and before the cherries were ripe death was gathering its red fruits on other harvest-fields. The foster-brothers, too, had to go, and both were in the same infantry regiment. At first they were quartered in a Rhenish fortress, but after the war had been really declared, and they had orders to march, Count Arno with some diffi¬ culty obtained a day’s leave for himself and Stephen to say farewell to their friends. It was a day, as such days always are, when we sit silently together, or talk of indifferent tilings, because hearts are full to breaking, and yet each wishes for the sake of others to be strong. When the afternoon came Stephen went out of his parents’ house : he ‘ must take one more look at the fields,’ he said, but he soon was standing before the neighbour’s cottage. It was no small disappointment for the young soldier to find the widow alone : Marie had gone to-da}r, as she did now nearly every day, to the

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No. IV. CHATTERBOX. 31 Castle, to help the Countess to prepare bandages and lint for the soldiers. So Stephen soon took leave of the good woman, who pressed his hand with tears in her eyes, and promised to remember him in her prayers. The young men must start before evening ; a boat would take them a short way down the river to a small town, whence the train would convey them to their garrison. Stephen had promised to meet Arno at the Castle ; his mother wished to accompany him, but her strength failed her, and her son had to tear himself from her arms. The bailiff, who thought it beneath his dignity to show any feeling, even before his own child, stood upright before his door to say farewell to his depart¬ ing ' son. He had put on his Sunday coat, and the iron cross shone on his breast. 4 Keep a brave fellow, lad ! ’ he said, with a rough¬ ness meant to conceal his inward excitement. 4 Don’t forget that your father in his day never turned his back on the enemy, and yet he came back home safe and well ; you do likewise V When he had seen the head of his son disappear behind the last trees he made a military salute, banged the door, and sat down to his pipe. When late in the evening his wife, with eyes red from weeping, called him to supper, he took his usual place at the table, but remarked that he had Smoked too much to-day, which had taken away his appetite ; and untouched as it had come up, the meal was removed. The two old people sat for a long time opposite to each other; very little was said, and the mother constantly gazed at the empty chair by her side, and asked herself whether it would ever be occupied again. Stephen, meanwhile, had gone up to the Castle, and met Arno and Agnes just as they were coming out of their father’s room. The parting from him had been a sad one. 4 My son ! my only son ! ’ were the Count’s words, as he placed his left hand, for his right was paralysed, on Arno’s bent head. 4 Behave yourself as becomes the last scion of our old and noble race. 44 With God for King and Fatherland,” has ever been the motto of all who bore your name; be their worthy successor, and may the Lord bring you in safety back to us ! ’ Then he gave his children a sign to leave him. He, too, wished to overcome his grief alone. Agnes met Stephen with outstretched hand : she was very pale, but in the maiden’s eye there shone heroic courage. 4 Oh, that I could go with you !’ she said, earnestly. 4 How hard it is in such times to remain at home and give no help !’ Her brother looked at her in wonder. 4 But we will do our part,’ she added : 4 we will hourly remember you in prayer: will we not, Marie?’ While she was speaking Marie had softly entered. She was carrying two packets of lint and ‘bandages, which they had prepared for the departing soldiers. In silence she gave her hand to the young men, and appeared deeply moved. 4 Where have you been hiding all the afternoon, Marie ?’ asked Arno. 4 1 could not find you.’ Marie replied that she had been busy in the Countess’s room. 4 We will go with you as far as the landing-place on the Rhine,’ said Agnes, as she took up her straw hat. Then she took her brother’s arm, and went out with him. Stephen followed close behind them with Marie. The chance was thus given him of speaking to her alone, and yet, when lie wished to speak, the recollection of that evening last autumn, when they had been together for the last time, came up before him, and it seemed as if what had then happened choked his voice. And whilst he was con¬ sidering with himself Arno stopped, and said, turning round, 4 To-day we must once more be all together ; who knows when we can be so again ?’ And so they went on the rcstof the way, Marie between the brothers, till they came to the narrow path down to the Rhine. The old boatman, who was waiting for them, said that there was not a moment to lose if they wished to reach the town in time for the train, so the parting had to be a hurried one. The girls stood gazing at the boat as it became smaller and smaller. The two lads also had remained standing upright in it.- Stephen had taken off his soldier’s cap, and a gentle breeze blew up his fair hair. Arno leaned with one hand on his brother’s shoulder,, with the other he drew his sword and saluted with it, the bright steel flashing in the sunlight. Farther and farther they glided downwards, till at last the maidens could no longer distinguish the boat. As Agnes pressed Marie’s trembling figure to her heart, her keen eye quickly understood that her young companion was suffering from more than the simple pain of saying farewell: and if Marie had not hitherto understood her own heart, now she knew why she suffered. {To be continued.) THE FOLDED FLOCK. O HEPHERDS all, and maidens fair, 0 Fold your flocks up, for the air ’Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course has run. See the heavy clouds low falling, And bright Hesperus* down calling The dead Night from underground, At whose rising mists unsound, Damps and vapours, fly apace, Hovering over the wanton face Of these pastures, where they come, Striking dead both bud and bloom. Therefore from such danger lock Every one his loved flock ; And let your dogs be loose without Lest the wolf come, as a scout From the mountains, and ere day Bear a lamb or kid away ; Or the crafty, thievish fox, Break upon your simple flocks. To secure yourselves from these, Be not too secure in ease ; So shall you good shepherds prove, And deserve your masters’ love. From Be.vtjmont and Fletcher. (Tvjo dramatic writers at the beginning of the seventeenth century. ) * Tlio Evening Star.

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No. Y. CHATTERBOX. Let me go home now, there’s a good fellow, and I’ll never teaze you again.

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34 CHATTERBOX. No. V. IDLE HANDS. J - . '■ > ^fe.IiE Christmas holidays had just commenced at a small school in Bedfordshire, not however bring¬ ing with them bright, frosty weather, such as most boys de¬ light in, when the ground is hard and crisp, and every pond is ready for merry skaters. On the con¬ trary, the roads were full of big pools, and the water threatened to invade the paths, making walk¬ ing extremely unpleasant. Two boys, one aged fifteen and the other twelve, were loitering slowly along the highway. They had left home in the hope of finding some amusement out of doors, and being cased in great coats and beggings, were picking out the dirtiest parts of the road, in order to prove to the utmost the worth of their shoe-leather. 4 Dull work this/ said Aleck, the cider of the two, with a discontented expression on his face. ‘ Nothing to do indoors nor out of doors, — no ice, no anything ! 7 ‘You can’t say there’s no mud/ rejoined his brother, a merry little urchin, at the same, time giving Aleck a push, which made him splash into a soft heap that had been just raked up by the indus¬ trious road-mender. 6 Keep quiet, can’t you ?’ said Aleck angrily, * or I’ll teaeli you better manners ! ’ Then suddenly changing his tone, he continued, ‘Hallo! here comes billy Billy ! Now for a spree ! Look, Bob, he’s wearing his mother’s shawl ! ’ ‘ So he is ! 7 replied Bob, laughing heartily, as a tall, lean figure, appeared round the corner of the road, wrapped in a plaid shawl, and wearing on his head a l2igh, battered beaver hat. With slow and measured steps came the poor idiot, ::or such was William Iiallet, or, as the village lads thoughtlessly called him, ‘ Silly Billy/ Looking up as he approached the two boys, he touched his hat respectfully, though with a certain nmount of dignity, and was about to pas3 on, when he was detained by Aleck catching hold of the long, duttering shawl. £ Silly Billy cock-a-dilly/ sang the boy in a taunt¬ ing yoice. ‘Now, Mr. William, we mean to have a bit of fun with you. What are you wearing your mammy’s plaid for?* , Turning round and facing his tormentors, the idiot gazed at him in a vacant and dreamy manner, but did not reply. 6 1 say, don’t bully the poor fellow, said Bob ; it s •a cowardly thing to chaff a poor half-witted creature/ ‘ Cowardly, you little muff ! 7 sneered his brother. ‘I ^suppose it’s cowardly to have a bit of fun on a nasty wet; day, when there s nothing else to do? ComejBil.ty, speak up, old boy, and don’t stand staring at me with hollow eyes, like a ghost in a pantomine/ As he uttered these words. Aleck knocked , off the tall leaver hat, which fell with a splash into the wet enud .at their feet. Bmised from his dream by the unexpected attack, the. idiot stooped to recover his soiled property, mut¬ tering to himself the while, — ‘ She’s dead ! she’s dead ! poor, poor thing ! and you did it all, Billy ! 7 ‘ What’s dead ? the cat ? ’ inquired Aleck mock¬ ingly. ‘Bern been shooting the cat, Billy? Fie, for shame!7 . ‘ III tell you what, Aleck/ said Bob seriously, ‘if you don’t mean to stop I’m off, and }’ou may have your game to yourself, only I warn you not to rile him too much.’ With these words the good-natured small boy trotted off, to find a more manly sport than that of tormenting the poor idiot, and left his brother to enjoy his cruel game alone. How true is the saying that ‘Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do !’ Aleck Itobert was known in his school for what boys call a ‘bully/ that is to sa}r, he took a delight in teasing those who were, younger or weaker than him¬ self ; and now being decidedly out of humour with the long walk, with the muddy roads, and in fact with everything around him, he was determined to vent his spleen by annoying the poor man who had chanced to meet him. But no ! William would not be annoyed. Three times he stooped to recover th$ hat which his tormentor had taken the trouble to knock off three times, but without a word, till Aleck, who was bent upon provoking him, pulled the shawl from his shoulders and proceeded to dabble it in the mud, saying as he did so, ‘ If this won’t make you talk I don’t know what will/ One glance at the idiot would have been enough to prove to him that this last action had had the desirod effect, but he did not look up, till, startled by- feeling his arm tightly grasped, he perceived William standing over him, in a. menacing attitude, his thin lips quivering with rage, and a fierce gleam lighting up his wild black eyes. ‘Ah no! ah no!’ he almost shrieked, tearing the shawl from the boys grasp. ‘ It’s mother’s ! poor clear mother’s ! and — and - ’ a choking sob drowned the rest, and then tears, thick and fast as an April shower, rolled clown the haggard face. Aleck, alarmed by this sudden outburst of feeling, would feign have made his escape, but William held him fast. ‘I say, let go Billy!’ he cried at last, finding his struggles unavailing. ‘ It was onty a bit of fun, you know ; I didn’t mean any harm/ ‘No harm!1 repeated the idiot, with an emphatic emphasis on the last word. ‘It’s hers, poor thing ! She sleeps in the cold churchyard, and it’ll be too damp to put over her to-night/ ‘ Come, come/ lie continued, finding that Aleck resisted, ‘ we must be going ; the sun will soon go out, and I must he there as soon as the moon is. risen/ ‘Yes, and J must be off home,’ said Aleck, assuming a courageous air, though inwardly lie was beginning to quake and tremble. ‘Mother won’t know what has become of me/ 6 Ah, and she must wait,’ replied William, giving a significant glance around, which Aleck interpreted to mean, ‘ The road is long and lonely, and 1 have you in my power/ It was no pleasant position to find oneself in,

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No. Y. CHATTERBOX. 35 standing in a road, out of sight and hearing of any human habitation, with no companion save an enraged lunatic, whose strength seemed, suddenly to have become almost superhuman. This Aleck felt to be the case, and a shudder ran through his frame. What did William intend to do. ? The sun had already sunk behind a mass of heavy black clouds, and darkness was coming on so rapidly that it almost seemed as though a thick grey curtain were being drawn across the sky. Frightened by the angry and excited demeanour of the idiot, Aleck had at length consented to' go with him, whither he knew not. There was no pos¬ sible chance of escape for him, as William never loosened his grasp on the hoys arm, and walked by his side muttering to himself. Twice Aleck fancied lie recognised the words, ‘When the moon’s up/ and then his own name in connexion with the churchyard, which made his blood run very cold, and caused a creepy sensation to steal over him. After traversing the high-road for. some miles, without meeting a single person, William suddenly turned off into a bye-lane, and whispering something which Aleck did not understand, in a very confidential manner, began to grope his way along the ditch, not however leaving go of the boy’s arm. The lane was so dark, being overshadowed by high trees on either side, and his position so extraordinary, that Aleck began to hope that lie was under the influence of a horrid dream, till he was roused from his meditations by a scream of delight from William. 4 Ha ! ha ! ha ! here it is, mother ! ’ cried the idiot, talking, as Aleck supposed, to some invisible shade that was hovering round them. ‘Here it is, bright and sharp as ever ! When the moon’s up, mother ; when the moon’s up ! ’ There is a saying, and a very true, one, that ‘bullies are always cowards/ and certainly it was the case now. Never in all his life had Aleck felt so thoroughly frightened as during that long walk, and when at length his grim conductor, after taking him through fields and by-lanes, arrived at the gate of a small churchyard, his fears reached a climax. William, who had scarcely spoken during the long walk, now became very excited, and as the moon was rising, Aleck saw by its dim light that the instru¬ ment the idiot was flourishing in the air was none other than a spade, brought .for what purpose lie dared not think. Was he to stand by and see his own grave dug? No! no! the thought must not be permitted for a moment. William Ilallet was known for as kind a hearted man as ever breathed, though of course he was not altogether accountable for actions* Summon¬ ing up the little spark of remaining courage- which this reccollcction had revived in him, Aleck was at length able to give expression to his thoughts. ‘ What are you going to do, dear old Billy?’ lie said in a coaxing voice. ‘ I’m so cold and hungry, let me go home now, there’s a good fellow, and I’ll never teaze you again, I promise.’ To his great surprise the idiot on hearing this turned suddenly round, and looking earnestly into his face, simply replied, ‘Poor mother!’ and burst into tears. His grief was so real and .touching, that Aleck, wrhose nerves were sadly unstrung, could not refrain f. from following his example, and the two mingled ^ their team by the cold moonlight, on that dreary | winter’s evening. It was now just nine, according to | the old church clock, and the moon being fully risen displayed to view a number of tombstones varying in - size and design. Passing them all, William and hi* unwilling companion proceeded to a shady, arm retired corner of the churchyard, where .was a solitary ; mound, evidently of recent elate. ‘ Oh, it’s so cold for \ her, .poor thing!’ sobbed tho idiot, kneeling down beside hi, ‘ Mother, dear mother ! the shawl’s too damp ] to put over you to-night, and I’m a-feared you'll be shivering before morning.’ ‘ I’ll tell you what, Billy/ said Aleck, who really felt sorry for the poor fellow ; ‘ here’s my great-coat ; if .you’ll let me go, you shall have it to put over your mother: it’s thicker and warmer than the shawl.’ The idiot seemed pleased with the idea, but sternly '• motioned to Aleck to remain. 4 1 must shake up her bed for her/ he said, pro- ceeding to dig a neat border round the grave, ‘ and £ then you shall go home, hut I will watch by my mother till morning; maybe she’d feel lonesome \- without me/ Aleck tried to explain to him that his mother | would neither feel cold nor lonely, and advised him f also to return to the village to seek for rest and ; shelter ; but his words were of no avail, so, leaving the jl idiot to weep and pray by his mothers grave, Aleck p made the best of his way home. It was a long dismal walk to take all alone, through | meadows and lanes, and the boy was glad when lie | saw in the distance the glimmer of lights and the ; outline of his father’s house. ‘ Oh, Master Aleck, I’m so glad you’re come !’ were the words which greeted his arrival. ‘ Mistress was I beginning to think you was lost and drowned, and I jj don’t know what all, and Master Eobert’s gone down e to the Eectory, to see if you was spending the evening with your uncle/ 4 Well, they’ve not been more frightened than c I have, Anne/ was the reply, for Aleck had deter¬ mined to make a clean breast of it all, and to tell the ;; whole stoiy, however much at his own expense. ‘ \V$31, Aleck, where have you been?’ exclaimed i Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, as their son entered the drawing-room. ‘ We were getting quite frightened, j- and imagining that all kinds of dreadful things had happened to you/ 4 i’ll tell you the whole tale from beginning to enu/ replied Aleck, ‘ ordy you must let me have some tea | first, and perhaps Bob will be in by that time/ Aleck did not disappoint them, but commencing; £ •at the place where Boh had left him amusing himself • at the expense of the poor idiot, he told everything * that had occurred till his arrival at his father’* house, ending up with, ‘And don't you think it | served me perfectly right ? 5 Mr. Bobcrts nodded his head at the honest remark || at the end, as it proved to him that the wholesome lesson had not been lost upon his son. Tlemember* I Aleck/ he said, ‘ that there is no manliness in bully- / ing, but he is a true hero who follows in the steps of p that Divine blaster Who taught, “ Blessed are the B merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” ’ N. E. L*

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36 CHATTERBOX. No. y. A CHRISTMAS SONG. H ! blithe and blest is Christmas-tide ! Whene’er its season comes, We hail it ever with delight, For hearts are light and eyes are bright In England’s happy homes. Well use its harmless mirth aright, We’ll gather all, both great and small, In social ring, And once a-vear our carols clear Right lustily we’ll sing.

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6BB28 Ti COMPOSED EDD1PDEEESSIMY' FOB ‘ CHATTERBOX.' 3= : - - ' mirtli a-right, We’ll ga - ther all, both great and small, In so - cial ring, . . . And W. — :2=± ^-P I ! 3 Though bleak and chill the wintry wind, And frost be hard and keen, We’ll circle closely round the fire; Of music strains we shall not tire — We love them well, I ween. Both young and old, and son and sire, Our parts and voice we all rejoice Again to bring, And once a -year our carols clear Bight lustily we‘11 sing. With hearts elate, good friends, ’tis meet Our cheerful songs should rise, For at this season long ago Peace and goodwill mankind did know, First chanted in the skies, And shall be echoed here below : With joyous lays and hymns of praise The world shall ring ; And every year its carols clear Eight lustily shall sing.

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33 CHATTERBOX. No. V. HOW JOHN got nis cousms ^ CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY. ETWEEN fif.'y and sixty years ago, V] r^v')’ ln the eai‘fy days of the month of kC ? J anuary, five little girls were sitting their school-room, hard at work. / 'W>' MjyH] Their fifty little fingers and their fifty little toes were about as cold as toes and fingers could be, for A’-& the ground was covered with snow. A- ^ was a hard frost, and the room &§* in which they were sitting had no carpet, and several large uncurtained windows, which shook and rattled when the wind blew, and seemed made on purpose to let in all the draughts they could. There was a fire made of wood on the hearth — not in a grate as you see them now-a-days ; and several large logs were burning and smouldering away, which would have helped to warm the little girls it' they had _ not been placed as far away from them as possible, on the other side of a long deal table which ran down the middle of the room. .Between the table and the fire, with her feet on a warm rug, sat their governess ; a rather cross-looking middle-aged lady, "with a very red nose and a false front of hair, which had a bad habit of wriggling on to one side, so as to bring her parting over her right eye, which somehow made her look more fierce than ever. Her little pupils were very much afraid of her, which was the more unfortunate as they had no mother, so that they were almost entirely in her charge. I am sure she meant to do her duty by them, hut the truth is, it was so long since she had been a child herself that she had quite forgotten what it felt like. Then, too, she had never had anything to do with children before she came to her present situation, and she -was not at all fond of them ; so it was no wonder that they were not fond of her. Their father was the rector of a large country parish, and had his own estate to manage besides; so his time was fully occupied, and he had not much leisure to bestow upon nis little girls. Besides, he put great confidence in their governess, Miss Forbes, and quite agreed with her in thinking that children ought to be brought up in a strict. and rigorous fashion ; which was common enough in those days, but would rather astonish and disgust the present {generation, I fancy. Somehow lessons did not get on very well that morning. Something besides the cold seemed to be distracting the little girls7 attention, and if. Miss Forbes had not been so busy with her knitting, she must have noLiced that almost every minute one little pair of eyes or another was lifted from books or work to glance at a large window behind her back, which overlooked the snow-covered lawn, in one corner of which there was slowly arisin g the figure of a gigantic snow-man. I say slowly, because it could not get on very fast with only one person to work at it.; that person was 'the children’s cousin, J ohn. Their father was his guardian, for he had no parents, and a. .vays spent hi3 holidays with them. How he had come home for Christmas, and he thought it very hard that his little cousins should not be allowed to have holidays, too. But Miss Forbes said it -was quite unnecessary, and a great waste of time ; besides, it was not at all the tiling for young ladies to he romping about with a great rough school-boy. That morning John had been specially urgent in begging just one day for them. ‘ The snow was so splendid, and they might have such fun !’ But Miss Forbes was quite angry, and John had walked oS in high dudgeon, declaring rather rudely that he 4 would manage to get them a holiday somehow.’ lie would hardly have ventured to speak in this way if his uncle had been within hearing, but Mr. Meadows had started off early that morning to keep a business appointment at some distance, and was not expected hack, till late at night, so there was no one to keep Master John in order. The morning was not half over -when the school¬ room door opened, and in he walked, with a mis¬ chievous twinkle in his eyes which made his cousins somewhat nervous, for- they well knew that John’s championship often got them into scrapes. He walked straight to the fire, and took up his position with his back to it. ‘What do you want, may I ask, Master John?’ asked Miss Forbes, with her most vinegarish aspect. ‘ Why, I saw through the window, Miss Forbes, that you had parted your hair a little crooked this morning, and I thought it would be only kind to come and tell yop, in case of any gentleman calling.’ Miss Forbes got crimson with indignation, but be¬ fore she could speak John went on coolly : — ‘ I expect it’s sitting so close to the fire that does it ; but, really, your curls are a great deal longer this • side than the other. I dare say the heat draws them down in some way. Ho sit a little further back, there’s a good creature ! you really are ruining your precious complexion. How if you were to change places with my cousins you would be quite out of danger ; and, of course, it does not matter for them at their ages.’ Miss Forbes tried hard to keep her temper and her dignify, but she could not prevent her voice trembling a little as she replied, — ‘ I wish, Master John, you would have the kind¬ ness to retire from this apartment ; and do. not como in here again, disturbing your cousins at their studies.’ ‘ Oh, don’t you distress yourself on their account, Mis3 Forbes!’ said the impudent John. ‘I’m sure they don’t mind. Ho you, Mary, my deal’ ? Why don’t you come nearer the fire ? ’ ‘ We mustn’t,’ answered Mary, in a low voice. 4 Mustn’t ! Oh, very well ! if you mustn't come near the fire, we must make the fire come to you, that s all. And so saying, John gathered together at the back liis long coat-tails (boys in those days wore long coats, such as you see the Blue-coat hoys in now-a-days, mad e^ of very thick heavy cloth), and, jumping sideways, with a dexterous swing he brought two of the burning logs off the hearth into the middle of the room, and instantly repeating the manoeuvre in the opposite direction, out came the remaining one close to where Miss b orbes was sitting, covering that lady with sparks and ashes. John, in liis first leap, had managed to kick away the hearth-rug, which was the only thing really likely to catch fire very quickly. But as it was, the aspect or things was so alarming that both governess and pupns

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No. v. CHATTERBOX. 39 started up, shrieking with fright; and John took advantage of the confusion to escape himself, followed by his little cousins, who obeyed his shout of, ‘Bun, girls ! run, before you are all on fire !’ Left to herself, Miss Forbes might soon have re¬ paired the mischief, if she had had any presence of mind, by simply picking up the burning wood with the tongs and replacing it on the hearth ; but instead of doing this, she stood shrieking and screaming till the servants came rushing in to her relief. For¬ tunately the floor was of hard oak, or the house might have been on fire : as it was, the boards were a good deal burnt and charred, and one leg of the table, against which a log was resting, had actually caught lire, when the butler arrived with a pail of water. Of course the room was filled with smoke, and as there were ashes and smuts flying about in every direction, poor Miss Forbes looked more like a chimney-sweep than a respectable middle-aged lady. Evidently there was no chanoe of doing any more lessons that day — at all events in the school-room. So far John’s plans had answered admirably, but he had not calculated on the unexpected return of his uncle, who, entering the hall just as Miss Forbes — having directed the servants’ operations in the school¬ room — was retiring upstairs to ‘clean herself,’ in¬ quired the cause of her woe-begone appearance, and was speedily made acquainted with the state of affairs. It was no wonder that he was angry, and the five little girls shook in their shoes as they peeped through the banisters of the floor above, and saw their father enter the school-room. The instant after he came out again, looking even more stern than before, and shouted to a groom, who was standing at the door : — ‘Peters, fetch Master John and a horsewhip !’ Peters disappeared, and presently returned with the horsewhip out without Master John, whom, he declared, he could not find anywhere. ‘ Go and look again ! ’ said his master. Gradually others joined in the search, till, at last, the whole household was engaged in hunting every¬ where for the missing boy, and Mr. Meadows himself was obliged to own that it seemed hopeless. ‘Never mind,’ said he ; ‘ if the young monkey has run away, he is sure to run back again quick enough when supper-time comes. I shan’t bother any more about it. Bring up luncheon.’ The master of the house always lunched in his own study alone. It was a large gloomy room, lined with books, dark curtains, a dark carpet, and a dark table-cover hanging down to the floor from the long table in the. middle of the room. To be summoned to ‘father’s study’ was about the most awful thing that could happen to one of the little Meadows, and John especial^ must have had more than one gloomy association with that apartment. Mr. Meadows sat down to luncheon in anything hut an amiable mood. Presently, on stretching out his legs, he f( It something in his way. It was a nigb, heavy footstool, which generally stood under the table, and to which he now gave a vigorous kick. To his astonishment a groan was the result, and hastily pulling up the table-cloth he discovered Master J ohn, who was sitting on the floor, ruefully rubbing his shins, with which the footstool had just come in violent contact. That he should dare thus to seek a refuge in the lion’s den was more than any one had suspected, and he might have remained there safely enough if it had not been for that un¬ lucky stool. As it was, he was, of course, instantly ordered out for punishment; but John did not move. ‘ Do you hear me. sir?’ thundered his uncle. ‘ Come out this instant and be flogged !’ . ‘ If you please, uncle,’ said the unquenchable John, ‘ if you don’t mind, I would so very much rather be flogged here !’ No wonder ! John was safely barricaded between two footstools and the two legs of the table, and to get at him with any whip was simply impossible. The coolness of the request, combined with the saucy twinkle in the boy’s eyes, were irresistible. Mr. Meadows bit his lips for a moment, and then burst out into laughter. It is true, John had to come out finally, but he boro his punishment like a man, and no doubt it was a lighter one than it would have been had he received it an hour • sooner ! As it was, he summoned up courage after it was over to tell his uncle what had been the origin of the dispute with Miss Forbes, and, oddly enough, the next morning, much to his little cousins’ surprise, they were told by that lady that their father wished them to have a week’s holiday. So the snow-man was finished after all, and in smite of a little stiffness, and a few aches and pains, John managed to climb on to the giant’s shoulders in order to fix on the head, and when he saw the little girls’ delight he came to the conclusion that ‘the game was well worth the candle.’ C. H. THE TWO ENDS OF THE BANDAGE. Sn<+gested by an incident which occurred whilst working for the sink and wounded during tlio war between Germany and France. $|f$HE little one has left her play, JL To watch her mother’s hands ; "What can it be, that strange new work, Those long, long, narrow hands ? But ah ! the tale is just as strange To one of four years old, Of poor men sick in far-off lands, . « All wounded— hungry — cold. ' ‘ Do let me help ; I see it now,’ Small fingers, eager eyes, The pursed-up mouth, as steadily, With baby strength she tries. ‘Will this bo smooth and tight enough? The cheeks are getting red, The eyes are bright, ‘Put in the pin, Then, darling, off to bed.’ c One end ! ’ Ah, me ! the other end Seems to my mind as plain ; The writhing form, the ghastly face, The stifled cry of pain. Ah, little child! ah, soldier hold! When wars for ever cease, May both be gathered in His fold, Who gives His people peace ! E. W.

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42 CHATTERBOX. No. VI. MOTHER-LOVE IN A RAT. IIE following incident recorded by John Hall, a well-known rat¬ catcher of the Eastern Counties, proves that lack of maternal affec¬ tion is not one of the many vices attributed to that persecuted animal, the rat: — One evening. Hall, who had been disturbed during the previous night by noises in his kitchen, ‘ smelt a rat,’ and proceeded to lay a trap for its capture. Set by his cunning hand success was the natural result, and in the morning he found a full-grown female rat captive, caught by the two forelegs in the strong spring-trap which he had used. On approaching he was astonished to see several young rats scamper off, and on a closer inspection there lay, on her side, the poor mangled mother, suckling three or four of her young that had not been frightened away. The' heart of the rat-catcher was softened, and mother and family were allowed to run off. ARNO AND STEPHEN, THE OSTER-BROTHER3. (Continued from p. 31.) CHAPTER. Y. short and brilliant war was crowned by the victory of the Prussian arms, though at the price of the hearts’ blood of many of the noblest and bravest sons of the Father- land. There was much rejoicing throughout the country, but many hot tears were shod for the heroes who never would return. Of the fo3ter-br others good news came to their home. They both wrote as often as possible. Arno often referred in his letters to those of his brother, saying, ‘ Stephen will have told you this,’ or ‘ Stephen will be able to describe this better,’ and then Agnes would go to the bailiff’s farm to hear the letters read, or beg to borrow Stephen’s report for her father, which the old man always granted her with pride and pleasure. Mane too was often present when these letters were read. The old friendship of their childhood seemed to be quite revived between her and the Countess ; those exciting days had done much to bring this about. Telegrams and special editions of newspapers were sent for several times a-day from the Castle to the neighbouring town, that they might be informed of the latest news. Agnes and Marie were occupied, besides working all day for the sick and wounded, answering the numerous questions put to them, aud giving information. They were angels of con¬ solation for the whole neighbourhood. The sterling good qualities of the two maidens were now seen. For both this active life was a real blessing; it hindered them from dwelling too much on their own cares, and in them it was proved how the soul is strengthened by passing through times of trouble in sympathy with others. The fears which passed through their hearts they shared with so many, that their personal wishes seemed to he merged in those of the whole community. The news that Stephen had been slightly wounded by a stray shot in a skirmish did not trouble them greatly, for a letter by the same post told of his restoration to health, and soon after came the great day of Koniggratz. The little Rhenish village celebrated with ringing of bells and joyous salutes the glorious victory. All hearts beat high in thankfulness and joy, though many trembled in anxious suspense. In patience and hope they had to wait for further news. A week had passed since the victory, and still no tidings had come of the foster-brothers. Agnes tried to persuade herself' and her father that it was scarcely to be expected ; but in spite of all her out¬ ward calm, her inward excitement might be perceived, and when on the eighth day Marie came up to the Countess and gazed into her face, she road in it the same answer as before, ‘ Still no news :’ so that, to spare them both pain, she did not ask the usual question. Agnes sat in her room at the table making lint ; she was one of those persons to whom, at such mo¬ ments, to remain doing nothing only increases their sufferings. Marie, on the contrary, had gone to the open window and gazed, as if dreaming, out upon the blue sky. Suddenly she said, ‘ There is the bailiff coming up the garden ! ’ Agnes sprang up. ‘ That betokens no good,’ she said, and wont to Marie to the window. ‘He brings news, and bad news, or lie would not come himself. I must meet him before the Count does.’ JBut before she reached the door the Count’s step was heard close by ; he, too, from his seat at the window, must have seen the old man coming. Agnes hesitated for a moment, then she went in. Marie remained alone : her knees trembled, she had to hold on to the window-ledge in order not to fall. Another moment, then footsteps came up the stairs. On both sides the doors sprung open, through the one the bailiff entered hurriedly : in the other, which led to the Count’s room, stood Agnes. Her face was deadly pale, but she spoke with a firm voice. ‘ Come in, good bailiff ; my father wishes to see you himself at once ; you bring us news, and, as f fear, not good ! ’ Her voice had become un¬ steady', and she looked inquiringly at the bailiff. With, a stiff bow the old man entered the Count’s room, and as no one thought of shutting the doors Marie could hear every word. ^ The Count sat upright in his arm-chair ; his long illness made him look much older than he was, and now anxious suspense marked his countenance. He stretched out liis hand, to the bailiff, who scarcely touched it. What news do4 you bring us, bailiff?’ he asked. ‘ Tell us at once ; don’t snare me.’ The man, usually so liard and rough, cleared his throat and looked at Agnes.

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No. VI. • CHATTERBOX. 43 6 I wanted to send my old woman/ lie said at last, c lint she could not come, she trembled so in all her limbs: so I have come myself. Do not be so terrified, my lord Count, your son is wounded/ 4 But is he still alive? Does he live?7 cried Agnes, as she seized the bailiff’s arm : 4 and how do you know it? Has Stephen - ’ 4Yesr }rcs!’ replied the old man much relieved, and began to fumble in his pockets till he drew out an envelope : 4 this I received half-an-hour ago/ Agnes tore* open the despatch. It came from a well-known field-hospital, and had been already several days on the way. 4 Bead it/ ordered her father. ‘Arno severely wounded — not without hope — tell • the Count — 1 am well. Your son, Stephen/ For a moment no one spoke. Agnes held the paper in her hand, and gazed at it as if she could read all she wished to know between the lines. The Count, with a deep sigh, had bent forward, his head sunk upon his breast. The bailiff looked silently from father to daughter. Suddenly the Count raised his head, and exclaimed, 4 0 that I could go to him and see him before he dies ! My son ! my Arno ! ’ Agnes aroused herself as if from deep thoughts, and hastened to her father. 4 Father/ she said, ‘let me go to him in your place ! He will not die, I will bring him home to you/ The Count at first would not hear of 'it ; but she entreated him more pressing^, and whilst they talked about it and arranged plans the bailiff slipped out of the room. In the adjoining room he met Marie. The traces of tears were to be seen on her face, but she turned quickly away from him. He never thought of greet¬ ing her, the poor vinedresser’s daughter of the neigh¬ bouring cottage : hut he stared at her for a moment, somewhat amazed, with his little grey eves, then he went out. Before evening Countess Agnes was on her road, accompanied by an old servant. Her travelling pre¬ parations had to be made in such haste that she . could scarcely exchange a word with Marie. A few weeks of great anxiety and suspense followed for those who were left behind. The old housekeeper told Marie, who during Agnes’s absence had not ventured into the Count’s presence, that the Countess had found her brother better than she had ventured to hope, but that the doctor would not hear of his making a journey yet. Then at last came the news that the brother and sister, in the company of an experienced attendant, were on their road, travelling by short and slow stages. And thus the day of the return arrived. There had been much consultation in the village as to how it was fitting to receive the young hero, hut all had come to the conclusion that any loud demonstration of joy would be bad for one severely wounc|ed. So they contented themselves with dis¬ playing a great many liags, and putting off the real celebration of the return till the Count had recovered. When at last the carriage, which had been sent to the railway station to fetch the travellers, was seen slowly returning, all the inhabitants of the village stood at their house-doors* but the 4 hurrah ! ’ died upon their lips when they saw the pale face of Countess Agnes at the carriage window, and ob- # served how she placed her finger on her lips. A few who followed the carriage, and saw the young Count borne into the Castle, asserted that lie had been brought back a corpse. This report spread in the village, and there were frequent inquiries at the Castle. 1 He is still alive ! ’ said thq bailiff’s wife towards evening to Marie’s mother over the garden-hedge. 4 God be praised for it ! ’ she replied, as she came nearer: ‘now- with God’s help perhaps they will bring him through! And how is it with your Stephen? Has he come hack?’ 4 Ho/ she replied. 4 1 thought they would certainly have appointed him to accompany the young Count back ; hut it appears, as Countess Agnes just told me — (they let me in for a moment, but I was not allowed to see my Arno) — Stephen, she said, has been so very brave : he carried his foster-brother out of the battle, otherwise he would not have been alive now; and then lie captured a standard and was made an under-officer on the field. He is to be present at the triumphal entry into Berlin, and carry the colours at the head of his regiment.’ The eyes of the mother beamed with pride, but anxiety for her foster-child was still uppermost in her heart. 4Aht! if Arno might only live !’ she sighed. 4 1 cannot rejoice at Stephen’s honours, so heavy is my heart ! Does the young Count suffer much ?’ 4 Alas, yes ! a very great deal, I have heard : ho has to endure acute pain. When I asked Countess Agnes about it she could not give me a clear answer, for the tears came into her eyes, and she began to speak of something else. And as I was going away she called after me, that I should see her brother as soon as he could bear it/ It was later in the evening of the same day ; the weather, which had been gloomy and wet, had some¬ what cleared up ; when a servant from the Castle knocked at the door of the little cottage. Marie went to open it ; he told her that the Countess begged her to come to her at once ; he was directed to wait for her. Marie went back into the room to -tell her mother and request her not to sit up for her, and she would take the house-key with her. 4 Do so, my child/ she replied ; 4 perhaps you can be useful to the Countess. I am surprised that you did not go to the Castle long ago, to hear how things were going on there/ Marie gave no answer; she kissed her mother, and wrapping a warm shawl round her head she followed the servant. (To be continuer t.) UHKIHDHESS. O IH CE trifles make the sum of human things, © 'And half our misery from our foibles springs ; Since life’s best joys consist in peace and ease, And few can save or serve, hut all can please; Oh, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence, A small wiJdndness is a great offence .

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CHATTERBOX. No. VI. RAT-CATCHING. SMELL a rat ! I smell a rat ! A troublesome, tiresome, noisome rat ! Who scrambles and scratches from dusk to dawn, "Who eats up all the very best corn, Who frightens the maids and scares the hens, Who steals the chickens out of the pens, Who does all the mischief it can on the sly, But when the world wakes lies snugly by. Oh, my heart goes pit-a-pat On the chance of catching one troublesome rat ! And as sure as my name’s Pincher I’ll stay, By this fine large hole the best of the day.

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! It was Minna. I smell a rat ! I smell a rat ! Or something just as bad as that, Sneaking somewhere in my little world, With eyes close shut and tail tight curled. Some bad habit, or some pet sin, Heady to gobble up the good within, Greediness, selfishness, envy, sloth, Idleness, busy-bodying — both : These are the rats that infest my loft, And work through the holes I have nailed up oft ; They don’t very often come out by day, But still, like Pincher, I’ll patiently stay, For the chance of making one final spring And putting an end to the ugly thing. H. A. F. MAKRIED IN HASTE. >AIT a year, indeed ! I was seventeen last month, and am quite old enough to choose for myself without my grandmother interfering. She’s forgotten alto¬ gether how she felt when she was young.’ These were Minna Orfield’s thoughts one spring evening, as she undressed herself and” lay down to rest, after hastily saying over her evening prayers. Minna was keeping company with Gregory Bourne,

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46 CHATTERBOX. No. VI. the good-looking, long-whiskered young foreman at j . the village grocer’s, and she had had a dispute with her grandmother that very, day on the subject of her j marriage. ‘Wait a year,’ said Mrs. Orfield ; ‘you’ll know Gregor v better then, and you'll be older and wiser yourself.’ Minna was something of an heiress, having four hundred pounds of her own, to be paid down to her on her wedding-day, or when she attained the age of twenty-one: till then her grandmother received the I interest, and gave the girl a home. So you see it was a delicate matter for Mrs. Orfield to interfere in, though, having little know- I ' ledge of Gregory Bourne, she did counsel delay, in j company with Mr. Lowndes the vicar, Mr. Smith ] the agent, Mr. Shanks the butcher, and a variety • of other sober-minded folk, who wished well to orphan i Minna. I It wTas a shock to all when Minna played them all a trick one sunny Sunday morning, and on pretence of i walking out with her young man got married at the town church of Wetherford seven miles distant. Minna and Gregory drove back to the village in a gig directly after, and braved it out to the grieved old woman aud the wondering neighbours ; but for all that Minna felt not quite at ease with herself. Gregory’s first step was to leave the village and take his young wife up to London, and from thence she wrote but seldom to her old grandmother. ‘ She’ll live to rue her conduct,’ said the old woman, shaking her head. ‘ “ Marry in haste and repent at leisure,” the proverb always comes true; and Minna has taken her money already out of good Mr. Long’s care.’ Gregory Bourne had been only three months with the grocer when lie married, so people knew little or nothing about him, and could not guess as to whether he was likely to prove a good husband or no. Months rail into years, aud Minna’s short letters ceased to come. Mrs. Orfield had begun to lopk on her grandchild as lost to her, when one summer evening, just as the old woman was preparing to shut up her cottage (though the last ray of sunshine was still lingering on its walls), she was startled by a low moan outside, as of one in suffering. It was Minna, 'crouching on the ground, faded, miserable, and worn. The old woman drew her. within without a word, and with trembling hands got her tea, and warmed her at the fire, for the girl was cold and trembling. Then came the flood of words, alas ! sadly bitter against the young husband. He drank, he beat her, he had killed her baby by a chance blow, and now he had deserted her, taking the last farthing of her money. Minna had since tried to starve, wishing to die ; but some impulse within had brought her to the old home. She was very resentful against Gregory. ‘ I shall never forgive him ! never ! ’ she said, angrily. ‘He could never have loved me.’ Poor Minna ! this want of love on Gregory’s part was the real grief, for, despite the haste of her marriage, she really loved him, undeserving as he was of her affection^ Some one wrote her word that her husband had been heard of on board the Stars and Stripes, bound for an American port. ‘Let him go,’ said Minna bitterly: ‘ but never let him ask me to forgive him.’ The girl did her best not to be a burden on her old grandmother: she bad always been active and clever, and she took in fine washing, and kept herself entirely, but her heart was sadly hard and scared. Mr. Lowndes came and talked to her. but she was so strong in condemning Gregory for all the misery he had caused her that he was often forced to reprove her, which seemed still further to harden the girl, and in despair he almost gave up his visits. One evening, however, he came to the house later than usual, and asked to see Minna. ‘ Minna,’ he said, ‘ Mrs. Bourne,’ (Minna started at the name), ‘ I want you to try and forgive your husband: we are all sinners, and we must forgive if we hope to be forgiven.’ ‘ Hot while be lives 1 ’ said Minna sternly : ‘ he de¬ stroyed my child, and broke my heart, and - ’ ‘ fie is dead now,’ said Mr. Lowndes solemnly. Yes, it was true, the Stars and Stripes, with all on hoard, bad gone down in the high seas. Minna’s short married life was ended ; she bad all the rest of her days to lament her hasty wedding, her wretched wifehood, her unforgiving feelings towards the dead. No one saw Minna Bourne for some weeks after that day, but one Sunday Mr. Lowndes noticed a slight figure, clad in widow’s mourning, come to the Holy Feast. He paused before her, and met her eyes raised pleadingly to his ; he stooped and asked one word, — ‘Forgiven?’ •> And Minna bowed her head. Yes, tender thoughts at last bad come to her of the dead ; a voice had whispered that she had helped to give him over to his worst* enemy, drink, by the mone}'' she had brought him. Had she taken her friends’ advice and waited awhile, this might never have been. The ailing babe, that a chance-blow from the half-stupid father had deprived of life, had he not gazed on it with a look of agony before he turned to accuse her of carelessness ? I:le had loved that little one, at all events, and after its death he had drank deeper to chase away the terrible remembrance. Poor Gregory, and poor Minna ! it had indeed been marrying in haste and repenting at leisure. Very quietly she lives now with the old grand¬ mother, but the lines in her face and the sad tones of her voice remind you always that she has gone through great sorrow, though now she very seldom speaks of the Past. H. A. F. NO INACTION IN NATURE, HERE is no inaction iu Nature. "What appears to be still, such as masses of stone, are not inactive, but are held together by a force which is continually exerting itself. Millions of years ago the young sun shone on the forests which, having sunk beneath the waves, are now our coal-beds ; and at the present time we are digging up the buried chemistry of the sun, and using it for the purpose of rushing through space at the rapid rate of an express train. — Dr. La nicest er.

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No. VI. CHATTERBOX. THE WIFE'S APPEAL. H, don’t go in to-night, John ! Now, husband, don’t go in ! To spend our only shilling, John, Would be a cruel sin. There's not a loaf at home, John, There’s not a coal, you know ; Though with hunger I am faint, John, And cold comes down* the snow. Then don’t go in to-night ! Ah, John, you must remember, And John, I can’t forget, When never foot of yours, John, Was in the ale-house set. Ah, those were happy times, John ; No quarrels then we knew, And none were happier in our lane Than I, dear John, and you. Then don’t go in to-night ! You will not go ! John, John, I mind, When we were courting, few TIad arm as strong, or step as firm, Or cheek as red as you : But drink has stolen your strength, John, And paled your cheek to white ; Has tattering made your young firm tread, And bowed your manly height. You’ll not go in to-night ! You’ll not go in ! Think on the day That made me, John, your wife ; What pleasant talk that day we had Of all our future life ; Of how your steady earnings, John, No wasting should consume. But weekly some new comfort bring To deck our happy home. Then don’t go in to-night ! To see us, John, as then we dress’d, So tidy, clean, and neat, Brought out all eyes to follow us As we wrent down the street. Ah, little thought our neighbours then, And we as little thought, That ever, J ohn, to rags like these, By drink we should be brought. You won’t go in to-night ! And will you go ? If not for me, Yet for your baby stay ! You know, John, not a taste of food Has passed my lips to-day. And tell jour father, little one, ’Tls mine your life hangs on ; You will not spend the shilling, John T You’ll give it him ? Come, John, Come home with us to-night. AY. C. Bennett. 47 hauling- lobster-pots ON THE NORFOLK COAST. ACH fisherman, or pair, for they work in couples, lias by agreement a certain plot of ground under the sea, with which his neigh¬ bours never interfere. We may suppose this to measure some eight or ten acres ; and in this, in three or four fathoms '^of water, his ‘ pots,’ baited with plaice and weighted with iron or stone, have been standing all night. When hauling -time comes, one man standing in the hows, the other managing the oars, and each one knowing his own pots by the trail of quaintly-cut corks which float above (for each one has his own shape), the pot is hauled up, glistening in the spray of the wave with many- coloured seaweeds. The crabs and lobsters inside now dart and leap about, one or two of the small ones often effecting escape; but the dexterous fisherman boldly plunges in his hand, draws out the crab, which, he pitches into a basket, and then ties up the claws of the lobster or two he may have been fortunate enough to catch, . for in their blind rage at the sudden turn of affairs the poor things will attack each other, or, indeed, anything within reach. The pot thus emptied is supplied with fresh bait and tossed again into the sea. In this manner an able fisherman will haul up, empty, and rebait, some twenty pots in an hour and a half ; which, seeing that each pot weighs irom forty to sixty pounds, is no trifling work to get through. As a protective measure for the young fish, no fisherman may retain crab or lobster under specified sizes, and each boat has a couple of gauges for this pui pose. But a still more important provision is neglected, for the lobsters in spawning -time are continually caught and sold. The men themselves *e£rct that there is no Act of Parliament to prevent this (tor mutual agreement is not enough), and while deploring the want, they capture and sell fish which ought to be returned to the sea; thus destroying hundreds of lives in a single creature. F. B. ° * THE BEGGARS OUTWITTED. 1^/T ANY years ago an ingenious plan was adopted 1VA by the Grand Duke of Tuscany to rid Florence o beggars. It was proclaimed that every beggar who would appear in the Grand Square at a time mentioned would he provided with a new suit of clothes, free of cost. At the appointed hour the beggars of the city assembled, and the Grand Duke causing all the avenues to the square to be closed! compelled them to strip off their old clothes, and gave each one, according to promise, a new suit. In the old clothes thus collected enough money was found theCcftv W flU‘k • a 0ver Amo;’ and Wn tyi being, was relieved of the nmrn wnbn'vhl-c i lt; ha£. Previously been overrun, as ;t |]?ul give anything to the well-dressed in- dividuais who now asked chanty.

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CHATTERBOX, 48 No. VI. Hauling Lobster-pots on the Norfolk Coast.

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£0 CHATTERBOX. No. YII. THE BE G-G-AB-M AN. O EE, mother, how the snow-flakes fall ! S0 # Such lovely, glittering things! I think they must be feathers fair Erom out the angels’ wings.’ The garden is all covered o’er With a soft mantle white. Ami all the flowers are fast asleep, Waiting the spring-time bright. I’m glad that I’m a little girl, And not a flower small : It must be very cold out there, Erom morn till evenfaJl. X7ve such a pretty cottage home, And such a mother dear, You could not find the like, I’m sure. If you searched far and near. And this cold day, its nice to see The warm fire burning bright, And breakfast all in order set Upon the cloth so white. There’s some one walking in the snow. And coming to our gate ! I’ll go and meet him at the door: It is so cold to wait ! Mother, I’m pretty nearly sure It is the beggar-man I saw. when I was out last night, Talking to cousin Ann. And when he went, she told me how That he was blind and poor, And could not work, and all his bread He begged from door to door. He is so very thin and pale, His coat is very old ; Oh, may he have mv bread and milk, To warm him ? He’s so cold ! I’m rather hungry, certainly, But still, I think, you know I’d rather wait a hit myseff Than he should starving go/ So ‘ mother ’ told the little maid That she might give her bread To the poor man outside the door; Then smilingly she said, — ‘My little child, in that big book Which is God’s Holy Word (Which father reads to us at night), Have you not sometimes heard IIow that each little deed of love Done to Ilis poor, God sees ; And, though we can but little give, Still we our good Lord please ? When we, with loving heart and hand, Give of what He has given, We lend to Him, Who will repay An hundredfold in Heaven.’ E. W. v A,AMO AND STEPHEN, THE M FOSTEB-BBOTHEBS. C Continued from p. 43.) HEN 'they reached the Castle door the servant said, with a sad shake of the head, as he pointed with his finger to a wing of the building, ‘ It is a bad affair up there, young woman ! Tak e my Ir'fHi r wor<? *or our young master * A "'on’t he long with us; and the * Countess knows it, though she E :* won’t say so.’ v Marie stood still, clasping her hands on her breast, as if to still the beating of her heart; then she went up the steps. It was almost dark in the house ; the servants seemed, in their confusion and grief, to have forgotten to light up as usual. But Marie knew the way. Arrived on the first story she hesitated for a moment; then a door opened, and a white figure came hastily to meet her. It was Agnes; without saying a word she pressed Marie in her arms. Then she spoke in a low voice, but with her usual composure. My brother wants to see you, Marie ; I will tell him that you are come ; wait for me here.’ Then she opened the door into an adjoining room. The door had scarcely closed before Marie per¬ ceived, by the light of a lamp on the table, the old Count, sitting in his usual ami-chair on wheels, his head resting on his hand. But lie looked up and. called her hy her name. He had never dune so before during the many years she had been back¬ wards and forwards to the Castle, and the young girl trembled as she obeyed his call and went up to him. M itli his left hand he raised the shade from the lamp, and fixed his large, melancholy eyes upon her, as if lie beheld her for the first time. ‘ Come nearer, please,’ he said ; and when,' with downcast eyes, she stood close before him, he stroked her cheeks gently with his hand. ‘Poor child ! poor child !’ he said sadly. Now Agnes came in. * Come, Marie ; he is expecting you,’ she said, as she drew her with her. At the door which led to the 5’omig Count’s room she stopped. ‘ He is much changed, ’ she whispered. ‘ Do you feel strong enough, Marie ? Can you master your grief ? ’ Marie nodded assent. ‘ Poor child ! ’ said the Countess, as she made Marie enter the room. It was so faintlj' lighted that at first she did not know which way to turn, she expected that Agnes would tell her; then she remarked that she had not followed her in, and now she heard, proceeding from a bed in the middle of the room, surrounded by a screen, a faint voice uttering her name. b She went quickly up, so that the light, which was hidden hy the bed, fell full upon her figure. Now, too, she saw the well known-features of the young Count. But how he was changed ! "With an effort lie supported himself on one arm, while he held out the other pale hand to Marie.

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No. VII. CHATTERBOX. 51 ‘How I thank you for coming, Marie!’ he said, as a shade of colour came into his cheeks. She had taken his hand and gazed into his face with emotion. 4 Do you feel better since you have been home, Count Arno?’ she asked. His head sank wearily back upon the pillow. T shall never be better in this world, Marie,’ lie said calmly. 4 My short days’ work is done, but God allows me to fulfil my last earthly wish at this hour. I thank Him for it ! ’ He was silent, and closed his eyes for a moment. Marie had gently withdrawn her hand from his, and stood beside the bed in silence. He opened his eyes again, and fixing them fully upon her, he said, — 4 Before I close my life, a confession and a ques¬ tion must pass over my lips, Marie, about which I once dreamed that I should make it to you in a very different manner. God* has not permitted it: I bend before His will !’ Again he was silent for a moment, as if his strength was forsaking him. 4 Count Arno,’ implored Marie, 4 do rest now ! Do not let us speak any further! you must spare yourself.’ 4 No,’ he answered quietly; ‘talking docs me no harm. I only thought — 1 was comparing how differently - ’ He interrupted himself, and drew her gently to a chair by the bedside. 4 It may sound strange when a dying man speaks of love ; but I must tell you, Marie, I have loved you, and you onljr, as long as I can remember. And you - V In eager suspense his looks hung upon her, but Marie covered her face with her hands. An old recollection had revived in her heart. Before her stood a tall, gallant figure, in the evening sunshine, and said, looking at her with faithful eyes, 4 Do you know that the highest thing which one man can say to another is, 44 1 believe in you ?” ’ And now, when these same eyes rested upon Ler in death, she felt that they demanded .the whole truth from her. 4 Count Arno,’ she said, with her faint, somewhat trembling voice, but without looking at him, 4 if I had had a brother I could not have loved him more than I love you!’ Arno had put his hand over his eyes. 4 Marie,’ he said at last, 4 1 don’t know how I should have borne this answer in life, dying it comes very hard upon me ! But don’t grieve because you have been obliged to give it me,’ he added. ‘And now, let me look into your eyes, your dear, honest eyes, and demand what is a brother’s right to know : Who is the happy man, Marie ? Is it Stephen ?’ One single look, in- which sorrow and joy were strangely mingled met liis : then she again covered her face. 4 Does he know it?’ Arno inquired in a faint voice. Marie shook her head. A Ah! now I understand much,’ he continued, after reflecting for a while, as if following out his own train of thought. 4 1 have much to tell you, Marie.’ She had turned her head towards him, and with gentle hand was smoothing his pillows. 4 Not now, Count Arno !’ she again implored ; 4 an¬ other time ; and oh, do pardon me !’ She had taken his hand, tears streamed down her cheeks. Pie smiled faintly. 4 1 have nothing to pardon, Marie,’ lie said gently ; 4 but I must speak to you a little as long as I have strength for it. You* will stay with me a little longer, won’t you? My father and Agnes won’t disturb us — they know.’ Then he continued, 4 Draw the curtain hack please, Marie!’ She did as he wished. Heavy clouds were still drifting over the sky, but the full moon was shining in an open space just then, and its beams shone through the trees upon the silvery Bhine, and fell sharp and clear upon the two castles on the opposite shore, so that they appeared much nearer than they really were. Arno gazed at them for a long time, as if he wished to impress this home-picture deep into his soul.; then lie said, as if talking to himself, ‘So jfc is the old story again of the brothers and their love to the one maiden, but the conflict has been spared to them, and the beautiful Hildegarde — — ’ He interrupted himself, and beckoned Marie to him, who still stood at the window. 4 May I still call you Miechen,’ he said, as if excusing himself, 4 for this short time ? Well, corno and sit down there, Miechen, where I can see you.’ She obeyed silently, and sat down after she had removed the light, for now the moonbeams fell clearly on his forehead. Then Arno began : — 4 You know that it was Stephen who, when I was wounded, bore me out of the ranks of the com¬ batants, and brought me to the nearest place where wounds were dressed. We had promised each other to keep as close together as possible on that day : I feel now how ho carried me in his strong arms, in which I lay as a child : such great strength has something pleasant and comforting in it ! But' when he gently laid me down at the dressing-place, all my -strength vanished: I only know that I mentioned your name, for I sank down unconscious. 4 When I came to m}rself again, the surgeon who was with me said that my deliverer, after he had been assured that I should soon recover from my swoon, had rushed back into the battle, and for two days I did not know what had become of him. On the third day our Colonel brought me the news that Stephen had distinguished himself as a real hero : that lie had almost rashly risked his life : now I sus¬ pect the reason ! 4 A standard, captured by his own hand, was the trophy of hia valour. The Colonel was standing by my bedside telling me about it, when Stephen himself appeared. With difficulty Ire had discovered traces of me, and was deeply moved at our meeting, although they had hopes of saving my life. I alone did not share those hopes, and dictated my¬ self the despatch which Stephen sent to his father, because I did not want to deceive my family. All the more painfully was I surprised when he told me of his being chosen to be present at the entry into Berlin, and that ho would not return to his home till afterwards. Considering my dangerous condition, I

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52 CHATTERBOX. No. VII. knew that a short furlough could easily, at my request, have been obtained for my foster-brother to accompany me home ; but I was silent about it, and for the firstjime in my life I did not understand Stephen’s conduct, but now I plainly perceive it. My noble, self-denying brother! When Agnes came, I wished above all things to tell her my feelings towards you, as I could not be certain whether I was able to stand the journey, and I wished to know that your future was secured. But I felt too weak for it, and begged Stephen (to him I had given several hints, which he seemed at once to understand) to do so in my place. He faithfully performed his commission, now I understand with what a bleeding heart; and Agnes told me after¬ wards that his affecting mediation perhaps troubled her still more than the communication itself.’ Arno had spoken slowly and in broken sentences, and at last his voice had become very faint- Marie got up and moistened his lips from a glass which stood beside her ; he thanked her and pointed to the tears which rolled down her cheeks. ‘ Tears of joy, Marie,’ he said : ‘ you need only weep tears of joy !’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Yes, yes,’ he continued: ‘it is so delightful to know one s self to be loved, and you know now that Stephen loves you. Oh ! and I ought to have guessed it long ago, but my selfishness made me blind ; I would not see it.’ She had a reply on her lips when Agnes entered. ( Concluded in our next.) visit to Waltonleigh. Then there came a letter back in grandfather’s funny, square handwriting : father and mother whispered a good deal about it, and seemed undecided, till the doctor came and said aloud, — ‘ It’s the best thing in the world for her ; pack her up and take her down.’ ‘Without any womenkind to see to her?’ said father. ‘ Womenkind! she’s ten — a little woman herself,’ said Dr. Black. ‘ She only wants fresh air and space ! to tear her frocks, Mrs. Lester.’ Mother had a tear in her eye, and when I heard I was to go far away to Waltonleigh, to stay with grandfather, and leave her and father, I declared I wouldn’t go; and if Dr. Black hadn’t said ‘Tush!’ pretty sharply, I should have stuck to it. But T was afraid of him, good as he was to me. I gathered from my mother that Uncle Joe was kind but rather odd, and that it was a surprise his offering to take a sick little girl for a long visit. The boys thought me in luck to get such an ‘out’ in the country, but they puzzled me when they spoke of Uncle Joe. He was bailiff to Lord Welchester, and had lived in his service all his life. Tom and Andrew called this slavery, and seemed to think mill-work much grander: there, at any rate, they might speak and think as they liked, they said, while the poor old fellow at Walton¬ leigh had to pin his faith on his Lordship’s sleeve, and couldn’t even give his vote at election-time as he chose. I didn’t find out then — I was too young — that Tom and Andrew spoke and thought a great deal of folly at this time; Andrew especially, who could make speeches by the hour, which sounded very grand, and were chiefly about the wrongs of the working classes. But I must go on to Waltonleigh. Father took me half way, and saw me safe to Church walton, where a kind old farmer met me and took me in his gig to Waltonleigh. Uncle, I mean grandfather, was so j busy with the hay he couldn’t get away. I was very tired when I got in — so tired, that I hardly noticed anything, but drank my tea, and let an old woman put me to bed without thinking of grandfather. In the morning it was different. I woke refreshed, and was just wondering if I should get up and dress, when the door opened, and grandfather looked in. ‘ Lie still — Di shall help you,’ he said ; and presently Diana, the old woman who looked after him, came to dress me. But I felt so strong I would not be helped, and I soon was ready for break¬ fast. Grandfather had been out and about for hours, I found, though he would not have me disturbed. I had new milk and fresh butter, with white rolls sent down from the Hall. ‘ There’s the Hall, the west end,’ said grandfather, pointing towards the window ; ‘ the family’s at home now.’ Tom had taken pains to inform me that lords and ladies were just like any one else ; that I was not to be afraid of them; and Bob had added, that the Queen was nothing but a woman either — no better and no worse than the mill-folk, and that I was to hold my 'head up whoever I met. Altogether, theii counsels made me feel uncomfortable, and I devoutly hoped I should never be thrown in the way of these proud, stuck-up lords and ladies, who tried to crush ,Lt\FEOM hay to harvest )/Hl AT WALTONLEIGH. \ JSl^LS, that’s grandfather on Dapple, in. the meadows at Waltonleigh; Lordship made him have his %l A/O picture taken the same time as (\ P yJ/X the at the Hall. At least, k V / d )r°u know, P caP ^ grandfather, jN At '\\ though he’s only my great-uncle. c(s) \ Sha11 1 tel1 you how 1 happen K to know him so much better than -o) tlx# rest, and how I came to pay / that v*sifc Waltonleigh from hay to harvest? Father is 4 ^ overseer, you know, in the large cotton-mill at Hal li well, and the boys, Tom and Andrew and Bob, are under him, working hard in the whirr and bustle all day long. After Bob, I come; Josie — short for Josephine — and then there are Louie, and Alice, and Walter, and J ohn, a whole lot of little ones. Mother has her hands full looking after them. Father regularly takes a three-days’ holiday towards the end of June to see Uncle Joseph, or grandfather as I call him; but last year I tell very ill in the spring : they thought I should die, and even when I began to mend the doctor used to shake his head over me, and I seemed to care for nothing but sitting still on father’s knee when he came back from the mill. Mother wasn’t well, either, and father said he shouldn’t leave us ; so he wrote and explained it all to grandfather why he couldn’t pay his usual

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CHATTERBOX. No. VII. and override the working classes, and yet were not a bit different to mother, or me, or Jane Winter, or Keziah Lnnt of the Halliwell mill. I forgot my un¬ comfortable thoughts, however, when I walked to¬ wards the great hay-field with grandfather ; every¬ thing was so sunny, and sweet, and pleasant there. I played about in the hay tili I was weary with happiness; then I lay down, and 1 suppose I fell asleep, for in a dream I heard some one say, — 4 Don't disturb her, poor child ! she looks so white. Take my umbrella to shelter her from the sun.' I jumped- up at this, quite bewildered to see the loveliest lady in the world, all in white, standing by me, with a little girl on either side of her, and another lady in the background. ‘ Don’t be frightened, little girlV said the lady. in white ; ‘ you are Josephine, I think. Lie still, or let me show you a shadier place thei-e, snugly under the hedge. Ah, you are looking at Margaret’s doll! Lend it her, Margy, my child, for a bit.’ Defore. I could answer, a beautifiul doll as large as a baby, wifth waxen face, and legs, and arms, was. placed in my lap by a fair-haired little girl about my own age, who nadded and said, — ‘We1 shall come back this way; good-bye, Josey.’ ‘Why, you’ve got Lady Margaret’s doll there!’ said grandfather. ‘ Has she been in the field ? ’ I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell, I was so bewildered. In a puzzle of delight and wonder 1 nursed the beautiful doll in my arms, till I heard a buzz of voices again, and back came my white lady, talking this time to gitmdfather. ‘ Get up, Josey, and make her Ladyship a curtsey,’ said he : and I got up in a shame-faced way and tried to do as he bid me. I was not much of a hand at making curtseys, for I had never been to the dancing-school that some of the mill-workers’ children attended, but grandfather seemed satisfied ; and then Lady Wefchester asked a great mauy questions Shout me, aud said I must come to her sewing-school when I was stronger ; and she spoke so gently and looked so lovely that I was quite bewitched by her. I was shocked to think that my hair and frock must be rumpled lying in the hay, and that I must seem a sad, rough little girl before this sweetly-spoken princess. When I got home my cheeks were burning, and my hand shaking all with anxiety to write and tell Tom and Andrew and Bob that I had found a lovely real lady, who was not overbearing nor like the mill-people, but more like an angel, I thought. I did not write, though I tried ; I was too eager, I made blots and spoilt the paper, and then I cried a little, and grand¬ father saw me, and bade me .£j*et my bonnet and come for a ride on Dapple. Tnat was charming ! He held me on the great broad bade of the quiet old grey, and we walked through the flowery lanes. In the first hay-field there was a grey-haired gentleman turning over the hay with a rake, and grandfather and he talked about the weather and the crops, and the fair at Waltonlcigh, till grandfather asked, — ‘ Will your Lordship look at the upper field now?’ and then I nearly slipped off Dapple in wonder. Could this pleasant, round-faced gentleman in grey, talking so quietly to grandfather, he a real, wicked, proud lord ? Grandfather had seemed quite at ease with him, and had even ventured to contradict him once, though all the time in a very respectful way I remembered. We went to the upper field, and grandfather loft me for a minute on Dapple’s back while he walked to a rising knoll in the field to see if the men were working near. I suppose I looked frightened, for my seat was not very secure if Dapple moved : blit I blushed very red when Lord Welchester noticed me, and put out bis big band with the diamond ring on to steady me, saying, — ‘Don’t be afraid, little woman ! Dapple is as safe as a rocking-horse.’ I wished Andrew could have seen me then : I don’t think be would have said any more foolish things about lords not caring to put out a finger to help those beneath them. But I cannot tell here all the kindnesses I received from the Hall, nor how, though I loved grandfather, I was always glad of a pretext for running up to the great house on the chalice of meeting Lady Wei Chester, and hearing her say in her strange, soft voice, — ‘Well, little Josephine, and how are you to-day?’ I was glad she called me Josephine; no one else did : hut from henceforth it was my best name. More lords and ladies came to stay at the Hall, and I often saw them, but they were all different in appearance and ways to the mill-folk, or even to the manager aud his wife. Tom and Andrew were wrong; ‘great folk,’ as grandfather called them, were really unlike us, not only in dress, hut in speech and manners. I could not help now curtseying when 1 met any of the company, or standing flat against the hedge-side when Lord Welchcster or Lord Harry passed by. And yet they were kinder and gentler to me, with all their high manners, than any of the mill-folk. But I shall not have space if I do not make haste to tell of the greatest thing of all which happened while I was at Waltonleigh. Such a great thing, that I lay in bed for nights awake thinking pf it. The Queen, our own Queen Victoria ! was coming to spend a day at the Hall ; she was staying some¬ where in the neighbourhood. And 1 was to see her, to stand with eleven other little girls, tenants’ child¬ ren, on the Hall-steps, and throw flowers before her. Grandfather bought me a white frock, and Lady Welchester brought pink ribbons for me to wear. ‘ Half are to be rosebuds and half blue-bells,’ said she ; and I thought that a most beautiful way of saying that some of us were to wear pink ribbons and some blue. The great day came at last. 1 thought it was sight enough at first to look at Lady Welchester with her little girls standing on the top of the great flight of steps, so sweetly dressed in shining green and white. But when the outriders came near, and I saw the scarlet liveries, and heard a flourish of trumpets, and carriages dashed up, and people cheered, 1 was beside myself. 1 feaw Lord "Wel- chester hand a lady out of the carriage on to the crimson carpeting ; and I forgot to throw flowers — I forgot everything except to say ‘ God save the Queen !’ so loud, that Victoria herself looked round; yes, and smiled at me, little Josephine Lester ! If it had been any good I would have died for our Queen

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N o. YII. CHATTERBOX. then, but she did not need that ; still I could love her and serve her a little, by telling Tom and Andrew how wrong they were in talking foolishly about her, for she was a real, kind, gracious lady, who, though she had to govern a kingdom, was not too busy to smile at a little girl. ‘Fear God, honour the king’ — that means the Queen, too — grandfather said, and they would not be put so closely together in the Bible if it was not meant that the one thing is only second in import¬ ance to the other. Confused though I was, I noticed one thing — the Queen’s dress swept over a beautiful rose lying near me. I stooped and picked it up, and I have got it now : I shall never lose it, I hope, for it is a Royal Rose — a remembrance of the day I saw our gracious Queen. 1 can pray for her better in church now I have seen her, and it makes me so happy to feel sure she is good and kind to her people that I shall try to make the boys believe it too. I soon left grandfather and Waltonleigh after the Royal visit, and I was quite what Tom would call 4 a lion ’ at home for some time ; every one ran in to hear about our tine doings. I had pretty things to show, too: presents from Lady Wei Chester, and a lovely doll from Lady Margaret, very like her own. •Of course they gave them me because they were fond of grandfather, who has been so long with them ; but I liked them none the worse for that : still, my greatest treasure is my Royal Rose. Even Andrew said they seemed decent sort of great folk down in Hayshire ; and in the long evenings of winter the boys used to ask to see that picture of grandfather on Dapple going with beer to the reapers — just, I do believe, to set me on talking about my visit to Waltonleigh. The bojrs don’t talk so foolishly now about great people; they pretend it is because 4 Josey is soft on lords and ladies but I really think they are wiser, and see that God intends some people always to be grand and rich, and some to be poor ; and that if it is the duty of the great to help and comfort the poor, so it is only right for the 4 working classes,’ as the boys say, to hold the rich in respect and honour. II. A. F. CRIB. pRIB— that was his name — was a smooth white terrier, of that sort that you always see out walking on a Sunday with his master. Now I know that there are many sorts of dogs who walk out on a Sunday with their - ™ «... masters, and yet I feel as if Grib was a type of most of these dogs, being smooth and white, with a yellow or brown patch here and there.' Crib's master kept a saddler’s shop, and if you saw the master standing at the door, you might certainly expect to see Crib’s sharp face peering between bis legs, or pushing aside the corner of 'his apron. Sometimes two little girls sat on the shop step, and then Crib kept guard over them, always with the same brisk look, as much as to say, 4 Here I am, all alive/ And so he was all alive. Nothing escaped Master Crib. But his chief peculiarity was his love of money. I found it out in this way. There was a photographer next door to the saddler, with- whom Crib was ‘on the best of terms, sitting solemnly in the studio, and now and then getting put into a photograph as ‘scenery.’ I had had my portrait taken there, and was going to pay for it, producing my purse for the purpose, when the' '-photo¬ grapher said, 4 Take care, ma’am; have an eye to Crib, or he’ll be off with your money/ And, sure enough, Crib made a dash at some sir dings I was laying on the table. There was no saving them but by throwing him a halfpenny to run after, which he carefully picked up and carried next door to his master. The next time I walked along the street I saw a further proof of Crib’s peculiar fancy for coin. Two waggoners were passing, counting the change they had received at the last turnpike. Some halfpence fell into the muddy road. Out rushed Crib, snapped up the money, and darted back into the shop, the waggoners standing amazed and open-mouthed at the smart little thief. Out came Master Saddler with the pence which his dog had brought him, and there was much laughing and explaining. The saddler told me that Crib was getting almost too sharp ; he had snatched up some money once at a pulflic-house which a man was paying down, and bolted away before any one could catch him, only some one knew wheie lie lived and rushed after him. * Crib has had his own photograph taken beauti¬ fully, sitting on a table; an image of expectation, Ids master holding a halfpenny above his nose. We admired him so that a copy was presented to us. After a, time I went from home, and forgot all about Crib. But still, when next I passed the shop, 4 a sense of loss,’ as the poet says, came over me, to see no. sharp, little dog peering out, and no pretty little girls sitting on the step. Whatever halfpennies I could keep from Crib I used to give to these little children, who were orphans, and kindly cared for by their uncle the saddler. I stopped a minute, and asked after Crib. ITe had been sent away to Man¬ chester, I think, to live with a son. I’m afraid Crib had grown too clever for his native town. I did not ask for. the little girls, for I knew where they were, — the bright-eyed things who made the step their play-place, and seemed to have no cares, no lessons, but constant holiday. They lay side by side in the great cemetery outside the town, very still now, waiting for the day when God would per¬ mit them to play once more in the golden streets of His city on high. _ Scarlet-fever had carried both off in one week, and Crib seemed to miss them very much, his master said. There is another smooth wfite dog now at the saddler’s door, and a tiny black-eyea girl sits on th * step, a sister of the dead pair, but they ilo not interest me as Crib and his little friends did! There is nothing like one’s first love. I #

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58 CHATTERBOX. No. YIH. THE LOST WATCH, CHAIN, AND SEALS. A ^(T^V CHAPTER I. T was a day of fog and gloom, and of 'STwBlW* drizzling rain, as the express train fi'om Scotland to London rushed 3 Wytf through the Trent Valley. It was u|li¥ certainly November, but a most xvx fej cheerless day, even for that dreary month. The rain came through the windows of the carriages, and the ¥ mist so completely obscured the v prospect that it might almost as well have been night, and the journey taken in darkness. This was the feeling of at least one of the occu¬ pants of a , first-class carriage, — a little girl, of about twelve years old. She, and her father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery, were the only passengers, and one side of the carriage had been given up for Evelyn's comfort, who, wrapped up in cloaks and shawls, lay at full length upon the seat. Her pale face bore traces of recent illness, and from time to time she sighed wearily. Then her father would put ft way his newspaper, and begin to talk to her, while her mother would alter her position, and try to soothe the restlessness of her fatigue, j 4 This is a bad day for you, Evy,’ said her father, cheerfully ; ‘ but we shall be at home in two hours now.' 4 Two hours ! That seems a long time, and I cannot see anything at all through the window, and reading. makes my head ache.’ 4 1 think it must be time for you to have some¬ thing to eat, Evy,’ said her mother. ‘Let me see what o’clock it is.’ As she spoke she lifted up her cloak to look at her watch ; but suddenly her countenance changed, and the look of dismay quite startled the child. ‘Oh! what is the matter?7 she exclaimed, ner¬ vously, as Mrs. Montgomery did not speak. ‘ My watch, darling ! I have lost it. No, not lost it, Arthur, for 1 remember now where I left it,’ she said, turning to her husband. ‘If it is not lost, there is no great misfortune; left it at the inn, I suppose?’ 6 Yes ; for I remember that, not liking to leave it on the table last night, 1 put it in a drawer of the i looking-glass. 1 did not see it this morning, and, in the hurry of starting, forgot it ; but I am sure it is there. What can I do ? ’ ‘ Telegraph as soon as we get to London. You will be sure to recover it. Now give Evy something to eat; she looks quite pale from fright; at your horror-stricken face, I suppose,’ he added, laughing. ‘ I felt horror-stricken, I confess ; but I ana happy , about it now. Mrs. J ordan will take good care of it for me. It is not only the watch, but the seals and lockets, that are so precious to me.’ Evy fell fast asleep after her luncheon, and did not awake till the train stopped at Euston Square. There the carriage was waiting for them, and Mr. Montgomery hurried her into it, saying to his wife, ‘Will you take Evy home, and I will go to the tele¬ graph office at once to save time ? 7 Mrs. Jordan had formerly been Mrs. Montgomery’s maid, and now kept a small hotel at Kendal. They had intended to continue their journey as far as Chester, but Evelyn’s fatigue made it necessary for them to rest, and Mr. Montgomery much preferred a quiet place, though far from the station, to the noisy railway hotel, feeling that if it were necessary to wait a day or two for the child to recruit, it would be bcttei to be in a small, clean, and comfortable inn kept by an old servant of their own. Evy’s night’s sleep, however, refreshed her enough to enable them to continue their journey, and at the last moment they decided to take her on to London without further delay. Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery had spent the autumn in Scotland, and, owing to her mother being occu¬ pied with an invalid aunt, Evy was left very much to her own devices. Repeated exposure to wet, and various other imprudences, resulted in a sharp attack of rheumatism, and Mrs. Montgomery became so anxious to get good advice and home comforts for her child, that she determined to risk the journey, and Evelyn’s delight at being once more at home amply repaid her for all the anxieties and discomforts attending it, ‘ Oh, mother ! ’ she exclaimed, as she lay down in her little bed, ‘ how pleasant it is to be at home ! I am sure I shall get well directly now. CHAPTER II. The fright that Mrs. Montgomery felt at the loss of her watch scarcely exceeded that felt by Mrs. Jordan at the receipt of Mr. Montgomery’s telegram. ‘Lost in my house! Watch, chain, and seals! Why, nothing was ever lost in my house ! I wonder Mrs. Montgomery could imagine such a thing !’ ‘ Let me see,’ said her sister, who had come to tea; ‘you see it was left behind,’ she added, after she had studied the telegram. ‘ Then I must have seen it,’ replied Mrs. Jordan, angrily. ‘ No : for you see it was left in the drawer of the looking-glass in Mrs. Montgomery’s bedroom. Of course it is there now. Shall I go’ and see?’ £ Well, do, for this has put me quite in a flutter, and I don’t know whether I stand on my head or my heels. Bring it down with you, Jane.’ After a few minutes, as her sister did not return, Mrs. J ordan followed her upstairs. ‘ Well, Jane, why don’t you bring it? We could send it olf by. the night-train if you make liaste.’ Because it is not here. I have looked through every drawer in the room. Has any one been 'm the room since Mrs. Montgomery left ? ’ Only Sarah. I suppose she came in to clear it. 1 erhaps she found it and has put it somewhere safe,’ returned Mrs. Jordan ; ‘ only I wonder she did not tell^ me. Do call her, Jane.’ Sarah came, and was duly questioned. But she protested with some wrath that nothing could have been left there without her seeing it. ‘Such a thing, too ! A gold watch, chain, and seals ! Whatever could have come to me that I should keep such a tiling to myself ! I wonder what folk will say next!’

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No. VIII. CHATTERBOX. Annie Marlowe taking the watch out of the drawer.

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No. VIII. CHATTERBOX. 59 ‘Has any one else been in the room ?’ ‘ Who should £o in, I wonder, unless it’s the girl to clean the grate?’ replied Sarah, crossty. She was thoroughly put out, and looked angrily at Mrs. Jordan’s sister, as if .she thought the whole thing to be her fault. 4 And she was not upstairs a quarter of an hour altogether ! ’ ‘But what can I do, then?’ said Mrs. Jordan, sitting down in despair. ‘There is nothing you can do but telegraph to Mrs. Montgomery to say you cannot find her watch, and that it must be a mistake, but that you will still search and make every inquiry.’ Much time and thought was spent over the writ¬ ing of their message, which eventually went as follows : — ‘Ho watch or chain can be found here. Thinks there must be some mistake. Will still search. If found in London, please telegraph.’ ‘Well, Mary, this is not very hopeful,’ said Mr. Montgomery, as he brought the telegram up to his wife as soon as it arrived. ‘ You must have been mistaken, I think. They are very honest people.’ Mrs. Montgomery shook her head. ‘Ho; lam quite certain I put it in that drawer when I went to bed, and never saw it after. I will write to Mrs. Jordan by to-night’s post.’ It may he remembered that when Mrs. Jordan questioned her servant she spoke of a girl ‘ who had cleaned the grate.’ This girl was one of a large family, and Mrs. Jordan, who was a kind-hearted woman, had often allowed her to come in and help when the house was full. Annie Marlowe, — for that was the girl’s name, — was considered a very good child, and so indeed she was, but she was unfortunately very inquisitive, and apt to follow every impulse of curiosity without considering to what it might lead. In this instance, being sent upstairs to clean the grate, she began by looking through the window into the street, and then, turn¬ ing round to the dressing-table, something glittering in the drawer of the looking-glass caught her eye. She opened the drawer wider, and seeing the watch, took it out and carried it to the window to examine it more closely, till, startled b}r hearing a step on the stairs, she hastily left the window, and, without the smallest intention of stealing, slipped the watch into her pocket, meaning, as soon as she was alone, — for Sarah had come in to dust the room, — to replace it in the drawer. * This, however, she did not succeed in doing, though she dawdled over her work so as to bo left alone in the room. But she only received a sharp reprimand as Sarah sent her out of the room before her, and, greatly to Annie’s dismay, locked the door, and put the key in her pocket. Probably Annie’s face expressed some of tlie surprise she felt, for Sarah accounted for her locking up the room by saying : — ‘ That room is clean enough now, and I cannot have those children dirtying it again, so I’ll just keep the key till it’s wanted.’ ‘ I can slip in and put it back in a moment,’ to¬ morrow, she thought, ‘so it cannot matter really.’ B ut though she tried to think it did not signify, nevertheless she could not help feeling very un¬ comfortable. Still there was nothing to be done, at least so Annie thought, for she did not think of con¬ fessing her fault. She finished her work quickly and hurried home. But there another disappointment awaited her. She had reckoned upon finding her brothers at home, intending to display her treasure, first making them promise ‘ never, never to tell on her,’ but the sight of her father sitting gloomily by the fire entirely disarranged her plans. J oshua Marlowe was a grave, silent man, and all his children were afraid of him — needlessly, for he was never harsh to them ; but he was crushed by his poverty, and the battle of life, which hitherto lie had fought unsuccessfully, had thus made him appear dis¬ contented and morose. ITis gloo’m infected the children, and they always retreated into corners and talked in whispers when ‘father was by,’ so that any ‘ fun,’ as Annie called it, that she expected to have with her brothers, was quite out of the question in the house, and the night was too wet for them to play out-of-doors. She sat down by the fire, looking pale and weary, for the anxiety which she could not shake off made her so unusually silent that her mother noticed it. ‘Why, Annie child, what ails you? You don’t seem to want your supper a bit, and look quite “ peaked.” I always thought the work at Mrs. Jordan’s was too hard for you ; but I suppose you’ve well-nigh done there for a bit.’ ‘ Ho, mother,’ said Annie eagerly. ‘ I must go there to-morrow. I am not a bit tired.’ She was frightened at the idea of being kept at home. ‘ I never see such a girl for work in my life ! ’ said her mother, approvingly. ‘ Any way, you had better go off to bed now.’ Annie willingly obeyed, and crept upstairs to her room, — a little closet through the room in which her parents and brothers slept. She longed to be alone, and to find some place in which she could hide the watch, for now her one wish was to be relieved of the burden of possessing it, and she no longer wished to show it to any one. She sat down on her little bed, and put the watch under her pillow : but then she thought it might slip down and attract attention, and to hide it between the mattress and the bedstead seemed equally in¬ secure. She longed to put it out of sight ; its very touch seemed to burn her fingers. There was no furniture in the room except an old worm-eaten chest which Annie used for a table, and in which some of her father’s clothes were kept. She knew that this was never opened except on Sundays, and not always then; so, for some days at least, that would he a safe bicling-place. She carefully and noiselessly lifted up the lid, and slipped the watch down to the bottom of the chest, under¬ neath her father’s heavy coat. This done she felt she could breathe freely, and hurried into bed without saying her prayers. She could not say them that night. She heard her mother come upstairs, and, closing her eyes, she pre¬ tended to be asleep, and heard her say as she looked at her — . ‘ That child is asleep already. I am sure she is overworked. I wish I had told Mrs. Jordan I must keep her at school yet awhile.’ (To be continued.)

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7 5?8 OLD and purple are the colours for a king to wear, Tongues of flame, darting from the surface bare, To show that there is warmth where all looks cold. These are the Crocuses, that in an early time unfold Like ‘ the February Maids * — last month we saw them. Pale, drooping Snowdrops, now more plentiful, and each a gem. Here the Periwinkle, with blossoms like the sky ; And the Primrose peeping timidly, for she is shy. Not so the Dandelion, she is the Sunflower of the spring, Glaring and bright, her downy seeds, by-and-by she’ll bring. Here the Dead Nettle ; there the Groundsel small and dull : Variety and fulness to the wreath they give, already beautiful. H. G. A

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No. VIII. CHATTERBOX. 61 THE FLOWERS OF FEBRUARY. LTHOUGH not so cold a9 the last month, February generally comes in gloomy and cheerless. No sooner does the frost begin to break up and the snow to melt, than the grey clouds gather thick overhead and pour down torrents of rain, sleet, and hail. In a short time the roads and paths are * ankle-deep in mud, and the brooks and streams overflow their banks and cover the fields on their borders. But towards the close of the month matters begin to mend, and we get glimpses of the bright sun and the blue sky, that cheer our hearts and seem to tell a tale of coming spring. Let us avail ourselves of these brief sunny hours to see what signs the flowers of the garden and field give us of returning warmth. The Snowdrop, that gladdened our hearts by its arrival at the end of last month, is now in its prime. But it has some beautiful companions, that have sprung up since we last visited the garden — the golden and purple Crocuses. These bright flowers are to be found growing wild in some parts of the country, especially in the fields about Nottingham. Mary Flowitt thus describes the delight of the children. ° ‘ When first goes forth the welcome cry Of “ Lo, the Crocuses !” * * * They run, they leap, they shout for joy; They bring their little brethren here ; They fill each little pinafore; They bear their baskets brimming o’er, Within their little hearts they store The first joy of the year.’ If the. weather be mild, beautiful clumps of the true springtide flowers, the pale Primroses, now deck the woods and vales. Lifting their sulphur- coloured blossoms from amid the fallen, shrivelled leaves of last autumn, while the trees above and around them are still bare, they cannot fail to attract our attention, and to fill us with cheerful thoughts. I he Mezereum or Spurge Olive, which, though generally a garden shrub, may be sometimes met with growing wild in the woods, is now putting forth its bright purplish or white flowers. On the sheltered hedge-bank we may perhaps find the Periwinkle, with its blue star-like blossoms, lon°- creeping stems, and bright glossy leaves; while the Sunflower of the spring,’ the yellow Dandelion, brightens the moors and pastures. rwo other wild flowers are commonly to be met with at this season— the Dead Nettle and the the°dnhSe il Tf 6 Aedd‘ih ?urple of tho former and the dull yellow-feathered tufts of the latter are neither of them very bright or beautiful ; still they are wel¬ come additions to our scanty February wreath II. B. A. ARNO AND STEPHEN, THE FOSTER - BROTHERS. (Concluded from p. 52.) RNO, I dare not allow you to excite yourself any longer/ she said ; ‘ to¬ morrow you can talk more.' Then she turned to Marie. ‘ Dear Marie, ’ and her voice trembled rather, ‘ I know all/ But before she could hinder it, Marie had sunk down, and hid her face in t the Countess’s dress. Arno drew his sister to him. ‘ You don’t, indeed, know everything, sister!’ he said; ‘but it is all well as it has turned out. You remember “the brothers” don’t you?’ he continued with a faint smile: ‘and that they could not both have the beautiful ITilde- garde? for she had given her heart to one only! Now it js the same here, and yet different! Thank God, quite different ! But Marie, she allows me to call her Mieclien as formerly. She belongs to Stephen - ’ ‘ My Arno ! my poor Arno ! ’ Agnes cried, and she clasped him in her arms as a mother does her child. ‘No, no ! not poor, and not to be pitied !’ he re¬ plied cheerfully. ‘ I feel it, I recognise it now, as I. stand on the verge of my life ; there is something higher, better, than being happy one’s self, and that is making others happy. Agnes, I have been able to tell her that Stephen loves her ! ’ he continued, as lie gazed at his sister with a brightened look. ‘ She did not know it ! and can there be a more beau¬ tiful mission than that of being the messenger of the love of one true heart to another?’ Agnes struggled with difficulty to repress her tears. She wished to give Marie a sign to leave the room, hut she had already disappeared. When, during the course of the night, Agnes passed through the adjoining room, she saw Marie kneeling at the window. Softly the Countess came behind her and pressed a kiss on her forehead — a kiss of reconciliation and of peace. Although the condition of the young Count was a hopeless one, his death was not so near as he believed himself. And there were hours in which Agnes again hoped that her beloved brother might be spared to her. Arno knew that that was not to be, and he had so completely finished with life, that no wish seemed now to bind him to it. It was he who had words of comfort for all : he encouraged his sorrowing father by the hope of a speedy eternal meeting again, and entreated his- sister and his foster-mother not to mourn for him. If my life has been a short one, it has been a very happy one/ he often said ; ‘and can there be a more glorious death than to die for the Fatherland?’ Tic had implored that Marie too should have her share in nursing him, and when Agnes at first feared lest seeing her should give him pain, lie replied, Lon t be anxious about me, Agnes ; I have brought my heart, with all its strong wishes and hopes, to i est ; the hardest struggle has been past.’

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62 CHATTERBOX. No. VIII. And he always held out his hand to Marie with a friendly smile, and his eyes repeated what he often had not the power to say. ‘ho not grieve, Miechcn; all is well as it has turned out/ With regard to himself he was only heard to express one desire — to see Stephen once more. They telegraphed for him immediately, but as hi3 division was just then on march, it was several days before he received the despatch ; then he could not get leave at once, so it seemed as if the last wish of the dying man was not to be realised. Anxious days of waiting followed each other. Amo’s strength declined ; but it seemed as if he could not die without resting once more upon that brother’s heart, which from its first beatings had been so bound up with his own. After a long continuance of cold, damp weather, August had at last brought some warmth with it, and one day, on which the invalid was feeling less pain than hitherto, was followed by a genial summer night. Arno had persuaded his father to go to rest that night ; and his foster-mother too, who now, to help the Countess, had quite taken up her abode at the Castle, had been induced to lie down. Agnes and Marie were alone with him. Towards midnight, as usual, an attack of fever came on, which lasted longer than was wont. Old memories of childhood were revived in his fancies. It was mostly Stephen with whom his mind was busied: sometimes he called for his sister, and in words which cut the listeners to the heart he related the legend of the two castles, only, instead of Mildegarde, he always said Miechen, and substituted himself and Stephen for the brothers. At last, when morning dawned, the fever passed away. Tie sank back exhausted on the pillows. Agnes supported him in her arms ; Marie knelt by the bedside, and held his cold hand in hers. Then the dogs in the village began to bark ; wheels were heard along the road ; a carriage stopped before the Castle gate ; quick yet soft steps were heard on the stairs, the ebbing life returned once more into the pale cheeks of the dying man. ‘My brother!’ lie whispered, even before the tall figure had entered the room and the fair-haired head had bent over him. The brothers were clasped in a long, silent em¬ brace ; Marie knelt motionless at the table. Agnes had put out the night-lamp and had gone to the window, opening it wide. She turned away directly and went back to the bed. ‘ God be praised ! ’ she heard Arno say : ‘ now my last wish is fulfilled ! Lift me up a little, Stephen: no-one can do it so well as you!’ With tenderness Stephen supported his brother a rainst his own broad breast. Arno turned his face towards the window. The morning dawn cast its beams on the pale features; then he gazed once more into The faithful eyes which looked down sadly upon him. 4 Do you remember now how I said I must go home, Stephen? Last year it was, at the village feast; to-day I say it again. I must go home, and again I leave you the dearest that we possess — you and I: take her, her heart belongs to you.’ lie sought for their hands, but his eyes failed him, and Stephen laid him gently down upon the pillows. In silence the three stood together and listened to his gentle breathing, like that of a slumbering child : only that it grew weaker and weaker, till at last the sun shone full into the room, and the sleep had been exchanged for a glorious awakening in eternity. cnxriER vii. The union of Stephen with Marie had still several difficulties to surmount. Above all tilings the violent opposition of the bailiff, which was not easily over¬ come. He declared plainly, that he would never have the vinedresser’s daughter for his sons wife, and not till the old Count sent for him and pleaded hard for Stephen, adding that he was to take his bride with a dowry, as a dying gift from his de¬ ceased son, did the obstinate man give way, and then with a very bad grace. TIis wife often had to submit to moments of ill humour, to hear him say how he repented at having allowed himself to be thus taken in ; and this was now all the unfortunate result of their intercourse with people above their station. She was silent, and only smiled : she had her long- wished-for beloved daughter-in-law in prospect, so she could well bear a little grumbling. After such words she would quietly slip out to the hedge and call out to Marie, who sat working at her window, ‘ Miechen, keep out of my old man’s sight to-day ; he has not had his afternoon nap.’ Stephen’s wish was to marry as soon as possible. After all the anxious waiting and suspense he longed to lead his bride home. He knew that Marie’s amiable conduct would soon win his fathers heart, when she was once his daughter-in-law. But Marie kept firmly to a determination she had made after Arno’s death, not to become Stephen’s wife before the end of the year of mourning ; and when this was over, as her mother became seriously ill, marriage at present could not be thought of. It was a long time of probation for poor Stephen. But it had one good effect on him, he began to find the use of his tongue at last. He became much more talkative than formerly, and could speak quite eloquently when he told of the campaign and Arno’s heroic bravery. At last, in the third summer after that bloody year, at the time when the cherries were ripe, Countess Agnes plucked the first white roses from Arno’s grave, and wove them into the myrtle-wreath for Marie on her wedding-day. It was a cheerful wedding, . though the word 6 merry ’ could scarcely be applied to it, for there were many sad recollections. Marie had, for the first time, that day put off her mourning for her mother, who had died half a year before: and Agnes was thinking of her brother, from whom she had' at last learned to say, ‘ It is all well as it has turned out ! ’ On the marriage-day Stephen and Marie took their wedding-tour: it was not far, only across to the brothers’ castles, on the other side; and when they came back in the evening — Stephen himself rowed

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No. VIII. CHATTERBOX. 63 the boat with his strong arms — they saw how some one had planted a Prussian flag on the little cottage which Stephen had bought now, and newly and prettily furnished for himself and his young wife. When the boat reached the shore, and Stephen lifted Marie out, she looked back once more towards the old convent, and said, — ‘ The poor Hildegarde !’ ‘Ah! what did you say?’ replied her husband. ‘ In reality the story ends quite differently ; for Hildegarde is really called Miechen, and she is now my wife!’ J. F. C. DO IT WELL. /fT? RE AT is the pleasure, as we all can tell, When one has done a thing thoroughly well. Is it raking a garden, or trimming a hat ; Is it making a gridiron, or knitting a mat ; Is it sweeping a room, or dressing your hair ; You are glad when you’ve done it with patience and care. Perhaps it is saying the multiplication, Or writing an essay on colonisation ; Or should it be running, or riding, or walking, Or dancing, or darning, or singing, or talking,— Let it not be done carelessly, badly, or sadly, But done with your heart in it, cheerfully, gladly s There’ll be joy in the doing, the motive is right, For ‘ What thy hand finds to do, do with thy might/ J. E. C. F. ‘TIME AND TIDE WAIT FOR NO MAN.’ & of the chief sources of I pleasure at the sea-side is the perpetual change caused by U/jSy JIM the rising and falling of the HP# tide. For the youngsters half //UbU ~ H ^ie ft|n sea-side life lie3 in //'Ur '^IPBPva this cause alone. Who has ' • \ not delved an(l Phec^ their • mounds and fortresses of sand, and then stood, like Patience on the monument, till the surf swelling round crumbled them to atoms? Or who has not stayed out on some low, sandy peninsula, rapidly becoming an island, daring his comrades to be ‘last man’ and ‘king of the island?’ How many boys have been entrapped and surrounded on some stretch of rocks, while buhiing up sea-weeds, or crabs, or shrimps, or sea-anemones, or any of the thousand objects which make the low-tide rocks so interesting? And the fact that there is a spice of danger in it adds a zest to the occupation. 6 There is a tide in the affairs of men,’ says Shake- pearc, — so there is in those of children; and the children in our picture have been caught by it, and will have to wade knee deep or thigh deep to the beach. But little they care for that, seeing what booty they have got. For the drifting logs scattered up and down on the rocks, or abounding — too much, indeed — in all our seas, give the comfort of many & winter’s fire to our sea-side folk ; and when they see a wave-worn, worm-eaten plank, oozy with sea-weed and jagged with rusty nails, tossing in the white surf, some one will dash in for it, fish it out, and carry it home as gleefully as ever forester marched home with a buck upon his shoulder in the olden days. GLOVES. TT may be interesting to inquire into the history X and past use of gloves, which are of much greater antiquity than is generally known. To find the first supposed mention of this article of dress we must turn to Ruth, iv. 7, — ‘ Row this was the manner in former times in Israel, concerning re¬ deeming and concerning changing, for to confirm all things : a man plucked off his shoe, and gave it to his neighbour, and this was a testimony in Israel.’ The word here translated shoe, has been also rendered glove. And supposing this to be its real meaning, we find this Israelitish custom reproduced in our Christian ages. Pishops were put into posses¬ sion of their sees by receiving a glove, and we read i in history of a king who claimed and obtained a king¬ dom in right of a glove cast down as a mark of in¬ vestiture by his dethroned kinsman when led to execution. Then in the Greek authors gloves are mentioned as a rarity, and a sign of effeminacy in the wearer. A glutton is spoken of as always wearing gloves at table, to enable him to seize his meat when hot and cat it greedily. In another passage a man is described as using them as a protection against thorns when ! working in his garden. This is common enough in our day, the thick glove and bill-hook are always found together. < But gloves do not seem to have become general for men until the ninth century, and were not worn by women before the Eefornmtion. About the year a.d. 814 monks were restricted to wearing gloves of sheepskin. Two hundred years later they were adorned with jewels, and in the time of our Queen Anne they were embroidered. Gloves were commonly used as a token of defiance: when one man quarrelled with another the throwing down a glove^ or gauntlet was a signal for combat. This custom is preserved in the ceremony at the coronation of our English kings, by the sovereign’s champion riding fully armed and mounted into Westminster Hall, when he throws down a glove, thus defying any one to take it up and question the right to the throne. But the most sensible use of this article was for hawking. In this exercise they were worn with a large cuff, to shield the wrist from the claws of the bird. The love of this noble sport extended through all the higher classes during the middle ages. Kings, prelates, and nobles indulged in it, and we frequently read of bluff King Harry going out with his hawks and hounds. E.

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Caught by the Tide.

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66 CHATTERBOX. No. IX. THE LOST WATCH, CHAIN, AND SEALS. (Continued fromp. 59.) CHAPTER III. omission of her prayers, and the deceit she was practising upon her mother, gave Annie real pain, hut still her one thought was to conceal her fault, and not to make the on! y atonement she could by confessing it. She woke early and spent some time in considering whether she should take the watch to the Inn, or leave it still con¬ cealed in the chest. She decided upon the latter plan. She was afraid of losing it or of its being broken. ‘ I shall be sure to be sent out on some errand,’ she thought, ‘ and I can fetch it then. Mother will think nothing of my running home, even if she sees me ; or I might come home for dinner : ’ so with an anxious heart Annie set out for her daily work at the Inn. Vs she came up to the house she saw Mrs. Jordan at the door, who told her to come with her into the parlour. 4 1 was waiting to see you, child, though I don't believe there is any work for you to-day. You were here, yesterday, I think ?’ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ her heart dying within her at the thought of what she knew would follow. ‘Well, then, you were here when Mrs. Mont¬ gomery left. Did you know she had lost her watch here V ‘No, ma’am,’ said Annie. ‘ Did you go into the bedroom after she left?’ ‘ Only to clean the grate, ma’am.’ ‘Well, speak up, child, can’t you? Nobody is accusing you. You saw nothing left in the room, I suppose?’ For one moment the impulse was strong in the child’s mind to confess all, and ease her conscience of the load that seemed to be weighing it down to the earth. Hut there was something in Mrs. Jordan’s manner that frightened her, and, almost without know ing what she wras saying, the words No, ma’am,’ escaped her lips. ‘ Yroti need not look so scared, child. There, go and ask Sarah if you are wanted,’ she said, as the chamber-maid passed by at that moment. Annie moved towards the door, but felt as if she could not utter. ‘ Law, ma’am ! the child looks scared out of her wits. Whatever have you been saying to her ? ’ Sarah was fond of Annie. ‘ Nothing at all but to ask ber if she had seen Mrs. Montgomery’s watch, and to tell her to ask you if she was wanted.’ ''Not to-day, my dear, I think,’ said Sarah, kindly. ‘ I ll send round when you are.’ Annie went wearily home with the feeling of having added a lie to her other faults, and feeling now so hopelessly entangled in deceit that she could never extricate herself. Her mother noticed her pale and weary face, and declared that the next week she should go back to school again, for that she was not strong enough to go to service for some years to come. Annie, hoping to be rid of her burden long before that time, made no objection to this proposal. Dut her suspense was not to last so long. She had forgotten, if she had ever known, that there were some occasions besides Sundays when her father put on his Sunday clothes. He belonged to a club which met of an evening ; for ‘ business,' the members said, but for speechifying and drinking others said who did not belong to it. This very day was one oi: those appointed for the meeting, though Annie, who bad been sent with a message to her grandmother, who lived more than a mile out of the town, was not at home when her father came in, and knew nothing of it. She missed him at supper, but, as her mother only said he was gone out, she did not connect his doing so with the use of his Sunday clothes, and so she knew nothing of what had occurred. As Joshua Marlowe walked home that day his attention had been attracted by handbills stuck up in every direction, offering five pounds’ reward to any¬ one who/ would restore a gold watch, chain, and seals, supposed to have been lost at the ‘ King’s Head ’ the previous Monday night. He just stopped to read it, .without taking any especial interest in it, little thinking that he was the. person who in a few minutes would he in a position to claim the reward. But so it was ; for as he lifted his coat out of the chest in which it was kept, something shining caught his eye, and, on looking more closely, he found that the property advertised as having been lost at the hotel was in his own house, and it was with a very bitter feeling that he at once concluded that his own child, the eldest, and his especial favourite, was a thief. He knew that she often went to work at the Inn, and a sharp pang shot through the heart of the proud, honest man, when he thought of the hu¬ miliation and disgrace that she had brought upon him. He was not, however, a man to act upon impulse ; and, replacing the watch, he went out with¬ out even telling his wife of his suspicions till lie had reflected what was the best course to pursue. Such angry feelings rose up in his heart that he was glad to Tet ‘ the sun go down upon his wrath,’ for he felt this was a matter which could not be dealt with hastily. All the evening liis mind was brooding upon this most unlooked-for occurrence ; but at laso he came to the determination neither to speak of it or act upon it till the next day. His behaviour the next morning excited much surprise in his wife’s mind, for he sat down moodily by the fire, as if he intended to remain there all day, though he hurried the boys off to school earlier tnan usual. At last his wife asked him if lie knew how late it was, to which he replied that he was not going to work at all that day. ‘ Oh, Joshua 1 you never mean that you are out of work?’ , A , , ‘ No ; but I have work 1 must do at home to-day, he said, very sadly, 4 and the sooner I do it the better. Annie, come here.’ . . The child came to him, looking pale and frightened E 9

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No. IX. CHATTERBOX. 67 as he laid one of the handbills on the table before her, without speaking. 4 That is what Jane Brown came in talking about last night,’ said Mrs. Marlowe. 4 Such a strange thing! I wish I could find it, and get the five pounds, Joshua; it would just pay the rent.’ 4 So you may, Mary/ said her husband, very sadly, 4 for here it is/ and he Md the watch on the table before her. 4 You never — why — Joshua!’ gasped his wife, dismay and astonishment taking away her speech. All the colour faded from Annie’s face. Her lips were white as she threw herself on her knees before her father, sobbing violently. 4 Speak child, can’t you ? ’ said her mother, angrily. 4 What is the meaning of all this ? You never mean to tell me as you stole this ?’ 4 No, indeed/ said Annie, speaking as distinctly as she could through her tears ; 4 1 never stole it.’ 4 Don’t add a lie to theft, child/ said her father, sternly. 4 Who took it if you did not? And how was it I found it in my chest? Stand up and tell me how this happened.’ 4 1 saw it in the room/ she said, still sobbing, 4 and Sarah came in just as I was looking at it, and I was so afraid she would be angry with me for touching it, that 1 slipped it into my pocket.’ 4 And kept it there, and brought it home? A very likely story if you did not mean to steal it ! ’ 4 But I didn’t, father! I didn’t, indeed!’ replied the child indignantly. 4 1 meant to put it back as soon as ever Sarah left the room, but she sent me out first, and. locked the door so that I could not get back, and I was afraid to tell/ she said, bursting into another violent fit of crying. 4 You’ll tell now, however, and perhaps be taken up and put into prison. Come along with me and do it/ he said, putting his hand on her shoulder rather roughly. By this time her mother, who was also in tears, came to her aid. 4 Let her get her hat and cloak, Joshua, she can’t go out like that ; and go and wash vour face, Annie, and try and look fit to be seen, which I am sure you do not now. You see the child did not mean to steal it, but, after meddling with it, was afraid to tell. If she could have put it back, no one would have known.’ 4 1 am not going to beat her/ he replied, sadly, reading his wife’s fears in her face ; 4 but I mean to give her a lesson that will last her life, and make her see how one fault leads to another. Did no one ask you at the Inn if you had seen the watch?’ he asked, turning to the child, who had now returned ready to go out. 4 Yes/ she faltered, hanging down her head. 4 And what did you say ? ’ /I said 4tNo.” I did not mean it, but I was so frightened.’ 4 Do you know that some one else might have been accused of this, taken up and put in prison, all because of your wrong-doing? You must come with me, and restore it yourself to Mrs. Jordan. Do you hear me?’ lie continued as Annie hung back, evidently dreading the task imposed upon her. But Annie was too much afraid of her father to attempt to disobey him, and silently she followed him to the Inn. 4 Mrs. Jordan/ he said, as soon as they arrived, 4 your kindness to my child has been very badly repaid. I have brought her to restore this/ he said, putting the watch into her hand. Mrs. Jordan started with astonishment. 4 Mrs. Montgomery’s watch ! However did you find it?’ 4 Tell how you found it, Annie/ said her father, sternly. He could not help feeling, perhaps too keenly, the humiliation his child had brought upon him ; but she was crying so bitterly that he was obliged to state the facts of the case himself, adding that, though he made no excuse for the child, he did not believe she had the smaller intention of stealing it. 4 That may or may not be/ said Mrs. Jordan, beginning to feel very angry as she remembered the trouble and annoyance Annie had caused her. 4 It’s not that I mean to say anything against yon, Mr. Marlowe, for to have a wicked child is no fault of yours, and I know your wife works hard to bring her children up decently; still you will understand that I cannot have any more to do with any of the family, or let this girl ever darken my doors again.’ 4 1 do not expect it, Mrs. J ordan/ said the man quietly. 4 1 know the disgrace Annie has brought upon the family will stick by us to the last.’ 4 1 am sure I don’t know whether I ought not to give the girl up to the police/ said Mrs. Jordan. 4 At all events I must telegraph to Mrs. Montgomery to say the watch is found, and then send it off by the night train. Perhaps I had better leave it to her to say what punishment she thinks proper.’ 4 1 am going there and can take it, if you like/ he replied, holding out his hand for the watch, but detecting a sort of hesitation on Mrs. J ordan’s part, he quickly drew back, saying, 4 Just as you like, ma’am; I shall take Annie to see Mrs. Montgoineiy all the same.’ 4 To London ? It’s a long way/ said Mrs. Jordan in great surprise. 4 Yes, it’s far away, and a great expense, but after such a deed as this we must all suffer for it. I am aping by the twelve-o’clock train.’ 4 You cannot possibly get back to-day ; you know that, I suppose?’ 4 1 have a sister as fives in Bermondsey ; we shall stop there the night, and get back in ' good time to-morrow/ 4 Well, if you are really going it’s best to take the watch I suppose. Yrou know the address?’ 4 No, ma’am ; but if you will kindly write it down I shall find it easily. I lived in Loudon once.’ Mrs. Jordan gave it him, and Annie, terrified and wonderstruck, followed her father home. {Concluded, in our next.) TRUE HEROISM. YX7 HERE V ER a loving, daring, and noble deed is VV done — in lowly cottage home or upon the broad field of public fife — there you have true heroism. X:

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68 CHATTERBOX. No. IX. i A WEEK OUT OP JOAN GERVASE’S DAY-BOOK. Monday. — UST I verily make an account of our daily life for thee in thine absence, mother dear ? and wilt thou not be miscontent if I prate of foolish things, or prove myself but a sorry scribe ? I trow not, for thou art ever most tender tow>'*ds all thy children ; and it a weary day that saw thee depart from Lancashire with our brother Lawrence for far-off France. Ay, though it was for his safety thou wen test, father 3ighed many times that afternoon, while I had much ado to comfort little Lettice and Sigismund, who wept, and would have none other than mother to stanch their tears, despite the fair* posies Moll gathered them in our castle-garden. ‘ “ What times we live in !” saith father oft in the day. “ Honest, quiet folk imprisoned, nay, con¬ demned to death, for following the religion of their fathers, or that of their own conscience ! to wit, not only us Papists, as they call us, but poor simple folk, like Moll and her people, who belong to the strict sect of Puritans, or Precisians, which conformeth not even to the Reformed religion that the Queen would force on all her subjects.” ‘ It is now made a punishful matter not to attend in the churches where the new religion is celebrated. Father was warned yesternight that he would be further fined if he did not do so. And thou mayest remember he paid twenty pounds only last month on the same score, he deeming it no ill to serve God in our castle-chapel under Father Preston, rather than force his conscience by listening to words in which his heart could not join. It pleaseth him to think that thou and Lawrence art at peace in such matters. ‘Poor Lawrence! it grieved him to leave Jock, his palfrey, and his flower-beds; but bid him take heart, I will cherish all his goods for him till his return, though it be years hence. It were better for him to be absent for a time from poor England, than to be sent like our friends, Walter Howard and Harry Heloraine,to be brought up by those of a faith differing to ours. They do say the Bishop of Chester hath charge of Walter, who parted with many tears from his mother, seeing he was her sole child. And our Lawrence hath had a narrow scaping of such a fate, say many. Nay, Madam Howard shaketh her head over me and saith the women-children will be seized next, whereat my father groaneth inwardly. Surely I am safe through being fourteen years old, and a well-grown maiden, while Lettice and Sigismund are but babes ! They could not be so cruel as to force us from our homes. ‘Tuesday.— Moll hath hastily come in to tire Lettice and babie in velvet jerkin and kirtle — “ to see the show go by ” said she. So, nothing loth for a little pleasuring in these sorry times, I hasted with them to the castle-gate, thinking to behold a bear for baiting, or some merry sight ; but, lo ! I had need of tears instead, for in place of joyful dancers and mummers came a doleful crowd, many good men and true, on their way to the new Fleet Prison in Manchester, dragged thither by order of the Govern¬ ment, because they copform not to the new religion. Chiefly were they of the gentler sort; poor folk scape better. T had speech with our friend Master Norton, who was one of the prisoners. He kissed little Lettice, and prayed we might be safe ; but an ill- favoured man bade him move on, crying to me, “ We shall need some of thine house next, recusants for the prison, maidens for proper bringing-up.” I made Moll hie within after that ; it was no place for women and children. ‘ They cannot seize father, surely : so good a man, so faithful a subject to our queen, albeit of a different religion ! I will not believe it. ‘ Wednesday. — They have come — they have gone — and taken father with them. I have wept mine eyes to aching, and can do naught. How can I tell thee, mother dear ? It wras stiff early : father was sitting in the great hall with his morning flagon of ale before him, babie on his knee, and Lettice on the fresh rushes at his feet, when we heard a clatter in the castle-yard, and rude voices demanding Sir John Gervase. Father softly kissed babie, set him down, and saith, “ I go quietly ; that is best, since they will have me.” ‘ But Andrew, an old warder, guessing they would have his master for prison, and, perchance, for death, showed a brave front, and denied him to the soldiers, sending a little page to bid father fly. ‘ The soldiers had Master Graves of Witherstone already in their keeping, who, kind-hearted gentle¬ man ! thinking to make a diversion and so give father time, turned on his keeper as feigning to escape, whereat the pitiless man slew him on the spot. ‘ Oh, mother, it was a grievous sight ! But I could only think of father. Into the hot fray I rushed, striving to gain the ear of the officer in charge, who sat calmly by on his steed, as if it was not men’s lives that were at stake. ‘ Father cried, “ Go back ! ” but for the first time in my life I played him false, and hung on the arm of the officer, till he bade his men desist and be con¬ tent with taking Sir J ohn Gervase alive. ‘ And father, who had no thought of resisting, and had simply defended his own life, gave up his arms and stood sad and silent, biding their pleasure. ‘ “ Where do you take him ?” I asked, weeping. “‘To a safe place, maiden,” said my officer ; “where we hope to set his mind straight. There are plenty of his sort in the Fleet already, who will keep him company.” ‘ Yes, it was to that dreadful prison they bore him, of which the stench had been known at once to kill a weakly man. I sank down on the stones of the court, half swooning. But my father raised me and whispered words of comfort and advice in mine ear. And then they took him away from us. ‘ Oh, mother ! mother ! it was a bitter morning ! ‘ Thursday. — Poor Master Graves ! Andrew and some other folk have buried him in our garden ; it were dangerous to ask for a place in holy ground for

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No. IX. CHATTERBOX. 69 1 Into the hot fray I rushed, striving to gain the ear of the officer in charge.’ him now. And I sit helpless in the blue chamber, with a hand of Pettice and babie ever in mine. I fear to loose them now all I hold dear arc taken from me. £ .Father Preston hath been here secretly, but he can give me small comfort. He will not even say that our father’s life is not in danger, though he hopeth he may scape with a heavy fine and some imprison¬ ment, since he is known to be a peaceable man, albeit a Papist. “ The Queen hath some cause for her ill- treatment of those of our faith,” said Father Preston, who is a truthful man, “ since it is known some hot and hasty men have plotted against her life at this time.” Still, she might discern who are peaceable and loyal subjects in her realm, and not punish the innocent. ‘ And why, too, should poor Moll’s friends be so sore watched and maltreated also ? They are very

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70 CHATTERBOX. No. IX. different to 113. Why cannot they let men alone in such matters ? Moll and I and the Queen all be¬ lieve in the same God, ask pardon for sin for Jesus’ sake, cry for the same Iloly Spirit to guide our walk : and why cannot they leave the lesser things alone ? ‘ I ask Father Preston this, but he shakes his head. I am to bide quietly within doors till he comes agam with advices as to our future demeanour. He will see my father in the prison, he trusts, to-night. 4 Oh, poor father ! will God spare thee to us ?’ 4 Friday . — A long dull day, shut up in our chamber. Moll hath been chatting to the children, telling them tales of our lady queen, which sound strangely in mine ear in these sad days ; — of her processions and gay doings ; of her large ruffs, the which she.will not permit any to exceed in size, nay, hath caused men to be stationed in the streets, laden with shears, to clip down any that they deem too wide-spreading ; of the jewels sewn to her cloaks, whereof she loseth some off her back at each junketing ; of her six new Hungarian horses, grey-coloured with orange tails and manes ; then, back to her wardrobe, of the strange stretchable web whereof her stockings a*re made. 44 Emitted on pins,” saitli Moll: 44 pleasanter and thinner to wear than our ploth hosen.” 4 44 Ah ! ” saith little Lettie, 44 1 would I were the queen 1 ” ‘But I, unable to restrain myself, cried, “Nay, not so, dear child ; better a little helpless beggar than her majesty, I wot.” 4 And yet for this I ask pardon, since we may not speak ili of dignities ; and, Heaven knows, a queen hath ever a hard part to play, and may, perchance, more easily err than us humbler folk. Wherefore God pardon her easier, if He will! 4 44 More about the queen ! ” quoth Lettie, unabashed, and shaking Moll’s arm. 4 Where the girl getteth all her court-chatter from I know not, unless it be from Mistress Howard’s maid, a line London tirewoman, who hath relations serving there. 4 44 Well,” saith Moll, “ shall I tell about her majesty’s tooth-ache?” 4 44 A}re,” saith Lettie ; 44 did she cry?” 4 44 Cry, forsooth ! she made so much ado, and called so many leeches to her, that it might have been the black fever ; but for all that they could not cure her, and the wisest of them dared to say that she would not be better till the tooth was drawn out by a chirurgeon’s pincers. But this our lady queen would by no means have, but sat and wailed among her ladies and physicians night and day. Some declared she was bewitched, and would charm the ill away. But it went not. The council lords did all lament over her, but it was in vain, till the Bishop of London did offer to lose a tooth of his own, by way of exemplar to her majesty, though he w*as old and had not many teeth to spare ; whereupon the chirurgeon did with his pincers pull one out; and the queen, taking heart that he neither wept nor swooned, allowed her tooth after to be drawn.” 4 1 could not but smile at this quaint story, which Moll saith is all true, and much spoken of just now. What strange things we are ! a little diverteth us even when our hearts are heavy, and Moll is such a dear soul ! She chattereth, I believe, to keep doleful¬ ness away. And she is wise, too; hindereth me from showing myself at the windows, where I would watch for Father Preston, saying, 44 Out of sight out of mind,” as touching the Government officers who are all abroad in our parts just now, haling men and women, and committing them to prison. 4 Nine o'clock. — The whole house a-bed save Moll, who cometh softly to say Father Preston is below by the great mullion window. She and I creep down, for it is not safe even to be seen with a priest now, and he must bide the night season ere he dare go abroad. 4 Good news from my father. Pie may, perchance, get free ere long, but there is danger for me. My name is on the list of those to be seized and edu¬ cated in the new religion. I am to flee at once. But where ? 4 Father Preston hath devised a plan. I am to go this night straight to Witherstone, which hath al¬ ready been searched, and, woe worth the day ! bereaved of its master. There I am to lay by till the next night, when Mistress Graves aud her children will join a little band of fugitives, who are about to make their way to the sea-coast, and thence to the Con¬ tinent. 4 But Lettice and babie ? 4 Moll will take babie to her home and clothe him in fustian, that he may pass for a little churl. Lettice will bide with another friend, Mistress Howard, who will foster her under the name of her house-woman's god-daughter. 4 So all are to be parted. I weep, but there is no other way of safety. 4 Moll hath the head of a prime-minister. She made me rest a few hours, and then brought me a mug of spiced ale and bade me put on my warmest riding-dress, while Father Preston saddled for me my palfrey, assisted by old Andrew, who, still bruised and shaken by the fray of Wednesday, could not keep back his tears at sending forth his young mis¬ tress by night and alone. For Father Preston saith it is best for me to ride alone. I shall meet none, he saith, on the road to Witherstone, since it is. hardly day-break yet, and if I did, to be found in his com¬ pany would be worse for me than aught else. 4 44 There are jewels and money sown in thy girdle, child,” saith Moll, kissing me. 4 She hath not called me 44 child ” for years before. 4 44 Let me see babie and Lettice ' once more,” I prayed. 4 So I crept up the great stairs and kissed the sweet babes in their beds, they all unknowing. And then I rode forth from the castle, Moll hanging on to Grisel’s mane for many a step. 4 Andrew’s brother is warder at Witherstone, and mightily surprised was he to see me at the portal in the early dawn. 4 44 Trouble and sorrow everywhere ! ’ said the poor old fellow, unlocking the gate. 44 Come in, Mistress Joan ; we are in sore grief here.” 4 Aye, grief and confusion, for Mistress Graves and her two little sons were secretly preparing to. fly to Flanders. 44 1 cannot lose both husband and child¬ ren too,” said she, sobbing. 4 Saturday . — I have just discovered it is another

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No. IX. CHATTERBOX. 71 day. I have sat all through the long hours nursing the little Henry, who is sick and frettethfor his mother, who cannot spare time to bide with him. At last, towards noon, we both fell asleep, each weary with our pains, and none waking us. It was night before we roused up to find the horses at the door, and all in train for beginning our journey. ‘ I have a large, heavy palfrey, called “ Brisk;” be¬ cause he moveth so slowly, I deem. Pretty Grisel could not have carried me, and the saddle-bags, and little Henry, who refuseth to leave me now ; but on Brisk’s back I feel like a fiy,- and Henry hath the air of a small midge/ ‘ Sunday . — Brookdale. Here we are to bide till night. I can hardly write for hand-shaking, it being weary work sitting eight hours on even Brisk’s broad back. Such grievous roads too, all mud and ruts ! Poor Mistress Graves’ palfrey fell with her, and sore bemired was she : though, thank God, nothing worse. We are housed with an old servant of hers, and the valley is so retired there is no fear of meeting un¬ pleasant folk. So the poor widowed lady and I have said our prayers and read our service-books in peace, and after that to bed. £ We move again at night, and hope by this means, in the space of ten days or a fortnight, to reach the coast. Babes and women are not to be hastily transported. At Hull Mistress Graves hath powerful friends, who will secure her a vessel. ‘ Oh, when shall I, see thee, dearest mother ? and yet further, when shall we all meet again as a happy family — father, Lawrence, thou, the babes, and I? God onlv knoweth !’ * - * * * * * The above extracts, from the day-book of little Joan Gervase, have simply been modernised in point of spelling, to make them intelligible to the general reader, as a record of a young girl’s troubles in the reign of our maiden queen Elizabeth. They will doubtless he interesting ; and it may be further pleasant to some to learn that she reached Flanders, and afterwards Fiance, in safety, and was permitted a happy meeting with her mother and brother. Sir John Gervase also escaped with his life, and in after years the whole family met together in the old home in England, having suffered sorely in many things, but accounting themselves still rich in the possession of each other’s affection. PL. A. F. called the life which was almost extinct. This pro¬ cess he brought to perfection, and invented a pump, by the aid of which, on introducing through the mouth air heated to the degree of the temperature of the human body, the action of the lungs was restored. This brave man would never accept any other re¬ ward than that of being inspector and superintendent of the apparatus for the aid of the drowning. He was allowed to build a cottage near the gate of St. Hicolas : from this favourable post he watched for the accidents that might demand his zeal. When a boat capsized, or children playing on the shore fell into, the water, Dacheux was there to rescue them ; and many an unfortunate wretch, driven by sorrow or want to commit suicide, was saved from this crime by the brave Dacheux. E. II. C. LOVE BIRDS. Wj&M — [f n W F* all ad™’0 and love birds. How sM y-,) fj 1 can we help doing so? for of all €\\x 11©! God’s creatures they are at once \ r0 the most beautiful and innocent. \ WrM ^ -Bat there are so many kinds A of birds, varying so greatly in y 7 JV form, colour,* and habits, that ^ ° some cannot fail to be greater (V t ^ favourites than others. Most of */ them are graceful and elegant in V-X'“7 ~ shape, but some are thick-set and ^ clumsy. Some, again, are bright with all the colours of the rainbow, while others are plain and sober in hue. Some can sing sweetly and delightfully, while others can only croak harshly. Some are" gifted with more amiable qualities than others. Tims the Dove is gentle, while the Hawk is fierce, and what we should call cruel in his habits, did we not know that he only acts in' accordance with the instinct implanted in him for a good purpose by his Maker. Although we know this, however, wo cannot feel the same love for the Hawk that we do for the Dove. How our artist has given us a pretty picture of two charming little birds, sitting side by side in a shady bower, and looking so sweet and amiable that we can¬ not help liking them directly we see them. They are so affectionate in their manners that they have re¬ ceived the name of Love Birds. Many of our young readers have probably seen some of these bright little creatures in cages at the houses of their friends, or perhaps they may be the fortunate pos¬ sessors of pairs themselves. In general shape these * birds arc very much like Parrots, and their plumage is of a beautiful bright green colour. All day long the little couples sit close to each other on their perches, and talk together in their own twittering language. If they are separated they soon pine away and die. The Love Birds that we see in tins country are mostly brought from Australia ; hut some comp from Africa and South America. Our young readers should not be content with admiring these pretty pets, but should try and imitate them in their gentle¬ ness and affection. 11. 13. A. A FItlEND TO THE DROWNIN G. TAACIIEUX was born at Dieppe, where he had -L' been an experienced seaman. Having, lost the little that he possessed he settled at La Villette, near Paris. It was here that he gave himself up entirely to his favourite occupation ; his work was to assist the unfortunate, and to save their lives at the peril of his own. In the basin of La Villette alone the brave Da- cheux rescued from .the water a great many people, and restored them to life. To throw himself into the water, and to drag out the victims who had fallen into it, was not enough for this intrepid hero; Da- cheux put his mouth against that of the dying person, made the air penetrate into his lungs, and thus re-

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74 CHATTERBOX. No. X . CHANGES AND CHANCES. ? Lancelot — Lancelot de Foye — Lancelot Louis — Lancelot — Lancelot Henry ! — Mother dear, look here. They are all Lancelots, the eldest sons of our family. Why did not you give me the name, too?’ With these words, uttered in a dis¬ appointed tone, a ponderous volume was closed with a vigorous clap, and a boy of fourteen made his way some¬ what noisily across the large drawing¬ room of the Manor. ‘Hush, dear,’ said his mother, looking anxiously round; ‘do not wake your father, he slept so badly last night.’ And the two gazed silently for a moment on the tall figure that lay on the sofa near, the white face, worn more with disease than age, turned to¬ wards them, and bearing the impress of the first struggles of the strong man with his last enemy, death. Then Bertram Herrington began again, in a lower tone, the old complaint. 4 But, mother, tell me, why was I called Bertram instead of Lancelot? Out' pedigree is full of Lance¬ lots : I ought to have had the name too.’ 4 We gave you your father’s name,’ said his mother ; 4 lie wras not called Lancelot.’ ‘No; he was only a second son,’ said Bertram, who was well up in his subject. 4 Don’t you like your name, dear?’ said Mrs. Her¬ rington ; ‘ it is quite a Herrington name.’ 4 Ye s, I like it well enough,’ said the boy ; 4 but don’t you see, mother, Lancelot is the name. For five generations a Lancelot has held the Manor ; and if Uncle Lancelot had not been drowned at sea, there would have been six in direct succession. Why, even my father’s name is Bertram Lancelot ; but in this generation you have ignored the good old name.’ 4 Hear, there was a reason,’ began Mrs. Herrington, nervously. ‘But you wqn’t ask me qbout it; your father might not like it. The name has brought trouble to the Manor. It was years age, and people have forgotten it now. Thank God! death wipes out all sins.’ 4 1 must ask one thing, and then I’ve done,’ said the boy, eagerly. 4 Was it Uncle Lancelot who brought the trouble ?’ His mother sighed a 4 Yes.’ 4 Then I’m glad you did not give me his name,’ said Bertram, 4 for I’m a great deal too much like him already.’ 4 Bertram ! ’ said his mother, anxiously, 4 who told you so?’ 4 No one,’ said Bertram. 4 There is his picture in the north gallery, in the dark corner : any one can see for themselves.’ 4 He killed your grandfather with grief ; he marred your father’s young life. O Bertram, my boy, do not say you will be like him !’ 4 1 don’t say so, mother,’ said the boy ; 4 1 only say we are like in face ; or at least,’ and he blushed a little, 4 as like as I can be to a downright handsome fellow. Cis and I admire him very much, mother. We washed his face only last week ; it was thick with dust: and she sees the likeness, too.’ 4 Oh, Bertie, my son, don’t speak so ! I cannot bear to hear it. I never knew that poor Lancelot’s picture still hung in the gallery; I thought your grandfather had put it away in "his time.’ ‘ So I expect,’ said Bertram ; 4 for last holidays Cis and I discovered it in one of the garrets over the wrest wing, and seeing it was a Lancelot, I got the man to hang it with the rest when the gallery was painted, just about the same time.’ 4 Oh, my boy,’ said his mother, anxiously, 4 how could you ? If your father were to see it ! ’ 4 1 never knew about it,’ said Bertram ; 4 and it's all right, mother : I don’t think the poor pater cares to mount any extra stairs now.’ It was too true. The picture-gallery ran round the upper part of the house, like the floor below, being open to the square hall, which formed the centre from which the various rooms Opened ; and it was long since Colonel Herrington had done more than climb, painfully, and with many stoppages, up the easy flight of stairs which led to his own rooms. 4 Bertie,’ said the poor mother, hesitating, 4 is he much — much changed since you saw him at Easter?’ 4 He looks thinner,’ said Bertram ; 4 but I don’t think he coughs more. Oh, he’ll be better now the weather is warm. My Bame had a shocking cough all the spring ; but she lost it directly the east winds went. And you’ll spend next winter in Italy, won’t you, mother ? That is sure to be the thing for him.’ 4 If God will's, dear,’ said his mother, softly. The tears were quietly stealing down her cheeks. It made Bertram feel very uncomfortable, and some¬ how he could not find a word to say. He did not even give her one look of sympathy, though he was by no means an unfeeling boy ; but he obeyed the impulse to steal quietly and quickly out of the room, past the still sleeping father, out across the flagged hall into the grey twilight of the summer evening. Then he dashed across the smooth lawn, and {dunged into a thicket which bordered it on one side. Where he would have rushed to it was impossible to say, for his progress was suddenly arrested by a sharp pull from a little figure in scarlet, who wras leaning against a tree. It was Cecil, his particular friend and companion, the sister next in age to himsejf. There were six in all — Bertram and Cecil, twins — Clement and Caroline, and two little ones, a boy and a girl. k Where are you going to ?’ asked Cecil, anxiously. 4 To the lodge? I have been, and Jordan has not been able to find us any young squirrels yet. To the paddock? Phyllis has been taken in already, for some reason or other.’ 4 1 wasn't going to either place,’ said Bertram, gruffly. The tears were in his eyes. ‘And pray, miss, why were you tearing about the grounds instead of being in the drawing-room when we came out from dinner? Father inquired after you.’ 4 Oh, did he ? does he want me?’ said Cecil, anx¬ iously. 4 I’ll go — I am so sorry— perhaps it was to play backgammon.’ But Bertram held her now in his turn, and spoke in a more natural tone. 4 He doesn't want you ; he’s asleep, and if you go bouncing in upon him you’ll waive him. I wanted

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No. X. CHATTEKBOX. 75 you, though ; you’ve no right to leave me with only Clem and Carrie in an evening.’ 6 And mother?’ said Cecil, reproachfully. 4 She’s always busy with father these holidays.’ 4 Well, Bertie dear, I wanted to come this evening; indeed it wasn’t my fault, nor the dressing, though you know I hate that. See, I have my evening frock on really under this old cloak. It was mademoiselle/ 4 Tiresome old thing ! this must be put a stop to,’ said Bertram, impatiently. 4 Stop, I haven’t done,’ said Cecil, with a hand over his mouth. / Poor thing, she had a headache, you know — really bad, Bertie, and I couldn’t leave her. It does a headache such good to bathe the head with Eau de Cologne. I thought all day she was ill, she had been so cross — so distressed, I mean — about Clem and Carrie’s lessons.’ 4 Well, but you haven’t explained how you got here,’ said Bertram, severely. 4 It was the Eau de Cologne reminded me that we promised Jordan’s little girl some sweet things if she took her medicine well, and Carrie brought me some sugar-plums from dessert; so mademoiselle let me run there very quickly, if I put on my warm cloak and did not stay.’ * And so you sat down under the tree Here by way of obeying her ?’ 4 I didn’t sit down, Bertie, only rested a mo¬ ment while I said through my poem for to-morrow — French poetry is so hard to learn. But now, indeed, I shall be scolded if I stay longer ; and see, this bit of my frock is damp with dew. Mother will be frightened lest I catch cold. Come id, dear, too. I have five minutes, and we can make a plan for to-morrow.’ Cecil was full of plans and full of energy. Like her brother, she had excellent abilities, and, unlike him, had perseverance to carry forward her efforts towards success. She was already a companion to her mother, and a kind elder sister. But her life was only half complete during Bertram’s absence at school. In the holidays she was another creature, living almost entirely for and with Bertram. Clem and Carrie \yere only a year younger than herself, but they were mere children in the eyes of the busy little maiden; for Clem was delicate" from his birth, and had never been able to join in boyish sports; while Carrie was small and timid, and clung to nurse and governess. So it came to pass that, in Bertram’s holidays, Cecil found herself compelled to transform herself into a boy for Bertie’s sake ; and Colonel Derrington smiled over the torn garments and browned features of his eldest girl, pleased, poor ailing man ! to think that two of his children were laying in stores of health for the future. He had been ill for more than a year now, and the truth began to force itself upon him that he might soon be called to leave wife and children and pleasant home. ‘ If only Bertram were a little older, a little wiser, a little steadier,’ thought the poor father. But Bertram was only fourteen, and no wiser than boys of fourteen usually are. The Derringtons were rich people — that is to say, they had amply sufficient to supply themselves with every comfort, and even luxury, that belonged to their station. There had been an interval in time past when the Manor had been shut up for seven years, and a necessity for straitened expenditure had arisen: but that was not in the remembrance of the young generation. Bertram and Cecil never recollected the day when they had not more toys and amusements, and greater scope for enjoyment, than their young companions in the neighbourhood. Cecil took it all quietly. She was born to it, and would have sorely missed her pony, her garden, and her other pleasures, had they been, taken from her ; but lands, and servants, and fine clothes, were no at¬ traction to her — rather, indeed, in the way. ITer brother laughed a little scornfully at times at her quiet tastes and habits, and declared she had better have been born a simple Susan in the village — she would have been almost happier than as a Derrington of the Manor. Bertram was of another stamp, inclined to attach too much importance to name and family, and apt to consider too much how a Derrington should make his appearance in the world. As eldest son, he had his own way at home a good deal ; and it was soon known that Mr. Bertram ob¬ jected to driving into the nearest town of Wether- mor.e with his mother without a pair of horses, or without what he thought a proper number of servants. Mrs. Derrington laughed a little, but ge¬ nerally fell in with her boy’s wishes ; though she shared Cecil’s feelings about show not mattering much as long as people were comfortable. ; But I am not comfortable,’ Bertram would say, 4 when Harris’s buttons want brightening, or when we go snailing along behind old Captain, with Damon and Pythias eating their heads off in the stable. By . the way, mother, when shall I have something better to ride than Phyllis ? I really am too heavy for her now; in fact, I have actually turned her over to Carrie.’ 4 Can’t you fancy Cormorant?’ asked his mother, doubtfully. Bertram shook his head. 4 1 can’t bear being covered with white hairs when I go- out ; and, besides, he has such a neck - ’ 4 That you couldn’t be seen on him,’ said Mrs. Derrington, smiling. 4 Well, be patient, dear. I know your father has great plans for you for the hunting season, and meantime you must try and ma¬ nage with Phyllis or the old horse. We are short just now in the stable.’ _ It was no part of Bertram’s creed, however, to den}' himself anything, and particularly not in a matter which concerned his appearance. Very shortly a young school friend of his would arrive at the Beeches, the next property to the Manor, and was he to call there mounted on a bit of a pony only fit for a child, or ona shambling old charger that had carried his father sixteen years ago ? The idea was not to be tolerated for a moment. Had his father been in health he would certainly have appealed to him, and most probably had his wishes gratified by the purchase of a more suitable steed; but his mother did not understand these things, so he resolved not to trouble her, but to take the matter into his own hands.

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76 CHATTERBOX. No. X. A half plan was already floating in his mind. There was a very showy chestnut on sale in the inn stables at Wethermore, said to belong to Lord Arthur Swayne, of Castle Swynyard, which would just suit him, and if he could manage the price he would buy it. No one could blame him then; and he should be keeping strictly to the promise he had made to his father, of avoiding debts and entanglements. Bertram could not do without sympathy in his projects, though he rather objected to advice, so he sought a private interview with Cecil, and confided his intentions to her. ( To be continued.) NEVER PARTED. JT was the old tale over again — Death, and sorrow, and separation. Not only must the dead father lie silent and apart from his weeping children, but they, the brother and sister, the last left of the once large and cheer¬ ful family, must also divide and go forth, each to earn the daily bread they needed. Henry Neath, the young clerk, had already his post of occupation in the bank of Messrs. Restall ; but Emily, his younger sister, her father’s nurse and companion in the last few suffer¬ ing years of his life, had now no home, and must needs seek a situation as governess. ‘ Couldn’t I still live with you in lodgings, Henry? ’ she pleaded. T should not feel so very lonely there.’ But the city was no place in which to find pupils, and very sadly the young people had to give up that plan. ‘I will speak to Mr. Charles Restall about you, Emmie,’ said her brother one morning: ‘he is so kind ; he will try to get you a situation with pleasant people. And see, my child, I am in the more hurry about it, because I know they want to send me to the country branch-business at Mereford.’ Poor Emily looked very downcast, she was young — just eighteen, and very timid over this terrible step in life she had to take ; but Henry knew what was best: she trusted to him fully. Only— was it wrong? — she could not help adding to her evening prayer a little clause not spoken, only thought, that she and Henry might not long be separated. Next morning her brother announced that Mr. Restall was going to make inquiry among his friends for a suitable situation for Miss Neath. It was quite time, for their landlady had already let Emmie's room to another lodger, and was anxious to have it given up. Since their father’s death, Henry had taken his sister into the houSe where he lpdged, in a dim, dark street in the city. Three days after he was called into the private room of Mr. Charles Restall : both partners were there, two kindly old gentlemen. ‘They are quite ready for you at Mereford, Neath,’ said the elder brother, rubbing his hands. ‘ What is to be clone with Miss Emily V ‘ There, there, Charles !’ said the younger brother: ‘do not puzzle him. Read that letter, Neath, and tell us what you think of the plan.’ The young man took the offered sheet, and read through a page or so of purely business matter, then he started. ‘Read the postscript aloud,’ said Mr. Albert Ilestall, smiling blandly. And young Neath read, — ‘As to the young lady requiring a situation as governess, on your recommendation my wife is ready to take her for our little girl, if she is content to come. She could live with her brother in the pretty little rooms- of Widow Smith on Mereford Common, midway between the office and our country-house. This would suit us even better than living in the house, and I dare say she would prefer it. I leave all other arrangements to you to make.’ Henry Neath paused, too grateful to have many words at command. ‘Well! you like the plan?’ said Mr. Charles, polishing his eye-glasses. ‘ But don’t be in a hurry ; Miss Emily may not choose to leave town, and be buried in a quiet spot like Mereford: you must consult her.’ ‘Indeed, indeed, there is no need!’ said Henry, thankfully : ‘ it will be all she could wish. But how can I show my gratitude for your kind recommend¬ ation of her?’ ‘ By getting fat and happy both of you,’ said Mr. Albert, decidedly. ‘There, Neath, leave the office at once, and go home to prepare your sister. When we have well-intentioned young men about us we like to show our sense of it ; you have been a steady worker for us in the last five years, and I don’t doubt you will please them equally well at Mereford.’ It is graciously ordained that young people can make no lasting home for sorrow. Work and change speedily brought smiles to the worn faces of the brother and sister. The little house on the Common, with its small sitting-room and tiny bed-rooms, blown through and through by Heaven’s freshest breezes, was the sweetest of refuges to them, for they were together. Widow Smith was so neat and clean, so chatty and civil, that they found her a delightful contrast to the London landlady, sharp-spoken and not in¬ terested in aught save her weekly payment. Mrs. Smith was perhaps none the less attentive to her lodgers that the first six months’ rent had been paid, unknown to them, by Mr. Charles Restall. Emily and her little pupil, Alice Grove, were on the best of terms : there were, of course, little draw¬ backs at times, moments when Emily’s timidity stood in her way, but each day gave her more confidence, and Mrs. Grove had told her husband that she ‘ would do.’ The evenings were the point, however, that both brother and sister looked to as their greatest pleasure. It was summer when first they came to Mereford, and those sweet wanderings in the grassy lanes were a taste of Paradise to the two young Londoners. ‘ But it isn’t the country, really, that makes my chief gladness, Henry,’ said Emily, one day : ‘ it is feeling we are not to be parted. Henry, was it wrong, when you were settling to . find me a governess’s place, I did so pray we might be kept

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No. X. CHATTERBOX 77 together ? and see, it is granted ! Do you think I might — should you mind my telling Mr. Mason next Sunday to thank for me in that prayer? It seems so ungrateful not to acknowledge it.’ So, on the following Sunday, it was given out in church, that ‘ two persons wished to return thanks for a special mercy vouchsafed to them,’ and Emily and Henry joined, with heartfelt gratitude, in the words that followed. Very few knew who those two persons were, and

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78 CHATTERBOX. No. X. what was the mercy referred to, but Emily went home the happier that she had owned her joy and thankfulness. Three years longer they lived in the little cottage on the Common, and then it was Emily who left Henry, to be the wife of Mr. Mason, the very clergy¬ man who had uttered for her the thanksgiving of iier first happy days at Hereford. Henry laughingly taunted his sister with forsaking him in this fashion, but there are probably as many happy days in store for them at Hereford Vicarage as in Widow Smith’s cottage, and it is time Mr. Heath, the managing clerk, with an excellent salary, had a house of his own. Hr. Charles Restall, who happened to be staying at Hereford at the time, gave Emily away, and made the speech of the day at the wedding breakfast, which took place in Mrs. GroVe’s large dining-room. Little Alice was the only one not pleased with it. ‘ It was all about Hr. Heath,’ she said, 4 and I wanted Hiss Heath to be praised.’ 4 Well, dear, but Henry and I are one, the same, you know,’ said the bride-governess, drawing the pouting child to her. 4 1 beg your pardon,’ said the bridegroom smiling : 4 you and I are one now, Mrs. Mason. That dissolves the former partnership.’ b But the partnership is not dissolved as far as affec¬ tion goes. Emily Mason finds she has room in her heart for brother as well as husband : one love does not displace the other, neither does her husband really wish it. Mrs. Mason at the Vicarage, and Mr. Heath at the Bank, still feel as if, thanks to kind Mr. Restall’s consideration, they were never parted. ILA.F. # THE LOST WATCH, CHAIH, AND SEALS. (Concluded from p. 07.) CHAPTER IV. OSHUA MARLOWE had told his wife of his intention, so that when he got home such small preparations as were necessary had been al¬ ready made— a small bundle, and a basket, containing some bread and cheese and cold bacon. Annie cried very much when her mother kissed her at parting, but the child was so bewildered at the sudden¬ ness of the plan, and the noise and bustle of the railway, that she scarcely realised what was going to happen to her. Her mother wrapped her up in her own warm shawl. Her father scarcely noticed her. Travel liug was so new to Annie that, when she had looked out for some time, wondering at the way everything seemed to fly past her, she became quite tired and dizzy, and, scarcely knowing what she did, laid her head on her father’s shoulder, and fell asleep. She was not really awake till the train arrived in London, and then the flare of the gas-lamps, and the noise and bustle, confused her still more. As soon as they got out of the train her father desired her to follow him closely, but this she found some difficulty in doing, as he hurried along, jostled on every side. At last he stopped at the top of a street, which, as Annie looked down it, seemed to her so bright and beautiful that it wras like a scene in Fairyland, and she began to wonder what wTould happen to her next. 4 Where are w;e going, father ?’ she asked timidly, as he did not speak. 4 To Mrs. Montgomery’s house, for you to restore the watch and to confess what you have done. Oh ! Annie, I never expected that you would have brought this great trouble upon me ! ’ Her father’s words opened again the sluices of Annie’s tears, and she began to cry, now hopelessly and quietly, for the child wras wearied and worn out with fatigue, and the remorse and sorrow she had felt. 4 Crying now is quite useless, Annie. I only hope that you will remember this lesson all your life.’ * Indeed, indeed, I will, father,’ said Annie, humbly and from the depths of her heart. An omnibus passed by at this moment. Her father told Annie to get into it, and it dropped them very near the street in which Mrs. Montgomery lived. It was now’ getting very late, and the servant who came to the door said that Mrs. Montgomery w*as at dinner and could not possibly see him, and desired him in a sharp manner to come 4 in a proper time in the morning.’ 4 Ho, I cannot do that, as I must leave London to-morrow. If you will tell her that I have a mes¬ sage from Mrs. Jordan she will see me.’ This was said so quietly and firmhr that the servant obeyed at once, looking, however, rather injured as he informed his mistress that a poor man was waiting who said he must see her. 4 He cannot see Mrs. Montgomery now,’ said her husband, impatiently. 4 Why did you let the man in if he is a beggar ? ’ 4 ITc has a little girl with him, sir, and he looks like a workman. I did say you were at dinner and that he must come to-morrow, but he would take no denial, and said that if I told you he had a message from Mrs. J ordan you wrould be sure to see him.’ 4 From Mrs. Jordan ! ’ they both exclaimed at once. 4 She has found my watch, then ! ’ and they left the room followed by Evy. Mr. Montgomery threw’ open the door of his study, and Annie and her father followed him into the room. 4 1 am sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Joshua Marlowe, respectfully, 4 but I promised Mrs. Jordan to see you myself. Annie, give the lady her watch.’ Annie trembled as she w’alked across the room, and laid the watch and seals down upon the table. 4 Your watch! Oh! mother, I am so glad!’ ex¬ claimed Evy. 4 And did this little girl fincl it ? Do let me give her the reward.’ 4 We do not look for any reward, miss. On the contrary, I have brought her to confess her fault, and to beg Mrs. Montgomery’s forgiveness.’

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No. X. CHATTERBOX. 79 ‘Surely you did not steal my watch?’ said Mrs. Montgomery in great surprise. £ Where did you find it?’ ‘ I never meant to steal it, ma’am,’ said Annie, in a low voice, with tears running down her cheeks ; ‘ but I put it in my pocket, and never could get it back.’ Every one looked puzzled, and her father stated the facts of the case. ‘ I have brought her all this way, ma'am, to ask your pardon for what she did. It has caused a deal of trouble, and has led her into the still greater faults of lying and deceit ; and she has not only lost her own character, but damaged ours, which has always stood well for honesty. I only hope this lesson may last her life.’ ‘ Why do you say the child’s fault has damaged your character?’ asked Mrs. Montgomery, greatly struck by the man’s upright and truthful manner. 4 No one in Kendal would ever take her into their service now, and, probably, every one will distrust all her family. I have taken pains to bring the children up honest, though I am a poor man,’ lie said, sadly, 4 and this has been a sore blow.’ 4 1 should not think any one would distrust you,’ said Mr. Montgomery, kindly. 4 But you are quite entitled to the reward, and it will defray the expenses of your journey.’ 4 No, sir,’ he replied, shrinking back; 4 thanks to you all the same ; but I could not touch that money. It would seem to me like the wages of sin.’ Mia. Montgomery spoke to her husband in a low voice, and then turning to Annie, said, — 4 Would you like to go to a school where you would be well taught, and especially the difference between right and wrong ? ’ 4 1 don’t know,’ said Annie, shyly. 4 If you like to leave her with me, I will clothe and educate her, and, if she docs well, take her into the house as soon as she is old enough, and train • her for a servant. Here no one will know anything against her,’ said Mrs. Montgomery. 4 Thank you kindly ^ ma’am, you are very good, but - ’ 4 Do let her stay,’ said Evy, eagerly. 4 Think it over, my good man,’ said Mr. Mont¬ gomery. 4 You need not decide in a hurry. When do you go back?’ 4 To-morrow morning I must - ’ ‘Well, then, think it over to-night,’ said Mr. Montgomery. 4 You must see the advantages of Mrs. Montgomery's offer, and, if you like to accept it, leave your little gill here to-morrow morning. She looks very tired now, so you had better take her home. Good-night.’ ‘Good-night, sir, and madam,’ said Joshua. He would like to have said more, but he seemed to have no words at his command. 40 father, you’ll never leave me!’ said poor Annie, as soon as they got into the street. 4 1 don’t know that it would be right to refuse such an offer, Annie,’ replied her father. 4 If I do leave you, you must be very good and diligent, to try to make up for what you have done. I shall talk it over with your aunt, and you must put up with it whichever way it is.’ Annie was so completely worn out that her aunt insisted upon her going to bed at once, and in two minutes she was sound asleep; but her father sat up long, discussing the child’s future. Mrs. Hollo¬ way assured him that it would be madness to refuse what would be the making of the girl ; so with some doubts as to what his wife might feel at his return¬ ing without her child, he resolved to accept Mrs. Montgomery's offer, and told Annie so in such a decided manner that she felt all entreaty would be useless. Annie clung to her father as he entered Mr. Montgomery’s house, and her father’s heart was very sore, for the thought of leaving his child amongst strangers gave him a sharp pang. ‘Have you decided upon leaving your little girl with us ?’ asked Mrs. Montgomery, who came down as soon as she was told that the 4 poor man ’ had come again to see her. 4 1 will do all I can for her if she will be a good child and behave well.’ 4 1 hope she will, ma’am. She has been always thought a good child at school, and now Providence seems to have put such a chance before her, poor as we are, I do not think it would be right to refuse. She has not many clothes besides what she has on, but I will send what she has as soon as I get home.’ ^ ‘No,’ said Mrs. Montgomery, ‘she must be my charge ; I mean to clothe and educate her entirely, and make her a good servant. You would like that, Annie?’ _ Her father’s lips quivered as he stooped down to kiss her ; but by this time the poor child had lost all self-control, and it was with such a cry of bitter pain that she clung to his neck, saying, ’4 Take me, oh, please, take me back to mother/ that the tears came into Evy’s eyes as she came up to Annie, and took her hand, saying, 4 Poor girl ! We will make you happy ; don’t cry.’ Annie allowed Evy to lead her upstairs after her father was gone, and the sight of her dolls, and many other things which were quite new to her, took off the edge of her sorrow for the moment : though at times she had a burst of grief which dismayed her new friend. The next day, as soon as her outfit was complete, Mrs. Montgomery took her to Hampstead, and left her at a school of which she was the patroness. Annie remained there three years, and in the course of that time did herself such credit that Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery took her into the house to be trained by her own housekeeper. Some years passed, and then she became Evelyn Montgomery's maid, and the most trusted and re¬ spected of all the servants in the house. When Evelyn married and had children of her own, she begged Annie to remain with her as nurse, saying, 4 1 want you to be with my children, Annie, as I know you will teach them to be truthful from the very first, and to know right from wrong.’ 4 1 will try,’ was her reply ; 4 for I have -never for¬ gotten all I learned from your mother’s watch, chain, and seals.’

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82 CHATTERBOX. No. XI. CHANGES AND CHANCES. {Continued from p. 7G.) OU have money enough to buy ^ a good horse I suppose ? ’ was her somewhat commonplace question in reply. ) 4 Yes, I think so/ said Ber¬ tram. 4 You know the twenty pounds I had from Aunt Mary last week, instead of the tour she promised me, which couldn’t come off ? W ell, then, I have a fiver of m}r own : and next month is my birthday, and there will be another ten pounds at once : you know my father always gives me that.’ 4 Ah, but you haven’t got it,’ said Cecil, cautiously. 4l)on’t be stupid, Cis ! it’s as good as here. You know a horse is never paid for directly — at least very, often it isn’t ; and every one knows the money is per¬ fectly safe from a Derrington.’ 4 But isn’t father going to get you a horse this autumn — a really good hunter?’ pursued Cecil. 4 Yes ; but I must have a second,’ said Bertram ; 4 and really, Cis, I’m ashamed to be seen with Cor¬ morant — even riding to cover. And I can’t bother father about it now; and Brooke coming to the Beeches next week, you see, I wanted things settled.’ 4 Well, let us consult mother,’ said Cecil. Bertram hesitated. 4 I’d rather manage the thing myself. Ladies know very little about horseflesh.’ 4 Then Turner.’ Turner was the head groom. 4 He’d say anything bad of a thing I liked,’ said Bertram, hotly. 4 O Bertie dear, no ! he has a temper, but he isn’t like that. Well, then, write to Lord Arthur himself, or his father. They wouldn’t let you have the horse if it wasn’t a safe one — I mean a sound one, you know,’ said poor Cecil, fearful of affronting her brother, and yet a little doubtful of his skill for selecting a horse. But Bertram was sure he could best decide on whether the chestnut would suit him; he fancied him¬ self an excellent judge of horseflesh. 4 Shall we ride to Wethermore and look at it to¬ morrow?’ he suggested at last. 4 There could be no harm in that.’ And Cecil agreed, with a tiny fear in her heart that Bertie would do more than look ; and then some¬ how she had a feeling that mother might be alarmed at the idea of a strange horse. But Bertie was nearly fifteen, to be sure, and at fifteen boys are almost men, and certainly know more about horses than ladies. Perhaps it would all come right. Still. Cecil felt her colour deepen that evening, when Bertie asked leave for her to ride with him to Wethermore next day, and Ms mother gladly gave permission, adding, — 4 And Cecil will match my silks for me, won t you dear? My work is so hindered for want of them, and it must be finished for you to take with you to Annabel.’ Cecil was going to be bridesmaid to her cousin in a few weeks’ time, and greatly enjoyed the idea of her first wedding. 4 Take Turner with you,’ added Mrs. Derrington. 4 Oh, mother!’ said Bertie, 4 he will be such a bore; . surely I can take care of Cecil now?’ 4 1 don’t doubt you, my boy,’ said his mother ; 4 but in the town it is awkward to be without a servant. I hardly expected to hear you protest against one either, Bertie.’ 4 Oh, of course, with shopping we must have one !’ said Bertie, now reddening in his turn. 4 But Tom would do; Turner can’t bear going with me.7 4 Well, let it be Tom, then,’ said Mrs. Derrington. 4 But Bertie, dear boy, try to be more forbearingwith old Turner ; he is an excellent servant : and when we think that he taught your father to ride as well as all of you, it should make one put up with a little oddness of temper now. I am sorry to think you get on worse with him as you grow older.’ Bertram muttered something about 4 interfering and worrying,’ which his mother passed over: if possible, she avoided all lecturing with her eldest son; sickness debarred his father from being his coun¬ sellor, and if she made herself disagreeable to him he would indeed be ill off. Cecil woke several times in the night with a sensa¬ tion of discomfort ; once she roused herself quite up to find out what it was, and discovered that it was the chestnut in the stables of the 4 Eagle,’ at Wether¬ more. She determined to ask Bertie in the morning not to buy it without telling their mother; but the day dawned so bright and cloudless that her scruples all vanished, and she was so busy taking patterns of her mother’s silk, and receiving special commissions from Clem and Carrie for paints and dolls’ clothes, that there was neither time nor opportunity for a talk with Bertie, and they were cantering along the park before her doubts and scruples of the night rose up again to vex her. Then she did say : — ‘Bertie you won’t buy the horse to-day?’ 4 1 couldn’t, Cis ; I haven’t brought the money.’ Ho, of course, he couldn’t; how stupid she was ! and there was nothing wrong in going to look at it. Father ' had often done the same thing before at those very inn stables; so Cecil banished all care, and gave herself up to the delights of the ride under a bright sun, with a cool wind blowing. 4 I’ll go to Smithsons with Tom while you stop at the 4 Eagle,’ said Cecil, as they neared Wethermore; 4 when I have done I can sit in the parlour upstairs, if you are not ready.’ 4 No, no, you must come with me at once,’ said Bertram ; ‘ Lll see it is all right : there is nobody at the stables but the ostler in the morning.’ Now Cecil had a distinct feeling that this would not be all right, and she wondered Bertie did not see it. He was generally so particular about what she did in public ; but she was too used to submit to him to object, and she followed him in through the yard gates of the 4 Eagle,’ meaning to remain quietly on her pony there while he looked at the chestnut. Happily there was no one about, as Bertie had said, but the ostler, for Cecil felt that she was terribly out of place in an inn-yard without her father, or even old Turner, to give her a sense of protection.

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________________ No. XL CHATTERBOX. 83 Tom was chatting quietly in a corner with a stable- iacl of his own age ; Bertram had disappeared with a groom into a stable, and Cecil was conscious that two maids and a man were watching her through the big kitchen window, which commanded the yard. She was glad when a clattering of feet announced the approach of the chestnut, and therefore of Bertram. It stopped, however, on the threshold of the stable, and a man came out and offered to help her to dis¬ mount. She declined, but Bertie called out de¬ cisively, ‘Get down, Cecil, and let Tom walk the pony about in the shade outside !’. So she did as she was bid, and then, when their horses were well outside the gate, the chestnut was led out. ‘ It might have fidgeted it, you see, to find two strange horses in the yard/ said Bertram, by way of explanation. Cecil secretly thought the chestnut must be of a very fidgetty nature to object to two quiet old ponies, but she wisely held her tongue. He was a very pretty creature ; of that there could be no doubt : its glossy skin and arched head took her fancy at once ; it had a way of looking back with its eye that she did not quite like, but that was all ‘ play/ she was told, and Cecil was not very knowing about horses, so long as they carried her swiftly, and took bread out of her hand of a morning. ‘ Plenty of spirit, but as quiet as a Jamb,' said the owner, who turned out not to be Lord Arthur Swayne, but a dealer, who had bought the horse from him a few weeks back. * Why are you parting with him?’ asked Cecil, trembling at her own forwardness. 4 Well, miss, you see I only bought it to sell again ; a pretty thing like that is not for me. I did mean to have taken it to Mereford Fair, where I could get a good round sum for it ; but to oblige a gentleman, I would of course sell it here. Will you try him round the yard, sir, or out in the paddock ? ’ The chestnut went capitally and showed no temper, whatever its eye betokened; Bertram was delighted, and only anxious now to close the bargain. The landlord of the 4 Eagle ’ came out and said it wTas a pretty beast for sure. Had Colonel Herrington heard of it from Lord Arthur? 4 No/ said Bertram, it had not been mentioned to his father by any of the Swayne’s; he had only casually heard of it himself. Then the landlord looked rather uncomfortable, and suggested its being sent to the Manor on ap¬ proval. This Bertram resented as an insult to his private judgment. It was finally arranged that Bertram should leave Phyllis in the inn stables, and ride his new favourite, Sultan, to the Manor on trial. 4 The young lady could ride on with the servant/ suggested the horse-dealer ; and Cecil, feeling all was not quite right, found herself making her purchase and riding out of Wethermore, followed only by Tom. She was cheered, however, by soon hearing Ber¬ tram's horse cantering behind them. Then Tom rode up, and touching his hat, said : — 4 Excuse me, miss, but it would be best for you to keep }T)ur distance from that there chestnut ; the boy at the 44 Eagle ” says, he is up to tricks.’ 4 What sort of tricks ?’ said Cecil, terrified for her brother ; 4 does Mr. Bertram know ? ’ 4 That I can’t say, ma’am/ returned Tom; 4 but they won’t hurt him : it’s those he’s with as lie's a spite against.’ ^ ,T 4 Oh dear, I am glad of that ! ’ said poor Cecil. I thought he reared, or shied, or something. We can keep out of his way well enough.’ It seemed that Bertie had an inkling, too, of some¬ thing of the sort on the part of his steed, for he care¬ fully kept the other side of the road from his sister, and all would have gone well but for a sudden rush out of a field close by of a young cow, which startled Cecil’s pony, and caused it to shy a little: this brought it into dangerous contact with the chestnut, who instantly struck out, laying back its ears, and continuing to kick so violently, that for a few seconds it was all Bertram could do to control it. Then he called out, anxiously, 4 Hid it catch the pony?’ No one answered, and when the boy looked round, it was to see Tom laying his sister down by the roadside ; her face so white that he thought she must be dead. He jumped off the chestnut, let it make its way back to Wethermore, and knelt down by Cecil. 4 She is dead ! I have killed her!’ said Bertram. 4 Beg your pardon, sir, but you must hold your tongue/ said Tom, who had a head on emergencies ; 4 she’s only in a faint like. I think that tricky brute caught her on the knee. Take her head on your arm, sir, while I tether our ponies ; it won’t do to have them going home frightening the Colonel to death. There, that is luck/ said Tom, as a rattling of wheels was heard ; 4 Farmer Payne, in his light cart : he’ll take Miss Herrington to the Manor, and I shouldn’t wonder if we found Hr. Hawes at home when we got there, for it*s his day.’ Bertram could hardly think it good luck, even to see help arrive, so alarmed was he at his sister’s state. They lifted her, still unconscious, into the cart, where she soon opened her eyes to moan out that they must take her home quickly, and then again to request piteously that they would lay her by the roadside, for she could not bear the joking. _ Farmer Payne’s round face took an expression of anxiety it had not worn in its life before, and even Torn was at a loss, when they were overtaken by the carriage from the Beeches, and with many _ words of sympathy Mrs. Worthington had Cecil laid as com¬ fortably as was possible on the cushions, and driven very slowly along the highroad. Then Tom, touch¬ ing his hat to Bertram, signified his intention of riding back to Wethermore, to summon the surgeon there. Bertram would once have been offended at a mere stable underling suggesting such measures of his own accord ; but he was too thoroughly humbled and upset now by the consequences of his own behaviour to feel anything beyond thankfulness to any one who would help him in this sad emergency. He even consented to ride quickly on to acquaint his mother with the accident, thereby enabling her to arrange for Cecil to be carried quietly to her room, without Colonel Herrington finding out that anything was amiss in the house. (!Zfo be continued .)

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MAN THE LIEE-BOAT ! AN the life-boat ! man the life-boat ! Help, or yon ship is lost ! Man the life-boat ! man the life-boat See how she’s tempest-toss’d ! No human power, in such an hour, The gallant bark can save ; Her mainmast gone, and, hurrying on, She seeks her watery grave ! Man the life-boat Man the life-boat ! man the life-boat See the dread signal flies ! Ha ! — she has struck, and from the rock Despairing shouts arise : And one there stands, and wrings his hands, Amid the tempest wild ; For on the beach he cannot reach He sees his wife and child ! Man the life-boat !

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No. XI. CHATTERBOX. 85 Man the life-boat ! man the life-boat ! Now ply the oars amain ! Your pull be strong, your stroke be long, Or it will yet be vain. Life-saving ark, yon doomed barque Immortal souls doth bear ; Nor gems, nor gold, nor wealth untold, But men, brave men are there. Man the life-boat Speed the life-boat ! speed the life-boat 0 God ! their efforts crown She dashes on — the ship is gone Bull forty fathoms down ! Ha ! — see ! — the crew are struggling now Amid the breakers’ roar — They’re in the boat— they’re all afloat— Hurrah ! they’ve gained the shore ! Bless the life-boat ! Mks. Ckawfokd. CLARA M ARCHANT’S ROSES. OH, dear, Mr. Hunt, how you startled me ! ’ said Miss Marchant, as she turned round from the open window of her pretty sitting-room to greet a gentleman who was entering at the door. ‘See, my ppor roses are all flying right and left ! ’ ‘ I beg your pardon ; let me help you,’ said Mr. Hunt, stooping to collect the lovely blossoms of a climbing rose, which had just been gathered. ‘ They are all going up to town to Lady Merri- man s,’ explained Miss Marchant, ‘ to deck her rooms for the ball. Oh, dear ! 1 should like to go with them. No, I shouldn’t ! Stupid things balls are; and yet, Mr. Hunt, let me tell you in confidence, I feel terribly dull down here.’ Strange words to come from the lips of Miss Clara Marchant, the rich stockbroker’s daughter, and sole heiress of the beautiful house and grounds called Barton Towers, which had lately been pur-

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86 CHATTERBOX. No. XL chased by Mr. Marchant. Strange, but true: she was dull. The routine to which she had been ac¬ customed for the last five years of ball and party, dinner and drive, had been disturbed by the move from London to the country, — which had been ren¬ dered necessary by her father’s failing health. ‘Come, Mr. Hunt/ she said gaily, ‘you tell us in the pulpit not to be discontented with our lives, but to make the best of them ; now do tell me what I ought to do. I have lived a quarter of a cen¬ tury, and yet I have not found out for myself. I have only one duty — looking after my father; but most part of the day he prefers his valet to me, so I have a great deal of time in which to make myself unhappy.’ Miss Marchant gpoke lightly, but there was an air of truth about her words ; and Mr. Hunt, the good clergyman, felt sorry for her. 4 1 can’t teach — children worry me, I don’t like dirty houses, and I never gave away a tract in my life/ continued Miss Marchant : 4 so don’t ask me to do any of those things/ 4 Let me help you to put up those flowers/ said Mr. Hunt: and for a few minutes the two were busy laying the beautiful roses in soft beds of cotton wool. 4 Pity they should wither in Lady Merriman’s hot rooms 1 ’ said Clara Marchant. 4 But, after all, it is better than to leave them nodding their heads off in my garden, with no 'one to smell them or admire them/ 4 1 quite agree with you/ said Mr. Hunt laughing. 4 And now, may I have one for my pains?’ And he chose a lovely nearly-blown ‘Gloire de Dijon.' 4 Oh, yes, but not that'; it is too widely opened for your button-hole. Here is a little beauty, take this/ said Miss Marchant. 4 1 hold to my first choice/ said Mr. Hunt : ‘ it is not for my button-hole, but for one of my sick people.’ ‘Oh, sick!’ said Clara Marchant, considering. 4 By the way, I suppose in the country they expect a certain amount of soup and kitchen physic from the great house, don’t they? Well, you must tell me, and 1 will speak to the housekeeper : I am new to the work/ she added, smiling. 4 You are very kind/ said Mr. Hunt :_ 4 1 will come to you when such things are needed. W ere you going out? I was going to ask your permission to cross the shrubberies to the lower woods, it will save, me half a mile.’ 4 1 will come with you !’ said Miss Marchant. And the two set out on their walk. Mr. Hunt stopped at last at a tiny house by the roadside, outside the grounds. 4 Here I go in,’ he said. 4 Good-bye/ ‘ No, you promised to come back and advise me about the ferneries/ said Miss Marchant: 4 1 will sit on this low wall and wait for you. I suppose you have some sick old 'woman there?’ Mr. Hunt smiled and left her. When he came out of the cottage he was accompanied by a young man — quite young but piteous to look upon, since he bore in his face the sure sign of coming death. It might be near, it might be far, but it must come. ‘Miss Marchant will excuse my asking a favour, for you/ said Mr. Hunt, looking from one to the other : 4 but it would be a great thing for my friend, Mr. Lawrence, to have permission to rest in your shrubberies this hot weather : he has to thank you for the rose.’ 4 Oh, no/ said Miss Marchant hastily ; 4 that is no¬ thing. And please, whenever you like to come in here, the garden too. Could you get so far ? ’ The young man smiled and thanked her; he feared he was but a poor walker, but liberty to enter her grounds would be a great boon. He spoke so well, that Clara turned to Mr. Hunt as they parted to ask his history. 4 Just a poor clerk out of Millfield, dying of con¬ sumption,’ said the clergyman. 4 We have many such here; the air is considered good, and they send them out to us — generally to die though/ 4 Could I not do something for him? ’ she continued : 4 would better advice save him ?,’ ‘Nothing will save him/ said Mr. Hunt: ‘you could please him though by now and then sending him a few flowers/ ‘Oh, thank you ! indeed I will !’■ said Miss Mar¬ chant, heartily. ‘ And fruit, might I ? would he be vexed?’ 4 1 am sure he would not. But suppose some day you look in on his mother, a simple, lady-like person, who is devoted to him. It is too far for Mrs. Hunt to walk, and the poor soul sorely needs sympathy. Now for the fernery/ But Clara could not think of her ferns, the patient, suffering face of the consumptive man haunted her. She ordered a basket of the finest strawberries to be gathered for him, and went herself to the gardener to order a beautiful bouquet for the morrow. 4 1 shall make a point of calling on Mrs. Lawrence/ she said, as Mr. Hunt left. There was no fear now that this poor sufferer would need such solace as gay flowers, ripe fruits, and kind sympathy could furnish him. _ Clara Mar¬ chant was a good friend when her interest was really aroused in any one, and Mrs. Lawrence and her sick son were eager in praise of the mistress of Barton Towers. ‘ Your roses have given such pleasure at the Wood Cottage,’ said Mr. Hunt one. day, 4 that I must ask you for a few more: white this time. Farmer May’s only child, a little girl of five, has died suddenly of croup, and I want some flowers to put around her.’ 4 Let me make a wreath/ said Clara, eagerly. 4 1 know the jway, and I could take it to the farm this evening. I remember the pretty little girl who used to stand at the gate. What a grief for her parents ! ’ ‘They are heart-broken/ said Mr. Hunt; ‘and yet a little sympathy comforts them/ So, in the half light of the evening, Miss Marchant went up to the farmhouse laden with white blossoms, a rosebud wreath crowning her basket. ‘Go up, will you?’ said the sobbing farm-girl. And Clara went up the stairs into the room where the child lay. , The father and mother, plain country people, looked up on her entrance, and tried to thank her. 4 She was all we had/ said the mother, plaintively. Clara stooped and kissed the pretty white face, and laid the rose-wreath over her fair hair. ‘I am so sorry for you!’ was all shecould find to say, but it was quite enough ; and then she sat down and

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No. XI. CHATTERBOX. 87 heard from poor Mrs. May the sad, oft- repeated tale, of the sudden illness, and its fatal ending. Miss Marchant’s name was beloved at the farm from that sad evening. The time of roses was drawing to a close when Mr. Hunt and Miss Marchant next met in her pretty garden. ‘You must exhibit at MilJfield flower-show next Saturday/ said Mr. Hunt, pausing by a standard rose. ‘ This bud will be perfect then, judging by the open flower near.’ ‘ That bud will be a gem/ said Clara, decidedly ; ‘ but it shall not go to that dirty, smoky Millfield : I have promised it to young Lawrence; it is the new rose, you know, and he was a rose-fancier in his day, poor fellow ! ’ ‘ Can’t you make it answer both purposes ? ’ said Mr. Hunt. ‘ Send it to the show, where it will certainly take the first prize, and then give it him ? ’ ‘ I must ask his leave,’ said Clara. ‘ But why should I patronise the Millfield show?’ ‘Because it is your duty,’ said Mr. Hunt; ‘you are one of the great folk round, and you should encourage the Millfield folk in such a whole¬ some recreation as gardening.’ ‘ Are you going V asked Clara. ‘ Certainly ! 1 shall drive my wife over.’ ‘ Then let me take some of your children with me.’ ‘No, thank you: children worry you,’ said Mr. Hunt, laughing". ‘ I am too proud to let mine be in your way.’ ‘Nonsense!’ said Clara, blushing : ‘good children don’t worry me/ ‘ You shall have Mrs. Hunt and Laura then, the two well-behaved ones,’ said Mr. Hunt ; ‘ and I will take my riotous boys/ So Miss Marchant went to the Millfield show, and won the first rose prize, and came home full of a resolve to stir up the Barton people to rival Millfield next year. . Her roses were certainly drawing her nearer to her neighbours, and daily involving a visit to one or another. Poor young Lawrence had the prize rose in a glass in his bedroom for many a day after the show: he liked it all the better that it had been to smoky Millfield, where his best days were passed. The last rose of the year, a sickle-looking bud, was gathered by Clara, and placed in his dead, hand as he lay at last free from suffering in the cottage room. ‘ I shall bless you all my life,’ said the poor, weary mother. ‘ If ever any one smoothed a dying man’s path to the grave, you did/ With little Mary May and Oliver Lawrence in the churchyard, Miss Marchant felt she had. an interest there. Mr. Hunt was willing to assist her in her plan of making it the garden of the village, and many a one came to her to ask her advice how to make the last home of wife or child, parent or friend, more beautiful. And not by her flowers only did Clara Mar¬ chant win her way to the hearts of her poor neigh¬ bours ; she had kind words for all. Barton was no longer dull, and she had made the discovery that there was more than smoke in Millfield. From the mill-people she came to know the mill- owners, and a certain pleasant Mr. Thornbury, of large possessions in the place, was lucky enough to attract the interest of Miss Marchant. In the en¬ suing summer he often wore one of her rose-buds in his button-hole, and before winter Miss Marchant became Mrs. Thornbury. She was to live at Barton still, however ; her father needed her, and her poor people could not spare her, even if she could leave her roses. H. A. F. BANGING- THE DOOR. A SKETCH AT HOME. fpHREE times in one minute JS, You’ve banged- to a door! What joy can be in it, In banging a door? Were you out on a visit You’d not bang the door ; You know how they’d quiz it, That banging the door. ‘ Untaught and unmannerly— Ay, and unkind — Banging the door. How can those whom lie lives with To such faults be blind As banging the door? ‘ We don’t want such a bear again, Banging the door ; In our house he shall ne’er again Bang-to the door/ But you know you’d not do it, You’d not bang the door. You would put your mind to it,— ‘ I’ll not bang the door!’ Now what have we done at home Thus to be treated ? And you — do you like to come Always thus greeted — 6 Now don’t bang the door?’ Believe me, my child, at home Hearts are the kindest, Eyes to your faults at home Are much the blindest ; Then don’t treat us thus at home, Banging the door ; For the sake of those dear at home, Don’t bang the door. J. E. C. F. DOUBLE ACROSTIC. tfpfHE initials proclaim The finals express The familiar name What it is, I guess, Of a certain publication : To the rising generation. 1. A lump' of earth. 2. Colour. 3. The whole. 4. A story. 5. Subject of discourse. 6. To partake of food. 7. The crown, etc. of royalty* 8. The lord of flies. 0. Egg-shaped. 10. The wife of Socrates. [The answer in next Number .]

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Banging the Door.

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90 CHATTERBOX. No. XII. ^CHANGES A ED CHANCES. [Continued from page 83.) fjii • \ HE surgeon’s decree was tliat no • \ VliW jr^> bone was broken, but that the V 7® injury to the knee would take "¥0 wee^s of rest an(i confinc- f ment to a sofa to remedy. . T \ ' 7a\ nIL Bertram was full of self- ^ 0 J reproach, especially as no one r^V / // on* said one word of blame to ’ %• < him ; and poor Cecil even ( & apologised for her stupidity in not having better control t over Phyllis. There was no more thought of buying the chestnut, though Bertram had not heard the last of it, for the horse-dealer sent in a demand for live pounds for injury sustained by the horse during that ill-fated ride. Colonel Derrington paid the money, preferring that course to involving his son in an altercation with a man who appeared to be an unprincipled scoundrel. Lord Arthur Swayne, hearing of the matter, wrote to Colonel Derrington to say that he had parted with the chestnut simply on the ground of its being a horse of unsafe temper, and begging to know if the dealer had in any way used his name in inducing his son to purchase it. And so ended poor Bertram’s first attempt to act on his own responsibility. He had no more of Cecil’s companionship for the rest of the holidays ; she was tied to her sofa and suffering much pain, while of course there was no chance of her being able to attend her cousin’s wedding. But, perhaps, to Bertram, most galling of all was the feeling, that if he had acted quite openly in the matter the accident might never have occurred ; for had he mentioned his wishes about the chestnut to his mother she would have written at once to Lord Arthur Swayne, and had the full character of the horse from him. In fact, without a single suggestion of the sort from any one, Bertram felt that lie had fallen far short of his ideal of a Derrington ; nay, in his eagerness to secure a possible pleasure, he had almost overlooked the family motto, ‘Honour before all things.’ ‘ Bertie, my boy, I should like you to know your Uncle Lancelot’s history.’ Bertram started, and Cecil on the sofa stared with surprise at their father, as he raised himself in his arm-chair and turned towards them. It was the last evening of the holidays, and Bertram, in an un¬ usually soft mood, was sitting idly by Cecil, looking over a box of old treasures with her. Both were aware that this uncle had terribly sinned in some way, and his name had been, there¬ fore, laid aside as unfit for the innocent children of the next generation ; for Bertie had confided thus much to Cecil after liis conversation with his mother, but neither knew the exact particulars ; and they listened, therefore, with breathless interest to their father as he went on. * Ho was the eldest son, you know ; very hand- iTxiie, very clever, and very fond of show and spending money. He had all he asked for, and more than any country gentleman’s son could possibly expect, one would think, in the way of money and indulgences. I do not know if your grandfather acted wisely in his management of Lancelot ; I onlv know he meant well, and had the most complete trust in his handsome son. We must not speak harshly of the dead, and yet I must seem hard in even plainly telling you of your uncle’s conduct. When he had obtained all the money he possibly could from your grandfather to gratify his own expensive tastes, he resorted to sad measures. Tie became engaged to a very gentle, amiable girl, not pretty, but very rich, who lived in the neighbourhood, and bor¬ rowing her valuable jewellery on the pretence of having it reset, he sold it, and spent the money on himself. This was discovered, and : though Miss — Mary, I will only call her, as she might not like you to know her name, declined to prosecute one she had really loved, your uncle’s other bad practices had become so notorious that he was obliged to go into hiding. Then my father discovered that your uncle had obtained money from the bank by "means of forged orders,— -large sums, which were made good by your grandfather, but which impoverished our family. For many years Lancelot never attempted an explanation or an apology for his conduct ; he took his passage for Australia, under a feigned nanie it is thought. The ship never reached its destination, and it is supposed that it was wrecked in mid ocean, all on board perishing.’ ‘ And best so !’ said Bertram, whose teeth were set, and whose face was very stern. ‘Father, I can’t believe he was a Derrington. I wish you had not told me the story ! ’ ‘ I did not like you to hear it from an3r one else, my boy, and the affair was so notorious at the time that it might have come to your ears some day. Not that any one would have the ill-feeling purpose!}7- to revive poor Lancelots disgrace, I should hope. Death ought to draw a veil over all sin, as far as we fellow- sinners are concerned. ‘Father,’ said Cecil, softly, ‘what vessel did he sail in?’ ‘ The Albatross ,’ said Colonel Derrington. ‘Were no tidings ever heard of it after it left England?’ pursued Cecil. ‘ Yes ; it was twice spoken with, the last time just before reaching a latitude where a terrible storm raged shortly after. From that time none ever saw or heard of the vessel.’ ‘I don’t wonder,’ said Bertram bitterly; ‘Jonah was on board.’ ‘ Hush, dear, don’t talk like that,’ whispered Cecil. ‘ Father,’ said Bertram, with an effort, ‘ am I — do you think me very like him ? ’ ‘ Like Lancelot? it never struck me,’ said his father. ‘ Y^es ; you have his features and colouring, but the eyes are different: yours are dark, his were hazel, and never seemed to like meeting the gaze of a another. Well, poor Lance, we were friends and playfellows once, and it seems hard that I should feel that death was all that was left him after a career like his.’ There was a silence, broken only by Cecil hob¬ bling off to bed; then Colonel Derrington called

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No. XII. CHATTERBOX. ' 91 Bertram to sit close by him, for he had more to say to him. 4 1 don’t get stronger, Bertie, as days pass on,’ he began, 4 and while 1 have the power I thought I should like to speak to you of the time when your mother must look to you as her helper and protector. You are not a child now, and can do much, by ex¬ ample, to influence your brothers for good or evil, to make life still sweet and pleasant to your mother. Will you try, my boy, and make mv last year on earth happy by the belief that you will do your best to supply my place? You will come into a disen¬ cumbered estate, and a fair share of this world’s goods. But, after all, it is not riches or poverty that makes a man’s heart glad or sorry : it is the con¬ sciousness that he is trying faithfully to serve his God and love his fellow-creatures. Will you think of this, Bertie V Bertram Derrington went back to school, feeling many years older than he had done at the beginning of the holidays. His father’s words had sunk deep into his mind, and somehow the first effect produced was a determination to work harder at his books. He had been but an idler till now. Cecil, always as good a correspondent as she was a bad writer, promised to be still more frequent with her letters this term than ever. There would be much to write about, for she, with Clem and Carrie, were going with their father and mother to winter in Egypt; while the two little ones were Mt with a great friend of the family, a Miss Trevannoek, who lived not very far from the .Manor. 4 Aunt Mary ’ the children called her, why no one ever knew. Bertie had begun it by mistake when a baby, and Miss Trevan¬ noek said she liked the title, so it was continued. Bertie was sorry he missed the journey, it seemed so amusing from Cecil’s account. She had a knack of seizing the pleasant incidents and noting them down, and forgetting the disagreeables. So it was never chronicled how both the maids and her father’s man were ill crossing the Channel, and she had to be waiting-maid all round, and to help the busy stewardess; nor how Clem and Carrie were asking every time the train stopped if this was Marseilles. But the odd mistakes, the new scenes and faces, were all described for Bertie’s benefit; though he hardly thanked his sister for her letters, written in all strange times and places, but he simply sent her a grumble by return of post on her writing being so illegible and hard to make out. Still Cecil wrote on untiringly, penning even that sad letter her mother had not the heart to write, with father’s good-bye to Bertie in it, followed by the short and simple account of his last evening in the world, when he felt strangely better, but would. kiss them all before he fell into the sleep from which he never woke. Cecil destroyed three or four sheets before she could make up her mind to send one; the writing should be so clear, the paper so fair, on which sucli words were written, she thought, poor child ! And as it was a great tear fell on her name at last, and marred the final page ; but that could not be altered — it had to go. (To be continued.) - - — - ^ _ OLD STEPHEN’S DEATH-BLOW. HPHE love of money is the root of all evil,’ say some J- folk, and I think they are right. Stephen Holbrook, however, was not of their mind, for he chuckled and rubbed his hands whenever he saw his little son, young Stephen, counting over his store of farthings, or driving a hard bargain with a playfellow for a top or a marble. ‘He’ll be a fine man of business,’ said Stephen the elder, when Stephen the younger had done some sharp trick ; 4 lie’ll die a rich man.’ 4 Ay, but how would he live ? ’ that was the question which fretted and distressed the mother till her death, which took place when her boy was but ten years old. True, he was a smart, active lad, whom no one could take in, quick at making bargains and seizing opportunities for enriching himself ; but was he always honourable and just ? 4 The lad never stole nor told a lie,’ said Stephen the elder, in answer ; and with this Mrs. Holbrook had to be content. But she was right in feeling uneasy, for young Stephen with his business habits often stooped to the meanness of overreaching a younger or Jess wise companion, contenting himself with saying that if they suffered it was their fault, every man must look out for himself. Stephen was an only child, and did exactly as he liked about his occupation in life. He was, in name, a lawyer’s clerk, but he dabbled in speculations, and apparently throve on them. The old father, mean¬ while, rather went down in the world; his health failed, and he gave up his farm and took to living in a little four-roomed cottage with an orphan niece, who kept him very comfortable. Perhaps the only subject on which they differed, and on which Mary seldom spoke, was their opinion of young Stephen, who sauntered into the cottage now and then. Mary thought that he looked with some contempt on his father’s homely garments, which clung rather loosely now on the shrunken figure; he said something one day which sounded to Mary like blaming that good father, and the girl answered him sharply, that’ she didn’t care what Uncle Stephen put on or did ; she had read somewhere that an honest man was the noblest work of God, and that was better than riches and grandeur got by scraping and speculating. After this Stephen came less often to the house. Mary was not satisfied with some accounts which she had heard of her cousin’s doings, or she would not have spoken so strongly. • A day came at last when her suspicions came sadly too true. Old Stephen had seemed more broken of late, and would sit quiet and listless before the five all day ; now and then, Mary at her work would say a cheerful word to him, but as often as not he would answer, 4 Ay,. Annis,’ or 4 N a}r, Annis,’ as if he were speaking to his dead wife, which alarmed the girl, till the doctor said it was merely a sign of weakness; for the old man was certainly breaking up. 4 He’s quite happy,’ said the doctor, 4 and you make it your business to keep him so, Mary ; he has a little money in the Post-office Savings’ Bank, and he won’t want for the short time he will live, so that you don’t need to fret over his going Plome to his wife.’

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92 CHATTERBOX. No. XII Mary choked down a regret for the good old uncle. No one seemed to think much of Stephen the younger as likely to feel his father’s loss. One day old Stephen was in his chair as usual, when a Post-office official came in with some loose sheets in his hand. ‘Is this your writing, master?’ he said to the old man. ‘Some of it is,’ said old Stephen, ‘but not those last names. It looks like as if my lad had had a try how near he could write like me. He always was good at copying handwriting.’ Mary, at the other end of the room, came forward with an anxious face and a gesture of silence to the visitor, but it was too late. ‘ I reckon he’s tried once too often this time with his copying,’ said the man ; ‘ lie’s forged your name, and got all your money out of our bank, and the warrant’s out for him, and you’ll have to appear against him.’ No, that would never be; old Stephen Holbrook would never have to appear against the son he had loved, and admired, and trusted. He seemed puzzled and distressed by the man’s communication, but nothing more ; but half an hour later he fell off his chair, senseless — ‘ a stroke,’ the doctor called it. And stricken he was, both in body and mind. How much he understood of his son’s misconduct none ever knew ; he lay in a living death for two days, and then, with a faint ‘Aye, Annri,’ went to the tender wife who would have grieved with him. _ m The money from the sale of the furniture just

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My first Valentine. P. 94. buried him. Mary was not the only mourner, for many had loved the old man, who£e worst fault had been that he could not see wrong in those he loved. Stephen the younger was missing. Some said he had gone to America, others that he was hidden in London. Anyway, the boy that cheated over a hand¬ ful of marbles, and defrauded his companions of nuts and oranges, was skulking in fear before his fellow- men, a forger, and almost a murderer. Mary went to service, as the death of her uncle left her homeless and without employment ; she did not remain long in her place, however, for she was shortly after married to a farmer in her old village. She has two sturdy boys of her own now, and her great aim is to bring them up with the most scrupu¬ lous regard for fairness and honesty. ‘ Kemember Stephen ! ’ she said one day, when her husband thought her over -strict with the young children; and he gave way at once, for too well he knew the sad story of his wife’s cousin. H. A. F.

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94 CHATTERBOX. No. xir. MY FIRST VALENTINE. A STORY FOR LITTLE FOLK. I THINK I must have been a little over six years old when I sent my first valentine. It was the first year I had been thought old enough to go to the children’s parties in our neighbourhood, and I had made great friends with a little red-cheeked, curly- haired boy, called Frank, whom I met at nearl3r every house I went to at Christmas time. V hen February came, and the shop-windows were gay with valentines, my sisters were talking so much about them that I thought I should like to buy some¬ thing pretty for Frank. Upstairs in the nursery I had a money-box, and I knew there was a shilling in it which one of my uncles gave me at Christmas¬ time, so I had no fear about paying for my valentine ; the hard thing was to get courage to speak to my mother, or Kate, or Bella, and ask them to go into a shop with me to make the purchase. 1 don’t know why, but I felt nearly quite sure that they would laugh very much at me and at Frank, and the thought of it made my cheeks burn dreadfully. Long after I was supposed to be asleep at night I used to ponder over this valentine, and try to hit upon some means of getting one unknown to every one. At last a bright thought struck me : there was a boy came everyday to clean knives and boots in the kitchen ; now if I could only escape from the nursery and bribe him with a penny, surely he would run to old Miss Parker’s shop and get me what I Avantcd, for there was a particular valentine in her window I had set my heart on for Frank. My mother could not think why I begged so hard to get my money-box opened ; however, she yielded to my request, and promised not to ask any questions about my 4 great, great secret/ as I called it, only she bade me not spend my money like a foolish little girl. I kept a penny in my pocket for several days ready to bribe J ohn when 1 caught sight of him, besides having the shilling safely in an old pill-box; and at last I was sent down to the kitchen on a message, and to my great delight I met the boy on the stairs. 4 J ohn, will you go to Miss Parker’s for me ? the toy-shop place I mean, John ! ’ John jerked his head. T know, missie; the shop in King Street.’ ••Finding that he understood the place to go to, I proceeded to describe the valentine I wanted : 4 but if it’s more than a shilling you must get me another/ I added. The boy grinned very much, but promised faith¬ fully to do my bidding, and accordingly I gave up my precious shilling, presented him with the penny, and dashed upstairs with a very red face, to receive a good scolding for the long time 1 had been gone on my errand. In my haste I had forgotten to think how the valentine was to be given to me, but John managed to drop the packet into my lap as he brought in a fresh scuttle-full of coals for the nursery fire just before tea. Yes, it was the valentine I longed for ; I took glances at it wh n nurse wasn’t looking, and then I put it into my doll’s cradle for safety, thinking very much about Frank’s pleasure in receiving it. But the days were going ; only two more to Valen¬ tine’s Bay, and yet i couldn’t find out any way of getting mine directed and sealed, and sent to the post. Didn't I wish I could write ? But, alas! I was only as far as 4 pot-hooks/ and that* was a long way from being able to put 4 Master Frank Dale^ on a letter, to say nothing of the house and street. My heart sank lower— the last day came— -my valen¬ tine lay still in the doll’s cradle, and seemed likely to stay there unless I could make up my mind to tell my secret and ask help. I looked at Kate, I looked at Bella ; but I couldn’t trust either of them, they would laugh, or they would call me 4 silly,’ or they would tell Frank : no, I would rather lose my valen¬ tine, which cost a whole shilling, than run any of these risks. However, fortunately for me, on that 13th of February, nurse had to go out, and my mother came to sit iu the nursery for a time. I couldn’t play, I couldn’t talk ; I sat on the rug staring at the fire, thinking of the valentine, and my mother kept on writing letters and never noticed my misery. The sight of her desk and papers made things worse ; envelope, stamps, all I wanted so nearly with¬ in reach, and yet I couldn’t make up my mind to ask for them ! At last I broke into a fit of sobbing, and that saved me. In a minute I was on mothei*’3 lap, hiding my face against her as she coaxed me to tell her what was amiss; and so the tale came out, and amidst smiles and tears I brought out my treasure, and begged her 4 not to laugh" at me and not to tell any one.’ She didn’t laugh, she didn’t call me silly, she said it was a very pretty valentine, and that Frank would be delighted, and oh ! so puzzled to guess who it came from ; and then we folded it, and mother wrote the name and address in such a way that no one would think that a grown-up ladv had done it. And then, as a crowning happiness, I was allowed to run to the post — which was in si^lit of our own door — and drop my precious envelope in myself ; and I think I never was quite so full of joy as when I scampered back again, . with all my tears dried up, and jumped into mother’s arms to kiss her, when she whispered, ‘Little girls can't get on if they keep secrets — not even about their first valentine.’ THE ANT. WONDEK if my young friends ever think how much amusement and even instruction might be gained by watching the habits of small birds, animals, and insects. I will choose for my subject to-day the ant, which is, indeed, a very small insect ; but there is no creature that creeps upon the face of the earth so well deserving notice as the ant, and from its industry and perseverance many a losson might be learn ecf. Several years ago, a gentleman living in Lincoln¬ shire kept French partridges. These pretty, shy, and elegant birds, are supposed to thrive better if they have now and then a meal of ants. So every other morning a spade was stuck in the earth, where it was known that there was an ant-bed, and the lump of mould, which was du<* up (in which the poor little ants were rushing about frantically, thus showing their fright and dislike at being disturbed) was put under the coop in which the birds were kept.

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CHATTERBOX. 95 No. XII. Naturally they flew to the lump, and in a very short space of time devoured scores of the ants. But very many of the little creatures were too quick in their movements to be thus disposed of.- As fast as their little legs could carry them they ran. Some of them escaped by passing through the tiny crevice be¬ tween the bottom of the coop and the ground ; but most of them, I should say five out of every six, seemed determined not to go without something to make up to them in some measure for being so unceremoni¬ ously taken from their home. Some of them carried a piece of bread-crumb (which had been thrown to the partridges for their breakfast) thirty times larger than themselves; others chose oats, and these were carried by them in different ways. Some of them had the extreme point in their mouths and dragged the rest along the ground; others contrived to get them on their backs, in which feat they were assisted by their com¬ rades. However, in spite of all their contrivances, they dropped their treasures time after time, but no thought of leaving them that they might themselves escape more readily seemed to enter their heads; no, that is not the character of the ant : what they commence they carry out; and each time they dropped the food they were carrying home — perhaps to . their little ones — they stopped to pick it up again. When they arrived at the side of the coop a new difficulty arose. Some of them could not mahe their exit as those who had thought onl}r of saving them¬ selves had, because what they carried was so much larger than themselves, and too large to pass under the coop. The coop was placed on some slabs, therefore the ants could find no stone or grass to climb upon to reach the wood which was the foundation of the coop ; so they endeavoured to reach it by standing on each others’ backs, after the manner of street tumblers. They very frequently fell, but their efforts were at last crowned with success, and they reached the piece of wood, and then passed through the wires, and no doubt found their way to their home tlirough these many difficulties. The time it has taken me to write this, and will take you to read it, is much longer than the time that really did elapse from the putting the lump of earth under the coop to the time when these perse¬ vering little creatures succeeded in their endeavours to get outside the coop. How many of us, great and small, would have grumbled, and lost our tempers, and at last given up, had we had something to do, hard, in proportion, to what I have just related of the ants ! The gentleman who kept the partridges used to be so much amused watching these small insects that he came to take a great interest in them wherever he. was. He once told me he was staying in' the neighbourhood of London with friends who had a large garden, and in this garden was a summer¬ house. It was built in a very shady spot, and as the weather was extremely hot they frequently took tea there. When the tea-things were placed on the table, my little friends the ants used to make very free with the sugar. The lady with whom my friend was staying had had a rope hung from the ceiling of the summer-house with a hook on it, on which to hang the kettle, that the servant should have less trouble than she would have had had she been obliged to run backwards and forwards to the kitchen several times to fill the teapot. The rope was so contrived that the kettle hung about half-a-yard from the table, exactly in the middle. One evening, when they had finished tea, the lady called the attention of the others to her sugar-basin, which was nearly, black from a number of ants who were busy with its sweet contents. Several times during tea they had been driven off, but with their usual perseverance they returned. The kettle having been removed, my friend, who was much enjoying the pranks of these, his little favourites, hung the sugar-basin on the hook which had lately been used for the kettle. Then they watched these clever little creatures : they tried first the same trick those in the coop had found succeed, namely, standing on each others’ backs. Of course by that means they could not nearly reach the sugar, so they travelled together, as if by one consent, along the table and underneath the top, down the pedestal and claws, along the floor, up the trellis- work in front of the summer-house, along the ceil¬ ing, down the rope, and so into the sugar-basin. My friend was charmed with this feat, and indeed all the party was much pleased and interested. I think the little ants must have for their motto, ‘ Tnr again.’ I wish we all had. Louis Poele. ANIMALS KIND TO EACH OTHER. FOR the last two years I have kept a dog and a cat together, and never found them disagree, though they were two years old when first I had them. The dog I bought first, and a few weeks afterwards I had the cat given to me. The first time I showed the dog his companion, and told him, he did not attempt even to snarl at the cat, but rather, on the contrary, was very proud of her. The other day I was grieved to find that some evil-disposed person had broken one of the cat’s legs, so I carefully laid her in her bed. The dog regularly at meal-times takes the cat her food to her bed for her before he eats, his own food, and shows every sign of grief at the illness of his companion. Does not this show that kindness shown to animals leads them to be kind to each other ? KEY TO DOUBLE ACROSTIC. 1. c LO D. 2. II U E. 3. A L L. 4. T AL E. 5. T OPI G. C. E A T. 7. R EGA LI A. 8. B EELZEBU B. 9. 0 VA L. 10. X ANTIPP E. Initials: Cuattekbox. Finals: Delectable.

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Page 104

No. XIII. CHATTERBOX. Mima Philipps explaining the country to Carrie. o

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S8 CHATTERBOX. No. XIII. v CHANGES AND CHANCES. {Continued from p. 91.) EBTRAM felfc his father’s death \$ ||| JBAIl very deeply ; but time deals kindly %\ with the young, and when (lie day Vy came for his return home he was * v-JPcd) Pcr^aP3 more full of his own posi- tion as head of the family than of pjy his recent loss. He would try to he wiser than his years, he thought, and a rcal comfort to his mother, v Why not? In olden*time, younger boys than he would have been making their way in the world— fighting for their country— marching at the head of their vassals. Because it was the fashion now to keep boys longer at school, they need not be supposed to be feebler in intellect than of old. So Bertie came to the Manor with a grave look on his face, determined to be father as well as brother to liis orphan sisters and brothers, and to learn at once to do all his father had done as manager of a large estate. He had long talks with the steward, who would advise that all things should be ‘ let be ; till Bertie came of age— a measure Bertram regarded as quite unworthy of a good manager ; but when the boy pressed the subject, the steward told him that he had nothing to do with it, the Manor, by the will, was ' his mother’s 'till her eldest son attained the age of twTenty-one, and he could not even cut a twig without her permission. Mrs. Herrington, however, was soon won over to let her boy have his way with a place that in a few years must be his own ; so Bertram still went about with an air of proprietorship, pencil in hand, noting down a tree to be felled here, a gate to be replaced there, till the old steward himself owned that Mr. Bertram, had not“a bad notion of looking after tilings, and with a little advice and supervision might prove a good master for the Manor. In truth, one or two of the old squires round began to marvel at their young neighbour, and prophesy great things of his success as a landlord, so deep. an in¬ terest did he take in wheat and turnips and farming matters generally. I-Iis mother Thought him now too grave and quiet for his age, and asked him to bring down sundry young companions to enliven the Manor during Ins holidays. , . _ . . ,, At first came a mechanical genius, who was the delight of all the family with his inventions, till lie devised a lift to convey passengers direct from the great hall to the portrait-gallery, and to the horror of Sirs. Derrington she perceived her youngest-born hanging in mid-air one fine morning, smilingly seated in a clothe3-basket. Though speedily restored to his alarmed mother, the poor lady could never get over a certain horror of that young Philipps ; so, to Clem and Carrie’s special sorrow, he was never asked again, and his place was supplied by one Seymour Delorme, a great friend of Bertram’s, and apparently a gentle¬ manly, quiet youth. . ...... His manners were quite correct; he iiacl all the events of the day by heart, and could talk of politics or the fashions according to the taste of his hearer, besides testifying an interest in all country pursuits, from steeple-chasing to. croquet. Every one liked him except Cecil, and she showed an aversion to him from the very first. fiA little natural jealousy, poor child/ said her mother; ‘young Delorme engrosses Bertie so much.’ But no ! Cecil indignantly repelled the idea. She was not jealous at all. She liked Bertie to be with his friends, and where they were good ones she enjoyed them too. And when pressed as to what offended her in this particular case she could not say, or would not. Bertram was angry, and told his sister she was growing up now — no longer a child — and he must beg she would not run away from his guests like a baby. The tears came to Cecil’s eyes, but they were tears of vexation : the girl was inclined to answer her brother hotly, but she calmed herself to say she would do as Bertie wished if he would tell her exactly what he wanfed. To this Bertram replied, that he would buy her a book on etiquette and manners if she realty was so ignorant of the rules of good society ’; but he hardly- thought Miss Derrington of the Manor should need instruction in such simple matters. And then Cecil made things worse by blurting out that she could not be civil to young Delorme. She did not think him straightforward. She fancied — she was sure — he was leading Bertie to do tilings their father would not have approved. This made Bertie angry; he demanded further explanation, and Cecil, frightened at her own daring, was silent. The fact was, that it had come to Cecil’s know¬ ledge that young Delorme had led Bertie to become part-owner of a young horse that was supposed to have a chance of carrying all before it in some local races, and Bertram, always capable of being led astray by his love for horses,' was embarking more money in the affair than he ought to have done. Besides/Cecil justly felt that a transaction kept so secret from his family by a boy of sixteen could not be a righteous one, and being very clear-sighted and gifted with great common sense, she rightly guessed that Bertie’s friend was using him as a cat’s-paw in the matter. Mrs. Derrington had sunk into ill-health on her husband’s death, seeing few people, and allowing her son to rule the household, so that there was no one , but Cecil to say a word of disapproval to him at any time. „ . Poor Cecil ! She thought it hard to fall into dis¬ grace with her brother because she felt it right to say to him the things that would have come so much more fitly from a father, or even a mother ; but her sense of truth and honesty would not allow her to keep silence. Neither did she think she had been too officious when Bertie put the County Herald pompously before his mother one morning, with the remark that the ‘Turk’ had won the Wether more plate, and he was glad of it, for he had an interest in the horse. . , . ‘ Dear, don’t get mixed up with horse-racing, said his mother, languidly, and so the matter ended.

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No. XIII. CHATTERBOX. 99 Bertie looked triumphantly at his sister, as much as to say, 4 See, my mother does not mind, so you surely need not interfere/ 4 Oh, dear, what shall I do ? they can’t go, and yet the letter is so pressing!’ said Mrs. Derr in gt on, at breakfast one morning, pushing a note across the table to Cecil. * From Tom Philipps?’ said Cecil, smiling. 4 What can he have to say to upset you, dear?’ 4 Tom writing to you, mother ! ’ said Bertram $ 4 that is something out of his way. Head it aloud, Cis.’ So Cecil read aloud a very precise, and, as her mother had said, pressing invitation to Clement and Carrie to come and stay at Markhaven Vicarage for a fortnight. 4 Bertram will be off on his canoeing expedition, I know,’ said the writer ; 4 but Clem and I were good friends, and if you would let him come to us we should be so glad. Also Miss Carrie, who I know is insepar¬ able from Clem ; my mother and sisters would be delighted to have her. Please do not say no, and I will bring the pony-carriage to meet them at the Sandhill station.’ 4 Clem might go for a bit, if he liked,’ said Ber¬ tram. ‘Philipps is not a bad fellow; but Carrie, that is another thing.’ 4 Clem wouldn’t care to go without Carrie,’ said Cecil. . ‘It is time he learnt to go about by himself,’ said Bertram, with an elder-brotherly air; ‘for I sup¬ pose you mean to send him to school some day, mother?’ 4 Oh, yes, dear,- when he grows stronger,’ said Mrs. Derrington. 4 But about the Pkilippses — they are not well-off, are they, Bertie?’ 4 A country clergyman with eight children,’ said Bertie; ‘he can’t have much. But Clem need only , stay a few days. I wonder they ask him ; but I sup¬ pose as Tom came here he felt obliged.’ k Tom Philipps liked Clem,’ said Cecil ; 4 both their hobbies seem to be alike : they were always concoct¬ ing wind and water-mills, or amusing themselves with machinery of some sort.’ 4 Clem must promise to play no tricks if I let him go,’ said Mrs. Derrington, alarmed. There was great confusion of mind in the school¬ room when the invitation to Markhaven got wind, and the first result was an appeal to Mrs. Derrington in her boudoir from Clem, that Carrie might be allowed to accept it too. 4 1 should 'so like to go, mother,’ said Carrie, who at fourteen years old looked barely ten. ‘Tom Philipps has two sisters, I have seen their photo¬ graphs ; and the Vicarage-garden runs down to the sea, and it is so pleasant there — far better than Brighton.’ 4 N oneense, Carrie ! how do you know?’ said Ber¬ tram. 4 You would be tired of the place in a week, and crying for your pony, and your dolls, and half- a-dozen things you couldn’t get there.’ 4 1 don’t play with dolls now,’ said Carrie ; 4 and they have a very strong donkey : I could ride that : Tom said so !’ 4 So you planned this visit, did you?’ said Cecil, laughing. 4 Well, mother, suppose you let Carrie go too for a week ; the change would do her good, and Markhaven is not so far off but that you could have her back if she grew home-sick.’ 4 But is it fair to the Philippses to send the two if they are so poor ?•’ said Mrs. Derrington. 4 1 don’t think they are literally in rags,’ said Cecil, laughing, 4 though Bertie does look so grave over their means and position, and I am sure they would not ask Clem and Carrie' if they could not do with them; indeed, I think it might vex them to refuse. You know. Mr. Philipps is quite a gentleman, and though Tom is such a queer fellow we all liked him.’ ‘lie must play no tricks, though,’ again said Mrs. Derrington; ‘remember how he strung baby up in the. basket !’ Markhaven Vicarage was a delightful place. Yrou drove through the village with houses on high walls on either side of you, and had no idea that the low, square-looking house, standing quite in the street, stood open at the back to the fresh blue sea. Clem and Carrie were too shy to speak at first ; but both drew a long breath when the front door opened to them after a three-mile drive f rom the station with Tom, and disclosed a still larger door open at the end of a broad passage facing them. Through that second door they saw a green lawn, and beyond that tossing waves, and further still, on the very horizon, a white- sailed vessel, its canvas gleaming in the afternoon sun* 4 It was like the theatre!’ whispered Carrie. But nothing more could be seen or done till the whole family had been introduced to the new-comers, from the kind clergyman in straw-hat with enormous brim, to the tiny baby who just ran alone, and cla¬ moured to be taken up by brother Tom. . And then it was one whirl of enjoyment till bed¬ time. Clem was instantly conveyed into the garden, to inspect a line of railway constructed in one part of the grounds, with mimic station and real engine and carriages. Tom had made them all himself. 4 You know I’m to be an engineer,’ explained Tom. 4 Oh, dear! and that’s what I want, to be,’ said Clement ; 4 but Bertie says 1 must go into the Guards.’ 4 1 wouldn’t if I were you,’ said Tom ; 4 but I forgot, you are a little chap, and have to do as you ' are bid. Never mind, I dare say they’ll let you have your way if you stick to wishing for one thing. I did. And though they wanted me to be a clergyman they are quite satisfied now. I’m sixteen, you know, and in a few months I shall regularly begin my work.’ Meantime, Carrie sat liy the large open window of the sitting-room, shy but happy, with Mary and Mima Philipps on either side of her, explaining the country to her. That was Sunset Point in the far west ; and here was Itocky Isle just before them in the bay, where they pic-nicked on birthdays; and be¬ low the house was the Shell Cove : would Carrie like to go there now P there was just time before tea. But this Mrs. Philipps would not permit, so the girls chatted on till a bell rang, and Mima got up and left the room. 4 To make tea, and put Bell and Georgie in their places,’ explained Mary. And when Carrie . and the rest followed some five minutes later, they found four little pinafored figures demurely seated in high chairs round the tea-table. (To be continued.)

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COMPOSED EXPRESSLY FOR ‘CHATTERBOX,’ li ISpiritoso. 3S 1 1 l ask not for his li - ne - a g§, I ask not for his name ; If SI -^4- / J m • ^ - 1 - — ^ 1 r w p — & • m « r * * i r- r 1 1 r J: ; 0 1 0 1 V / i L 1 - 1 T T ^ T ' man - li - ness be in his heart He no - ble birth may claim, If * - 1_ i I * * r m 0 ^ m. a.. . F ITT- 0 r 0 • i . i & . ; 1_ m l i ££ — * — 1 « - 1 - 1* - t=— — s - 1 - S - ! - VJ - j - p - 1 Lp — : - p - 1 1 - 1 — J - * - 0- - 0 - 0 - „ . r* • - 1 - 0 - 0—0— f & _ h , r l - H - 0 - 0 - 0—\ - — - - ■ - h — - F - Itr J man - li - ness he — 1 - 1 - in his heart He - 1 - j - — no - ble birth may clai m, . H - m — — - 0 - g - 1 — -H- o - { - ( f - s i — - 1 - i - l=n- - -i- - ! -1 - i — f W - i^rrr n nz t ~0~ 0 ■ ■ Ft — tJ-j --:A- — 1 - £ JsM I : l^ 8 =\ i 1 1 1 ' - - -g S— *-=== -0- _ 01 _ _ -1 - f - t - tr i f 1 I.&— p- -S i i — — * — 1 - J 1 1 ■ t= Copy right. V ASK not for bis lineage, j*, I ask not for his name ; If manliness be in bis heart He noble birth may claim. I care not though of this world’s wealth But slender be his part, If yes you answer when I ask, ‘ Hath he a true man’s heart ? 1 ask not from what land be came, Nor where his youth was nursed; If pure the spring, it matters not The spot from whence it burst. The palace or the hovel Where first his life began, ^ I seek not of ; but answer this— ‘ Is he an honest man?’ Nav, blush not now ; what matters it Where first he drew bis breath ? A manger was the cradle-bed Of Him of Nazareth ! Be nought, be any, everything, I care not what you be, If yes you answer when I ask, ‘ Art thou pure, true, and free ? 7 K. Nicoll.

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102 CHATTERBOX. No. XIII. THE FLOWERS OP MARCH. OTORJMY, blustering March, has come. The O moisture that has fallen during the last few months in the shape of snow, rain, and hail, is. being fast dried out of the earth by the constant winds that sweep over its surface. Every day the roads are less muddy, while the pools of water are quickly dis¬ appearing from the low-lying meadows. The air, however, continues bitterly cold until about the middle of the month, when it often happens that the wind ceases for a time, and we are cheered by a few days of warm sunshine, that tempt us out of doors, and tell us that Winter is passing away. What gladness then fills our hearts as we look around on the bright green fields, and notice the first tender buds on the trees and hedges! .Nature is waking from her winter’s sleep, and greets us with a sweet smile. Although as yet the frequent frosts prevent the rapid growth of most plants, the flower-garden ex¬ hibits a greater variety than it did last month. Here the stately Crown Imperial first attracts our attention, lifting its head high above all else. Beautiful are its yellow or coppery-red blossoms ; ranged in a circle near the top of a tall straight stem, and overtopped by a tuft of bright green leaves, they form a crown of the most elegant shape, while each separate flower looks like a bright bell ready to ring a merry welcome to the Spring. Near this handsome plant the yellow blossoms of the Jonquil send forth their sweet scent upon the breeze. The beautiful Hyacinths, too, are coming into bloom ; such a variety of colours — pink, amethyst, dark blue, primrose, and white ! Palestine and othqr Eastern lands are the true home of these garden-flowers, but we have a member of the same family growing wild in our English woods, which, though less showily dressed, we love far bettor — our own sweet Blue-bell. A rich purple flower, hanging in clusters upon a stalk about a foot high, and having long and very green’and glossy leaves. Most of our young readers, no doubt, know it well, and delight to see the ground beneath the budding trees trnt 'd everywhere with its purple, while they fill their hands with nosegays of its blossoms. It is not, however, until the very end of this month, or the beginning of next, that tins flower is in its prime, unless the season be unusually early. The same may be said of ‘ The coy Anemone, that ne’er uncloses Her leaves until they’re blown on by the wind.’ This is another of our favourite flowers; we can hardly tire of gazing at its delicate white blossoms and deep green leaves ; but it is so frail, and withers so quickly in the hand, that it seems like cruelty to pluck it from its root. It is often called the wind¬ flower, because, as the lines we have just quoted express, it opens at a time when the wind is rushing through the still leafless woods. The Italians call it the Star-flower, from the shape of its blossom. The flowers we have spoken of are almost the only ones to he found as yet, but the months are not far distant when the numbers will be so increased that we shall ouly have space to describe a few of the most common among them. H. B. A. THE PLEASURE OP DOING NOTHING. H/T BERRYER, who was one of the greatest and • lfJL. most eloquent French statesmen of the present century, in his youth was very lazy. His master had great trouble in making him submit to school disci¬ pline; he refused to exercise that memory which afterwards became so remarkable. The under¬ masters quite despaired of him, and went one day to tell the head master, De J uilly, that this boy would never do anything, and that they could not make anything of hiim This gentleman, who was a man of sense, argued differently of Berry er. He sent for him into his study, and said to him, ‘ My boy, work is disagreeable to you, and you think that hap¬ piness consists in doing nothing. Well, come into my study ; you can look at me while I am at work ; that won’t fatigue you, and you will do nothing ; but let us well understand each other — nothing of any kind, remember/ The boy was delighted. Here lie was in the kind master’s study, who went on working, taking no more notice of him than if lie had been a piece of furniture in the room. The first hour passed away to the great pleasure of the scholar. He triumphed in thought over the usher who had to teach him, he congratulated himself on neither having to open liis dictionary nor learn his rudi¬ ments by heart. At the end of an hour and a half, however, lie had sufficiently enjoyed the delights of fancy. He put out his arm to take a book. The master stopped him at once. ‘My boy,’ lie said, ‘ you forget our agreement ; you are to do nothing. To read is to do something. Enjoy the permission 1 have given you ; do nothing/ The boy began to discover that the pleasure of doing nothing soon became monotonous. He hazarded some questions ; the master did not reply. Then, when he had come to the end of the page he. was writing, he said, ‘ My bo\r, each has his taste ; you have that of doing nothing, 1 have that of working. I do not trouble you in your repose, so do not disturb me in my work/ Young Berryer could scarcely help saying that it would be difficult for him to find happiness much longer in such patience. At the' end of* three hours the master got up and went to take a walk under the shade of the trees in the park. ‘Good!7 said the boy to himself ; ‘ now I am relieved from my imprisonment. I can amuse myself now/ As soon as he came into the garden he wished to leave his master, and go and mingle with his schoolfellows who were having a merry game. The master held him by the arm. ‘ My boy, you are not thinking of our agreement ; playing is doing something. Re-' maiu^by my side: we will walk up and down this avenue, or you can sit down if you like better/ Honest and excellent master ! A man of sense and talent, to whom, perhaps, the world owes the great Berryer. Instead of repeating to him how delightful work was, lie made him love it by making him feel how insupportable was a life of idleness ! J . E. C.

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No. XIII. CHATTERBOX. 103 A PET JACK. first fish I ever saw in an aquarium, twenty years ago, was a 4 Jack,’ as he is called when young, or a 4 Pike,’ as he is termed when he grows older, and ever since then I have contrived to have a pet one ; and this, drawn from life by Mr. Harrison Weir, is an accurate portrait of the one I now possess in the Crystal Palace Aquarium. There he is, just as he steak round the corner of a bit of rock ! He is glaring at a minnow, at which he is taking most accurate aim. He hardly seems to move, but yet he does by a very trilling motion of the edge of his back-fin ; sometimes resting a little on the tips of his two foremost fins as they touch the ground, carefully calculating his distance, and then, at the very moment when the minnow has got into a position which leaves a space of clear water in front, so that Mr. Jack shall not hurt his nose against any hard substance when he gets carried on by the violence of his rush, he darts at the minnow with the speed of Shakespeare’s Puck: — ‘ I go, I go ! look, how I go l Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow/ And, indeed, the velocity of a Jack in full charge is so great that the eye cannot follow it, and the min¬ now is gone in an instant. This careful watching of one minnow, however, only takes place as' a bit of fancy-hunting, or as a sort of dessert at the end of a meai, such as that which takes place when a dozen or twenty minnows are once a-week launched into this Jack’s tank, which is made of slate and plate-glass, holds one hundred gallons of water, and is lined with rock-work. On these weekly feast-days Jack snaps the minnows up right and left, one after another, in. a most business-like manner, and with a look of wondrous innocence ; and this ho has done regularly for about fifteen months, during which time he has grown to about four times his original weight. A Jack is well adapted to be kept in an aquarium on account of the cheerful manner in which he conforms to circumstances, and takes readily to his food. Then he is a very quiet fish, and does not stir up anything in his tank to make the water otherwise than clear ; and he bears to be kept not only in motionless but in unchanged water, for the water in which this .Jack is now is the same as that which the tank contained in March, 1872, with only a little more, cautiously added now and then, to make up for loss by evaporation. Then he is a very handsome fish : elegantly mottled all over with rich green and gold, and wearing this livery on his long and shapely body without change from year’s end to year’s end. The readers of Chatterbox would hardly understand the chemical processes, the application of which, during the last twenty years, has enabled us thus to keep inhabitants of rivers and seas in happy captivity without needing changing water ; but so it is, and the invention has not only enabled us to gain a large amount of know¬ ledge which could hardly have been learnt by any other means, but has caused us to maintain a larger number of pets, every one of which brings love into the world and takes none out of it. It is as impos¬ sible for any one to make a pet of a fish and not to conceive a liking fot it and for all other fishes, as it is for any one to avoid getting hardened in heart who cruelly hooks a Jack out of the water and lets it die merely for the sake of doing so, for in most cases fish arc angled for only for what is called the 4 sport’ of the thing. In my opinion there is more of mean de¬ ception and of despicable inhospitality about angling than there is in almost any other form of ‘sport.7 A man, woman, or boy, goes to waters where fishes are present, and on a barbed hook impales a living worm or fish, regardless of its sufferings, and lowers it into a stream to satisfy the hunger of a fish, which swallows the bait, and is caught by the hook and drawn, after perhaps prolonged struggles, to land, where it slowly dies. Now suppose any one were to do this to a cat or a dog, he or she would justly be severely punished. But, under the name o& £ sport,7 this cruel fishing goes unpunished, and it is defended on the score that the feelings of fish are not acute. But how are we to be sure of that ? Of course, it is • not cruel to kill fish and other animgls in a speedy manner for food ; it is only cruel when they are killed for the sake of killing them, and in a tor¬ turing, lingering manner. Neither is ‘sport’ justifi¬ able on a ‘ tit-ior-tat 7 ground : as, for example, be¬ cause a Jack is himself a great devourer of living fish smaller than himself, whence he is called ‘ The Pike, fell tyrant of the liquid plain, With ravenous waste devours his fellow-train/ But a Pike is no more a 4 tyrant 7 or £ ravenous 7 than is a butcher who kills a sheep to use it as mutton. The Pike, at any rate, is no mean coward. His nature demands that he shall be fed on living food and on no other, and this food he deprives of life with much quickness, so that, till the moment of death, it is unconscious of its approaching fate. The Pike, too, kills only to satisfy appetite, and never kills to leave his victim dead on the shore. But putting the question on the very lowest grounds, more real and lasting pleasure can be got out of pet¬ ting a Jack than out of hooking and killing one. Boys, there really is more innocent fun, more to make you laugh, and less danger of scaring your con¬ sciences and becoming cruel, in my plan of keeping a Jack in a big tank in enjoyable captivity, than there is in wantonly taking his life and calling it fi sport/ 1 W. A. Lloyd. SO CHATS S AND HIS PUPIL. A YOUNG- man who was a great talker, was sent by his parents to Socrates to learn oratory. On being presented to Socrates, the lad spoke so much that Socrates was out of patience. When the bargain came to be struck, Socrates asked him double price. 4 Why charge me double?7 said the young fellow. ‘Because,’ said the orator, 4 1 must teach you two sciences ; the one to hold y our tongue, and the other how to speak.7 :

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104 CHATTERBOX. No. XIII. A Pet Jack.

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‘Oh Bertie dear, don’t say such things V said Cecil.

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106 CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. CHANGES AND CHANCES. ( Continued from 'page 99.) AN those little ones he good at meals?’ asked Carrie. ‘Our children are in the . nursery always.’ A 1/ ‘ Only baby stays with nurse s > here/ said IVlary ; ‘ we sit be- MUq tween the tiny ones and keep them good. Father likes to see them all here.’ It was a new life to Clem and Carrie, this busy Vicarage household, every one with some¬ thing to do, and doing it cheer¬ fully. Mima was housekeeper in a small way; Mary looked after the greenhouse ; John and Magdalen fed the chickens and rabbits; while Bell and Georgie fancied they weeded a certain border in the garden devoted to the children. And when Carrie, pleased yet wondering, asked her new friends why they did so much themselves and did not leave it to servants, Mima made answer gravely that they had only a few servants, and did not like to overdo them. e We are not rich people, like you,’ said Mary, smiling ; * poor people must work a little, you know.’ ‘ I should like to be poor too, then,’ said Carrie ; ‘and so, I know, would Cecil : it is much the most fun.’ ‘You forget, Carrie, you can ride, and drive, and travel about. Oh. there are many pleasant things rich people can do ! You would not like to give up your pony, for instance ? ’ ‘I should not mind it if I went a donkey-ride sometimes, like you/ persisted Carrie. ‘And you have no tiresome mademoiselle to be so fussy with you, and no nurse to tease you with straightening your hair every hour; it is no better now that I have half Cissy’s maid — she is even more provoking, and does so scold if I tear my dress ! ’ ‘ Scolding is better than having to mend it/ said Magdalen, who was listening with wide-open eyes. ‘Is it?’ asked Carrie. ‘I should like to try. I never mended my dress in my life !’ And then the three little women of the Vicarage lifted up their voices in an outcry of surprise. It had never been their fortune to meet with so extraordi¬ nary a personage as a girl of fourteen who had never handled a needle except in play. Mr. Philipps and his wife were gentlepcople in every sense of the word ; but they had never been rich in their lives, and when they had been married some dozen years and found eight small faces around their table, they were not likely to be better off. There was no attempt, however, to ape either the customs or the appearance of those richer than them¬ selves ; simple food and simple dress were all they aimed at, and on this the children were growing up happy and contented. Carrie admired them all immensely, and longed for just such strong linen dresses as Mary and Mima wore ; they were both prettier and less troublesome, she declared, than her muslins, which were always tearing. It was holiday-time for all, and Carrie was out all day in the garden or on the beach, to the sore de¬ spoiling of some pretty white frocks, till Mrs. Philipps, in sheer pity for the frail garments, looked out some strong hoi land overalls, in which she could be per¬ fectly happy. As for Clem, he was delighted too. Tom Philipps had taken a fancy to the boy, who, stupid in other respects, had shown a decided taste for mechanical pursuits, and he was at some trouble to instruct him in the small lore he possessed on the subject. ‘ You’ll be an engineer spoilt if you go into the Guards, Clem ! ’ he said one day, as he looked at some work of the boy’s on the shore, a tunnel or a bridge. ‘ Shall I ?’ said Clem, delighted. ‘ Oh, Tom ! do help me to persuade mother, or at least Bertram, for he decides everything at home.’ ‘Does lie?’ asked Tom, amazed. ‘Why, he’s only a year older than I am ! ’ /Ah! but he’s Derrington of the Manor, now/ said Clem, gravely, with so ludicrous an imitation of Bertram's manner that Tom could hardly help laughing. ‘ But you are only a younger son/ he sobered him¬ self, however, enough to say. ‘No ; but still Bertie wouldn’t consider engineering fit for me ; he’d say it wasn’t gentlemanly. I don’t mean for you, but for me,’ said Clem, perceiving himself in a hobble. ‘ I know what you mean/ said Tom, ‘and I don’t mind, though I don’t agree with Bertram all the same. I see nothing more worse in a man — or a gentleman, let us say — building a bridge or de¬ vising a new line of rail than in marshalling a lot of soldiers according to fixed rule. One at least takes as much head-work as the other. But let every one think as they like ; this is a free country/ he added, drawing himself up and laughing ; ‘so I’ll make the roads, Clem, and you shall clatter along them at the head of your troop, going in for glory or a grave/ ‘ I don’t care about either/ said Clem, rather sulkily, and there the matter ended. Cecil and Bertram were just starting for a long ride early oue morning, when they were surprised to see a hired carriage approaching the house. ‘ Its the flv from the “Eagle,” ’ said Cecil. ‘And that’s Drury inside: what can he want?’ added Bertram. Drury was their London man of business, and rarely came to Derrington except on matters of great importance. Bertram waited fill the fly drew near, and then bade him good-morning. The lawyer quietly responded, and in answer to a question, as to whether business or pleasure had brought him to the Manor this fine weather, added curtly but pleasantly, ‘Business;’ and suggested that Bertram should forego his ride, aud allow Mis3 Derrington to go on with the servant. ‘ I can wait/ said Cecil. But Mr. Drury quietly desired her to con¬ tinue her ride; so she gave in and set off, rather marvelling what business the keen old man could

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No. XIV. CHATTERBOX. 107 have come on. When she came in, she was still more puzzled at the message which awaited her, — ‘ Would she go to Mr. Bertram’s room, and he would join her there directly.’ He came to her shortly, looking very strange, stern, almost angry, but not with her. ‘Drury has come on most unpleasant business,’ lie said ; 4 vexatious and absurd to the last degree. I hardly care to mention it, and yet I suppose it will soon be public property, so you may as well hear it. Listen, Cecil — of course it is all a fabricated tale — but still it seems there is a person in existence now in London, who asserts that she was our Uncle Lance¬ lot’s wife, and that he has a child living !’ Cecil turned pale. 4 Uncle Lancelot married, and a child living ! Why, Bertie, then he ought to be at the Manor ! 1 ‘And I ought to be a beggar, you mean,’ said Bertie bitterly. ‘ Very well, put it how you will. Of course the matter will have to be sifted first, and this pretender will have to prove his claim, before I come down from my position here.’ ‘ What does Mr. Drury think ?’ asked Cecil. 4 Drury is a timid fool,’ said Bertram passionately : he 4 hums and haws, talks of an awkward case, and seems to believe every idle tale that reaches his ear.’ 4 Then I am afraid it must be true,’ said Cecil quietly. 4 Of course that is always the way, one’s own people are the first to desert one,’ said Bertram. 4 Oh, Bertie dear, don’t say such things ! ’ said Cecil. 4 Are we not all in the same trouble now surely, and isn’t it almost worse for mother than you?’ 4 No, it is not,’ said Bertram passionately ; 4 and 1 can’t tell you why, but you may believe me, it is ten thousand times more of a death-blow to me than it possibly could be to my mother. But why do I talk as if this cock-and-bull story were true ? Don’t cry, Cissy ; I didn’t mean to be so violent, but really a thing like this would upset a more even-tempered fellow than I am.’ Bertram . had certainly not grown more even- tempered with years, perhaps he missed his father’s gentle rule, but certainly he gave way at times to fits of anger which alarmed and grieved Cecil. She had never, however, seen him so mastered by passion as now ; and what with the shock of the tidings he had brought her, and the feeling that she had no one towards whom she could turn for comfort, she was fairly overwhelmed, and sobbed so bitterly that her brother exerted himself to the utmost to calm her : and in sheer desire to show her gratitude to him she dried her tears. ‘ There, now you are all right again,’ said Bertram relieved. 4 Go to mother, there’s a dear, and put the best face on things ; say it will all come right, I don’t doubt.’ Mrs. Derrington was dreadfully puzzled and per¬ plexed, but not so overcome as Cecil imagined she should have found her. Mr. Drury had evidently been more guarded in his communications to her than he had been to Bertram ; had suggested the possibility of mistake, the difficulty of the alleged Mrs. Lancelot Derrington proving her identity, up°n the leaves when imported, as it.ls now* In 1660 an Act of Parliament was passed, that ‘For evory of chocolate, sherbet, anc* tea’ made and sold, to be paid by the maker thereof, 8^.;’ and officers were appointed whose duty it was to visit the coffee-houses twice every day, and ascertain the quantity manufactured. In 1064 the East India Company considered it as a rare gift to present the Queen of England with two pounds of tea ! In 1864 the value of the tea imported into the United Kingdom amounted to 9,468,760Z.! It is estimated that between 200 and 300 square miles of Chinese territory are devoted to the growth of tea for our country alone. Such is the cheapness of labour in China, that the dealers in the southern

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103 CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. Provinces are able to supply their poorer customers with very fair Congou tea at 3%d. per pound ! Tea¬ drinking, at its first introduction, met with much opposition from some, and was as highly praised by others. One declared, that if it should come into general use ‘the innumerable ills to which man is subject would be entirely unknown ; ’ while another asserted that the evil custom of chinking spirits to excess 4 is often owing to the weakness of the system, brought on by the daily habit of drinking tea, whereby such persons almost necessarily fall into a habit of intemperance ! ’ Another old writer, who noticed that many things went wrong in the world, and that things which pleased him when young had now lost their charm, says, 4 Men have lost their stature and comeliness, and women their beauty, which is frequently occasioned by the use of tea!’ While ‘Thomas Garraway, of Exchange Alley, London, tobacconist, and seller and retailer of tea and coffee,’ describes ‘ this precious leaf and drink ’ as a certain cure for every disease within the knowledge of the physician, and concludes with the ‘ notice, that the said Thomas hath tea to sell from sixteen to fifty shillings the pound ! ’ Dried sage-leaves, which had been much in use in England, gradually lost favour, and after awhile the tea-drinkers had it all their own way. — The Cottager. continually their poor soil, and then to carry and sell the vegetables in the great city market-places. The Lon don market-gardeners are also very earnest in their labour, and it pays them well. One acre has been made to produce two hundred and twenty pound’s worth of garden-stuff in a year. Of course, this could not be done without constant deep-digging, great abundance of manure, and plenty of water. And not an hour must be wasted. The waggon in the picture is also a moving doctor’s shop. Garden-plants are wholesome, and if we could not get any of them to eat we should soon he very ill. The first home we read of was a garden: the first man was a gardener. No doubt every man wras his own gardener for a long time, until it was found that a division of labour was the best way of making the most of it. The candlestick-maker makes better candlesticks than if he had to make his own boots and chairs, and to raise his own corn and potatoes. Two noted kings, Cyrus the Persian and Charles the great Frenchman, were very fond of gardens. The first ordered all the gardens which were near his palaces to be filled with everything in the world that was beautiful and useful. The second, being a Christian king, thought about his people as well as himself, and ordered a list of useful flowers, vegetables and fruit, to be written out, all of which he desired his people to plant in their gardens. The old Homans loved roses and fruit, and wishing to have them in winter as well as in summer they made houses and frames of talc, a mineral through which light can pass. They had no glass — it was not then invented ; or if invented, as some think, it was very scarce. Flowers cannot live in the dark, so talc, which gave them a little light, was used ; but it is very far inferior to that beautiful and wonderful substance which we call glass. A Roman poet, named Virgil, tells us what the gardens in his day contained. Among other things he speaks of endive, cucumbers, celery, roses, ivy, and myrtle. V' hen the great Roman empire was overrun by wild, bar¬ barous people, many good things went to rack and ruin. The love of gardening and the art of raising flowers and fruits were lost for many, many years. No one cared to plant orchards and to make gardens in those sorrowful days. Nor did gardens any more cheer the eye, until the old monks began t o cultivate plots of ground near their quiet grey monasteries. In England, gardening prospered up to the bad times of the wars of the Red and White Roses. Afterwards it so fell into neglect that the great Duke of Northumberland, many years after the wars were over, had only one gardener, though he kept one hundred and sixty other servants. The discovery of America and the invention of glass-houses gave a great push to the gardeners, and England may now be called almost the garden of the world. Our little stormy island, with no natural fruits but sour sloes and sourer crabs, and bitter acorns, has been coaxed into producing the finest grapes and pine-apples, roses, and other gay flowers, that can be seen anywhere. . Such is one triumph of English patience, wisdom, and industry, blessed by Him from Whom the in¬ crease comes, and Who maketli His sun to shine on the evil and on the good. Gr. S. O. THE market-cart. (fWj) ojyjaERE is the market-cart, coming into London at a very early hour, laden with its pleasant load of garden- stuff. By the appearance of the JjJ't trees in the picture we see it is summer-time. Perhaps those men who £° cart kave keen up since three o’clock, and have cV seen the sun rise. Some vegetables X may be gathered very well the day X before, but other things must be plucked in the morning ; such as dainty. flowers for my lady’s nosegay, and delicate fruits, like strawberries and peaches. A pretty sight is a fruit-and-flower market in the heart of a great wilderness of bricks and mortar. The freshness and beauty of earth’s fairest children are delightful to the citizen, who, when skies are blue and days are long, wishes for murmuring streams and the cuckoo’s song. The streets are hot and dusty, and the clerk on his high stool in the dark little office, and the shopman at his counter, long for the wings of a dove, to fly away from the smoke and roar of the city and to breathe the scented air of the summer land under some shady tree. The market-gardener, however, has no holiday, though he lives in the country. lie is a man of never-end¬ ing toil. Few men work harder than the gardeners who supply Paris with salads. They are called ‘ Maraichers,’ or men of the marshes, because their plots of ground are in a low part. of. the environs of Paris, once actual marshes. Their industry has be¬ come a proverb. When a man works very hard he is said to work like a maraicher. They have not only to dig, and plant, and dung, but also to water

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110 CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. LITTLE HANS’ NIGHT-WALK. XS is no longer ‘ Little Hans/ lie is now a tall, strong lad, almost a man : but three or four years ago, when the things happened which I am going to tell you, Hans was a little fellow of twelve or thirteen years old, with blue eyes and a round chubby face. He would have had pretty flaxen hair if it had been allowed to grow ; but, like almost .all the peasant-bovs in Switzer¬ land, his head was so closely cropped that at first sight he looked as if he had been shaven, for his hair stood straight up, bristling all over his head. Hans’ father was the owner of a carriage, for which he found constant employment during the summer in carrying travellers over the high mountain-passes. He was often absent for a week or longer ; once he had even been engaged by a family for a whole month ; and as he was an honest man and very civil, he seldom returned without a little present from his employers, which was carefully laid aside to pur¬ chase warm winter-clothes for the family. Hiu-ing these absences of his father Hans remained at home with his mother, and his little brother Karl, and baby Gretchen. He loved his home, and thought that it was one of the prettiest cottages he had ever seen ; and, indeed, he was not far wrong. . It stood quite by itself, high up on the side of a hill, and the view from the wooden balcony which ran round two sides of the house was very lovely. One could see the beautiful snow-capped mountains in the distance, and nearer home the pretty valley, dotted with houses aud villages, aud with the broad river flowing through it ; while very far away the sun was reflected in the waters of a lovely lake, on which steamers aud pleasure-boats flitted about. This same balcony was during autumn as pretty a sight as could be seen : it was completely sheltered by the broad overhanging roof-; and as soon as the maize was all gathered in it was hung up in festoons against the sides of the house, and gave the balcony the look of being lined with gold. Hans was a very industrious boy. At the time at which he was first able to carry anything, his father made him a wooden basket suitable to his size, such as every Swiss peasant, old or young, carries on his back, and many a load of sweet-smelling hay did the careful little fellow convey from the high mountain meadows to hi3 father’s barn. He thought the happiest day of all the year was the day on which the flocks of goats and cows set out for the mountains. Long before any one else was ready to start Hans was to be seen bustling about ; now peeping into the stable that he might be quite sure that the bells were properly fastened round the cows’ necks, then practising the peculiar cry which calls the cattle together ; and showing his impatience in various other ways. He enjoyed the long summer days, although lie worked harder then than at any other time, for it was always his business to see that the cows and goats did not stray ; and besides, when the hay was cut he had often a heavy load on his back, as he merrily trotted homewards with the winter store. Travellers passing up the mountain would see coming towards them what looked at first like a moving mountain of hay ; then, as it came nearer, a rosy, happy face was to be seen peeping out of the f midst of it, and a pleasant voice said 6 Good day/ as Hans passed them by. Sometimes, but very seldom, he went with hi3 mother to a fair. That was an event to be looked forward to for a long time, and talked about after¬ wards for many weeks. He never could sleep the night before, and when he heard his mother begin¬ ning to move he was up aud ready to set out in a few minutes. First, there was the long walk down to the lake in the fresh morning air : this was not so pleasant, and by the time they arrived at the boat Hans found himself almost wishing that he was back again, in bed. But then there came the crossing the lake, right from one end to the other. What fun this was ! He sat, surrounded by baskets and bundles of all sizes and shapes, generally with two or three cows in the centre of the boat, and watched the sun rising behind the mountains, and the boats pushing off all along the shores, until at last there seemed to be quite a Tittle fleet, all going to the fair. Then when they arrived, what bustle ! what confusion ! what pleasure to look in at the shop-win clows ! In the fair itself there was so. much to tempt him that he could not make up his mind what his pence should be spent upon, and evening came before he had decided between a doll, a rattle, or a many-coloured ball, as a present for Gretchen. The return home, however, always sobered him, as he carried a heavy load of liis mother’s purchases up the mountain ; and he was a very weary little traveller by the time that he crept to bed after his day of pleasure. ■ hen the first snow fell there came a new delight. j Hans and Karl got out their little sledges and ran J races, and peltecl each other with snow-balls, and S sometimes built snow-men ; but they soon got tired of all this, aud as the long winter months passed on, !' and the snow still lay thick and heavy upon the paths | and fields, they used to long for the time to come J when they would see the green grass and pretty, bright, spring flowers again. In spite, however, of the snow and bitter cold, winter was a pleasant time for Hans : his father was at home then, much more than during the summer ; and he was never tired of following him about, and | listening to stories of his adventures and travels. Sometimes he taught him very useful lessons, one in particular Hans never forgot. It was a winter’s evening, and the family were all assembled in the large, warm sitting-room. Hans was very proud and happy in the possession of a new j knife, which his father had made him a present of some days before. His father was busy carving, for during the winter evenings he carved numbers of match-boxes, card-cases, and other nicknacks, which during the summer were sold to travellers. Hans was learning to carve, too, and could manage the easy work tolerably well, but this evening he suddenly announced his intention of carving a bear with his new knife.

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No. XIV. CHATTERBOX. Ill 4 You can’t,’ said Karl. * Can’t I just !’ replied Hans scornfully. 4 Hot you, indeed ! Carve a bear ! Why, a bear is a very difficult tiling to make. Even father can scarcely manage it sometimes. I should like to see your bear. He would most likely have only three legs, and no head at all !’ 4 1 can carve a hear, and 1 will too ! ’ replied .Hans, now very cross ; 4 and I don’t want any one to teach me either. I can do it myself.’ Without another word, Plans took up a piece of wood and began the bear. Karl looked on in silence. Presently there came a sound of subdued laughter from Karl, followed by a scuffle and a low cry. Plans had, as Karl said he would, cut off one of the bear’s legs, and, enraged at being laughed at, he had then rushed at Karl and knocked him over. Karl got upon his legs presently, with a great bump overhanging one of his eyes ; whilst Plans, thoroughly ashamed of himself, stood in the middle of the floor, looking ruefully at the three-legged stump of the bear which he still held in his hand. 4 Plans,’ said his father, 4 I am very much ashamed of you: I did not think that you were such a braggart.’ 4 Oh, please, father,’ cried Karl, who was a good- humoured little fellow, and very fond of Plans, ‘don’t scold Plans; it was all my fault, 1 laughed at him ! ’ 4 1 know you did, Karl, and I don’t so much blame him for knocking you over, though that was a hasty, ill-tempered thing to do, but the real fault in him was his foolish conceit. If he had not boasted so loudly that he could do without help, no one would have laughed at him ; but a boaster never comes to good.’ 4 It was not a boast,’ said Hans sulkily. 4Yery well, since it was not a boast you had better carve a bear ; but I warn ypu, until it is finished I shall not let you begin anything else.’ 4 All right,’ answered Plans, looking rather doubt¬ fully as he spoke at the stump in his hand. Many a weary hour did he spend over the bear : it turned out much more difficult than he had ex¬ pected; in fact, he was often on the point of giving it up in despair. He cut up numberless pieces of wood in the attempt: sometimes he spoilt a leg, sometimes he inflicted a deep gash on tne animal’s side; and once, just as he had actually finished all but the head, little Gretchen, who was standing beside him, jogged his elbow, and made him cut off the entire ear ! He turned round hastily, but fortu¬ nately remembered himself just in time, and merely said, 4 That was a pity, Gretchen ; it was so nearly finished.’ At last, after about a month of hard work, the bear stood on the table, legs, ears, and all ; and it was not only done but very well done, for the many attempts had improved Plans’ carving very much. He stroked it and petted it as if it had been a living thing, and his father too made him quite happy by praising his performance ; but it had been a long, tiresome job for all that, and it taught Hans two very useful lessons. One, the folly of silly boasting ; the other, that patience and perseve¬ rance would enable him to overcome very great difficulties. CHAPTER II. The summer after Hans carved the bear was fine and warm, but the autumn set in cold and rainy, and the summer visitors forsook the mountains very early. Plans’ father had been away for some days, and since he had left, it had scarcely ceased raining day or night. The river had overflowed its banks, and turned the fields on each side into a lake, in which haycocks and wooden troughs, and even tables and chairs, were floating about. One evening the house-door suddenly opened, and a woman with a large bundle in her arms walked in. She was very wet, and when she had taken off her cloak the children beheld to their great delight their favourite aunt Else, who had gone in the early sum¬ mer to take a place as waitress in a little mountain inn some miles distant. 4 Why, Else,’ exclaimed their mother, 4 is it really you? I am delighted to see you, but we did not expect you so soon. What has become of your business?’ ‘Business !’ exclaimed Else ; 4 what business could go on in such weather ? The strangers have all left the mountains, and indeed they are in the right, for very soon there will be neither roads nor bridges, unless it should please Providence to let the weather clear up.’ After supper the children gathered round their aunt, who told them stories for a little while ; they then went quietly to hed. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, they were all awakened by a queer, heavy noise, as if some great weight had been thrown against the house. 4 What can that be, Else ?’ cried Plans’ mother, catching up Gretchen in her arms as she spoke: ‘something dreadful is going to happen!’ They all listened for some time, but could hear nothing except the rafters cracking above their heads. 4 Let us look out,’ said Else. She opened the window as she spoke, but to her dismay there was no light, not even the twinkling stars were to be seen, and the window was completely blocked up with earth and stones. 4 1 do believe,’ she cried, 4 that we are buried alive ! What will become of us? And we are so far from the high road, no one is likely to pass by in this weather.’ They carefully tried all the doors and windows, but they were all completely stopped ; and indeed the house itself was greatly shaken, and seemed as if it might fall at any moment. ( Concluded in our next.) CATCH. girl, and boy and man, 1 Kll Ho your duty all you can. All you can — child or man, Ho your duty all you can : In the path of duty run From morn to evening, like the sun ; PTom evening shades to morning light Ho your duty ; it is right To do your duty all you can, Woman, girl, or boy or man. J. E. C. F.

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CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. 4 The Bear stood on the table, legs, ears, and all.’

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Bertie was gone forth into the great cold world alone. M -

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114 CHATTERBOX. No. XV. CHANGES AND & CHANCES. ( (Continued from page 107.) ® $) ECIL went away, feeling as if her 'CV irH ffl head and her heart were both Ml ill 1 full. The last few hours had A |||A upset her life. W r Bertram chiefly distressed her: without the Manor, what ynf would he do ? Her mother she I u \ V ^ (In could manage to make happy II elsewhere, she thought ; but her jsA (v) brother was so heart and soul q&Z NAA-A hound up in the place, that the ** v \L loss ^ would be an evil not to he borne by him. It was a great relief to her that Bertram seemed in better . spirits when she met him next ; Mr. Drury had suggested his coming up to town with _ him the next day, and the mere idea that he was going to act in the matter soothed him. And for this afternoon he was going to ride over and see Miss Trevannock — this was his mother’s wish — and ask her to come over to the Manor for a few days. 4 Yes, I shall like Aunt Mary to he here,’ said Cecil. She had forgotten the kind, good, gentle lady, who kept herself so quiet in the grey house at the end of the avenue of elms, and yet did so much good to her fellow-creatures. 4 Don’t look so sorrowful, Cis,’ said her brother as he left her on the last step of the staircase : 4 it will all come right as I said before, and . we shall think Drury a stupid old donkey for coming here to set us all by the ears/ ‘ Oh, Bertie, I hope so,’ said Cecil with a deep sigh. 4 But brother, listen: Clem and Carrie were to come home on Saturday, they will then have been ten days away : hut they beg so to stay on at Mark- haven/ Wouldn’t it boa good thing if I wrote to ask Mrs. Philipps to keep them ? Of course I would ask mother first.’ ‘ By all means,’ said Bertram cheerfully ; 4 let them remain away till this is settled. Queer they should like to stay on at that place : dull I should have thought. Good-bye, dear. I will be hack to dinner. Steady, * Lightning!’ Cecil watched them down the drive, he turned round and waved his hand to her. ‘ He doesn’t want to believe this bad news, and he won’t/ said Cecil to herself; ‘ but I know from Mr. Drury’s face that he thinks this Mrs. Lancelot Derrington will prove her case, and then we shall all have to leave the Manor, and Bertram will — — She never finished her sentence, for little Hugh, her youngest brother, ran up to her, and she had to smooth her . face before the nurse, and collect her thoughts to answer the childish questions he put to her. The Frenchwoman, with the fair face and dark eyes, who claimed to be Mrs. Lancelot Derrington, was behaving in a very straightforward way, even her opponents said, courting inquiry, showing all her little possessions, her documents, the few short letters in the lost Lancelot’s handwriting. There was little doubt of the validity of her claims ; even Mr. Drury advised Mrs. Derrington to accept Miss Trevannock’s offer of her house as a refuge for the present. Bertram angrily opposed her leaving the Manor, but his mother, for once, was strong in her resolution to go, taking with her Cecil and her two youngest children ; Clement and Carrie were still happy and unconscious of the storm at Markhaven. Bertram himself refused to quit the Manor until compelled to do so. It galled him to find out, among other things, that Lancelot’s heir bore his father’s name. Somehow the lad fancied, had he been called so, his tenure of the Manor would not have been so frail. At last, though not for months, the decree passed that this was in very truth the lost Lancelot’s wife, and the child who was to supplant Bertram was the rightful owner of the Manor. The matter had been settled quietly, without un¬ necessary publicity or bitterness, and the real Mrs. Derrington had written a generous letter to Mrs. Bertram Derrington, begging her to continue alto¬ gether at the Manor if she would, or, at any rate, till she could arrange other plans. But this was impossible, as every one knew, except the simple French lady. Bertram left the Manor with clenched teeth and white face one chilly winter evening : even he knew that all was over. Miss Trevannock welcomed him kindly, but he never spoke either to her or his mother, maintaining almost perfect silence during the evening. At bedtime he called Cecil to his room. 4 Don’t speak or cry out, Cecil, but listen to what I have to say,’ he .began. 4 I can’t stay here — not a night ; I must go before they torture me any more with their plans. Only fancy my mother calmly considering the possibility of living in a-little house in Mark haven High Street ! I can’t bear it, and I won’t. Better go to the workhouse at once.’ ‘ Bfit, Bertie, it is quite a pretty little place, with a garden and a view of the sea,’ said poor Cecil, hardly knowing how to meet this fresh outbreak : 4 and Aunt Mary means to keep you on at Eton : she told us so to-day.’ 4 Cecil, you are a child ! a baby ! everything seems right to you,’ began Bertram, angrily : then he broke down, sa}Ting, with almost a sob, 4 But no wonder, you have no troubles like I have to weigh you down.’ 4 Bertie, dear, what are your troubles ? tell them to me,’ pleaded Cecil. 4 1 have long thought that some¬ thing besides the loss of the Manor distressed you.’ 4 You are quite right in your suppositions, Cecil,’ said her brother, quietly ; t my particular burden hangs like a millstone round my neck.’ _ 4 Let me try and help it off, Bertie,’ said the girl, coaxingly: 4 what is it?’ 4 1 am in debt, Cecil, heavily,’ said the hoy, in a measured tone* 4 1 have forfeited my word to my father, I have deceived you and my mother, and now my good name must suffer too. It is not the first time, nor perhaps will it be the last, that a Der- rington’s word will he lightly thought of. It is that which drives me wild. You remember Seymour

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No. XV. CHATTERBOX. 115 Delorme, Cecil? Well, I owe him money, and I have debts of honour as well, which I meant to pay honestly when the Manor was mine; but now I can’t tell which will be worst, that they should come on my mother or remain unpaid. Delorme must have his money, and that soon, for he is dunning me for it now,’ he added, gloomily. • £ lie shall have it, dear,’ said Cecil, ‘ I will see to that ; Aunt Mary would advance it gladly. She is only too vexed that mother means to try and live on the small amount of income left her ; she wants to help us.’ ‘But mind, Cecil, you must tell no one till I am gone,’ urged Bertram. ‘ Bertie, dear, won’t you stay, and believe it will all be made straight for you ?’ begged his sister, the tears in her eyes. But Bertram was determined nothing should induce him to face the world of friends and neighbours now the Manor was gone from him. 6 And won’t you tell me where you are. going, Bertie?’ asked Cecil, despairing of moving him. ‘How can I, when I don’t know myself?’ said the boy. ‘I shall lose myself like Uncle Lancelot, I hope. Who would have thought once our careers would have been so much alike?’ ‘ Doh’t, Bertie !’ said Cecil ; ‘ you are not like him: and if only you would give up this wild scheme of going away 1 could make all things right for you.’ ‘ And pay the three hundred pounds odd I owe?’ said Bertram, in a hard tone. Cecil visibly winced at the amount ; it seemed a large sum to her, with absolutely nothing to meet it, but she put- on a brave face, and repeated that Aunt Mary would pay all, she knew. 4 Very likely : but I could not look her in the face after. So good-bye, Cecil ; kiss me and kiss my mother for me. You ‘needn’t try to stop me, for if 1 don’t go I shall do worse. I will be no more trouble to an}'- one— here at least. You may tell them to-morrow why I went, and ask as a favour that no one makes any inquiry for me : I will write when I have any¬ thing good to tell. There, now go.’ And Bertram put his sister out of the door, and watched her towards her own room. Poor Cecil did not go to bed, she waited and listened, now at the door, now at the window, till, in the gust}'- winter night, she saw a dark figure steal along under the elms, and knew that Bertie was gone forth into the great cold. world alone, and with a sore heart. Then she went to bed and cried herself to sleep, roused in the morning by the maid putting a letter into her hand. It was from Bertie, left last night on the hall-table, and contained a list of his debts, nothing else. There was much weeping from Mrs. Derrington when she heard that her eldest son had slipped away in the night, unable to bear his fallen fortunes. Cecil told no one as yet of his special troubles, but she dissuaded her mother from telegraphing after the boy, or trying to discover him by means of the police. Aunt Mary agreed with her, that was one comfort. ‘ Let him knock about the world a bit, dear,’ she said to the poor mother : ‘ a little fatigue of body will work off his grief and vexation. And don’t be angry with poor Cecil ; she has done her best, and I don’t see how she could have mended matters by alarming all of us last night; we couldn’t have kept a strong lad of seventeen with us, if he wouldn’t stay.’ And so she managed to persuade Mrs. Derrington that Bertram’s abrupt departure was merely the pre¬ lude to a short tour in search of change of scene. She found out that Cecil was in her brother’s con¬ fidence very soon, and took from her the bit of paper . with the blotted figures which weighed so heavily on her mind, the record of racing debts and transactions with horse-dealers. 4 Leave it all to me, dear,’ said the kind lady ; ‘ I don’t say I will pay all, but neither you nor Bertram shall hear more of these debts, I promise. Of course young Delorme shall have his money to-morrow ; the sooner one finishes with that sort of person the better. And now I have, a question to ask you, dear ; if I get your mother’s permission, will you go with me next week to the Manor to receive this Mrs. Der¬ rington ?’ Cecil opened her eyes very widely. ‘I will do what you and mother like,’ she said. ‘You see, dear,’ pursued Miss Trevannock, ‘ the poor lady, at least, has done no wrong, and it is hard for her to come to her own home and find every one looking coolly upon her. Now, if you and I were there, it would give the neighbourhood an idea on the subject — set the fashion, in fact, and people would soon visit her. I feel strongly on the subject, dear Cecil, because I might have been in the same position. Once, indeed,’ and she lowered her voice, ‘ I thought I should have been Lancelot’s wife.’ Then Cecil knew that this good, gentle Miss Trevannock, was the very ‘Mary’ of whom her father had spoken years ago, as the gild whom her Uncle Lancelot had treated so shamefully. ‘ I will go,’ said Cecil again, more readily, when Miss Trevannock ceased speaking. ‘ Indeed, Aunt Mary, I bear no grudge to this poor lady ; I shall only be a little sorry to see another boy in Bertie’s place/ ( To be continued. ) HARRY’S LETTER. from; henry at home to his brother at school. Y dear Jack, — I had written the enclosed letter to tell you all about everything. Then mother looked over it with me to improve the spelling, and she exclaimed so when she came to the history of our two pets, all told in these nine words, ‘ One flew away, and the cat got the other,’ that she told me to take my pen and a large sheet of paper, and to write at her dictation. I 'hardly know if this be her letter or mine; the words are just what I should have said myself if I had thought of them. Mother says it is a very good thing to be able to tell things in few words, but as that is always my way, I am to learn by this how to make things more interesting. Every word of this is true, though I think it reads quite like a tale, and of course it is too long for a real letter. Besides, we have put other things about other pets in, which are not news to you. You must know, then, that I had had two little tame sparrows given me, and I kept them in Bon¬ nard’s slatted basket, with a piece of muslin tied over

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— - - - - 116 CHATTERBOX. No. XV- the top, by way of a cage. It happened one day that Edith and I being left alone by our two selves, to amuse ourselves in the garden, bethought us of the two poor little birds left alone with the same task before them. But there was this difference. We had space, and air, and light, and ail our tools and amusements around us, while the two little birds were in a little basket in a little room, with nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to talk about. Hop went one bird, hop went the other. 4 Chirp ’ said this bird, 4 chirrup * said the other. One bird pecked a little, the other pecked a little, and so on over and over and over again. We remembered the two little prisoners, and I went and fetched them, that we four might keep each other company. The eldest sparrow had got one wing cut, so we knew he could not fly away, and we tied the other by the leg. We tied him, but we did not make him safe by any means, so awkward was my tying. For a little while he hopped about, and picked up the insects, and bathed in the dust, and chirruped and chirped to the wild brothers round him. Presently he took a longer and a stronger flight. Snap went the thread, gone was the bird oyer the wall into the wide world beyond, and we were left lamenting. That one was certainly the prettiest birdie, for he had two whole wings and a tail. Yet somehow we never cared for him as much as we did for the other. The other dear little thing had only one wing of the propep size, and then its tail would keep breaking off feather by feather, and at last he had got as nearly none as possible. But we really loved that poor little chap. I believe mother was rather ashamed of it if company tame in when it was hopping about, for he did look such a little wretch ; but I know she was very fond of him, for she was as still as could be for a long while after that cat - But we have not come to that yet. The two birds used to be so pretty together. They used to sit in the middle of that bunch of tottcr- grass that is in the vase on the chimney-piece, and they quite sat it into a nest. Then, perhaps, the one with the two wings would come sailing down and settle on Bernard’s or any one’s head who happened to be going past. At breakfast their place was on the edge of the slop-basin. 1 believe they quite knew it was their proper place. At first one of them would always try to nestle himself into the hollow that is in the top of the loaf ; but though we children thought he looked very pretty there, mother said it was not a right place for a bird. When they sat still on the basin, mother used to hold them some coffee-sugar in a teaspoon, and they used to peck it, and liked it as much as baby does. One thing we noticed about that which we thought curious. They always seemed to like the lumps best, because they liked to crack them in their bills. So, too, when we held a piece of bread to them, they would peck at the crust, where' they could hardly get a morsel. They ought to have had some seeds. I know, and I did get some very soon after the one flew away, but the other poor fellow never tasted them. Baby sometimes had fine chases after them ; he scrambling along on four legs, and they hopping away on two. At first he was rather afraid of them, and would draw his hand back, and push himself along backwards to go away from them, if we put them too near him. At last, though, he got quite bold, and one day he so nearly caught one by the leg, that we did not let him go to them unless we were one of us close by to take care of them. Sometimes I used to take ’one out of doors in my hand, to eat the little green insects off the roses; he liked that, and of course it did the roses good. I cannot think how it was we were able to keep our sparrows as long as we did, for the windows were never quite shut. We did not leave the window wide open in any room where they were hopping about, but then the room door was open, and the hall windows were sure to be so. One day I left them in their little cage, and an hour after they were found sitting in their favourite totter-grass. Sometimes they hopped upstairs, step by step, all safe past the landing window. When I went about the garden one used to hop after me. If I went into the shed for any tools, he would follow me in and sit on a hoe or a barrow till I came out again. But when I wa3 swinging he used to do the funniest thing. You know my old straw hat, which has been a garden-hat so long? So long that the rim is lost, and the crown is almost off, opening like a lid. As I swing backwards and forwards this beautiful crown opened and shut, and under that the bird liked to sit. It just kept him on. When Amy tore that lid off, lie could not sit anywhere but on my lap when 1 was swinging. I should like to tell you a great many other pretty funny things he did, but that would make my letter . too long. I want you now to understand how very fond we all were of these two little sparrows, the shabby one espccialljr. Nurse wouldn’t like them at first, though 1 believe she did afterwards — perhaps because baby liked them. She said she 4 never heard of such a thing as children keeping two sparrows. If they were canaries now, or goldfinches, that would be something like.’ When mother was a little girl she had a pet sparrow, one that had fallen out of his nest, and mother's sister brought it up from an unfledged 4 bare bubbling,’ as mother says they call young birds in her country. Many of the things it did were like what our birds did, and hearing about that bird, and about our poor aunt who was. ill so long, and who died before any of us were born, I think made us like our birds still more. The two were certainly very jolly together, but we did not seem to mind when the first was gone ; we only said it was 4 a pity.’ This, you see, brings me to the end of the first part of my history, to the end of 4 one flew away.’ Now I must begin the other and the saddest part. I don’t blame any one. Mother will persist in blaming herseM, because she did think of what might have prevented it all, and yet she did not prevent it. I do not see that the result is any worse than if she had not thought of it, and so I don't see that mother is to be blamed more than we are for not thinking of it : but people may differ in this, and no doubt mother is right. A few days after the departure of the first bird I

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* Snap went tlie thread, and gone was the bird.’ was carpentering at the bottom of the garden, when father and mother came out, mother with birdie’s basket in her hand. ‘You left your poor little friend in the house while you were out/ she said, ‘ and his cage had tumbled off the hall slab, and he was quite frightened/ So we took him out and let him hop by us. We picked strawberries, and so did the sparrow. Father and mother looked at the peaches, and watched me and my bird do all those swinging plans and other things which I have told you about, but which they had not seen. They seemed so much amused and pleased with him. ‘Mother stroked his head and kissed him, and tallied to him just as 'she does to baby, and called him ‘ a pitty ittle sing/just as people do, you know, and then asked me if I had thought she coukl talk so much nonsense. I ought to have said, that when we first came into

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118 CHATTERBOX. No. XV. the garden mother said, ‘ Now, Henry, we must be sure and see if that black cat is in the garden.’ You know that cat who, all last summer, came to lie under our gooseberry-trees. She did the same this summer, and till the birds came we liked it, because it seemed to show that she thought us kind children, and not teasing ones. We thought of the cat, but did not go to her arbour at once, and so when we had got to the end of the garden where it is we had forgotten all about her. Mother and father sat upon the carpentering bench and watched the bird hopping about, as I told you he did, after me, and mother began, T really think, Henry, you must buy a cage for-t hat bird. You have money enough, have you not?’ ‘ Oh, yes, mother. I have three shillings, and a threepenny piece besides, and there will be my two¬ pence allowance on Monday.’ 4 Or better still,’ said father, £ }rou might make a cage. Take a square board for the bottom, and a lath or sort of pillar at the corners, and - ’ 4Oh — ah — sh — boo — sh — oh,’ shouted father, mother, and me all at once; and up jumped one, down jumped the other, and I was sprawling in the bushes, for suddenly, with tiger spring, without the slightest warning, had that cat pounced upon my deal* little sparrow. Fathei' nearly caught her tail, mother nearly caught her leg, but ilicre she was — on the wall — over the wall. I was after her — across the roa d, down somebody’s back-garden, and into somebody's back- kitchen. But I came back, and we all three did sit so still and quiet. I was very glad mother did not begin pitying me ; I must have cried right out if she had. There seemed such a blank, I cannot tell you how. It was not quite as if the sun had gone out of. the sky, hut almost. You cannot imagine the deso¬ late feeling 1 had for some time after that plunge, and bustle, and rustle. And now, old fellow, good¬ bye. When the children came home from their walk they said, ‘ The boot-hoy can get you another, per¬ haps, Henry,’ but I did not feel then as if that was any consolation. — Your loving brother, Henry. J. E. C. F. LITTLE HANS’ NIGHT- WALK. (Con cl n ded from p. 111.) HERE was no more sleep for either aunt or mother that night, and in the morning a new trouble arose — they had very little food. There was some bread and milk left from supper, and they ate it during the day. In the afternoon Hans suddenly cried out, ‘Mother, I see daylight!’ They all looked up, and beheld a little streak of light coming from a very small window in the corner of the room. Aunt Else got upon a chair in front of it, and with the shovel she pushed hack the earth, and they were then able to see the sky. She worked the shovel round and round until she had made a hole the size of the window, but she could do no more. Still this was a great comfort, as it gave them pure, fyeshair; but as night came on the children grew very hungry, and at last poor little Gretchen began to cry. ‘ YVliat shall we do?’ said Aunt Else. ‘I cannot make a larger hole with this sbovel ; and even if I could it would, he of no use, for the window is not larger enough for me to pass through it.’ ‘But perhaps I could,’ cried Hans eagerly. ‘ I am quite small enough. Mother, may 1 try?’ ‘No indeed, Hans ! it is enough to bo locked up in this way ; but I could not let you go : who knows what may have happened outside?’ However, as time went on and no sign of help appeared, his mother began to change her mind. Poor Gretchen was still crying, and they all began to feel very hungry and wretched. ‘I think it would really be better to let him go,’ said his aunt at last. ‘ Hans is not a giddy boy, and he is used to going about alone ; and the good God will take care of him. The storm, too, seems to have passed away. You must put on your thick shoes and great coat. Hans,’ continued she, turning to him, ‘and be very careful where you tread; remember, all the foot¬ paths are most likely entirely destroyed : but' you cannot lose your way if you guide yourself by the tops of the mountains.’ • I will be very careful, aunt,’ replied Hans ; ‘ and I am sure I know my way ; I could not miss it.’ ‘Oh, Hans!’ cried his mother in alarm, ‘there you go again with your foolish boasting ! A ou must promise me to watch every step as you go; or else you will not bring us any help, and most likely you will lose your own life besides.’ ‘ Don’t be frightened, mother,’ said the little hoy, kissing her : ‘ I promised to take care ; and I did not mean to boast. I know it will.be very difficult, but I feel as if 1 would do anything to help you and to comfort Gretchen.’ ‘Good-bye, my boy: God bless you and bring you safe back to me V said she, as his aunt helped him to climb up and push himself through the window, which was only just big enough to let him pass. When he had scrambled to his feet outside and looked around him, surprise -and wonder almost took his breath away. It was between nine and ten o’clock at night, but there was a bright moon and the rain had almost ceased. The little boy could see very clearly, ^ and he at once discovered what had happened. The heavy rain, which had lasted for so many days, had washed down a great piece of the hill behind his fathers cottage, and the earth and stones bad completely covered up all the fields and trees at the back, and buried the house, all except the chimneys. They were still to be seen, and very funny they looked, sticking out of this new hill which had risen up so suddenly. _ . As Hans looked at it all, he felt so puzzled that at last he almost forgot what the house had been like before it was buried. The little garden, the stable, with all his beloved cows and goats in it, the fruit- trees, which had borne such a crop of rosy apples this year, thev had all disappeared, and he beheld

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No. XV. CHATTERBOX. 119 instead a mound of ugly rough earth and stones, from underneath which he had just made his escape as if lie had been a mole or a marmot ! lie was roused from these sad 'thoughts by sud¬ denly finding himself rolling down the kill. He had stumbled over a large stone while he was looking about, and as the slope in front of the house was very steep, when once off he never stopped until he reached the foot of it. There he lay, shaken and bruised all over, and half-stunned, for sometime; but the cool damp air helped him to revive, and lie was able by-and-oye to get up and look around him. The poor little fellow felt very lonely and frightened, but the thought of his mother waiting for him to come with help encouraged him, arid he knelt down and said his prayers, and he added a little prayer that God would help him to find his way this night, lie then set out slowly and carefully, and as he went along one verse of a hymn which he and Karl had repeated to their mother the night before (how far off that seemed now !) came into his head, and cheered him greatly. With these thoughts helping him, he cautiously made liis way for some time, and before long he began to know where he was, and to see marks that he knew on the road, lie soon came upon the path which led to the village, which was not above half a mile off, and he made his way easily and quickly for a short distance : hut, unluckily, the path led across a river — not the large river which flowed' down the valley, but a mountain stream, which in summer was so tiny that travellers often wondered what could he the reason for building a large stone bridge across it. The reason was plain enough now : the bridge was washed away, and instead of the pretty, clear brook, a furious torrent rushed along, carrying down sticks and stones and rubbish from the mountains above. Ilans. of course, could get no further. He stood for a few minutes looking at the torrent, and he almost made up his mind to turn back : blit then he remem¬ bered, that if he should return without reaching the village, he might far better never have set out at all. ‘ I could not go back,’ thought he, 4 to see Gretchen and Ivarl crying with hunger. I must try again somewhere else : if father was here I am sure he would tell me to go on.’ Then he thought, that if he went higher up along the hank he might And a safe crossing-place. He accordingly set t>ut, and after walking a long way he came to where he thought he might venture ; so, slowly and carefully, he made his way step by step into the middle of the stream. Here he was almost carried off his feet, and at the next step he felt the water rising up, and roaring in his ears ; he thought that he should never see his home, or his mother, or Gretchen again ! 43 ut with one last effort he struggled on, and the next time he put down his foot it was in shallow water, and he was safe ! He scrambled up the hank out of breath, and numbed with cold, but the difficulty was over, arid in a few minutes he was able to start off again. . , It was still a long way to the village, as Il ans had been obliged to go so far up the hill before he could find a crossing-place : his clothes and shoes, too, were soaked, and heavy with water, and he began to feel very stiff and tired : but bis courage did not fail, lie thought of the long time he had spent over the bear. 4 Father called me a persevering little boy,’ thought he; 4 he shall see that I can persevere in other 'things as well as carving. And how pleased mother and Aunt Else will be when they see help coming! But oh!’ he suddenly remembered, 4 perhaps father is not there at all : most likely he has not come hack yet, and then what shall I do?’ .He comforted himself, however, with the thought that the neighbours were always kind, they would be sure to help him; and so, weary and footsore, lie at last stood at the door of the 4 Golden Eagle,’ as they called the village inn. He knocked ; no answer, every one was asleep. Knock again, Hans ; louder this time. 4 Who is there at this time of night, disturbing honest folk when they ought to be in bed?’ said Fritz the innkeepers gruff voice from the balcony overhead. Hans looked up and saw his round, red face, with the moon shining full upon it; his night¬ cap, which looked like a large red stocking, hung down over one ear. 4 It is I, little Hans from the mountain. The mountain has fallen upon our house, and mother and Karl and Gretchen are all buried. And Aunt Else is there, too ; she helped me out of the window that I might come down here to tell the neighbours.’ The door opened, and Hans beheld his father. 4 0 father ! ’ he cried ; and then he remembered nothing more until he awoke in a warm, comfortable Led, and the first thing he saw was Gretchen playing on the floor beside him ! 4 Ilans,’ said his mothers voice gently in Ills ear, 4 how do you feel, my boy?’ 4 Quite well, mother,’ said Ilans, bewildered, 4 but very, very hungry. But mother,’ said he rubbing his eyes, 4 how did you get here? I thought’ — his face slowly lighted up, as the truth came to his mind. ‘Have 1 been long asleep ?’ be said at last. 4 Only all day, ilans ; which is not to be wondered at, considering your last night’s walk. Eat your supper now, I am sure you want it.’ liis father came in during supper, and praised him, and called him his brave, good boy ; and Hans heard how all the men in the village had gone to help, as soon a3 his news was known ; and how they had lifted out Gretchen first, and then Karl; and Aunt Fisc, and even his mother, had climbed out through a window : hut it was not the little one that Hans had squeezed through. The cows and goats had been almost all killed ; . only one goat, and a cow and a calf, had been found .alive, but his father and mother were too thankful that no one of the family had been killed to fret much for the animals. In a little while the whole party removed to a new home: it was no longer up among the mountains, but in the more level part of the country, and there were cows and sheep, and another orchard with plenty of fruit. Hans’ father -always afterwards spoke of liis boy’s crossing the river with great pride, ‘and Hans enjoyed very much the feeling that he was looked upon as a trustworthy, steady hoy: hut he could not help grieving sometimes for his dear old home, although he felt thankful that he was not obliged to take any more such night-walks.

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120 CHATTERBOX. No. XV. ‘ Who is there at this time of night?*

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No. XYI. CHATTERBOX. Linnet singing in t he Goree.

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122 CHATTERBOX. No. XVI. linnet singing in THE GORSE. fif u x|fl fi W MhDERLNG over the breezy com- fy v^vlm Wvif n mon that ski ts for many a mile vwlffW ( V the &rcat wide*spreading sea — \ Vvl'7 Iw® C> the beautiful, sparkling sea, ever KWffl changing in colour and shade as A the light clouds float over it this 4 / «^i\ rjd delightful May morning — our ° y(\ au ears are suddenly greeted with ^ such soft, sweet music, that we V, ^7 c/ cannot help stopping in our walk v^7 ^ to listen, trying at the same time ^ to make out from whence the music conies. We know that it is the song of a bird, but where is the little chorister? A glance tolls us that he is not in the air, and then our eyes wander over the prickly gorse-bushes that are thick about our path, and we discover the author of the melody that so delights us, perched upon one of the topmost sprays, right among the sharp spikes. It is a Lin¬ net, one of the sweetest and most charming of our English song-birds, his bright rose-red breast con¬ trasting beautifully with the bright yellow blossoms. How his little throat swells as he pours forth his varied and lively notes ! Pie scarcely seems to know how to contain himself for very joy. Dear little bird! what is it that fills your heart with such de¬ light? He cannot answer us in human words, but we think we can understand the meaning of his song. It is something like this : — ‘ Oh, I am so happy ! so happy! the air is so sweet and fresh, the sky so blue, and everything around me so bright and beautiful ! Trill, trill! sure there never was a happier bird than I ! My mate sits on her nest, all carefully hidden from sight in the bush beneath. A beautiful little nest it is; and we are very proud of it. We took a great deal of pains to make it neat and snug, forming it of grass, wool, and moss, and lining it with hair and feathers. In it are six little pale-blue eggs, spotted with brown. In a few days 1 know they will be hatched, and there will be a family of downy, chirping nestlings to look after ; then I shall have plenty of work to do to And them food, and I shall be, if possible, even happier than I am now/ Lot us hope, beautiful bird! that no thoughtless boy will rob you of your treasures, and so, depriving you of happiness, cause you to change your sweet song of joy into notes of pain and grief. H. J3. A. Clement and Carrie had been informed that the family were about to leave the Manor, but the why and wherefore was left to their mother to tell, so they were in a state of great delight at the thought of living near their new friends. They had gone with Mrs. Philipps to inspect the High Cottage, and written letters full of approval of it to their mother. Such a dear little place! you could see all up and down the High Street from the front windows, and at the back there was a pretty garden and a knoll in it, and from that knoll you caught a view of the Vicarage lawn. Carrie and Mima promised to be waving handkerchiefs all day to each other if the Herringtons really came to live there. The rooms were very tiny, hut there were a good many of them ; indeed Carrie declared it was just as charming as a grown-up doll's-house. It was very marvellous that Bertram’s sisters could have written such a letter, hut it cheered Mrs. Her¬ rington greatly, and gave her spirits to plan a day at Markhaven with Cecil and Miss Trevannock, to inspect the wonderful cottage. But first came the great event of the new Mrs. Herrington’s arrival. There had been some changes at the Manor, but Mrs. Bertram Herrington, by Miss Trevannock’s advice, had requested such of her ser¬ vants as she had no longer the power of retaining with her to remain in their places till it was seen whether the new possessor of the Manor would require them : so it was at the head of no hand of strangers that Cecil and Aunt Mary stood the day on which the new-comers were expected. ‘She is really my aunt, Uncle Lancelot’s wife/ said Cecil to the gloomy and somewhat disaffected housekeeper; ‘so try to seem pleased to see her, Mrs. Webb/ ‘ I could manage to seem pretty civil to her,’ said the old woman, ‘perhaps; hut a great, rough, half- French young gentleman — of thirteen, did you say? I never shall be able to put up with him/ That was rather what Cecil lfbrself felt, so slip had no good advice to offer on the subject. She simply waited for the carriage to appear, and stood obediently forward when it drew up at the steps. ‘Come in, aunt, please, and I hope, you will be happy at the Manor,’ was Cecil’s greeting. ‘I am 3 our niece,’ she added to the astonished little lad.y, whose pale face brightened with a smile as she caught the girl’s meaning. ‘And you arc good, you are sweet, you are kind,7 said the French lady, with a foreign accent hanging about the English words, at the same time kissing Cecil on both cheeks before the throng of servants. . Then Miss Trevannock was introduced, and Cecil asked for her cousin. ‘ She is in the carriage, poor child ! so tired, she sleeps,’ said the mother, looking round. ‘ I will rouse her/ ‘She!’ had they hoard aright? Cecil and Miss Trevannock looked at each other, and then at the carriage-door, where a small face appeared framed in a cloud of dusky hair; a small face. with half- closed dark eyes and checks, of which one was snowy white, the other flushed. ‘She is petite and not strong,’ said the mother; ‘ my Lancclotte. A strange name,’ she added, 4 is it • CHANGES AND CHANCES. ( Continued from p. 115.) 1\/jTES. HERRINGTON was a good deal surprised at Miss Tre van nock’s plan, but she was so accustomed to rely on her good sense that she made no difficulty. She even took a pleasure in thinking what Cecil was to wear on the occasion, making a sort of fete-day of it. Her mind was much en¬ grossed, too, with the idea of the little house at Markhaven, which the Philippses had named to her, on hearing that she was on the look-out for a home.

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No. XYI. CHATTERBOX. 123 not? but her father’s. See, little one, here are fiiends, kind ones, who would welcome you/ It was, indeed, a slight girl of thirteen who stepped out of the carriage ; her hood had fall cm off, and a scarlet cloak was carelessly thrown round her. 'This is your cousin, Lotta/ again repeated the * mother. ‘And you — you are Cecile ?’ Cecil acquiesced, still wondering how the mistake could have come about with regard to her cousin, or why they had all taken it for granted that it must be a boy, this new heir of the Manor. It softened her very much to find this. weary little girl in the place of the rough schoolboy, and she willingly accepted the invitation to stay and dine. Lotta soon roused herself, and eagerly inquired, — ‘ Was this the house in which he was born ? Where was his picture? Would Cecile show it her — this minute ?’ Cecil was glad to act as guide, it gave her some¬ thing to do. And, meanwhile, Miss Trevannock and Mrs. Derrington seemed rapidly making friends. The servants, too, were won over by their new mistress’s pleasant manner, and the arrival passed off far better than could have been expected. Mrs. Herrington had been left an orphan in Australia at a very early age ; and for Lancelot, who had married her when she was but seventeen, and been uniformly kind to her in the short year of his married life, she felt nothing but love. He had been wild in his youth she knew, but what of that? it had not hurt her. And gentle Miss Trevannock was not likely to undeceive her. ‘ I grieve that I must seem so cruel to those who came before me,’ said the French lady, ‘ and specially to my nephew, Mr. Bertram ; but see, ail may yet be well. Tell him Lancelotte is willing, and 1 shall be glad. We will arrange the matter as soon as ever I can see his mother, and in very few years the mar¬ riage can take place. Then we can all live happy here together.’ Miss Trevannock smiled over this French way of smoothing difficulties, and Cecil was almost shocked when Lancelotte shook back her dark hair and asked her, — ‘ Your brother, is he a fine man ? Shall I like him ? for, see you, my mother will arrange a marriage between us, if he is willing/ It was so strange to hear this child calmly settling such things for herself. ‘ He will come here soon,’ questioned Lotta. ‘ and see me? Poor boy ! We would not that he should lose all. Wc are of honourable family, too, by my mother/ said the girl, noticing a cloud on her cousin’s face : ‘the De Laurencys were of the noblesse ; my mother has papers where it is written.’ ‘ I dare say it is all right/ said Cecil, gravely ; ‘ but, Lotta dear, is it not too soon for you to think of marrying? You are but a child.’ ‘ It is never too soon to arrange such important matters/ said Lotta ; ‘ my mother might die, or your brother might be. sought elsewhere, and then a good alliance would be missed.’ The gravity of the child upset Cecil completely. She laughed, and said, — ‘ Well, we must tell Bertram ; but he is away now, and we do not know when he will return.’ ‘ That is a pity/ said Lotta ; ‘ but you will write. I have all confidence in my mother, but still I would see him once. Come now and behold the trinkets I bought in your London/ ‘ Auntie dear, what strange people !’ said Cecil, a3 she got into the carriage to go home. ‘ Only fancy, planning for a marriage between that child and Bertie ! ’ ‘ They are completely French in their ideas/ said Aunt Mary, ‘ but they mean kindly. Poor little soul ! she looks very delicate, that small Lotta.’ ‘And then, calling her Lancelotte!’ said Cecil, smiling to herself. The account of their visit was intensely interesting to Mrs. Derrington, who was greatly amused at the idea of Bertram marrying his little cousin. ‘But it was a kind thought/ she added. ‘Mary dear, when I am settled at Markhaven I will call on my sister-in-law/ As day by day passed and Bertram never wrote, his mother began to alarm herself afresh about him ; she even got Mr. Drury to insert one or two carefully- worded advertisements in the papers, begging the lad to return. But the old lawyer was of Miss Tre- vannock’s .opinion, that a short run in the world all by himself would do him good rather than harm. ‘ But he can have so little money with him/ wrote Mrs. Derrington. ‘ So much the more likely you will have him back soon/ replied the lawyer. ‘ He will have to rough it so/ wailed the mother. ‘He is young and strong, and will bear knocking about/ was the answer. And then Mrs. Derrington’s mind was occupied with the moving to Markhaven. The cottage there had been found all that was needful for their reduced establishment. It was not far from the Manor, so that old friends could still be retained, and a plan made at the Vicarage of the children of each family joining for their lessons was too tempting to be declined. Canie was delighted to hear that she and Cle¬ ment were to go there every morning ; she to study under the governess, while Clem had two hours’ work with Mr. Philipps and another two with Tom. Pie was to be an engineer if he liked. That alone would have reconciled him to leaving the Manor. As for the two younger ones, Cecil undertook their lessons, and very proud she was of hex little pupils. There was no time for. fretting over past mis¬ fortunes; nor, indeed, did the little party wish to do so. Cecil was afraid at first that her mother would miss her carriage and find the cottage gaitlen con¬ fined : but it was not so ; the beach was so near, and Mrs. Derrington was' content to sit there for hours with a book or a bit of work as the weather grew warm, while the children played around. Then she took a personal interest in a few pet flowers they had brought from the Manor, which were undecided whether or no they would flourish in the tiny green¬ house in the High Street. Plunkett, the old gardener, had come over to install them, but still they required coaxing. The old man had arrived in" very low spirits, but returned to the Manor asserting that lie had never seen the mistress so lively ; it seemed as

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124 if the sea air had brisked her up. Miss Cecil always was one for cheerfulness, and she was just the same as ever. But to think the mistress should be content, driven out of her home, as it were, and shut up in a place no bigger than the east lodge ! Notwithstanding the smallness of the cottage, how¬ ever, there was a spare room which Miss Trevannock called hers, and which she threatened often to occupy ; while Mrs. Derrington -was made to promise that once or twice a-year, at least, she would bring the whole family over to stay with her for some weeks at the Avenue. And Aunt Louise at the Manor, in returning Mrs. Bertram Herrington’s call, had implored each one of her relatives to come and visit her whenever they would. ‘ To make my heart at rest, if not to please you,’ she said so prettily to the deposed mistress, that Mrs. Derrington then and there made instant promise to go, ‘ When my boy comes back. You know he is away on a journey now,’ she added, a little piteously ; ‘ but he will be back soon, we hope.’ (To be continued.) THE FLEET. ? there were no water, a fleet would be useless ; if there were no land, a wooden or an iron fleet would be impossible. If there were no men, or if the world were peopled by beings no higher in intellect than dogs, horses, and elephants, there would be no white sails on the blue sea, no blood-red cross flapping at the mast-head. A fleet, like that in the picture, shows the handiwork of men, and of men whose minds are highly cultivated by the plough and spade of thought and experience. Those great ships show also that England is a rich and powerful nation, or she could not afford to build such costly floating castles, nor to crowd their decks with such skilful men. These things are paid by taxes, which all help to supply. Landowners pay a tax, houses pay a tax, incomes above a certain amount pay a tax. There is a tax on the powdered heads of great men’s servants. If a man buys tobacco, he is paying a tax ; but how? Does he give the tax to the seller when he goes into the shop? No — but he buys the tobaccp taxed already, and dearer than it would be if there were no taxes. The tobacco is grown abroad, say in Virginia. Well, if is brought over to England, and it must needs pass through the toll-bar of the Custom House, and the Custom House officers charge so much duty, as it is called, so that the tobacco is so much dearer ; and the man who smokes it helps to pay for the army and the ships. So does the man who drinks wine and brandy. Mother England makes a pretty penny in this way every year, but the old lady spends it as fast as she gets it; for she has many servants, and a big house and grounds. Moreover, her servants in blue and her servants in scarlet are worthy men, and faithful and industrious, and no one grudges them their wages. No. XVI. For where would the goose be which lays the golden eggs, if the French fox or the Eussian bear were allowed to steal into the barm and carry her off? What would be the security of London, the richest of this world’s cities, if it were not for our walls of oak and iron, our water-castles, and the thunder of their guns? And if we had no sea-dogs to bark and bite, how should we put down the wild, lawless pirates? How would our deep-laden, peaceful merchant-ships dare to sail across the high seas, if the fleet of England were not a terror to evildoers ? Think what cruel and greedy salt-water robbers there are — fellows who would cut your throat as soon as look at you, and, after emptying your pockets and your chests of everything valuable, would scuttle your ship, and send the creV and the blood-stained planks down into those silent depths which tell no tales of murder and wrong ! But where are the pirate captain and crew that can live and die unpunished in any sea, however remote? Let but one poor little English schooner be ill-treated, and every jolly Jack Tar in the whole fleet will tingle with rage, and finger the handle of his cutlass ; and Mother Britannia will bend her terrible eyes on the evildoers till they are consumed; for she feels, like her great lawyer son, Lord Stowell, that ‘there is no peace with pirates. They are the enemies of every country, and at all times, and therefore are universally subject to the extreme rights of war.’ The fleet of England, then, chains up sea-wolves, and allows the harmless merchantman to go to and fro, safe at least from violent hands, either of civilised enemies or of heathen rascals. If there were no fleet to make the ocean’s highway safe, we should probably have no cotton shirts, nor plum-puddings, and, what is worse, no paper for Chatterbox . Even gold may be bought too dear, they say. Who would carry ingots of silver, and ingots of gold, if the seas swarmed with pirate-galleys" full of cut¬ throat men ? Oh, let us thank God for the British fleet, and then ‘ The meteor flag of England Shall still terrific burn,’ as our poet Campbell sings, while there are villains afloat who love robbery and murder more than honest trading and the sweet loaf gotten by industry. But what a terrible engine the fleet would be in the hands of an ambitious conqueror like the great Napoleon, or that Philip of Spain who sent the Armada to our shores ! But England is not ruled by ambition : she is ruled by justice. No English fleet can go anywhere without the consent of the English people, and they are upright and peace-loving. None fight more bravely when they must fight, and none are so unwilling to break the calm of peace with the horrid iron knell of war. There are hundreds of ships in our navy, and they could fire at one instant many thousands of cannon¬ balls at one spot. No city, no wralls of granite, could stand under such a storm of iron hail. One man, the admiral, gives orders to all. What a terrible thing it would be if tigers, or rattlesnakes, or even wasps, could thus band together in armies, and obey one general, or one admiral ! What man, were he Goliath himself, could live if even a small army of five hundred wasps was to CHATTERBOX.

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) The Fleet. attack him, before and behind, and sheathe their poisoned daggers in his flesh ? It is partly this power of union . under one head, and of obedience to one head, which makes the beast and reptile subject to man. It is this power of union and submission which makes nations like England and France superior to Africans in war and peace. The habits of prompt obedience to superiors, which are formed in a fleet, are very valuable to the sailor. Sometimes an evil spirit creeps among the crews, and a mutiny follows. The face is dark and sullen — orders are obeyed slowly and unwillingly — low mur¬ murs of discontent may be heard among the men ; and at last they break out into open rebellion, and refuse obedience to their officers. This is the worst misfortune of all. It is less disgraceful to be beaten in a fair fight, than to have a mutinous spirit in the fleet. \

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126 CHATTERBOX. No. XVI. LOSE AND THE SHADOW. One little story will illustrate what a mutiny is. Nearly ninety years ago, his Majesty’s ship Bounty left the island of Otaheite for the West Indies, laden with valuable plants of the bread-fruit kind. A young officer, warned William Bligh, commanded the vessel. Whether it was that he had been too harsh and severe a captain, or whether the crew were tempted to leave the path of duty by the desire of spending a life of pleasure in the lovely island they had left, is not known ; but about three weeks after the ship had left the island, Bligh was seized in his cabin one morning whilst he was asleep, his hands wrere tied behind him, and he wTas told lie would be put to death instantly if he made any noise. Soon after, Bligh and eigliteen others, who were not in the secret, were put into an open boat, with 28 gallons of water and * 150 pounds of bread. The gunwale of the boat was nearly at the water’s edge. In this condition Bligh and his company travelled 3G18 miles, without shelter and without losing a man. At length he reached England, and another ship, the Pandora , was sent out to discover the mutineers. Eourteen were found in Otaheite, and put in chains. The leader of the mutiny, Lieut. Christian, was not found, nor the Bounty herself, till maii3r years afterwards. The Pandora on her re¬ turn" was -wrecked, and four of the fourteen muti¬ neers were drowned. The remaining ten were, how¬ ever, brought to Portsmouth and tried. Four were acquitted, and six were condemned to death; three of those were afterwards respited, and three executed. Bligh seems to have been a coarse and self-willed man, and though his harsh conduct does not excuse at all the wickedness and cruelty of the mutinous crew, who cast him and eighteen others adrift on the open sea, yet it serves as a warning to captains, to rule their crews with that loving-kindness which is the only true bond of man to man, whether afloat or ashore. G. S. 0. ANIMAL SAGACITY APPROACHING TO REASON. TELL my grandchildren/ writes the Bishop of Calcutta, ‘that an elephant here had a disease in his eyes. For three days he had been completel)r blind. His owner, an Engineer officer, asked my dear Doctor Webb if he could do anything to relieve the poor animal. The Doctor said he would try the nitrate of silver, which was a remedy commonly ap¬ plied to similar diseases in the human eye. ^ The large animal was ordered to lie down : and at first, on the r application of the remedy, raised a, most extraordinary roar at the acute pain which it occasioned. The effect, however, -was wonderful. The eye was in a manner restored, and the animal could partially see. The next day, when he was brought and heard the Doctor’s voice, he laid down of himself, placed his enormous head on one side, curled up his trunk,- drew in his breath just like a man about to endure an operation, gave a sigh of relief when it was over, and then, by trunk and gesture, evidently wished to express his gratitude. What sagacity ! What a lesson to us of patience!7 — Life of Bishop Wilson . T was winter, and very cold; very, very cold. The river was frozen over, and the bay was frozen ; there were snow-drifts twenty feet deep, and they were frozen through : the whole earth seemed nothing but ice. But I think I hear the children ask — ‘Pray, where was all this ?’ Why, in Iceland. Now it does not seem so strange, does it ? Well, then, in Iceland, on a snow-plain, under a snow-mountain, and covered with snow, stood a little Iceland house : and in it lived Thorwald Iley- vick and his wife, with their one little boy, who also was named Thorwald. On the night of which I am speaking all three of them sat round the fire, and very close to it ; the father was busy carving wood, and the mother spinning ; for in the long Northern nights some work must go. on. Little Thorwald sat at his mother’s feet, doing nothing but looking into the fire, with some neglected toys lying around him. ‘ Mother,’ said the boy, as he picked up a horse beautifully carved, ‘ I am tired of my pony ; 1 don’t like it any more, since I saw the real mountain-pony that J orvold bought for his boy.’ ‘ But it is a very pretty pony, ’’said the mother, in her soft voice ; ‘and father made it for him when he was fast asleep in bed.’ ‘ I thought it was pretty, at first ; but I don’t like it now. I should never get tired of a live pony.’ ‘ Come here, Thorwald,’ said the father ; ‘ are you tired of hearing stories ? ’ ‘ Oh no, father ; I couldn’t be, you know : tell me something about Odin and Thor/ he answered, as he climbed up his knee : and the father began : — ‘ A long time ago, in our land of Iceland, a prince was born, who was the son of the greatest chieftain in the island. He was the only child, and all his father’s people were very fond and proud of him, and they used to hope that he might be brave like his father, and as fortunate. As fie grew handsome and bold, they said that the gods of Iceland had given him their good gifts, and that all he did must be sure to prosper. So they thought; but there was an evil spirit who loved to undo all the good that the other had done. Loke — that was his name — stood bir the prince’s cradle when he was a haby, when he began to walk he went with him, and all through life he followed him, unseen by an)r one. When the child got anything that he liked or wished, Loke stole between him and the light ; and a shadow, so fault that eyes could not see it, fell over it, and all its brightness faded, till it was no longer beautiful to "him, however it might seem to others ; for the child himself stood in the shadow at such times, and through it everything looked dark and sad. ‘ His first horse was a constant pleasure to the boy, till the shadow fell over him, and he drooped his head, and stepped slowly, as if in pain ; it grieved the young prince very muefi, for he had hoped to be always happy with his horse. He had longed all his fife to go on a hunt, and when the day came that his

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No. XYI. CHATTERBOX. 127 father had appointed, he thought surely then he was happy. It was all so real, just as he had fancied it so often; grander, indeed, with the fleet horses pressing on faster and faster, and the wolves flying before them. Ilis own horse was gaining, he had left all the others behind ; the wolf was just before him— over that hill — now down in the valley; oh, joy ! he would have him at last — one thrust of the spear, that was all, and the wolf be dead. But the faint shadow passed between him and the sun¬ light, and the wolf vanished out of sight, and left nothing but a wild, broken country, and a panting horse, with a bewildered, disappointed rider, who had lost his way and was far from the rest of the band. He turned and rode slowly over the way by which he came ; as the road wound about, Loke moved from side to side, but stood ever between him and the sunshine, and the long shadow stretched far and wide over everything. The prince was bitterly disappointed, but he did not wonder — he had known it too often before. ‘ It was always the same. When he came to the crown, and all the people were proud of their young prince, who was both generous and brave, Loke threw his shadow upon their faces, and their smiles were turned to frowns, and their looks of love and trust seemed but deceit. ‘The shadow was everywhere. He wedded a bride, young and fair, who loved him truly ; but the faint shadow came between them: yet, strange to say, for once ’the evil Loke was baffled ; her face was never any tiling to her husband but beauty and love. Yet she drooped under it, and grew frailer and frailer, until she faded away like the white mist of the morning, and he was left all alone. Once more the evil spirit was vexed, because, though lie stood always by his side, yet for many days the prince did not look up to see the shadows that were falling darkly around him. Then there came a time when he was called to war against his people’s enemies, and he was almost glad to And something that would draw his mind from his sorrow. It wras strange, too, but Loke fell behind him in the battle ; and it was only when it was over, and the vanquished enemies were flying, while his people crowded round him with shouts of joy, that the shadow passed over them, and to the prince their words and praises seemed hollow and false. 1 Through a long life it wras all the same, and when— an old man — he came to die, the shadow deepened, and darkened over him and all around him, in his heart and brain, until he could not think ; deeper and blacker, until his life went out; and those who stood around said there was a cloud in the chamber.’ ‘But father, it wasn’t true?’ said Thorwald. ‘Partly true,’ answered the father; ‘like some other old stories. At least, Loke is living now under another name.’ Thorwald opened his eyes very wide. ‘ Why, father, have you ever seen him ?’ ‘I have often seen what the prince saw — his shadow.’ The boy looked steadily at his father, trying to find out his meaning. ‘In the heathen days they called him Loke, now he is Discontent .’ Thorwald was quick to comprehend, and readily saw the meaning of the story. He sat a little while, thinking it over, and said at last : — ‘ Father, I like my pony very well ; there is no shadow here now.’ — Episcopal Register. MADE HAPPY. Jk N honest and industrious dame L Lived in a town I shall not name: Barely she kept the wolf at bay, By working hard from day to day. One morn her labours took her near The castle of a wealthy peer (His ancestors, tradition saith, Sold shoes to Queen Elizabeth). ‘ How poor am I ! how rich is he ! Oh, why should these distinctions be ? A trifle he could never miss Would raise me to the height of bliss !’ A gentleman just passing by O’erheard the sad soliloquy — A homely, shabby, little man, Who a rejoinder thus began ‘ Good woman ! Nay, don’t be ashamed ! Your thoughts are hardly to be blamed : There is some sense, I must allow, In what I heard you say just now. But may I venture to inquire, How much would meet your full desire?’ ‘ Why, — every day, upon his hounds, My lord, they say, spends twenty pounds : I, with no more than that, should stand The happiest woman in the land.’ ‘ Then mount at once upon your throne ; That .twenty pounds is all your own : To-morrow call on me at ten, And you shall have it, there and then.’ ‘ Sir, ’tis a sin to mock the poor ! ’ ‘ Nor would I do so, pray be sure. I am Lord Bichworth : here, you see, These gates are opening for me. Well, well ! no thanks ! ’ti3 as you say, — Not much for me to give away.’ They parted. Punctual at ten, The following morn, they met again. ‘ My lord,’ she said, ‘ there can be few In all the world resembling you — The noblest, kindest man alive : But — would you — make it — twenty-five V ‘ What! Twenty-five? No ! Get you hence! Nor will Igive you twenty pence! Why ask for more? You told me, twenty Would for your utmost wish be plenty. But you for something else would crave Were I to give you all I have.’ So the poor self-deceiving dame Went home as needy as she came. Q. M. JR. r - — - _x

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V

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CHATTERBOX, 129

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130 CHATTERBOX. No. XVII on their hands. CHANGES AND CHANCES. (Continued from page 124.) v^kt^HERE all this while was Bertram? He had gone away from home sore and angry with the world, but much more angry with him¬ self. His great plans had failed: he had turned out no credit to the name of Derrington, no com¬ fort to his mother, no stay and protector to his young brothers and sisters. Better leave them all; he would only be a weight He was certain that Cecil and Miss Trevannock would shield his misdeeds as much as they could in his absence, and he must get away somewhere alone, to think out his future. With a few pounds in his pocket he took the first train to London ; and there, fearing to be followed and entreated to come back, lie got out half-way and made for Liverpool. Dublin, even America, was in the lad’s head, as he dozed drearily in a corner of a railway-carriage, and at Dublin he made his first halt. He went to a small hotel, dined, and had a good night’s rest. Next morning he bethought him¬ self what he should do to make a living ; for to this had he come, the determination to work even with his hands, rather than be a burden to his mother in her present impoverished condition. It never entered his head that, had such a wish been expressed before Miss Trevannock or any other influential friend, he might easily have been provided with some post suitable to his age and ability. And if he had thought of asking help or advice from her, the knowledge of the hateful paper he had left in Cecil’s keeping would have checked him. That was surely enough for Aunt Mary. No, it was far better he should rely on himself. But even well-grown young men of seventeen and a half find a difficulty in earning their daily bread in Great Britain if they have no previous training for so doing, and Bertram wandered about Dublin the whole of two long days, till he became foot -sore and heart-sore, trying for this and that situation, in turn applying for the post of secretary, bailiff, and clerk in a brewery. Every one must have references and vouchers as to Character and suitableness for the post, and in no case could he satisfy these demands. BS3 purse was becoming as low as his spirits. At last, in sheer despair, he turned into a railway- station, and applied to be taken on as a porter.^ There again he met with a rebuff ; they^ did not employ raw hands, he must know the work first — get taken on some country line. ‘ But surely I could do that/ said Bertram, point¬ ing to a porter who was lazily swabbing the window of a first-class carriage. ‘Not with those hands/ said the old clerk or manager, whom he was addressing. Bertram turned red with vexation ; a valuable ring was glittering on his finger, and his hand looked white and delicate when contrasted with the bony, inky ones of the clerk, or the rough red ones of the porter. ‘ I advise you strongly to return to your friends, young man/ said the old accountant, dryly ; adding, after a pause, ‘ And I will advance you money for your journey, if you stand in need of it.’ The offer was* meant kindly, but Bertram answered proudly, ‘ Thank you, but 1 have no present inten¬ tion of leaving Dublin/ and sauntered away, casting envious glances at the porter with his mop. He returned to his hotel, paid his bill, and went out into the streets homeless and with only a few shillings in his pocket. Sometliing must be done, and that soon. Bertram was roughing it now with a vengeance, but he still would not give in. A cabman was leaning against his horse, watching him as he walked wearily along. Bertram looked shabbier now with his dusty boots and downcast face. ‘ Hey, youngster! want a job?’ said the man, hailing him. It was the very tiling that Bertram did want, but the familiar address was rather too much for him. Still he looked up, and the cab-driver went on : — ‘ Hold my horse for a bit, while I turn in at the “Harp.” 6o to sleep inside if you like; he won’t stir ; and here’s my paper.’ Bertram took the paper, half with a view of looking through the pages of ‘Wants/ in hopes of discovering some one who desired his services, and half because he was listless and wretched ; and here was an occu¬ pation for the moment. When the man returned he looked curiously at Bertram, and said respectfully, — ‘Beg your pardon, sir, but you’re an English swell/ ‘ You are only half right/ said Bertram, striving to smile. ‘ I am English ; but a swell— no. I want to make a living/ he said, with an effort ; ‘ but you good people in Dublin seem not to have a corner for me/ ‘ Sure and that’s a pity ; a likely lad, too !’ said the good-natured Irishman. Then he fidgeted about for a few seconds, altered the harness of his somewhat sorry steed, and finally addressed his new friend with some hesitation. ‘ It wasn’t in my line you’d like a job now ? There’s Bill at the stables down with fever, and the master in no end of a taking for want of a smart banci/ Bertram looked irresolute. ‘ Sure, and you’re too much of a gentleman/ said cabby; ‘entirely, and I ask your pardon for men¬ tioning it.’ ‘I am not a gentleman now/ said Bertram, swal¬ lowing the pride of a whole lifetime ; ‘ but I don t care to be rebuffed, and your master would only do like the rest, ask me where I came from, and send me away because I could not produce a string of references/ . . ‘ Not if I put you up as a friend of mine, said the man. This was too much even for Bertram s depressed state of mind; he laughed at the notion of being thankful to this ragged cabdriver for claiming him as a friend ; the idea tickled him. ‘ It’s a fine life/ urged the man, ‘and anything s better than going hungry/ Bertram was hungry then, and the argument had weight.

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No. XVII. CHATTERBOX. 131 ‘ There’s what they call a reception at one of our swell houses/ pursued Patrick Donovan, 4 this very evening ; you’d have a mighty fine chance with the master if you offered yourself now.’ 4 Come on, then/ said Bertram ; 4 I’ll try/ Bertram Derrington could hardly believe in his own identity when he found himself installed on the box of a rickety cab, engaged for a job by one Michael C’Dowd, livery-stable-keeper. Very few demands for references were made here ; just the question, If he could drive ? 4 Single-harness ; a pair ; tandem ; four-in-hand/ said Bertram, carelessly. ITe was a good whip, he knew. 4 Some gentleman-groom from across the water/ thought Mr. O’Dowd; ‘got wrong with his master/ And he chuckled at securing so good a hand for a low sum. Patrick Donovan was more correct in his con¬ clusions. ‘ He's a gentleman born/ he told his wife ; 4 1 know him anywhere. I told him of our spare bed, but he likes the stable best, and I’ve littered a stall with clean straw, where he can sleep like a king/ Bertram slept better than many a king, thanks to good-natured Pat, and rose next day with no sensa¬ tion of being a wandering atom in the great world, blown about by any wind, and finding rest nowhere. He did his stable- work well, and -went out with a cab like the rest. Very soon, however, he was appointed to the more elevated position of driver of the large waggonette, which took out pleasure-parties for the day. This post Bertram found more embarrassing, as it brought him often into close contact with people of his own rank in life, and there was nothing he shrank from like this. He had not made up his mind to take his position as hireling in a Dublin stable, and he was in daily dread of meeting any one who knew him. Chance favoured him again in this perplexity, and brought him to the notice of a rich, good-tempered Irishman, who owned a yacht in the Bay. He was in want of a companion on a trip which he was meditating to the coast of Franco and the Mediter¬ ranean, and he took a fancy to the quiet young man, who managed so capitally the fretful pair of horses behind which he found himself on a pic-nic party. A little conversation with ‘Walter Smith/ as Ber¬ tram called himself, showed him that he might easily secure his services as steward, companion, or whatever he liked. Mr. Merrick was a widower, and took his family, which consisted of a little boy and girl, and an old nurse, with him, wherever he went. This suited Bertram very well. He dreaded being thrown with a Jady in his present dependent position ; and, besides, Mr. Merrick said he could dine with him in the cabin, which probably he would not have done had there been ladies on board. His employer soon dis¬ covered, as Pat Donovan bad done, that Bertram was superior to his present position, and good-na¬ turedly offered to call him his secretary. 4 1 don’t write a letter once a-month/ said the kindly yachtsman, 4 but when I do, you shall have the doing of it, and I’ll give you a better position at the places we touch at. I fancy you are used to a dif¬ ferent sort of thing than the business I found you at/ And Bertram owned as much. Before leaving Dublin he got Mr. Merrick to for¬ ward to his agent in London a letter directed to Cecil, to be posted from thence, in which he stated he was well and content, but did not yet wish 'to make known his whereabouts. He sent affectionate messages to his mother and Miss Trevannoek, and bade them have confidence in liim, for he was trying to keep straight in the world. He gave an address in Paris, to which a letter might be sent to 4 Mr. Walter Smith/ and begged to be told if all were well at home. Not a word about the Manor or its occu¬ pants. Owing to accidental circumstances, this letter did not reach Cecil for many weeks after it was written. Having despatched it, however, Bertram felt hap- ier in liis mind : it was a new and real enjoyment to im to wear gentlemanly clothes and sleep in a com¬ fortable, albeit a cabin bed. Pie had plenty of time on board the yacht, and he spent a good deal of it in reading, besides amusing himself by improving his French in chats with the old nurse, a voluble Pari- sienne. Dim visions of getting some appointment at a Consulate or as a foreign attache flitted through his mind at times, and for this the French language would be essential ; so he worked steadily at it, to the amusement of Mr. Merrick, who never could accom¬ plish more than a few sea phrases in the tongue, these being acquired for the purpose of suggesting an idea of great learning on the part of their captain in the breast of a couple of French sailors, who formed part of the yacht’s crew. When Mr. Merrick discovered liis young protege’s wishes, he promised to aid him by all means in his power, having some influence with the Consul of a southern port, who kept two or three secretaries. 4 But when it comes to that/ said the good-natured Irishman, almost uncomfortable at the feeling that lie was prying into other folks’ family affairs, 4 you must give me an . idea of your people, and why you had quarrelled with the world when I met you. You are but young to be thrown so entirely on your own resources/ 4 It is my own doing, sir, entirely/ said Bertram, 4 and you _ have a right to ask an explanation ; but please wait awhile, it has been such a rest to me living with some one who was good enough to trust me, without forcing me to rake up troubles which have hardly had time to cool. I promise you you shall know all about me before you recommend me to any of your friends ; and meantime I assure you my family in England is of the highest respectability/ Poor Bertram ! he bad paused over this last phrase, but adopted it for want of a better. He was in no mood to boast of bis name now, and was content with what once jhe would have thought a degrading phrase. Boughing it was doing him good. This could hardly be called roughing it, though, the pleasant sunny life on the Evening Star, basking all day on deck, putting in at nights into quaint little Norman and Breton harbours, and later on, when the weather grew cooler, making their way southwards to the dazzling land-locked sea. {To he continued.)

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/ _ / l THE SOUTH STACK LIGHTHOUSE. THE South Stack is famous for its splendid rocky scenery, and the lighthouse which is at the top of the island. In the cliffs of the mainland 380 steps are cut, and at the bottom of these there is a chain suspension -bridge across the fearful chasm to the island. .Before the bridge was erected the risk of crossing the chasm was very great, as the only means of communication was a rope bridge thrown across. The lighthouse is 212 feet above high-water mark. During south-west gales the sea is awfully grand, dashing over the whole rock and dwellings of the light-keepers. On Friday afternoon, the 30th of August, 1861, the Queen and Princesses Alice and Helena visited the South Stack Lighthouse on Holyhead Mountain. Her Majesty alighted from her carriage, and walked down the sleep stairs to the lighthouse. Crossing the chain suspension-bridge she presented herself to the astonished light-keeper, who soon provided chairs for the royal party. The Queen sat down and en¬ joyed the magnificent view of the ocean, while the Princesses ascended to the top of the lighthouse, and examined the machinery of the lighting apparatus. The old light-keeper also explained the use of the great bell, which is rung in foggy weather to warn ships of their danger. The Queen and her children were much pleased with their visit, and the Prin¬ cesses signed their names in the Visiting-book, after which Her Majesty returned to the royal yacht, which was lying in Holyhead Harbour.

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THE WRECK. ‘We lost our ship, our freight, and all we had, Save the drenched clothes that chilled us to the core.’

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134 CHATTERBOX. No. XV(I. THE -wreck. 00K at the good ship on the breakers cast, jjj So near the land, yet nearer to her doom ! is o help — no hope for her — the hour is come ! But yesterday her sails were proudly set, And her glad bowsprit pointed to her home ; Gay were our bosoms, cheery was our song, And bright the hopes which lightened every toil. But, ere the sun went down, the practised eye Saw the dark omens of a coming storm. Smart now our captain’s orders, and as smart The watchful crew’s ‘ Ay, ay, sir !’ In an hour The sun was lost behind an angry bank ; Night came with rapid strides : a blast arose, And strengthened every instant, till, at length, The clamours of the men were lost in wind, And wind in thunder. Now the maddened waves Broke o’er the vessel with a dreadful roar, And every timber in her labouring frame Quivered, as if she felt her agony, And asked for mercy. Now the weary crew Began, with doleful tune and heavy hearts, To send to Plim who sits above the floods The litany which oft has hushed the waves, And snatched the sailor from the jaws of hell. But, for a while, our prayer came back unheard — Or so it seemed — for louder grew the gale ; Nothing was heard that could give any cheer ; And nothing seen tliat could encourage hope. Some time in that long age of dreary hours Our helm was broken, and the ship was borne No man knew whither; and we dreaded now The shores for which we longed. And lo, a flash Broke suddenly, and tore the midnight pall ; And, in one ghastly moment, all the scene Of tumult and of wild confusion stretched Before our eyes ! But what we feared the most, More than the writhing, hissing waves below, Was a black rock, that reared in solemn state Its frowning cape on high. Its inky brow Looked sterile, solitary, desolate ; And, mingled with the roaring of the storm, We plainly heard the music, hoarse and stern, Of the great billows beating on the rocks. All hope died now ; but our brave captain cried In the fine words of good Sir Humphrey Gilbert, ‘ We are as near to Heaven by sea as land !’ And so we gathered from his manly voiced Serenity of heart to die or live. When the cold morn broke wearily, and looked On ruin wrought beneath the rule of night, Our vessel struck upon the weedy rocks. And now it chanced with her and all her crew. As with that ship of Alexandria, Which bore to Borne the great Apostle Paul. We lost our ship, our freight, and all we had, Save the drenched clothes that chilled us to the core. But, leaping from the deck on broken spars, Hencoops, or aught more buoyant than the wave, We left the ship to her most certain fate, And, by the help of God, came safe to land. G.S.O. THE OBIGIW OP THE POSTAGE STAMP. From the French. rFHE postage-stamp was born in London on the 10th of January, 1840, and England employed it alone for ten years. France adopted it on tho 1st of January, 1849, and Germany in 1850. According to M. Alphonse Esquiros, it was a curious incident that gave rise to the idea of postage-stamps. A traveller was crossing, about forty years ago, a district in the north of England. He arrived at the door of an inn where a postman had stopped to deliver a letter. A young girl came out to receive it ; she turned it over and over in her hand and asked the price of the postage. . This was a large sum, and evidently the young girl was poor, for the postman demanded a shilling. She sighed sadly, and said that the letter was from her brother, but that she had no money ; and so she returned it to the post¬ man. The traveller was a man who rambled about the- earth for instruction and observation. Having a good heart he offered to pay the postage of the letter, and, in spite of the resistance of the voung girl, he paid the shilling. This resistance made him reflect. Scarcely had the postman turned his back than the young innkeeper’s daughter confessed that it was a trick between her and her brother. Some signs marked upon the envelope had told her all that she wanted to know, but the letter itself contained no writing. ‘ We are both so poor,’ she added, and so we in¬ vented this mode of corresponding and prepaying our letters. The traveller, continuing his road, asked himself if a system giving place to such frauds was not a vicious one. The sun had not set before Mr. Kowland Hill (that was the name of the traveller) had planned to organise the postal service upon a new basis. He said that in England, where family ties are strong, and where the members often live far apart, where, too, the spirit of commerce knows no limits, the corre¬ spondence was only limited b}r the cost of the post ; and that by lowering this barrier a great service would be rendered to society without hurting the resources of the treasury. These views were agreed to by the English Government, and on the 10th of January, 1840, not more than a penny was paid for letters which circulated over the whole extent of the British Isles. This bold scheme soon sur¬ passed the hopes of the legislators. Ten years later, in 1850, the number of letters increased from 1,500,000 to 7,239,962. Mr. Bowland Hill occupied in England the post of {Secretary to the Postmaster General. C. S. C. FRIENDSHIP. ‘jjpJfOW precious are the tears which lave jQL The resting-place of buried love ! ’Tis as though pearls bedecked the grave, Scattered by angels from above ! Hallowed, thrice hallowed, is the bier Simply adorned with Friendship’s tear.

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No. NVII. CHATTERBOX. 135 HINDOO JUGGLERY. DR. NORMAN MACLEOD, in an account of a visit to Bombay, gives an account of a juggling feat known as the ‘bamboo trick.’ He says : — ‘ While the tom-tom was beating ancl. the pipe playing, the jugglers were singing all the time in low accents, smoothing a place in the gravel, three or four yards before us. Having thus prepared a bed for the plant to grow in, he took a basket and placed it over the prepared place, covering it with a thin blanket. The man himself did not wear a thread of clothing, except a strip round the loins. The time seemed to have come for the detective’s eye ! So, just as he was becoming more earnest in his song, and while the tom-tom beat, and the pipe shrilled more loudly, I stepped forward with becoming dignity7', and begged him to bring the basket and its cover to me. The juggler cheerfully complied. I examined the basket. It was made of open wicker-work. I then examined the cloth covering : it was thin, almost transparent, and, certainly, there was nothing concealed in it. . I then fixed my eyes upon his strip of clothing with such intentness that it was not possible it could have been touched without discovery, and I bade him go on. I felt perfectly sure that the trick could not succeed. Sitting down, he stretched his naked arms under the basket, singing and smiling as he did so ; he then lifted the basket off the ground, and behold, a green plant, about a foot high ! Satisfied with our applause, he went on with his incantations. After having sat a little, to give his plant time to grow, he again lifted the basket, and the plant was two feet high. Tie asked us to wait a little longer, that we might taste the fruit. But on being assured by those who had seen the trick performed before that this result would be obtained, I confessed myself “ done” with¬ out the slightest notion of the “ how.” I examined the ground, and found it was smooth and upturned. Apparently delighted with my surprise, the juggler stood up laughing. One of his companions just then chucked a pebble to him, which he put into his mouth. Immediately the same companion, walking back¬ wards, drew forth a cord of silk, twenty yards or so in length. But this was not all the discharge, for the juggler, with his hands behind his back, threw forth from his mouth two decanter-stoppers, two shells, a spinning-top, and several other things, followed by a long jet of fire !’ THE DISHONEST PEASANT. IN the year 1794 a poor French emigrant was passing the winter in a village of ^Westphalia, in Germany. He was obliged to live with the greatest econom}", in order not to go beyond his means. One cold morning lie had occasion to buy a load of wood. Tie found a peasant who had one to sell, and asked him what the price was. The peasant, who perceived by his broken German that he was a foreigner, and that his ignorance might be taken advantage of,^ an¬ swered that the price was three louis d ors.* The Frenchman endeavoured to beat him down, but in * A louis d’or (pronounced lu-c-dor), literally a louis of gold, i3 a gold coin of the value of about eighteen shillings. vain; the peasant would abate nothing of his first demand. The emigrant, finding it useless to waste words with him, and being in pressing need of the fuel, at last took it, and paid the money that was asked for it. The peasant, delighted to have made so good a bargain, drove with his empty cart to the village inn, which was not far distant, and ordered breakfast. While it was getting ready he entertained the land¬ lord with an account of the way in which he had cheated the Frenchman, and made him pay three louis d’ors for a load of wood which, at the utmost, ■was not worth more than seven shillings and six¬ pence ; talking as if he had done a very clever thing. But the landlord wras a good man, and feeling justly indignant at the peasant’s conduct, told him that he ought to be ashamed of himself thus to have taken advantage of the ignorance of a poor foreigner. ‘Well,’ said the peasant, with a scornful laugh, ‘ the wood was mine ; I had a right to ask just what I pleased for it ; and nobody has a right to call my conduct in question.’ The landlord made no reply. When breakfast was over the peasant asked how much was to pay. The landlord replied, ‘ Three louis d’ors.’ ‘ Wrhat ! ’ said the peasant, ‘ three louis d’ors for a cup of coffee and a few slices of bread and butter!’ ‘Yes,’ said the landlord, with the utmost com- Sosure ; ‘ the coffee and bread and butter were mine ; have a right to ask just what I please for them. My bill is three louis d’ors ; and I shall keep your horse and cart until you pay me. If you think 1 am charging you too much, you can go before the judge.’ The peasant, without saying anything more, went to the judge’s office, and made his complaint. The judge was surprised and indignant at the landlord’s' extortion, especially as he had always borne an ex¬ cellent character. He ordered him to be brought before him, and his reception of him was somewhat stern. But the land- lard told him the whole story —how the peasant had taken advantage of the poor emigrant’s ignorance to cheat liim, what their conversation was, and how his own conduct was simply visiting upon the head of a dishonest man the wrong he had done to another. Under such circumstances the judge decided that the landlord had done right, and that the peasant should pay the three louis d’ors. The peasant, with a very ill grace, drew out his purse and laid the money on the table. 4 1 do not want this money,’ said the landlord _to the judge, ‘ as your honour may well suppose. Will you have the goodness to change one of these louis d’ors, and give the peasant seven shillings and six¬ pence out of it— for that, as he confessed to me, js all that his wood is worth— and return the remainder to the poor Frenchman? For the breakfast 1 want The°judge was much moved at'thcse words of the o-ood innkeeper. He counted out the seven shillings and sixpence to the peasant, and dismissed him with a severe rebuke. The rest was returned to the emigrant, who, on hearing the story, went to thank the land innkeeper, and with great difficulty per¬ suaded him to accept a small sum for the peasants breakfast. 4

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The Dishonest Peasant.

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133 CHATTERBOX. No. XVIII. CHANGES AND CHANCES. (Continued from page 131.) v!jly|^ik \ if EETEAM waited and waited for M W JW1 sonie answer to his letter, but none came; he puzzled over this, and resolved to write again, but not just yet: his desire was to get some gentlemanly appointment, however small, before he wrote. Meanwhile he was very happy ; he liked Mr. Merrick, and was V pleased to think the liking was mutual ; he was amused by the gambols of the two pretty little children, and old Nanette was a fund of amusement in herself. Bertram laughingly offered to wTrite her life, it seemed to have been such an eventful one, but Nanette shook her head. ‘No, her life had been too obscure to need a historian,’ she said ; ‘though in truth she had mingled .with some whose story was even now in a book, and with others -whose life was a romance in itself/ ‘ Aline,’ and she seized the little girl of seven by the hand, ‘knew of one of whom she had often told her, the Bebi of the Chateau Laurency. Ah, that wTas a life ! Of noble parents, but poor, they had lived in their ancestral home till they almost starved on the land ; then a rich cousin had tempted them to sell the place to him, and with sore grief they had done so, and gone out to Australia with the gold they hated, it stayed with them but a very short time ; some wrhat you call swindlers got it from them in Sydney on pretence to make it more, and the parents die of grief and leave my poor Bebi alone in a strange country, so young and so tender ! ’ ‘Nana,’ interrupted little Aline, ‘why were you not with her?’ ‘ My child, I am married then in my country, and my husband was wroth when I ask him to let me go for awhile to Australia. He said the “No” very sharply. But my Bebi always write to me and tell me all, and one letter say she will die of grief too, and will lie by her parents in the cemetery; then another letter that a kind Englishman ; (yes, English, Mr. Yalter Smith: I will declare there are some good English) loves her much, and will marry her, though she is so small and poor. Then I wait awhile, and then come another letter all sad once more. She is married, but her Englishman die too, and she is at despair once more, save for one very small Bebi that lie in her arni3 to comfort her.’ ‘ The Bebi with the funny name?’ said Aline. ‘ It is that, my child, the little Lancelotte.’ ‘ What?’ said Bertram, springing to his feet and startling both nurse and child. He had been lying lazily on deck till then, half asleep, lulled by the nurse’s chatter. 6 What! what name did you say?’ asked he, eagerly. ‘Lancelotte: you find it remarkable? That is strange, fox* it is English name : not what you hear every day, but still English.’ And the old nurse looked rather triumphant over her knowledge of a superior English name. ‘Ah, bah! you would not have her call Jean or Anne, or one of your appella- tions of bonne . She, with the De Laurency blood in her veins, she should have been Louise, or Hor- tense, or Denise — all good names of the family, had I been there; but the poor Madame she call her Bebi, English mod q, Lancelotte, after the father, who lies all quiet and cannot ask it for himself.’ ‘She called her child Lancelot, and it had an English father, she being French?’ repeated Bertram, as if it was a lesson. ‘ Yes, you arc right : but there is more. That is no roman ; many of our children marry English now, the world is so shaken up now-a-days/ ‘ Go on, please,’ said Bertram, hastily. ‘Ah, you like my story ! you listen like Aline and Eeginald, and say “ Go on, go on,” till my tongue is fatigued. Well, it is all right, the young will ever hear of what went before them ; so now see the wonderful thing. Good luck came twice to my Bebi, my Mademoiselle de Laurency, — I ask her pardon, Madame Dcrrington.’ Bertram started again, more violently still ; but he did not speak, and Nanette went on : — ‘ First she hear that her husband, though dead, have land and money in England, which shall be hers, or at least her child’s, and her friends — for she has friends of her country people in Australia — arrange that she goes to England and claim it. My poor Mademoiselle w’eeps bitterly to leave her parents and her husband in a strange foreign land, but she go that her child may have its own : and then for second her rich cousin at the chateau in France he die also, and having no wife nor child he leave all to my old Bebi too. It is marvellous ! she is rich before one can say a word, and now she write to me from her fine house in England, where her husband is born, to tell me all. Stay, I have the letter in my pocket: she is so kind, so fond to her old nurse/ And Nanette drew out of her capacious pocket a letter written in a clear small hand. ‘ The Manoir, she call her English home,’ said Nanette, referring to the document, ‘ and she like it well. The English are kind, she say : she love her new relations, they receive her with affection instead of hate : for see you, my Madame comes all strange and unexpected to demand her husband’s property. His family have thought him dead, and know not ever of his marriage, and there are others in possession. But she has papers all right and they respect them. Poor Madame, it is good that people are kind to her, for she has had trouble enough in her life. If I had not my Aline and Eeginald to care for, I would visit her some day, just to see her and her child, this curious- named Lancelotte/ Bertram -was on his guard now, and could hear the word without apparent emotion : he was quite sure Nanette had told the story of his uncle’s wife, and it produced a good effect upon him, without his knowing • it. This Louise de Laurency was no designing adventuress, then, marrying a scoundrel for his expectations, but a simple girl, knowing nothing oi Lancelot Herrington’s inheritance, and loving him onlv for the better self he turned towards her. He asked once again, ‘ Tell me the name by which she called her boy ? ’ ‘ Her boy ! it was a girl — a little meess, as you say — with grey eyes of her mother, and chestnut hair of

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No. XVIII. CHATTERBOX. 139 father, and the name was Lancelotte ; or, as she call her, Lotta.’ So Bertram learned his new cousin’s sex, and it gave him plenty to think about. This helpless woman and child, taking without any guile his inheritance from him, he was ashamed that he had felt such anger against them. He was ashamed of his whole life, in fact, of his domineering ways, when he thought himself master at the Manor ; of his secret dealings with racing-men, who took advantage of his youth, and ignorance, and false pride ; of his violent reception of the ill-fortune which had come on the family; of his cowardly desertion of them. These filings came before him now in a painfully clear light. What would he not have given to have lived his last year at the Manor over again ! But it could not be. He resolved that from the very next port at which they touched he would write a long letter to his mother or Cecil, telling them all he had heard of his uncle’s wife, and asking them to forget all the foolish things he had said against her. He would persevere still in his attempts to get a secretaryship abroad. With five younger children to educate on her 5001 . a-year, his mother would have little to spare for him ; and, generous as she was, Bertram did not like the idea of living on the bounty of good Mary Trevannock. They were making good way now for Genoa ; the weather was still very hot, but a light wind was blowing. Bertram lay on in his corner of the deck, sheltered by a sail, and probably would have fallen asleep, but for the laughter and pattering feet of the children as they passed and repassed him in a game of hide-and-seek. All at once he was startled by a child’s cry of anguish : it came from .Reginald Merrick, the little boy; he was looking over the side, and gazing at the green waters with a face of terror. There was only one man on deck, and he was at the other end of the yacht. 6 Aline there !’ said the child, pointing to the waves. Bertram understood it in a moment — the little girl had fallen overboard. He waited only to call for help, and then sprang over the side of the yacht, making for the small yel¬ low head that rose for an instant above the water. A few vigorous strokes brought him alongside of the child. He grasped her frock and held her safely ; but it was long before a boat could be lowered and sent to their assistance, and both were taken on board terribly exhausted. It was a time of great alarm and anxiety. . Aline was the first to revive ; in fact, she was running about again before Bertram opened his eyes. After a few hours he, too, recovered enough to answer Mr. Merrick’s questions, for he was down below at the time of the accident. But next day Bertram could not leave his hammock, and before night he was wandering in his mind. Fever had followed liis plunge into the sea, and threatened to run high. They were close in Genoa harbour now, so Mr. Merrick went into the town to bring a doctor. By his advice they moved Bertram into the large cabin, used ordinarily as a saloon, and sent the children on shore with Hanette. A nurse was secured for the sick youth, and Mr. Merrick resolved to remain with him on the yacht. He was very grateful to Bertram for saving his child, and anxious to do all in his power to ensure his recovery. But as days went by, and the patient grew worse instead of better, doctor and nurse began to shake their heads, and good- natured Mr. Merrick was haunted by the terrible thought that this friendless, homeless young fellow, would die on his hands, without giving him the chance of sending for his friends. This fear he communi¬ cated to the doctor, and the two were talking in hushed voices of what had best be done in case of a fatal termination to the illness, the patient lying before them in the stupor, in which he had been wrapped for da}rs, when Bertram suddenly opened his eyes and whispered, ‘Take me home to die.’ The words, sad as they sounded, were most wel¬ come to the ears of the bystanders. Mr. Merrick stooped over the youth, and asked, — ‘ But where is your home, my boy ? ’ ‘England — Wethermore — Moorshire!’ said Ber- . tram, perfectly coherent. It was all plain-sailing then. Mr. Merrick sent his nurse and children to England overland, and by the doctor’s advice the yacht liegan its homeward voyage. The fever with which Bertram had struggled was overcome, but the fear now was that he would sink from exhaustion. A telegram addressed to Miss Trevannock brought that lady and Cecil to Southampton, to meet him, and Mr. Merrick was relieved of his fear that his charge would not live to greet his friends. A poor, feeble, helpless figure it was, indeed, that was car¬ ried on snore, but still there was life and with it hope. By easy stages they made their way north¬ wards, and Bertram looked around gratefully as he recognised the familiar rooms in Aunt Mary’s hospitable house. He had not come back as he had meant to do, proud and successful, a self-made man ; he was more utterly dependent than ever. ITis mother had. come over to nurse him, and there was something in his feebleness and gentle gratitude for her tending that made her feel as if the old days had come back, and he was once more her little child. The one grief was that he seemed to be passing away with the fading year. He. would lie all day long on his couch, never speaking, only forcing a smile now and then for his mother, and patiently enduring while Cecil or Aunt Mary read aloud to him. He scarcely knew what they read about; nothing seemed to interest him. His ailment was more bodily than mental, the doctors said. There was to be no great effort made to arouse him ; but still they looked grave over this state of affairs. He had been moved into the morning-room for a change one day, and was. lying alone, facing the door, when it opened, and a little girl came in. At first Bertram thought it was his sister Carrie ; but those grey eyes, and dusky masses of hair were not hers. . The child hesitated a moment, startled at sight of him. Then she softly closed the door and came in, saying,— ‘ Pardon ; you are my cousin, Mr. Bertram. Are you better ? I am Eotta. Bo not move ; I can talk to you here.’ And the tiny woman sat down composedly in the arm-chair near the sofa.

Page 147

Bertram saving Aline. Bertram smiled on his visitor, and told her he was better, and pleased to see her. ‘ Ah, but it is bad that you still look so pale,’ said Botta, with much concern. ‘ You are ennuye here, perhaps. Will you not come to my mother and me at the Manor ? My mother, she speaks often of such a plan; but they lift the shoulder^ here and say “No.” Do you also say “No?”’ ‘ Thank you/ said Bertram, perplexed. ‘ You are kind : but I am not strong enough to pay visits.’ 4 Ah, bah, visits ! It is your old home, and perhaps ou would like it to be your home once again. But forget. I must not speak of such things ; it is for you to say if you will have it so.’ ( To be continued .)

Page 148

I Ey the buds that open thickly, and the song-birds in the bowers ; By the perfume of the Violets, that purple o’er the banks ; By the humming of the bees, who for pleasant hours give thanks; By the nodding of the Cowslips, in the mead and in the wood, Dancing on the twittering breeze, as if with life endued : Mostly the pale Narcissus keeps within the garden round, Yet comes forth sometimes to the woodland to listen to the sound. Buttercups and Daisies are gleaming amid the grass, Scattering gold and silver to the fresh gales as they pass; And the changeful month goes on, with smiles and tears, on his track. Of beauty, and of music, and of fragrance in truth he has no lack. H. G. A. 'Tr. M

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142 CHATTERBOX. No. XVIII. THE FLOWEBS OF APBIL. changeable month of April has arrived, and showers and sun- shine follow each other in quick sllccess^on throughout each day. ^ne n^nu^e we are within the mv shadow of a bi<*, swollen cloud, that pours its thick drops in a perfect torrent on the earth around 119 ’ anc* ^ie next ^ie sun *s shying forth with a dazzling brightness, ^ that makes every wet leaf and blade of grass sparkle as if covered with diamonds and emeralds, while the cloud is skimming fast away towards the distant hill. And now the flowers, feeling these refreshing influences, begin to awake in earnest. The Violets, ‘ April’s loveliest coronets/ have heard the voice of Spring, and from many a sheltered wayside-bank and hazel-copse are sending forth their sweet perfume. ‘ The Violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs and hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.’ So sings the poet Scott, and we feel sure our young readers will all agree that he has not praised this delightful flower too highly. The Violet has been always looked upon as an emblem of modesty, because, beautiful as it is, it never attempts to force itself upon notice, but with drooping head hides among its own green leaves, leaving those who love it to search for it. And now, too, * The golden Cowslip, who with fairy bell Pangs in the wild bee to his wonted thrift/ is holding up its head among the bright green grass of the moist meadows. Hut much as the village children love this pretty flower, and delight to weave it into garlands, the glossy yellow Buttercup is with them a greater favourite. It is not, however, until the end of this month or the beginning of next that the Buttercup is in all its glory. ‘ The Daisy and the Buttercup, For which the laughing children stoop A hundred times the livelong day, In their rude, romping, summer play, So thickly then the pastures* crowd In gold and silver-sheeted cloud, As if the drops of April showers Had woo’d the sun and changed to flowers/ At this time the Narcissus, though usually a garden flower, yet may now and then be found growing wild in some parts of the country. One of the poets calls it ‘ A meek and forlorn flower with nought of pride/ Its blossom is a pure white star with a yellow crown¬ shaped centre, very delicate and beautiful. A little yellow flower with deeply cut leaves peeps out so frequently from the wayside bank at this season that we cannot fail to notice it. This is the Creeping Cinquefoil, called by the country-people the Yellow Strawberry Elower. H. B. A. PADDLE YOTJB OWN CANOE. TFOYAGER upon life’s sea, to yourself be true, X And where er your lot may be 4 Paddle your own canoe ! 7 Never, though the winds may rave, falter nor lookback, But upon the darkest wave leave a shining track. Nobly dare the wildest storm, stem the hardest gale; Brave of heart and strong of arm, you will never fail. AY hen the world is cold and dark, keep an aim in view; And toward the beacon-mark 4 Paddle your own canoe!7 Every wave that bears you on to the silent shore, From its sunny source has gone, to return no more: Then let not an hours delay cheat you of your due ; But, while it is called To-day, 4 Paddle yow' oivn canoe ! 7 If your birth denied you wealth, lofty state and power, Honest fame and hardy health are a better dower : But, if these will not suffice, golden gain pursue ; And to gain the glittering prize 4 Paddle your own canoe!7 Would you wrest the wreath of fame from the hand of fate ? Would you write a deathless name with the good and great? Would you bless your fellow-men ? Heart and soul imbue With the holy task, and then 4 Paddle your own canoe!7 Nothing great is lightly won, nothing won is lost ; Every good deed nobly done will repay the cost ; Leave to Heaven, in humble trust, all you will to do ; But if you succeed you must 4 Paddle your own canoe ! ’ MAN FOB MAN. ryillE services rendered to the brave French sol- JL diers during their disasters in the late war by M. Varinet, of Sedan, are numerous, and worthy of all praise. At the very commencement of the war he established an ambulance, where 700 wounded were received ; in his private residence he received 200, to whom he gave up all his provisions. Superior officers, doctors, superintendents, numerous workmen— every one, in short — have offered the warmest testimony to the devotion, to the courage, to the benevolence of this kind-hearted man. We can easily understand that M. Varinet had no special sympathy for the Prussian soldier, yet his cnivalrous soul, and his faith as a Christian, led him to do an act of devotion which is an honour to France and a lesson to Germany. In the month of July last a Bavarian soldier was bathing in the Meuse, and was carried away by the current. M. Varinet, who was passing by at the time, did not hesitate for a moment ; he jumped into the water, and at the peril of his own life saved that of the soldier, who would otherwise have perished. A few days after the Emperor William, informed of the fact, sent to the courageous rescuer the Cross of Civil Merit. 4 We have made peace/ thought the

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No. XVIII. chatterbox; 143 monarch. : £ a Frenchman will no longer refuse such an envied distinction.’ He was wrong. M. Vannet replied at once, i If I have saved a Bavarian, I dicl so because it was my duty, and not to obtain a decoration for it. If you wish to reward me for the action I have performed in saving the life of one of your soldiers, restore to liberty the last prisoner of war' whom you retain (there was only one left) ; man for man : you owe me one, I demand him.’ This noble and outspoken language did not dis¬ ease the Emperor, and the prisoner was restored to ranee. J. F. C. ALLITERATION. THE following is probably the most curious speci¬ men of alliteration extant. Any one who lias ever attempted to make such lines will fully appreciate the ingenuity of its author, who is, we believe, un¬ known: — THE SIEGE OF BELGRADE. An Austrian army awfully arrayed, Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade ; Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction’s devastating doom : Every endeavour engineers essay For fame, for fortune — fighting furious fray. Generals ’gainst generals grapple— gracious God! How honours Heaven heroic hardihood ! Infuriate — indiscriminate in ill, Kinsmen kill kinsmen — kinsmen kindred kill ! Labour low levels loftiest, longest lines— Men march ’mid mounds, ’mid moles, ’mid murderous mines, Now noisy noxious numbers notice nought Of outward obstacles opposing ought : Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed, Quite quaking, quickly quarter, quarter ’quest: Reason returns, religious right redounds, Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds. True to the Turkey — triumph to thy train ! Unjust, unwise, unmerciful Ukraine! "V anish vain victory, victory vanish vain ! Why wish we warfare ? Wherefore welcome were Xerxes, Ximencs, Xanthus, Xaviere? Yield ye, youths, ye yeomen — yield your yell; Zeno’s, Zarpeter’s, Zoroaster’s zeal, And all attracting — arms against appeal. THE PIXY WORKMEN. A Cornish Fairy Talc. YERYr many years ago — so the legend runs— there dwelt at Penruddock, a small Cornish hamlet near the Land’s End, a cobbler, who worked very hard, and was very honest. Yet he could not earn enough to live upon, and at last all he had in the world was gone, except just enough leather to make one pair of shoes. These he cut out all read}7, to make up the next day, intending to rise early in the morning and finish them for sale. His conscience was clear and his heart light amidst all his troubles, so he went to bed, left all his cares to Heaven, and fell asleep. In the morning, after he had said his prayers, he set himself down to his work; when, to Ins great wonder, there stood the shoes ready made upon the table. The good man knew not what to say or think of this strange event. He looked at the workman¬ ship ; there was not one false stitch in the whole job, and all was so neat and true that it was quite a masterpiece. That same day a customer came in, and the shoes suited him so well that he willingly paid a higher price than usual for them, and the poor cobbler with the money bought leather enough for two pair more. In the evening he cut out the work and went to rest early, in order that he might get up early and beghrThem betimes next day. But he was again saved that trouble, for when he got up in the morn¬ ing the work was done ready to his hand. Soon hi came buyers who paid him handsomely for his goods, so he purchased materials for four more. He again prepared the work over-night, and found it done in the morning as before, and thus it went on for some time. What was got ready in the evening was always done by daybreak, and so the poor workman soon became thriving and well off again. One evening about Christmas time, as he and his wife were sitting near the fire chatting together, he said to her : — (I should like to sit up and watch to-night, that we may see who it is that comes and does my work for me.’ The wife liked the thought ; so they left the light burning and hid themselves in a corner of the room, behind a curtain that hung up there, and watched what should happen. As soon as it was midnight there came two little naked Pixi.es, or fairy dwarfs, and they sat themselves upon the shoemaker’s bench, took up all the work that was arranged, and began to ply with their tiny fingers, stitching and rapping away at such a rate that the cobbler was all wonder, and could not take his eyes off them for a moment. On they went till the task was quite done and the shoes stood ready for use upon the table. This was long before dawn; and then they hurried away as quick as lightning. The next day the wife said to her husband : — ‘ These little fellows have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them, and do them a good turn if we can. I was quite sorry to see them ; they had nothing upon their backs to keep off the cold. I’ll tell you what, I shall make each of them a shirt, and a coat, and a waistcoat, with a pair of pantaloons into the bargain ; do you make them each a smart little pah* of shoes.’ The idea pleased the cobbler very much. So one evening, when the things were ready, they put them on the table instead of the work that they used to cut out, and then went and hid themselves to watch what the 6 Pixy workmen’ would do. About mid¬ night they came in, and were going to sit clown to their work as usual ; but when they saw the clothes lying for them they laughed and chuckled, and we*e greatly delighted. They then dressed themselves in the twinkling of an eye, and danced and capered about right merrily, till at last they bounded out at the door, ever the green, and the cobbler saw them no more. But from that time forward everything prospered with him as long as he lived.

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The Pixy Workmen.

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«Ki mmk mm

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146 CHATTERBOX. No. XIX. | THE J&h BEAH and the kettle. HE bears of Kamtschatka lire chiefly A/J'> on fish, which they procure for “ J’- occasion one of them found the outer gate of a house open, and ■A* entered in, and the gate by chance closed after him. The woman of the house had just placed a large tea-kettle, full of boiling water, in the court Brum smelt at it, but it burnt hu nose. Pro¬ voked at the pain, he vented all his fury upon the tea-kettle. He folded his arms round it, pressed it with his whole strength against his breast to crush it ; but this, of course, only burnt him the more. The horrible growling which the rage and pain forced from the poor beast now brought the neighbours to the spot, and Bruin by a few shots was put out of his misery. To this day, however, when any body injures himself by his own violence, the people of the villago say he is like the bear with the kettle.’ — Children's ‘ No tiling that I know of,’ said Bertram, now laughing outright, but not yet seeing the direction his cousin's thoughts were taking. ‘ Then mv mower will speak to you,’ said Lotta, rising from her seat ; * it is better I leave it to her.’ It was some time before Bertram was made aware of the small schemes afloat for his future settlement in life ; and when he did realise them he was so much amused, and so little inclined to look upon them as other than a joke, that Lotta was seriously affronted, and Mrs. Lancelot Derrington a little hurt also. ‘ lie might have waited English fashion, without pledging himself to my child,’ said the one mother, slightly aggrieved in her tone. 1 Lotta is so young,’ answered the other, * it would seem an arrangement solely for money and conve¬ nience, and my boy would stirink from that.’ ‘ I wanted to think we were not taking the Manor altogether away from you and yours,' said the Frenchwoman, sadly. ' You are very good,' said her sister-in-law, ‘ and wo feel grateful to you. Lot us forget all this, though, and remain simply friends and relatives.’ Bertram had a harder task still — that of soothing Miss Lotta under his refusal to affiance himself to her. The novel employment did more towards his restoration to health and daily life than any tonics, he was so amused, and yet so anxious to avoid offend¬ ing his French relatives. Lotta was inclined to pout at first ‘ You do not like me, then ? I am sorry,’ said the girl, tossing her hair back defiantly at her cousin. ‘ It is pity, because I might grow pretty, and then it is a good marriago thrown away.' ‘ Lotta,' said Bertram, seriously, ‘ come here — close to mo— I cannot speak very loud yet, and it tires me to make my voice reach you there. See, little girl, I like you very much, and I think you may grow up into a good, pretty wife for some ono. But not for me. You will have too much money. In England a man docs not like to live on his wife's fortune : it makes him feel degraded, dishonourable.’ ‘ But I would give all to you, and then it would be yours, not mine,’ said the small logician. It was a hopeless task trying to convince her of the propriety of declining her hand, and Bertram One result, however, arose from the discussion — Bertram was compelled to accept from his aunt a sum of money sufficient to purchase him a commission in a good regiment, together with a yearly allowance to enable him to live in it ‘Take it as if you were my son,’ said the little lady; and, unwilling to vex her further, this was • Perhaps in time he will know us better^ and wish to ho my son,’ reflected Madame Louise, wlio had the alliance more nearly at heart than even Lotta. Bertram’s dreams of self-advancement were all at an end now. It cost him a pang to give them up; but his mother, Miss Trevannock, and sundry aunts and uncles whose opinions he had always ignored in former days, were all of one mind that he should accept the generous offer of the lady of the Manor as regarded his future career. Of her further projects nothing was said beyond the immediate family. CHANGES AND CHANCES. V§|) (Co.U'x'dJ,™ w 140.) ERTRAM was puzzled, but he did TJ ,_1V not try to understand all his little SCf) '■ visitor was saying. He saw she XAWTaV kindly disposed towards him, ‘ \ \ I. and he liked to look at her sitting so collected and demure beside ' ■[ him, speaking her broken English. ^Of course, lie easily guessed who gined anything so pretty or so winning as this intruder from the Manor. ‘ I comprehend not ever,’ continued, his talkative cousin, ‘why my aunt leave the Manor when we come. There is only my mother and me. and there are rooms, oh ! to content any one. I find it trisle, a large house and few people.’ And the little Frenchwoman sighed. ‘ 1 was very fond of the Manor once. I did not find it triste,’ said Bertram, meditatively. ‘ You had brothers and sisters,’ replied Miss Lotta, quickly; ‘while, but for my mother, I am alone. And see, I am but thirteen : and you, you arc near eighteen — nineteen, twenty, twenty-one — three years till von are a man by your English law.’ ‘ Well, what of that?’ said Bertram, amused, but unable to guess the aim of this calculation. ‘ When you arc a man you mav marry,’ said Lotta. * Yes, I mav, certainly,’ said Bertram : ‘ but I do not think I shall, for 1 have little money, and no means of keeping a wife. Who would have me, do you think, Lotta?’ ‘ Is nothing arranged for you yet?’ inquired the little girl, with a business air.

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No. XIX. CHATTERBOX. 147 Bertram was busy enough now, working hard to pass his examination. He still remained with Miss Trevannock, though a run over to Markhaven con¬ vinced him that the High Cottage was not the hole he had once perversely imagined it to be, but a very pleasant little home tor quiet people. The Philippses and the Derringtons were so inter¬ woven, both at work and play, that they seemed like one large family. Cecil was the Vicar’s right hand in his parish; she visited the poor children, and the schools, and was very helpful. ‘My second curate,’ Mr. Philipps called her, the real curate being a young Oxford man of studious tastes, who was content to leave the cottage work to Cecil. The only cloud over Cecil’s life was the prospect of spending the next spring in town with her aunt, Lady Julia Leatham, who, having married her own two daughters, had leisure to think of ‘ poor Cecil, a good-looking girl, who must be pining away at that place an the coast.’ Be it remarked here, however, that Cecil did spend the spring in town, was presented at a Drawing-room, attended a State-ball, went in thoroughly for London sights and London gaieties, and enjoyed them pretty well, and returned to her little home by the sea with a fund of amusement for her mother and younger sister in the talking over of her new experiences; but not spoilt by the quiet life at Markhaven. Clement was very hard at work, with the intention of becoming a first-rate engineer. Carrie felt his departure from home a good deal, but she was looking forward with far greater pleasure than Cecil had done to Lady Julia’s patronage, that busy aunt having given out that when her younger niece was old enough she too should share Cecil’s 4 advantages.’ ‘ Which means, parties every night and a drive in the Park most afternoons,’ said Clement dryly. Pie had set his face against fashionable life and its follies, and, greatly to Cecil’s amusement, would lecture her and Carrie by the hour, when he was at home, on the duties of womankind. ‘You don’t put up a very high standard for us to measure ourselves by,’ said Cecil, one day, to him; ‘a good cook and a tolerable sempstress combined would make one of your model women.’ Which rather silenced Master Clement. Mrs. Lancelot Derrington had tried hard to get Bertram to establish himself at the Manor during the months that must pass before he entered the army. This, however, she could not do, though he was on a most friendly footing with the inmates. He and Lotta would ride out together, an accom¬ plishment the little French girl had acquired since her arrival in England. She was a strange child, with much natural quick¬ ness, but a strong aversion to regular study. This dislike was to be respected for the present, said all the wise people whom her mother consulted on the subject. Lotta was so young and delicate that a year or two of idleness could do no harm ; so tliero was no governess at the Manor to call the flighty little girl to order, or to keep, her caged in a school-room. one. never spoke again to Bertram on the subject of their marriage, but she would often look wistfully at him, and once she asked him abruptly, — ‘ Who would have the Manor when she died ?’ ‘ Your children,’ said Bertram, laughing. ‘ I mean, if I died now,’ said Lotta. 6 The next of kin,’ said Bertram, touching hi? horse with his spur, and riding on ahead. ‘Next of kin !’ repeated Lotta, and followed silently7*. She took an early opportunity of getting the sen¬ tence explained to her, and then was satisfied. There were some repairs, involving consideiciblc outlaj', needed at the Manor at this time,’ and Bertram was much about the place, helping his aunt to express her ideas on the subject, and now and then suggesting improvements. Lotta was often in attendance at such times, and once when there was a difference of opinion between her mother and Bertram she threw herself with such vehemence into her cousin’s view of the question, that there was nothing for it but to give way to her. ‘You like the large window made so?’ she asked the next time she found herself alone with him. ‘ Very well, it shall be; you only tell me what you like, and it is done.’ Bertram smiled and said that Aunt Louise must be consulted too. But Lotta shook her head. ‘ It is no use,’ she said ; ‘ better for you to say how all should be, since after me it will be you, not her.’ Bertram took no notice of the remark ; Lotta was always dwelling on strange matters, reining in her pony at some village churchyard to point out sunny spots where she would^like to lie, or speculating on whether her mother would leave England and settle on the De Laurency property if anything happened to her. And when Bertram checked her she would lau^h and say, ‘Why must 1 be quiet? Is it so much better here on earth than with the angels? You preach of the Heaven in church, and say it is <mod and happy to be there, and then if any will go, you say “ Hush !” and “ Poor tiling ! ” ’ A very odd child, Bertram thought her, but she interested him, and every now and then she posed him with her remarks. Miss Trevannock’s household had just retired to rest one night, when the sound of a horse galloping up to the Avenue alarmed the household. In answer to a call from a window, the breathless horseman replied that the Manor was on fire ; messengers had been despatched to Wethermore and other places for engines ; but help was needed to remove pictures and furniture, lest the fire should spread. In a few moments there was no one left at the Avenue, except a stable-boy and a few maids. Every one with strong arms or a will to assist had hastened to the burning mansion. . Bertram was first there. He asked for Mrs. Dcr- rmgton and Lotta— were they safe ? .‘ Quite safe, and helping to pack the valuables ’ said a servant. bo, as the fire was as 3ret confined to one part of the house, Bertram joined a party who were tearing the pictures off the walls in the great dining-room, and dragging the old carved oak furniture out on to the lawn. {To be continued.)

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148 CHATTERBOX. No. XIX. THE LITTLE VAGABOND. ]IIAT a jolly, good-tempered fellow your gardener is, Bob! 7 said Edward Singleton to his school- friend, Robert Mason, with whom 1 he was spending his holidays. ‘ And an honest old boy, too, or we shouldn't see those splendid strawberries at breakfast every morning. Our gardener is always making excuses for not bringing in fruit, and he looks as sour as vinegar if I go near the cherry- tree ; for if I did not help my¬ self sometimes in that way, not one cherry should 1 see.’ ‘ But,’ said Bob, ‘ does not your father ask what be¬ comes of the fruit?’ ‘ Not a bit ! ’ answered Edward. ‘ He listens to my complaints, and then he says, “ My dear boy, I am very sorry to tell you that it is a very bad year for fruit ! Luke says so.” And he is perfectly satis¬ fied to take Luke’s explanation, though I know well enough that the fruit goes to market and is sold.’ ‘ But, I say, about the strawberries at breakfast ; have you noticed that they are always put near my mother ? ’ asked Bob. ‘Well, I have,’ replied Edward; ‘but she passes them on after taking a few, so I suppose they are not particularly for her. ‘ Oh, but they are ! and thereby hangs a tale which it will be worth your while to get Joe to tell you. Begin talking to him some day — praise his straw¬ berries — and he will soon tell you Ins story, which is short, but worth hearing, I think,’ said Bob. The next day after breakfast, with the strawberries fresh in his mind, Edward strolled into that part of the garden where he thought J oe the gardener would be. ‘ Good day, sir,’ said Joe’s cheerful voice. ‘ Young gentlemen are sure to find out the strawberry-bea before they’ve been here long. Help yourself, sir!’ ‘ I’ve had some, thank you ; and splendid ones they were. I am sure you choose the best for the table; each one was a beauty.’ * They need be beauties,* said Joe, gravely. ‘ Why so?’ asked Edward. ‘ Ah, sir, I’ll be proud to tell you if you care to listen.’ ‘ Oh, I’ll listen as long as you like,’ said Edward, ‘ if I may have a strawberry now and then, and sit here on the wheelbarrow.’ ‘ Well, sir, I was once a little vagabond,’ said Joe. ‘ Oh, nonsense, Joe! I’ll never believe that!’ said Edward. ‘And a very bad, wicked little vagabond, too/ continued Joe; ‘a wor3er, wickeder, little vagabond never lived, ’ he went on, getting more and more severe on himself. ‘ My father, sir, he was but a bad one, and he served my mother very ill ; she worked hard to keep us children clothed and fed, but she was obliged to send us out to beg at last ; and as I soon found that telling lies was part of the trade. I told lies too. Easy it was, and easy enough to go from bad to worse, and steal whenever I had the chance. Oh, sir ! whether you believe me or not, I was the very worst and wickedest little vagabond that ever lived ! Well, sir, I was by myself one day walking along by the side of the highroad, about half-way twixt Squire Hawthorn’s and the old Hall when there conies tripping along a beautiful little girl, with a basket full of strawberries on her arm I hated her, sir, I did ! because she was rich and looked so happy. So I goes up to her, and I sa}Ts, Can t you give a poor lad a few strawberries, miss, as hasn’t had nothing to eat since yesterday, and has no father or mother, and no home, nor no clothes, and no nothing?” pretending to cry. “‘Oh, poor boy!” she says; “yes, to be sure I will! Ill give you my share; the others are for grandmother.” And she puts down her basket on a stone. ‘ And that bad little vagabond, sir, he snatches it up and runs off as fast as ever he could go ! Then he goes into a wood, sits him down, and eats up every strawberry there was. Then he takes the basket and away he walks, thinking he’d sell it at some cottage for a few pence. He meets a young woman looking hot and tired, and she says, — ‘ “You’ve got a pretty basket there, my boy.” ‘“You can have it,” I tells her, “if you like, for fourpence.” ‘ “ Very well ! ” says she, and takes it. “ Why, it's not new ! it’s stained with strawberries!” . ‘ “.Oh, yes ! I’ve had some to sell - ” I was be¬ ginning to say, when she seized me by the collar and nearly choked me. ‘ “ Oh ! you thief, I’ve got you !” she said. ‘And, though I kicked and fought, I couldn’t escape. She was a strong young woman, and she took me back the road I’d come. Aye, she didn’t know then that she was saving me, dragging me from the highroad to ruin to the paths of an honest life!’ And Joe paused a moment. Edward plucked some more strawberries and said, — ‘Go on, Joe; I want to know how you went on after that.’ ‘I must tell you, sir, what I heard afterwards. The little girl, Miss Ellen, she went home crying, aud met her maid just coming to fetch her from Squire Hawthorn’s, where she’d gone for the fruit. As soon as she knew what had happened, she told her little lady to run home and tell Sir' John, whilst she ran off to catch the thief. A man mending the road told her he’d seen a boy turn off into the wood a little time ago, aud not come out again, and that he had a basket with him ; so she walked on some distance and met me, and the rest you know. ‘ When we reached the Hall I was dragged along through grand kitchens, the like of which I’d never seen before ; through long passages, with carpets on the floors, and fine pictures on the walls, and into such a splendid room ! I was quite amazed, forgot what I’d come for, and stared bewildered-like at all around me. But I was quickly brought to my senses, for there stood Sir John, frowning at me ; aud there, behind him, was Miss Ellen crying ; and there in an arm-chair, with pillows behind her, was a beautiful old lady with a kind face, looking very sorry for me, I thought.

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150 CHATTERBOX. No. XIX. ‘ The young woman pulled me forward, and said, “ This is the boy, Sir John,’7 and told them where she found me, and all about it. “ And lie’s kicked me till I’m black and blue ; he has, the wretch !” ‘Then Sir John was very angry, and said he should send for a policeman to take me to prison ; but I was so taken up with looking about at the pictures and the looking-glasses, which I thought were windows into other rooms, that I did not hear half he said. Then a kind soft voice said, “ Come hither, boy — close to me — and look me in the face !” As meek as a lamb I walked up to the old lady, and lifted my eyes to hers. She said, “Boy, how would you like to live here and have plenty to eat, and some good clothes ? ” She did not wait for an answer, seeing how surprised I looked, but went on, “ You are very young, child, to be so sinful. I fear you have not been taught that which is right and good, but only that which is evil. Look at me again, child ! It is a good face, Sir John. I can read laces well, you know. This boy needs only to be trusted and taught to grow up a good, honest man.” ‘ Sir John said, “You are always right, my dear, always right,” in a very different voice to that when he spoke to me. “ Here, Nelly,” he went on to say, “ you shall tell us what is to be done with this young vagabond. Is he to be sent to prison, or what is to be done with him ? ” ‘ “ Let him go in the kitchen and get something to eat,” sobbed the dear little lady; ‘Tie was very hungry, or he never would have taken my strawberries, I'm sure!” 1 1 can’t tell you, sir, how dreadful bad I did feel, from the moment I looked into that old lady’s eyes and heard her kind words, to that moment when that blessed little lady asked her grandfather to jet me have something to eat. I trembled, sir, with shame. I looked at them all ; I clasped my hands, and said, “ Oh, let me stay ! I’ll do everything you tell me, and I’ll never steal again ! Oh, do try me ! and I’ll work for you and pay all the strawberries back, miss.” . _ ‘ Well, sir, I see Mr. Robert coming to look for you, and as he knows this tale off by heart I’ll bring it to an end. God only knows how good that fine old lady and gentleman were to me ; and that sweet young lady! she had always a kind and encouraging word for me. I was put under the charge of a gardener ; he was a good man. I lived with him in a cottage at the back of the Hall. He kept a strict eye on me, but he never treated me as a thief ; he taught me to read. The old lady taught me on Sundavs ; and so, sir, I tried and tried to please them all. I worked hard and earned some money, and then Sir John let me go for a dav to find my mother ; for at the time I stole the basket of strawberries she had gone into another town to find work. _ ‘ I found her more comfortably settled, but griev¬ ing about her lost son. She was almost frightened when she saw me, and could scarcely believe my story. I was able to help her and my little brothers and when my poor father came home to die— he’d been in prison for years — I’m thankful to say, sir, he had every sort of comfort, and was quite gentle and kind to us ail. I often read to him, and one night he said to me, just as I was wishing him good night and making to the door, “ Joe,” he says, “read me the Prodigal Son before you go.” I did, sir, and when I’d done he laid quiet a minute, with his eyes shut, and then he whimpered, “ Joe, I’m a great sinner, lad ! I’ve been dead and lost, Joe; but I know the way home now, and I’m going — lad — I’m going to my Father.” ‘ Master Robert, I’m telling this young gentleman why there’s always such a fine dish of strawberries put beside your mother at breakfast. Sir, I could tell you a deal more, sir, onty I can’t find words to tell it in. Master Robert’s mother, sir, she was Miss Ellen.’ ‘Yes, Joe,’ said Edward, ‘I understand. Thank you. I shall not forget either you or the strawberries in a hurry.’ And as they walked away, Bob said, — ‘He’s a first-rate fellow, Ned; he lived with my grandfather till his death. No one but Joe could wheel him about in his chair, or lift him in bed when he was ill. He said Joe was more gentle than any woman, and he used to pat his head as if he was a boy, and say, “ Ah, she liked you ; she said you had a good face, and she was always right — always right: ” meaning grand¬ mother, you know, who had died a year before. The granddad was very proud of her, and was never the same after she died. Mother says, Joe was not the only little vagabond she rescued and brought up well. Of course, Joe called himself “ a vagabond,” didn’t he, Ned?’ ‘ Oh, yes ! the very worst and wickedest vagabond that ever lived,’ Ned said. ‘He throve on kindness. Bob, it seems; for any tiling more unlike a vagabond now I never saw.’ A. R. B. S. THE NEW SHIRTS. ONE of the last Archbishops of Bordeaux, the venerable Davian du Bois de Sansay, gave all he had to* the poor. The persons attached to his service could not persuade him to keep anything for his own wants. He had scarcely any linen, and when they spoke to him about renewing it he re¬ plied, ‘By-and-by we will see.’ To procure him some his housekeeper used this ingenious plan. ‘ I am about to petition you for a good work,’ said she to him. ‘And what is it, my good Jeannette? I am quite willing.’ ‘ I want, with your permission, to employ my moments of leisure in making some shirts for a good old man, who has the most pressing need of them. I thought that you would be good enough to furnish me with the linen. This would be a well- placed charity, for the old man is worthy of all your goodness, and has no other resources than those that he expects from you.’ ‘ With all my heart,’ cried the Archbishop. ‘ Look ! here are a hundred francs ; it is all that remains to me ; take it and make the shirts : and if your poor old man has other wants come to me, and not do fear to importune me.’ By this means the worthy Archbishop had some new shirts without intending it. E. H. C.

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No. XIX CHATTERBOX. 151 A HERO. TOHN MEYNARD was well known as an honest tj and intelligent sailor. One summer afternoon he was pilot of a steamer which was sailing from De¬ troit to Buffalo, in North America. The captain saw a thick smoke rising from the hold of the ship. He called at once to Simpson, the mate, to go and see what it was. Simpson re¬ turned pale as a sheet and exclaimed, 4 The ship is on fire ! Eire ! fire 1 7 All the passengers set to work. In vain they threw buckets of water upon the flames, which were fed by a great quantity of resin, that formed part of the cargo. ‘ How far is it from here to Buffalo ? 7 4 Seven miles.’ 4 How much time will it take us to get there ?7 4 Three-quarters of an hour, at this speed.’ The captain advised the passengers to go to the fore part of the vessel. All rushed thither. John Meynard remained at the helm : the flames surround him — choke him. The captain calls out to him through his trumpet, — 4 John Meynard !’ 4 Yes, yes, sir ! 7 4 Are you at the helm ? 7 4 Yes.7 4 In what direction is the ship sailing?7 4 To the south-east.7 4 Steer on. then to the south-east, and gain the shore. ’ \ Then the captain calls out to him again,— 4 Can you hold on five minutes longer?7 4 Yes, with God’s .help !’ replied John Meynard. His white hairs were being singed upon his head ; one of his hands was already powerless. With his knee resting upon the railing, his teeth and his un¬ injured hand upon the wheel, the old man remained firm as a rock. The ship touched the shore in time, all the passengers and crew were saved, but John Meynard fell dead upon the burning deck. This act of heroism is superior even to that of the renowned Athenian soldier, who held a Persian galley with his right hand, then with his left, and finally, after the enemy had cut off both his arms, with his teeth. That man was animated by the savage spirit of war; the brave Canadian calmly sacri¬ ficed himself to save the livoe of a number of per¬ sons who were total strangers to him. The Athenian soldier died for his friends, John Meynard died for strangers, Jesus Christ died for His enemies —and that is the supreme sacrifice of love. J. E. C. Whence, then, thy voice, thy strength and speed, Screaming, hurrying train ? To learn from what all these proceed I now were fain. Who this strength and power did give ? In some manner thou must live, — Surely thou hast will and wishes Of thine own? 4 Nay, none.’ Does man really make thee move — Creature of his hand? Created by his power to work At his command? Hast thou not a word to say, When to go, and where to stay ? . Hast thou not a thought or meaning Of thine own '? 4Na}r, none.7 With so many hearts within thee, Canst thou feel no pain ? Art thou only wood and iron, Mighty Railway-train? Eor those who go with thee in sorrow, Those who shrink from their to-morrow, Hast thou not a thought of pity Of thine own? 4 Nay, none.7 No ! All thy life is Heaven’s fire, Anil Heaven’s own rain ; All thou dost is but their doing, Busy Railway-train ! From the flint, though man did bring it, From steel and harder flint did wring it, None of it is his, or thine. Of thine own — 4 No, none l7 Eire and water, — man’s good servants, Only they are blind ; All they do must have the guiding Of his master-mind. Well fenced about by laws and rules, They, the best of all his tools, May be his swiftest, surest ruin,. The strongest cause of his undoing.: No power unwatched should be their own. Then power to hurt us they have none, And gaily to the Railway-train I will sing my old refrain : — Hark ! this is thy lesson, My lesson for ever — Onward, right onward, Be still my endeavour ! No shirking, no shrinking Eor wind or for weather; No stopping, no staying Eor fear or for favour : My duty, and onward still JBe my endeavour ! J. E. C. E„ THE TRAIN. vQ} EATING with a hundred, hearts, Jn) Life-less — life-full thing, With throhbings of a hundred heads, Thy wonders I would sing* Offspring of the human brain, 'Wondrous, wondrous Railway-train! Surely thou must have a life Of thine own? 4 Nay, none.7

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154 CHATTERBOX. No. XX. CHANGES AND CHANCES. {Continued from p. 147.) jlOTTA ! you ought not to be here/ said A 8 t+!r d3 cr tram , amazed, as lie nearly fell ^ ) S TA* over a little figure in the hall : ‘is there 1 no one *° a^ter y°u? What have fU'nr&'Jl L y°u there ? ? ‘My father — your ancestor!’ said Lotta, proud of her burden. ‘ There are more pictures in the gallery still ; A/L I will save them all for you.’ y ‘ You will do nothing of the sort/ ^ said Bertram. ‘ It is fearfully dan¬ gerous up there, you might be suffo¬ cated any moment. Where is Aunt Mary? will no one take you to her ? ‘ I will not go/ said Lotta ; ‘ I refuse always.’ ‘ Child, you must do as I bid you/ said Bertram, so firmly that Lotta gave way in a moment. ‘ You are more precious than any pictures. Go at once to the Lodge. Stay, I will take you.’ ‘ No, no ! I will go, I promise ; do not come with me, they need you here/ said the child, quite sobered ; and Bertram was relieved to find a servant hurrying up to take charge of the wilful young lady, who had escaped from her mother in the confusion. It was desperate work fighting the flames when the engines arrived ; the fire had taken such hold of the building that all knew there was no hope of saving it, and their efforts were directed to preserving the stables. Bertram was very useful in directing the willing band of assistants to the various valuables and works of art most worthy of being saved. It never occurred to him to feel that he was exert¬ ing himself for another person ; it was the Manor he was doing his best for, that was all ; and when, be¬ grimed and tired, he repaired to the lodge, where the women had been sent for safety, he was amazed at the grateful thanks that were showered upon him by Aunt Louise. ‘ The place is a ruin/ said Bertram, for the first time losing heart. ‘ It shall be rebuilt/ said Aunt Louise, ‘ and you shall design the new Manor.’ Bertram made no answer ; he was weary and dazed after the exciting scenes he had gone through. ‘ Lear bov ! ’ whispered Aunt Louise to Miss Tre- vannock; ‘1 say nothing, but I hope ever he will consent in time to be Herrington of the Manor. If he build anew the house, it may give him fresh interest in it ; but you English are so strange, so difficult, so good, and yet not easy to manage/ The poor little Frenchwoman, after devising a scheme to make every one happy all round, could not understand why any one should hesitate to fall in with her plan. For the second time the Avenue gates were opened to receive a homeless family from the Manor. There are some good people in the world who seem born only for the help and comfort of those around them, and Miss Trevannock was one of these. Bich and poor were all alike to her, and as need arose she was ready with her purse or her sympathies. It seemed as if the cloud over her own life had only made her long to brighten that of others. She had soothed Bertram’s mother in her changed circum¬ stances, had comforted Cecil in her sisterly anxiety, and she had brought the impetuous lad himself to a quieter, healthier tone of thought, and now she had this houseless pair of Frenchwomen to look after and advise. The Manor was insured, and there was no lack of funds to rebuild it, for, as Madame Louise earnestly assured Miss Trevannock*, she had money — oh, much — from the Laurencv estate, where there was a good bailiff who collected, the rents and looked after her interests. But how was the old Manor to be rebuilt — after what design ? There were sundry inconveniences in the construction of the old house which it would be well to avoid, and several improvements which it would be well to make. Miss Trevannock and Mrs. Der- rington often talked over the matter, and Bertram was frequently appealed to ; but, to his Aunt Louise’s great disappointment, he declared himself so ignorant of house-building that he must be left out of the dis¬ cussion. ‘ Get Lancelotte to make you a sketch of what she wishes/ said he laughingly, one day, to get rid of the subject. Lotta was flitting round the room, looking at this and that of Aunt Mary’s knicknacks, like a butterfly among the flower-beds. ‘No! not Lancelotte/ said the girl, pausing and looking towards them. ‘ She will have nothing to do with the new Manor.’ ‘ Nonsense, little one ! you speak foolishly/ said her mother. Lancelotte made no reply, and her speech passed with all, except Bertram, for a mere outburst of waywardness. To him, however, she had so often said that she should never live to grow up, that lie could not put down such remarks as the effect of temper or carelessness. AYhcn she first came to the Manor all her thoughts and wishes had been bent on getting her disinherited cousin to amend his marred life by affiancing himself to the heiress of his old home ; but this was as an old dream now — passed away. And the new dream was of a quiet rest in some mossy bed for a time, with a pleasant awakening after — an awakening to new life, new happiness, in a country where no one was tired or sad, and where her mother, and her father, whom she had never seen, would be, with the kind cousin, and all whom she loved. The good God would arrange it 'all ; how, Lotta could not tell, but she was content to leave it to Him: it was better than the Manor. She never spoke to her mother of these fancies : but Bertram heard them all— laughed at some, and tried to dispel others : he would seldom treat them scriousl}r, and this was Lotta’s great vexation. ‘You laughed when I prayed you to let us be fiance / said Lotta, one day, ‘and now you arc angry because I wish to be an angel ! A ou are strange people, all ! It seems you think the on]y good thing is to live quite seventy or eighty years in this world, and be cold and hot, and happy and miserable, every day all that while, and speak of no other thing. I

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CHATTERBOX. 155 No. XX. tire of it, I tell you plain. Your priest, your clergy¬ man, he speak of it a little in his pulpit, and I like to listen; but when I meet him in the street and will ask him more about it, my mother she cries and says “No !” and it is not th e-mode; and you are red, and ride further from me, and declare Mr. Millare will think me odd child. 1 find you all odd! and 1 tell you once, twice, three times, I shall like to go to Heaven, only I wish to know more about it, and no one will talk with mo.’ Poor little Lotta ! When Miss Tre van nock came to hear of her strange cravings she was rather shocked too, thought the child excitable and odd, and furnished her with a variety of story-books in gay bindings, so as to divert her from these morbid thoughts. JLotta read them all onen, and then threw them aside ; fairies were all very well, she had often lain on the grass in summer and fancied fairies, green, scarlet, and gold, in every flower-bell : but they did not do now, she wished for something more. Bertram found her an old Pilgrim's Progress, which pleased her better, though the troubles and dangers of the way affected her very little. She was sorry for poor Christian ; but children were better off, the Holj'' Jesus would carry them safely in His arms. It was a real religion of love and confidence that filled Lotta’s young heart, and took away every feel¬ ing of alarm at the prospect of leaving the world. Lotta was not ill at this time ; to all appearance she was as active and as cheerful as ever, she was only worried and perplexed that she should be troubled with questions and alarms about her well-being when¬ ever she spoke of death. ‘ The maid makes our beds long before we want to go to sleep,’ she declared one day; ‘mayn’t I ask about my grave, too, Auntie Mary V And then Auntie Mary told her gently that it grieved her mother to hear her little girl speak of going away from her, even to be happy in heaven ; and Lotta accepted this view of the subject, and was silent. It was almost a relief to every one when Lady Julia Leatnam made a descent on the neighbourhood, taking up her abode at the home of her old friend, Mrs. Worthington of the Beeches. She said she had come to carry off Cecil for a season in town, but really she wished to see how things were going on with the Herrington family. ‘Very much mismanaged!’ she pronounced the whole affair of the change of owners at the Manor; ‘the woman, if she was Lancelot’s wife, could surely have been hushed up and bought off, if any sensible person had been allowed to interfere.’ By ‘sensible person’ her ladyship only alluded to one individual, and that was herself. ‘ But noor Cecilia never was clever at these things,’ said Lady Julia to herself; ‘and now I hear she and Cecil are as contented in that bit of a place at Mark- haven as if they had been born to it.’ Lady Julia had married Mrs. Bertram Herring¬ ton’s eldest brother ; but she had been a widow many years, and had never been able to manage matters at the Manor as she would have liked to have done. Colonel Herrington was amused with her in a way, for she was full of talk of a really entertaining kind, and he was always ready to welcome her for a week or two in the shooting season, when there was something going on to keep her alive. But he had many a laugh in private over her little schemes, while he valued her real kindness of heart. Every one on her arrival felt that here was some one to decide what was the best plan to pursue with regard to the rebuilding of the Manor, and yet her presence awoke a sense of irritation in nearly every one concerned. (To be continued.) A LITTLE PRODIGY. ONE evening, in Vienna, there was a grand con¬ cert in the palace of the Empress of Austria, Maria Thcrese, wife of the Emperor Francis I. The most brilliant society had already assembled in the saloons. On every side one saw nothing but plumes, diamonds, embroidered coats, sparlding dresses, when, to the great astonishment of every¬ body, a man, very humbly dressed, followed by two children, appeared at the door of the principal saloon. The countenance of this man was respectful and modest : that of his children was more assured, and not frightened by all this luxury, by all these grand lords, or by all these beautiful ladies, who stared at them with curiosity. ‘ Is this the chapel-master and his marvellous children of whom all Vienna is talking?’ asked the Empress of her master of the ceremonies. ‘Yes, your majesty,’ answered he; ‘ and I can as¬ sure you that nothing equals them. I heard them yesterday at the French ambassador’s; the little girl is very clever, but the little boy is still more sur¬ prising.’ ‘ Let them begin,’ said the Empress. The master of the ceremonies invited Mozart to place his children at the piano. The chapel-master conducted them to the instrument, and made them both sit down before it. The young Federica was dressed in a white taffeta frock, and the little Wolf¬ gang had a lilac-cloth jacket, and a watered silk waistcoat of the same colour, the whole fringed with broad lace. Federica began; her execution was so clear and so brilliant that every one went into raptures over this pale and delicate child. When she had finished, a concert of praises was raised around her. ‘ This is nothing, however,’ she said, to those who complimented her, ‘ in comparison to my brother.’ And the young girl watched with a motherly at¬ tention to see that her brother was comfortably seated, and high enough, so that the movements of his little arms were not cramped. # Then the little boy, after all these attentions, placed his tiny hands upon the keys, and without effort, without having any air of doubt that his talent would excite general admiration, he let his little fingers go — come — run ; they seemed to play with the keys, which he lowered and raised successively, and over which they flew, drawing forth, every time he touched them, pure, grave, sonorous, soft, and harmonious sounds. All .looks were fastened upon these little fingers, so agile, so slender, and so expressive ; the most experienced chapel-master could not have better

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given the harmonies and modulation of music than this child. All hearts were moved with admiration. The key-board was then covered with a napkin, but the child was so accustomed to it that he played with the same precision and rapidity. The Emperor and Empress, and all the court, were enchanted. When Wolfgang stopped, but of breath, the Em¬ press signed to him to come and kiss her hand. He got up to obey, but being giddy from the noise of the praises and with the lights, and stiff with sitting such a long time, he slipped and fell, the first step he took, on the polished floor. A young lady hurried to the place and raised him up. 1 Are you hurt, my little friend?’ she said, with the most touching interest. As if dazzled by the beauty of the young lady, the

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1 Max’s friends would honour us by a torch-light procession.’ child did not answer for a minute ; then, recovering his voice, and putting his delicate little hands into that of the young lady, he exclaimed, — 4 You are so beautiful, madam ! I wish to marry you.’ A burst of laughter answered this speech; but, without being baffled, the child continued, — 4 They call me Master Wolfgang Mozart ; and you, what is your name?7 4 Mine is Marie Antoinette,7 answered the young lady, with a voice that wrent to the heart. Alas ! the wife which Mozart’s child chose so in¬ genuously was the Archduchess of Austria, the future Queen of France. The poor girl had not so much happiness as if she had become the wife of Mozart. A few years after, while the great composer was being publicly crowned and saluted by the cheers of the population of Vienna, the young and beau¬ tiful Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, wife of- Louis XVI., mounted the scaffold and perished in disgrace beneath the cruel guillotine, amid the mockery and insults of the people of Paris, who but a few months before had, in a similar way, murdered her kind-hearted husband. C. S. C. MY WIFE. ES, I know English well now, and I will write a f story — a story of a good woman, of a generous woman, of the all-best, all-noblest woman, that ever I have seen — my wife. Not alone is she good, but i of a beauty - 7 I

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158 CHATTERBOX. No. XX. There, I heave taken the pen away from my hus¬ band ; he cannot write English, although he was my pupil for many weeks ; but to content his mind I have promised to note down what ho calls my story. He thinks so much of me, does my Max. I came to Spielingen, this pretty German town, two years ago, as nursery-governess to little Guy Rutherford. Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford were very kind to me, and I will say as little as I can of their misfortunes, since both are dead now. I must men¬ tion here, though, for every one knew it except myself, that Mr. Rutherford was a professed gambler, and came to Spielingen to recruit his shattered fortunes. In this he failed, and one sad evening he shot himself in the wood near the playing saloons. Poor Mrs. Rutherford only survived him a few days ; worn out by tbe anxiety of years, this last shock proved fatal. I was only eighteen, ^and people called me rash in taking this responsibility on myself ; but Mrs. Rutherford had put twenty pounds in my hand when dying, and looked so pitifully at me as she said, ‘ I give you Guy ; love him and care for him, as you wish me to lie quiet in my grave,’ that I could not act otherwise. We went into tiny lodgings, Guy and I, in Spielingen, for we had a few friends there, and I began to give English lessons at once ; for, young as I was, I knew twenty pounds would not last for ever. One of my earliest pupils was Mathilde Zimmerman, my Max’s sister. I had several others, too, and by-and- by Max joined Mathilde in her lessons, for I used to teach her in her own house ; Professor and Madame Zimmerman often joining in the reading or conver¬ sation, so that it was quite a pleasant time for us all. The first summer after the Rutherfords’ death a cousin of mine, a rich widow, passed through Spielingen, and wished to take me away as her companion, but she would have nothing to do with Guv, so I thanked her and declined. A bachelor uncle, too, wanted me as his housekeeper, and I could well have taken the little lad to his house, but he angrily refused to have anything to do with the gambler’s child— the workhouse was the lit place for him, he said. So I kept on in the old way, teaching my German pupils and little Gii}r as well as I was able, and trust¬ ing in God to keep me well and strong, since I was all that stood between the poor child and a cold world. Max asked me to be his wife, at Christmas, but I said No. I cared a little for him then, but I could live without him ; and I knew the old Professor and his wife would have liked some one grander than a poor English girl for their only son. Max was vexed, and went away to travel. Mathilde was very kind ; I know she guessed it all, though I told no one. In the spring Guy fell ill, and needed so much nursing and good food that I feared terribly that I might not be able to earn it for him. I wrote in my anxiety to my rich cousin; she sent .me five shillings in English stamps, which of course in Spielingen were useless. I sat up half the nights sewing for a. shop which kindly gave me work, and I sold a few trinkets I had, and taught as usual in the day. It was anxious work, but my boy got better, and then my great fear was realised — I fell ill. It came on all at once. I fell off my chair one evening, and then I remember nothing for long: my hrst waking recollection being that of seeing Mathilde sitting by my bed. . If there are noble and generous people in the world it is the Zimmermans : they cared for me. through that weary time as if I was their own child; they sent Guy and me to Rad Wurzheim to recover strength, and when 1 had been there a few weeks, and began to feel able to earn my own living again, they sent Max to me to ask me to he his wife. They had found it out how we cared for each other, and though, they would have preferred for Max to choose a wife of his own nation they wrote me a beautiful letter, saying that goodness and virtue be¬ longed especially to no country, and they were pleased that their son had chosen it out of England. And they further said, that as I was taking their only son from them, I must give them Guy to bring up. I promised her on her death-lied never to forsake little Guy. I was an orphan, too, and could feel for him. I wrote, however, to tell the nearest relatives of the Rutherfords what had happened ; and I got an answer from one, saying that the family had utterly renounced all connexion with so disgraceful a member of it as the dead man had been, but that if the child were sent to England he should be placed in a Refuge for Destitute Roj's. I could not bear the idea of my little petted boy being thrust out in the cold like this, and so I wrote again, saying that till now the child had been so loved and cherished that I felt I was not fulfilling the promise I made to his mother to do as* the writer wished, and I preferred keeping higi with me till he was older and less tender. We were married, then, in the late autumn, and Max’s friends, German fashion, would honour us by a torch procession as we took our way to our little chalet on the mountain in the evening. ‘Do you. mind it much, shy Englanderenn V said my father-in-law, as lie kissed me before I started. ‘ I am German now,’ I said, smiling, ‘ and I like all your customs.’ I am afraid I stretched a point a little when I said that, but by-and-by I really did enjoy it, out in the cool air, with the strange red light of the torches dancing on the red autumn leaves. Guy was in a whirl of delight, with a torch of his very own. I walked in my wedding dress and wreath, and no one seemed to think it at ail strange. There was a great deal of cheering, and my hand was nearly shaken off by Max’s hearty friends when we reached the chalet. ‘English fashion, goot bye !’ they shouted. This is all my story — not much of one, you will think. One other word I must say, if Max thinks me a good wife, he is all that is dear and noble in a husband, never leaving me a moment in which to remember that I am an orphan in a strange country. II. A. E. NATIONAL SALUTATIONS. From tlio Frencli. HE manners and customs of different nations form an interesting study, and not the least entertaining are the usages which regulate the duties of politeness. In France people salute each other by saying

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No. XX. CHATTERBOX. 159 ‘Plow do you bear (or carry) yourself?’ A stranger might think it had something to do with a question of equilibrium, but it is a simple formula of politeness. The Japanese salutes by taking the slipper, off his foot. In Hindostan one salutes a man by taking him by the beard. The King of Ternate stands during his audiences, and his subjects sit down to salute him. The inhabitants of the Philippine Islands take your hand to do you honour, and then rub their faces with it. The Laplanders push their noses vigorously against those of the persons whom they accost. In New Guinea, when they wish you good evening., they place green leaves upon your head. The Ethiopian takes the robe of him whom he approaches and covers himself over with it as far as he can. The black kings of the African coast press the middle finger three times as a sign of salutation. The Chinese have a whole series of salutes, from merely bending the knee to complete prostration. They used formerly to repeat the salutations for forty days to the ambassadors, that they might be acquainted with them before they were admitted to Court. The sons of Araucania, in order to salute a venerated person, open their veins and offer him their blood to drink. At Cairo people say to you, 4 Do you perspire? ’ because a dry skin is considered the symptom of a mortal malady. The Dutchman says, 4 Do you eat with an appetite?’ The German says, 4 How do you find yourself?’ The English ask each other, 4 Iiow do you do?’ The proud Spaniards ask each other 4 if they hold themselves upright.’ The Greeks, of ancient days used to accost each other by saying, 4 Work and prosper.’ The Komans simply said, 4 How do you go?’ Germany has preserved a charming variety of salutations, among them, 4 May you live well.’ The Poles say, 4 1 fall at your feet.’ The Italians, 4 1 kiss your hands.’ The Chinese, 4 Have you eaten your rice?’ The Turks, ‘Salutation and health.’ The Plebrew 1 Shalom’ has been copied in the Christian ritual, 4 May peace be with you.’ J. F. C. Once we had a lady staying with us, and she most kindly offered to help me in some knitting which I was learning, and in which she saw the little girl was puzzled. I thankfully came and stood beside her, and she laid down her book and cheer¬ fully entered on that most worrying of. tasks-— teaching knitting! Every way but the right did the little fingers go ; every time the lady pushed back the knitting after setting it right, the little eyes and head forgot, and it was at last only by getting her own needles and holding them, and knitting before the child, that she was able to . get on. And yet all the time had the favourite little words, 4 Oh yes — I know — To be sure — Of course.,’ — been slipping from my lips at each correction. Suddenly the lady stopped, laid down her sock, and took up her book, and said, coolly, — 4 Oh, if you know, then I need not trouble you with my teaching.’ 4 Oh, but, please, I don’t quite know — please - -’ But Miss - was miles off on her travels in Upper Egypt, and only cleared the table to spread out the large map at the end of her volume, and I departed, feeling heartily ashamed of myself. Next day my kind friend gave me some writing, saying : — 4 1 have been writing out a little fable that I heard years ago, perhaps you may like to have it.’ I thanked her very much and asked her to read it to me, as I could not read writing very well, and she began, — It is said that when the Swallow was first created she wTas so pleased with her long wings, and her forked tail, and her swift flight, that she did not set about building her nest in proper time, and it quite went out of her head how to build one at all. So at last, after many attempts, she thought she would go to some good-natured bird and ask for a little help. Of all the birds she met she thought the Thrush looked the most good-natured, and she told her diffi¬ culty to the Thrush, and asked for advice. 4 Oh, to be sure,’ said the Thrush, 4 I’ll soon show you. First take a few 44 bents,” as we call these old grass stalks.’ 4 Oh, yes, to be sure,’ said the Swallow. 4 Then get a lump of clay, and then another - ’ 4 Of course.’ 4 To plaster them.’ 4 Ah, yes, I know, — ’ 4 Blaster them so — ’ 4 Yes, to be sure — ’ 4 And then — ’ 4 Oh, yes, I know,’ said the Swallow again. 4 1 then turn it up so,’ said the Thrush. 4 To be sure — oh yes.’ 4 And then,’ — the Thrush tried to say, — 4 Of course,’ interrupted the Swallow. 4 Well,’ said the Thrush, 4 you seem to know all about it quite as well as I do, so I need not delay an}r longer, but go off to my eggs. Good-day ; ’ and away she flew. But they had only built half round the nest, and, for the life of her, the poor Swallow could not make out how to do the other side. So" she stuck the side she did know how to build upon a wall, and pretended to be very content: but the other birds often make little jokes upon 4 the bird with half a nest.’ J. E. C. F. WHY THE SWALLOW BUILDS ONLY jyt* HALF A NEST. A Fable. CONFESS that I had a very ugly a hi V/ s trick when I was a little girl ; a VI H conceited, a forward trick. It was H ^ any one k°oan to show me how yY to do a thing, or corrected me in my reading, I murmured, 4 Oh, yes ! ’ \ 4 To be sure,’ 4 1 know,’ -when really I only half knew. Now, even if I ^ ^ had quite known, it would have been much more graceful in me to have received the instruction or the correction silently and gratefully. It is pleasant to everybody -when they are trying to do a kindness, to feel that it is really a kindness, and not almost an intrusion. And so, even if the correction or the instruction, as I said before, only reminded me of what I had known but forgotten, it would have been so much better if I had left out my 4 To be sure,’ and 4 1 know,’ and so on.

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The Swallow and the Thrush,

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162 CHATTERBOX. No. XXI. CHANGES AND CHANCES. ( Continued from p. 155.) ERTRAM especially disliked her for plainly telling him one day, when she found him alone, that he was foolish not to interest himself more in the matter, since he was certainly heir-presumptive to the property, and had a right to interfere, even had these people not wished it. Resides, who could tell, as Mrs. 4T Lancelot Derrington very wisely said, what would happen in years to come? ‘If you are going to speak of that ridiculous scheme of my marrying my little cousin,’ said Ber¬ tram loftily, ‘ you can spare yourself the trouble. I could not entertain it for a moment ; it would simply be selling the child, or, rather, throwing her away.’ ‘ I don’t see the matter in the light you do,’ said Lady Julia, quite unmoved, and she passed on to Mrs. Derrington, who at that moment entered the room. ‘Your little girl will grow up a lovely woman,’ said Lady Julia ; ‘ but are you not letting her waste the best years of her life in play ? Delicate, is she ! then bring her to town to see Dr. Veneer Jones; no one understands children better. And she could attend a gymnasium, too, for I see she stoops. It worked wonders with my girls.’ And having made the little Frenchwoman un¬ comfortable, Lady Julia then sauntered into the garden, to tell Lotta she was spoiling her com¬ plexion, and to warn Miss Trevannock that roses trained and treated in the way hers were would never succeed. Now roses were the gentle lady’s great hobby and triumph, and the feeling aroused in her bosom by the remark was as near resentment as was possible in her. Yet the fact remained that Lady Julia’s opinion was consulted, and her advice gladly taken by all the party. A celebrated architect of country houses was written to by that day’s post, Bertie himself writing the note. fc A inan’s name always looks well, dear, at the bottom of a letter of that sort, and you can say you are writing at your aunt’s request/ Mrs. Lancelot Derrington began seriously to consider the propriety of getting a governess for Lotta ; Miss Trevannock grew melancholy over her very prosperous rosebuds ; and Lotta, wayward little woman, was so impressed by Lady J ulia’s remark to her that she got out a shady hat of last summer, in which she presented the appearance, Bertram de¬ clared, of a very large mushroom. And then, himself yielding to the one strong mind of the party, Bertram consulted his aunt as to the crammer with whom he should work during the ©ouple of months before his examination. ‘ 1 don’t 'want too easy-going a fellow,’ said Bertram. 6 1 must be kept to my work, and I don’t care to be thrown among a lot of young fellows to whom it is no importance whether they pass or no.’ 4 Who only care to be near towm and spend money,’ said Lady Julia. ‘You are quite right, my dear boy — very sensible. You should go to Martin’s, Blackheath, a steady man .who means business with his young men, and then you could spend your Sundays with us and take Cecil about.’ ‘ Are you going away ?’ asked Lotta, anxiously. 4 Yes, to work hard,’ answered her cousin. 4 You can spare me, can’t you?’ ‘ Not for long,’ said Lotta, wistfully. And Lady Julia exchanged glances with Mrs. Derrington at the little speech, which harmless meeting of eyes vexed Bertram. Why should tliey^ be so determined that something was ‘up,’ as he called it, between him and Lotta — he barely eighteen, Lotta a perfect cliild ? It was too silly ! Well, the sooner he went away the better. It was not easy, despite resolutions made before¬ hand, for Bertram to work hard. He had never done so before, except by fits and starts, and he was old to take to it now, lie said to himself. But he stuck to it manfully, resisted the frequent requests of his less studious companions to take a half-day’s pleasure, and only allowed himself the one long stretch necessary to keep him in health. It was even then doubtful if he should pass, he thought. Cecil was a great comfort to him on this point ; she had a good opinion of his abilities always, and now, if he only persevered, she felt sure he would succeed. Every Sunday, regularly after luncheon, they went out for a walk in tlie parks, and the conversation from week to week was always about the hopes and fears of the young student. Bertram told Cecil, too, all the irritating details of the desired match between him and Lotta. ‘ It is very liard on you, poor boy ! that Aunt Louise will look as if she wished it, and Aunt Julia will declare it is a very sensible idea,’ said Cecil, smiling ; ‘ but it is nice to see that little Lotta grows quieter and chatters less of it as she grows older. It seemed quite shacking to me, the poor little soul arranging her plans for life so coolly.’ ‘ Cecil,’ said Bertram, earnestly, ‘ promise me not to say a word to any one of what I am going to tell you ? I must tell some one, for it weighs upon me so heavily, but it seems so strange a thing to believe.’ Cecil gave a silent assent, and her brother went on,— ‘ I don’t think that child will live to grow up; and she thinks so, too.’ Cecil breathed a long sigh. ‘ Bertram,’ she said, ‘ it isn’t wicked to ask it — you would have the Manor back then ? ’ ‘ Yes, I should,’ said Bertram ; ‘ and that is why I can’t bear to have anything to do with it : it doesn’t seem honest ; it doesn’t seem right.’ ‘ Deal' boy ! ’ said Cecil, squeezing his hand tightly, 4 you are quite right, and I love you for it.’ “ ‘ And so I am determined to work and pass, and forget there could be such a change,’ pursued Ber¬ tram. 4 1 should hate to think that in my secret soul I counted on the death of that poor little thing ; and besides, you mightn’t think it, Cecil, and I could only tell you "after the nonsense that has been talked, but I’m fond of the child. She is so uncommon and so — yes, so good — she seems just a flighty little sprite to most people, but she is a great deal better than most of us.’

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No. XXI. CHATTERBOX. 163 ‘ Why do you think she is going to die, Bertie ? ’ asked Cecil. 4 I don’t think she’s going to die all in o, minute,’ he answered ; 4 but I do think she won’t live to be a woman ; and what’s more, she thinks so, too.’ 4 And is she sorry — afraid ? ’ asked Cecil, in an awe-struck tone. ‘Sorry — afraid?’ repeated Bertram, standing still in the path ; 6 she likes the idea, I believe. You can’t think, Cecil, what a little unworldly creature she is, beneath the strange French notions ; sometimes I could fancy her a small angel stepped straight down from Heaven, enjoying this pleasant world, but always ready to go back.’ 4 What does her mother think? ’ asked Cecil. Bertram shook his head. 4 Nothing. Aunt Louise is quite different ; kind and amiable, 1 ufc not a bit like Lotta. I don’t think flie‘ child ever talks to her like she does to me. It is odd she should be that bad Lancelot’s daughter.’ 4 Poor little Lotta, what a strange life!’ said Cecil : ‘ never knowing her father, poor and unknown till her childhood was almost over, and then only coming to riches and friends to lose them and leave them ! Bertie, couldn’t she be made strong, do you think? There are clever doctors in London, and she is young.’ Bertram shook his head. 4 They will try,’ he said. ‘Lady Julia and Mrs. Derrington are corresponding now about it ; they don’t think Lotta ill, only rather feeble, and with great want of energy — that’s Aunt Julia’s favourite expression : but I know how it is, Lotta has told me ; she has only had a certain amount of strength portioned out to her, and when it is gone she will die. Now, Cecil, I have told you, because I couldn’t bear to keep it all to myself, in¬ volving as it did so much to me. And please be¬ lieve me when I tell you, I wish the poor child to live, with all my heart.’ 4 1 do, Bertie, I do,’ said poor Cecil, and she would have kissed her brother on the spot but for the pre¬ sence of an old park-keeper. ‘There, then, we’ll say no more about it,’ said Bertram, relieved. 4 Let’s go back to the Euclid. Tell me again, Cis, shall I scramble through?’ 4 Scramble ! ’ said Cecil, indignantly ; 4 why, you’ll go through capitally ! See, Bertie, bring your book next Saturday — I don’t believe we have one in Comberton Terrace — and I’ll question you, dodge you up and down : that will be capital practice.’ 4 And what will her ladyship think if you employ yourself so on her Saturday evenings ?’ asked Bertie. Cecil was puzzled. ‘Then I’ll get up early on Monday morning, that can interfere with no one.’ Bertram made a long face, but for all that he got up when his sister called him on those spring morn¬ ings ; and though they might not do much in the way of steady work, the sympathy helped Bertram. It was a happier life than when he was trying to get his own living, sore and sulky, in those Dublin days, not so long ago. Bertram was terribly ashamed of his folly now ; he had confessed all to Cecil, but at the same time told her that he would not for a great deal that Lady Julia should find out what a fool he had been. And Cecil was not likely to tell of him. He had seen Mr. Merrick in town, and begged him to keep his counsel concerning him ; and that good-natured man had confided to him that he was young once, and had done a foolish thing or two : adding, that he was delighted to see his young friend in renewed health. Cecil and he had met Nanette, andt he children too, on their Sunday walks, and Nanette had told Cecil the whole story of Bertram’s saving little Aline— a matter Bertram had shamefully glossed over, Cecil declared. Aline and Beginald were going to school after Midsummer ; that was the next piece of news which they gave him. Regie looked pleased at this, but Aline crept to Nanette’s side half inclined to cry. 4 They grow too big to wander with <Jnly their father and old nurse,’ said Nanette, stroking the little girl’s hand: 4 but look you, it is well; they will be clever lady and gentleman very soon, and then Miss Aline will be mistress of her father’s house, and Master Reginald he will be captain of one beautiful vessel, and have room to take all for a sail.’ ‘And what shall you do the while, Nanette?’ asked Bertram of the old Parisienne. 4 1, my good sir? I have plans, yes — lam not quite useless yet. Mr. Merrick he invite me to guard his house, and wait quietly till my little ones come home for the holidays. But no, I could, not ; it would be too triste, so many weeks and months alone : so I go to pay a visit to my old mademoiselle, she that is now Madame Derrington of the Manor. But stay, is not that the name I hear you tell me you are? no more Yalterre Smith, but Mr. Der* rington ? Is it possible you are relation to her ?’ ‘ Quite possible,’ said Bertram ; 4 and, Nanette, you will understand when I tell you that I wish now to forget that I was ever Walter Smith; it was a foolish freak to call myself so. I do not wish to forget anything else of my pleasant voyage save that, but I know you will speak to no one of it when you go the Manor.’ Poor Bertram ! his one false step was costing him something in explanations now. Nanette shook her head knowingly, and muttered something about 4 sowing the wild oat and then Bertram had to explain how he was the original owner of the Manor before his aunt and Lotta appeared on the scene. 4 So you are vexed when they come, and you fly and say, I will be no more Derrington, without land, without money — I will be Yalterre Smith!’ said the keen old woman. 4 0 shame ! to have no more trust in the good God.’ ( To be continued .) A CAPITAL RULE. "]\ /TY father taught me never to play till my work 1 Vi was done, and never to spend my money till ! I had earned it.

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164 CHATTERBOX. No. XXL ‘ My ship, my ship, my jolly ship! Her praise is ever on my lip.’

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COMPOSED EXPBESSLT IFOIR. ‘OHATTEEBOZ.' Y ship, my ship, my jolly ship ! JjJL Her praise is ever on my lip. Quite full are both my heart and head Of all the things that could be said About my ship, My jolly ship ! Her praise is ever on my lip. Hurrah ! My ship, my ship ! I made it all, Cut it, shaped it trim and small : I painted her, and rigged her too, Though I was forced to learn to sew. Hey, my ship, My jolly ship ! Hurrah for ever ! hip, hip, hip, Hurrah ! A hundred names I’ve tried in vain, At last she’s called ‘ The lively Jane She’ll sail, and tack, and veer, and luff — I cannot praise her half enough ; O my ship, My jolly ship ! Hurrah for ever ! hip, hip, hip, Hurrah ! J. E. C. F.

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166 CHATTERBOX. No. XXL PAHIS TO NORWAY IN FOURTEEN HOURS. A BALLOON YOYAGE DURING THE SIEGE OE TARIS. OT the least interesting among the many exciting incidents of the Franco - Prussian war, were the marvellous adventures and hair¬ breadth escapes of the bold aero¬ nauts who tried, at the risk of their lives, to carry letters and despatches from Paris to the provinces of France. Put of all these wonder¬ ful journeys through the air by far the most marvellous was that accomplished by the balloon ‘La Villc d’ Orleans,’ which left Paris on 24th November, 1870, bearing important despatches from General Trochu to the army of the Loire. Violent winds wafted it in fourteen hours to Norway. The extraordinary ad¬ venture of this voyage, though perfectly true, seems like a story out of the Arabian Nialits. The follow¬ ing narrative addressed by a soldier, who was ^one of the party, to his commander, and published in a French newspaper at the time, gives a graphic ac¬ count of this adventurous journey: — c The departure took place from the Northern Rail¬ way terminus at 11.40 p.m. ; the balloon was under the guidance of M. Rolier, an aeronaut. I carried some provisions, which, at an extremity, might last us for twenty-four hours, and the despatches of the Government. We had, moreover, a cage containing six carrier-pigeons, about 250 kilogrammes of private despatches, and ten bags of ballast. ‘ Midnight. — We had started with a moderate breeze from the S.S.E., making consequently to¬ wards the N.N.W. ; that is to say, nearly in the direc¬ tion of St. Valery-sur-Somme. The balloon, which had risen to a height of 800 metres, was beginning to descend ; we were obliged to sacrifice two bags and a half of sand to reach the height of from 1100 to 1200 metres, at which distance we are out of reach of the Prussian balls. Some shots were fired at us, but without any result. ‘ 12.30 a.m. — We have reached 1400 metres : all is quiet ; the night is extremely calm. ‘ 1 a.m. — We are at 2700 metres ; we shall keep at this height till daylight. ‘ 2.30 a.m. — Far below us is a thick fog, which com¬ pletely hides from us the sight of the earth ; a noise, which I can only compare to that of a railway train in motion, makes us think that we must be close to * some railway line ; but the noise continues till day¬ light, and completely absorbs our attention. ‘ 6.15 a.m. — Day is beginning to dawn, the balloon has descended to a height of about 1400 metres ; we perceive no land on the horizon, and below us extends the sea! The- sea for us is death! The constant noise which we thought was a railway train was that of the waves. ‘ 6.30. — Lost in immensity, destitute of any instru¬ ment by which we can take our bearing* and discover where we are, and the wind always driving us to¬ wards the north, we prepare a despatch for France — “ 0.30 a.m., above the open seaj seeing no coast ; to the mercy of God.” We fasten this last adieu to one of our little pigeon messengers, bu-t the fog getting thicker and thicker every minute obliges us to give .up the plan ; we sadly replace our pigeon in its wicker prison. c 11.30 a.m.-— Always at the same height. Many ships pass in sight below us, but our signals and cries for assistance are useless. We had now descended much lower, and the aeronaut conceived the idea of letting our guide-rope hang down in its complete length, in the hope (a mad one) that a ship passing below us might be able to catch it and stop the balloon ; we had not this chance, and we were obliged painfully to draw in our cable again. ‘11.45 a.m. — A large ship in the east perceives us and fires a gun of distress. ‘ 11.55 a.m. — A schooner, the last that we were to meet on our voyage, signals to us ; the crew were all upon deck, making signals and preparations to afford us help. M. Rolier presses upon the handle which opens the valve; we rapidly descend to some few metres above the level of the sea, and it is then only that we perceive the wild speed of pur progress : the three minutes which it has taken us to descend have been enough to carry us more than eight kilo¬ metres from the schooner. It is then that, under¬ standing the impossibility of our being saved by a ship, we decide to ascend again, and as we have only got about two sacks and a half of sand left, which we must keep for a last effort, we determine to sacrifice * a bag of private despatches, weighing about sixty kilogrammes. The balloon ascends again to about 3700 metres. ‘ 12.20 p.m. — An extremely thick mist envelopes us; we can scarcely distinguish our balloon above us ; the lowness of the temperature is excessive, and we are suffering from the cold ; our hair and moustaches, # and especially our eyebrows, are small icicles ; the hoar-frost falls in a continuous shower. I am obliged to sacrifice my wrapper to cover up and protect my poor pigeons. T p.m. — The fog continues to get thicker, and the cold seems to become more intense every minute; it is now with a common accord that, believing ourselves absolutely lost, we take the resolution of blowing up the balloon. I do not pretend to justify this act of despair, or rather of weakness, but I must tell my story sincerely, and we did not desire to suffer too long. I gave one last thought to my absent country, to my wife, to my three little children, and the aeronaut tried several times to light the lucifer matches, but our clothes, the soles of our shoes, everything that he rubbed them against was so damp, that no match would light. I took a little more courage again, and we said to each other “ God does not wish to abandon us.” ‘ 2.20 p.m. — The balloon descends now with great rapidity ; arrived at the height of about 30 metres above the level of the sea, always in the fog, we per¬ ceive the top of a pine-tree emerging from a thick covering of snow; the parachute almost instantly * We learned afterwards that this precious cargo had been picked up by the Norwegian schooner, which kept following us iu the hope of being able to save us.

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No. XXL CHATTERBOX. 167 afterwards touched the ground, and the aeronaut jumped out without losing a moment. I wished to do the same, but I caught my feet in the cords of the anchor and of the guide-rope, and I found myself hanging head downwards out of the parachute, and the balloon, lightened by so great a portion of its weight, ascended with extreme velocity. For¬ tunately for me M. Holier was able' to "rasp and hold on to the guide-rope, which slackened the up¬ ward movement. I profited by this breathing-time to disengage myself, and we were both able to let ourselves fall from a height of from 20 to 25 metres into a bed of freshly fallen snow, very soft and about a metre in depth. We were saved, but we had lost our balloon and our poor pigeons. 4 It was then Friday, 25th November, 1870, 2.25 in the afternoon ; the place where we had effected our fortunate descent was called Mont Tid, quite in the north of Norway. 4 We had just escaped miraculously from the perils of the air ; the hand of God had been extended over us, but our present position did not offer a very con¬ soling prospect. We found ourselves cast upon an unknown country, exposed to all the rigours of an icy climate, without food, almost without clothing, for the balloon had carried off in its wild course our pigeons, our despatches, our provisions, and our wrappers. 4 After a short deliberation we decided, to take a route towards the south. We must first gain the valle}^, so, without any further delay, we began to descend the mountain ; stumbling, slipping at every step over frozen surfaces almost vertical, disappear¬ ing up to the chest in snow-drifts, clinging as well as we could to the pine-branches, it took us a time which appeared very long to us, but which was, perhaps, not more than half-an-hour in this painful descent, till at last we found traces of sledges, which seemed to be recent: they appeared to go in a. southern direction. We did not hesitate to follow them. 4 After two hours of very difficult walking, sinking at each step deep into the snow, the ice breaking under our feet, our legs half disappearing in the little streams which were flowing under the latest beds of snow, we found ourselves quite at the end of our strength. We had seen, too— by no means an en¬ couraging sight — three very large wolves about a hundred yards before us. We had, so far as weapons were concerned, only a small knife between us. We had not the slightest wish to cross their path, and with a sigh of relief we saw them disappear. 4 M. Holier, overcome by fatigue and cold, sank down upon the snow in a sort of lethargy, notwith¬ standing all my encouragements and all his efforts. It was impossible for him to go any further. At last, helping him as well as 1 could to take a few steps, I succeeded in leading him to the foot of a gigantic fir-tree, whose branches, loaded with an enormous weight of snow, descended to the ground. I was able to place him pretty well here in a sort of arm- ' chair, formed by two of the large lower branches ; he was already fast asleep. 4 Notwithstanding my extreme weariness, I thought I ought to resume my march to try to discover sonic habitation. After a long time of painful search I felt I must return ; night was coming on, and the fog getting thicker and thicker every minute, forced me to retrace my steps, so with a heavy heart I turned back again. 1 followed the traces of the sledge, carefully putting my feet one after the other in the rut, when by chance raising my eyes, I saw, scarcely thirty yards distant, a deserted hut. In an instant my fatigue disappeared, and' I soon reached it; I was in the midst of my palace, and found it half filled with hay. 4 To run to the fir-tree where Holier was so fast asleep, to drag him from his arm-chair, to pass his arm round my neck, to draw him whether he would or not, and to throw him quite amazed into the hut, was my next work : it was quite time, his feet were almost frozen, and this numbness might: soon lead to death. 4M. Holier recovered now from this state of torpor; wre actively set to work to clear the hay from the snow which had got through the roof; we found it quite hot under its frozen mantle. As soon as our bed was ready we hastened to barricade the door, or rather what remained of the door, with everything which we could lay our hands upon, and confident in the Divine protection which would preserve us from the visits of bears and wolves, we threw ourselves into the hay, where we buried ourselves up to our eyes, and found there, if not sleep, at least rest and warmth. 4 Welcome sleep was a long time coming. I heard my neighbour’s teeth chattering; a terrible night¬ mare shook his limbs, but he slept, and I dared not awake him. Notwithstanding all my efforts to sup¬ press them, sad thoughts came to darken my troubled spirits. I always arrived at this fatal conclusion : had I not been saved from the terrible dangers of this extraordinary voyage in the air only to reach this frozen country to die of hunger and cold ? 4 At last I was able to sink into a feverish sleep, and I awoke about 6.30 a.m. ; it was then 20th November, scarcely more than thirty hours since we had quitted Paris. 4 M. Holier’s strength had returned to him. After we had well shaken ourselves we resumed our march, leaving with a grateful glance the miserable shelter where we had found some warmth and a little re¬ freshing sleep. . The day was beginning to dawn, but oil the. horizon towards the north was shining still with an intense brilliancy the red light of a splendid aurora borealis. We had each been able to cut for ourselves a strong and long stick from one of the smaller branches of a pine-tree which had been thrown down b}r an avalanche or a storm. We walked painfully on through snow and ice, not quickly indeed, for our boots now began to be in a miserable state. Wc suffered terribly from hunger. 4 Our strength was rapidly failing. We maintained a sad silence, and I began indeed to lose courage, when about 11 o’clock, raising my head, we both uttered a cry of joy. We had just perceived a poor cottage, a palace to us ! It was empty, but in the interior everything announced that human beings had only recently quitted it. {Concluded in our next.)

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No. XXII. CHATTERBOX. 169 z

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170 CHATTERBOX. No. XXII., CHANGES AND CHANCES. ( Continued from page 163.) 3>IiEN taking liis accustomed brisk walk one afternoon, Bertram Der- x ) rington was astonished and rather disgusted to find himself accosted by no less a person than Mr. Seymour Delorme. That gentleman, however, shook his old friend cordially by the hand, asked where he was to be found, was delighted to hear he thought of entering the service, and, in fact, was all that was pleasant and friendly. Could this be the man who had first led him to risk more money than he could afford or than he possessed in gambling transactions, and then wearied him with demands for such portion of his losses as he declared were his due ? Young Delorme, who was in some cavalry regiment, had a friend by the arm, and in his company nothing was said beyond mere commonplaces ; but when Captain Trevor left them, and the two, once school friends, were alone together, Delorme linked his arm in Bertram's, and declared this meeting to be just what he wished for. Bertram must have thought his behaviour so odd about those few pounds, but he was so awfully put to it at the time — bullied, in fact, by some low tradesmen, and had no one to turn to but him. ‘I knew a Derrington would always make an effort for a friend/ said the young man, carefully stroking a small moustache ; 4 and now you are going to be one of us, I can do you a good turn now and then,’ he continued. 6 By the way, you’ll dine with me at our mess ? Thursday is our great night — not engaged, of course ?’ Bertram murmured something, he hardly knew what, he was scarcely prepared to be hand-in-glove again with one who had treated him unfairly, as he thought; but Delorme’s mannei*' was so easy, his excuses so plausible, that Bertram began to think there must be a mistake somewhere, and that this gentlemanly, pleasant young officer, could not be the selfish, almost dishonest fellow, he had con¬ sidered him of late. Before he could make up his mind what to do, Delorme had loosed his arm and crossed the road to join another friend, with a 4 Good day, then ; see you on Thursday.’ Bertram was not the only person who gazed with astonished eyes at the gay " farewell ; Cecil, driving out with her aunt, was a witness of it, and it gave her a shock. She did not know how purely acci¬ dental it was, and she trembled for Bertram if he had once again linked himself to that bad man. Lady Julia did not wish to stop the carriage, so Cecil was only able to nod to her brother as they swept on. The poor girl was very anxious, and yet afraid to do harm by seeming to suspect her brother. Should she write to him, and beg him to be careful, or should she wait till Sunday ? There were objec¬ tions to both courses. She finally made up her mind to wait, but when Sunday came, no chance presented itself for dragging in Deiorme’s name, and Cecil reproached herself sorely when she found Bertram gone and the subject not opened between them. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, came and went, finding Bertram much tossed in his mind. Should he, or should he not dine with Delorme ? A natural wish to see how other fellows got on in their regiments inclined him to think he would go ; that affair, too, of money with Delorme might look awkward to country people used to very plain dealings, and yet be really all right in the eyes of the world, and it was foofish to try and keep up enmity with an old schoolfellow ; so ran his thoughts on one side the question, while on the other the re¬ membrance of those ugly importunate letters, the long paper of debts contracted mainly under Delorme’s guidance, and the feeling that his mother, Miss Tre- vannock, Cecil, would all be strongly against his renewing his acquaintance with this questionable friend, pulled him hard the other way. 4 If only Cecil were here to talk it over/ said Bertram to himself. It was nearly four o’clock, he must soon make up his mind now. At that moment a servant came to tell him that Miss Derrington was below. And then, from a twinge of vexation which 3hot through him, Bertram found out that he had wished and intended to dine with Delorme, and only feared now that Cecil would try and prevent it. She was dressed in blue and white, looking so gay and pretty, that he could not help admiring her. 4 1 am come to fetch you,’ she said, gaily ; 4 you must be mine for to-day. Lady Julia can’t take me to the garden-party at Sir John Trevannock’s, but she says I may go there with you ; so run and make yourself presentable, the carriage can wait a bit.’ Bertram hesitated. 4 What is it?’ asked Cecil ; ‘can you not come ? are you so very busy V 4 It isn’t business,’ said Bertram, obliged to tell the truth to this open-faced sister ; 4 the fact is, Cis, I’m half engaged to dine with Delorme of the Ilussars ; one can’t keep up a quarrel for ever.’ Cecil’s face clouded over. 4 Oh, Bertie !’ said she, 4 1 saw him speaking to you the other day. You don’t care for him, do you?— you won’t go!’. And then Bertram, with a little return to his old lofty ways, explained to Cecil that in the world, what Delorme had done was nothing so very bad — no lapse of honour, in fact— and that it would be childish to refuse to dine with an old schoolfellow because he had lost a little money by him. 4 It isn’t that,’ said Cecil, somewhat impatiently ; 4 and I don’t know anything about the world’s rules, Bertie ; but ask xlunt Mary, ask Mr. Philipps. Truth is truth, and honour honour, everywhere, and I think Mi*. Delorme acted dishonourably by you. You know he told you no one would ever come upon you for that money till you chose to pay it.’ . Bertram was silent. He was vexed. ‘ This comes of letting women into your affairs,’ he said to himself. With all his good resolves the foolish boy was longing

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No. XXII. CHATTERBOX. 171 to be allowed to take one little sip of the forbidden cup, and here was Cecil, who knew nothing about such things, putting forth her hand to hold him back. What should he do ? Of course it was all right for Cecil to be on the safe side ; but then she had always disliked Seymour Delorme, and was not a fair judge. It would be difficult to say which would have won the day had not Bertram’s kind feelings gained the upper hand. Here was Cecil, looking so fair and flower-like, waiting for him to be her companion and protector. It was no use thinking of himself, he could not disappoint her. 4 Well, Cis,’ he said, 4 we won’t fight about it; I can’t send you about your business, so I’ll scribble a line to Delorme and tell him how it is. The fact is,’ and Bertram thought he was telling the truth, 4 1 didn’t want to go ; but it was difficult to get out of it. Sit down a minute, there’s a good girl, and I’ll be with you before Aunt Julia’s fat coachman has quite lost patience.’ 4 Thanks, dear Bertie,’ said Cecil ; 4 that is good of you. I should have been disappointed to have missed this affair, for Aunt Mary will like so to hear of it, I know.’ It. was a lovely afternoon, and Bertram did not find it at all disagreeable sauntering about the pleas¬ ant grounds of Sir John Trevannock’s pretty villa ; he had a conviction, too, that he had done well in re¬ fusing Delorme’s invitation, and that gave him a feeling of self-approbation which he was hardly en¬ titled to, for it was but the mere chance of Cecil’s arrival which had decided the matter. Fortune favoured him still more that day, however : for lie overheard two quiet, middle-aged men, whose opinions were worthy of attention, discussing the prospects of these very Delormes. % A bad look-out,’ said one ; 4 it is no use old De¬ lorme turning steady-going now and giving up the turf if his son is to take it all up ; and, between ourselves, the son is not so particular as the father was that everything should be fair and open. There are some very queer things said of him; he has a wonderful talent, they say, for victimising young men who are not so clever or so far-seeing as himself. I don’t think the Hussars will keep him long; they may be a gay set of fellows, but they won’t stand that sort of thing.’ Bertram sauntered away after this, caring to hear no more, and very thankful to Cecil for having led him to come with her that afternoon. 4 What a fool I am !’ said the lad to himself. It was the wisest, the most healthy idea he had had for many days. 4 Come and have a talk, Cis,’ he said, seizing on Cecil when next he met her on the lawn. And Cecil was delighted to go with him into a corner so se¬ cluded that they were almost out of hearing of band and chatter alike. Bertram began at once. 4 I’ve done with Delorme, Cjs : you’ll never see me with him again.’ Oh, Bertie, I am glad ! ’ said Cecil ; 4 that is wise of you. And then Bertram told what he had overheard. 4 1 don’t want to he hard on him,’ said Cecil, 4 but I am sure it must be true. I feel he is false whenever I am with him.’ 4 1 wish I was like you, Cis,’ said Bertram, in an unusual outburst of humility ; 4 but I am such a fel¬ low for being taken in : if people seem friendly, or — or — flatter me a bit, it’s all up with me ; and yet I mean to keep straight. You. would think I had suffered enough for my stupidity.’ 4 Bertie, you miss our father,’ said Cecil, 4 that is it ; he was always so kind, and knew all about these things.’ 4 And my mother, and all you women, are too kind,’ said Bertram. 4 You think all I do must be right ; but I won’t complain of women to-day, for it was you, Cecil, who saved me from Delorme, and perhaps another mess, for which I am most heartily thankful. If it hadn’t been for your pretty blue fal-lals and veils - ’ 4 And wimples,’ said Cecil, laughing. 4 And all that sort of thing,’ continued Bertram, 4 1 should have been lost; but 1 couldn’t be such a brute as to refuse to take you out.’ 4 Then finery has done a little good once in a way,’ said Cecil 4 1 must put that before Master Clement ; he won’t like it : he considers anything slighter than serge and gingham to be clothing oneself in folly, and shakes his head over my visit to Vanity Fair. It is the only thing he and Carrie dispute aboitt. Carrie has the most decided longing to be a fashionable young lady, and this, coupled with her intense re¬ spect for Clement’s opinions, furnishes them with a subject for discussion whenever they meet. Clem is such a downright old fellow, he can’t understand the least show, either in dress or conversation.’ 4 It comes from hid love of truth,’ said Bertram ; 4 it is a fault on the right side, and if it makes him a bit narrow and hard, it will work off. I wish I had that sort of fault, I know,’ he added. 4 How different fellows are!’ 4 You suit me best, Bertram./ said Cecil, to her companion; 4 and you are growing wiser and more careful every day.’ 4 I ought to be/ said Bertram; 4 but I shall have to look out when I join. Cis, run me through the English kings, there’s a good girl— dates and all : you have them pat, I know.. If I break down it will be in history and mathematics.’ And Cecil gravely obeyed. She and her brother never met now without some little exercise of this sort, utterfy regardless of time or place : and even on* John Trevannock’s garden-party furnished a spot for a history lesson. (To be continued.) KEEPING ONE’S WORD. OIB WILLIAM NAPIER was one day taking a y Jong country walk near Freshford, when lie met a little girl about five years old sobbing over a broken bowl; she had dropped and broken it in bringing it back from the. field, to which she had taken her fathers dinner in it, and she said she would be beaten on her return home. Then, with a sudden, gleam of hope, she looked up into his face, and said, 4 But yee can mend it, can’t yee?’ Sir

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William smilingly explained that he could not mend the bowl, but he could mend her trouble by the gift of a sixpence to buy another. However, on opening his purse, it was empty of silver, and he had to make amends by promising to meet his little friend in the same spot at the same hour next day. The child, entirely trusting him, went on her way comforted. On his return home he found an invitation awaiting him to dine in Bath the following evening, to meet some one whom he specially wished to see. He hesitated for some little time, trying to calculate the possibility of giving the meeting to his little friend of the broken bowl, and of still being in time for the dinner¬ party in Bath ; but finding this could not be, he wrote to decline accepting the invitation on the plea of a pre-engagement, saying to his family, _ ‘ I can¬ not disappoint her, she trusted me so implicitly.’ — Cassell's Paper.

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J IHOIS the month when the Hawthorn, the pride of the vale, Whitens the hedges with blossoms and sweetens the gale, And the children are glad in the sunshine to play, And gather the flowers for the garlands of May. In the dingle they seek for the Lily, so pure and so sweet, And old friends start freshly that are pleasant to meet — Violets, Primroses, and Blue Bells, to memory dear ; And we know, by their fragrance, that Summer is here. In the garden the Tulips make a glorious show, Polyanthuses in clusters, and Pansies, cast a purple glow. They are coming — they are here — with music and dance Nimble feet are twinkling, and bright eyes merry glance, H. G. A,

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174 CHATTERBOX. No. XXII. THE FLOWERS OF MAT. PARIS TO NORWAY IN FOURTEEN HOURS. SURELY. May is the freshest, brightest, fairest month in all the year ! Well is it called ‘ merry May/ for all nature seems to wear a glad smile. The woods and. fields are dressed in bright and varied colours, as if for some joyful festival ; while the birds fill the air with their music, and the soft refreshing breeze is laden with sweet perfumes; but it often happens that the weather is still showery and un¬ certain. . The time comes, however, when May appears in what we must consider its true character. All nature suddenly wakes to beauty and delight ; and as we look around on the bright prospect we can say with the poet Wordsworth,— ‘ This sweet May morning The children are pulling On every side, In a thousand valleys, far and wide, Fresh flowers.’ Yes, flowers of every hue are now to be had for the gathering. The Primroses, and Cowslips, and Rluebells, that gladdened us by their appearance during last month, still remain ; but a host of fair companions have since joined them. In the shady glen blooms the sweet-scented Lily-of-the-Valley, an emblem like the Violet of modesty and simplicity. Its cluster . of pure white bells, that stand out so beau¬ tifully against the two dark-green leaves, seem just suited to serve as a peal to be rung at a fairy’s wed¬ ding. Another dweller in the shade, the sweet Woodruff, has now opened its little, white, star-like blossoms. Its dark-green leaves when bruised in the hand give forth a scent like that of new-mown hay. . Rut we must not forget to notice May’s own peculiar blossom, the fragrant Hawthorn. See how it covers, the hedges with a robe of spotless white, as if last winter’s, snow had been changed into flowers ! In the olden times, when our ancestors made the first of May a day of. general rejoicing, the young folk rose very early in the morning and went forth to gather the branches of the Hawthorn, wherewith to deck the doors and windows of their homes. Many other wild flowers are now in blossom. Rut we must turn our attention to the garden, taking a glance on our way thither at the orchard, where the apple- trees, are covered with rosy bloom. The Tulips are now in all their glory, clothed in brilliant reds and yel¬ lows, and, holding their heads erect in the sunshine, they seem the very monarchs of the garden. As the pale Lilies-of-the- Valley growing in the shady wood are fit emblems of modesty, so do these gay flowers well represent pride and haughtiness. Next the shining Pansies, trimmed with golden lace, call forth our praises. Their broad velvet faces glow with rich purple, and yellow, and black. Rut what is the plant with the beautiful pink flowers that hang so gracefully on a thin grass-like stem? This is" the Dyelytra, a native of China, brought into this country many years ago, and now .a favourite in many a cottage garden. Rut we have not space to name, much less describe, a twentieth part of the beautiful flowers of May, and so we must leave our young- readers to ramble without our guidance through the ay woods, fields, and gardens, until we are able to e with them again in J une. H. R. A. {Concluded from 'parje 107.) T/TTE were saved ; nothing more remained for us / ' now than to wait patiently and in shelter for the return of the inhabitants. V e knocked at this door, and receiving no answer we entered. In Norway hospitality is a sacred duty; the inhabitants never shut up their houses : and here there was not. even a lock to the door. We saw in the middle of the cabin some still smoking brands on the floor, which showed that the inhabitants had only lately, quitted it. Upon a shelf different household articles were ranged ; coarse-knitted woollen stockings were hung in* the corners; in one great saucepan there was some milk, in another coffee ; at one end of the room, in a dark corner, was a heap of hay, which evidently served for a bed. It was kept together by four thick planks of fir, and over it were three counterpanes and two warm bear-skins : the whole looked so comfortable that it made us dream of warmth and heat. ‘Rut what struck us the most, and at once at¬ tracted our hungry looks, was a huge iron saucepan full of boiled potatoes, still warm. We ate a few with a certain greediness, which must indeed be pardoned us, for we had eaten little since our departure from Paris. ‘ A scruple seized us. We had entered a habitation whose owners were absent. We would not expose ourselves to the reproaches which they had a right to make to us on their return, so we left the hut to instal ourselves outside. ‘About half an hour had passed away when we saw. two peasants, wrapped up in furs, and each leading a horse, appear at the top of the hill. They stopped when they saw us, struck with amaze¬ ment. We, on our side also much excited, had got up; Rolier, advancing a. few steps, made the Russian salutation to them, raising his arms towards the sky ; they answered by the same sign, and advanced towards us. ‘ Our first words when we arrived near them were, “Started from Paris in a balloon!” We tried to make them understand that we had crossed a vast sea, that we had fallen into the snow, and that we prayed them to grant us hospitality7". The two honest fellows looked silently at each other, not understanding a single word of our French, replying to us by some syllables of a hissing and guttural language, to which it is not neeessafry to say wre were totally strangers. ‘ For a quarter of an hour we continued to pour out torrents of eloquence, which, alas ! were com¬ pletely lost, when a bright idea struck us. We made a sketch of a balloon upon a card, and, more for¬ tunate than Alexander Dumas was when he made a sketch of a mushroom in an inn and they brought him an umbrella, we at once perceived that our honest peasants understood us. Our drawing was so rough, that many peasants in France would probably have taken our balloon for a top. After having attentively looked both at the drawing and at the engraved side of the card, they saw the magic word Paris printed

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No. XXII. CHATTERBOX. 175 on it, and looking at the sketch again, exclaimed, “ Tu, ballone, Paris !” pointing to the sky with their fingers. 4 The brave fellows at first seemed full of conster¬ nation, but their fear soon, to our delight, changed into great activity. The younger of them went to fetch some lard and sausages, which he fried at our request, while the elder eagerly drew us into the hut, lighted the fire to warm us, and prepared coffee for us. 4 After having dined sumptuously, and having well warmed ourselves, we begged our two good peasants to serve us as guides to Christiania. By means of expressive gestures we succeeded in making ourselves understood. Our hosts, after having briefly consulted together, accepted our proposal. W e thought we were some two or three hours’ march from Christiania, but a little later, when we had the good fortune to meet Norwegians speaking our own language, we learned with horror that we had fallen to the north of Christiania, and that we had still 100 leagues to go, and by what roads ! 4 When our good hosts had made up their minds, they had soon finished their preparations for depar¬ ture. For the third time we had to stumble and slide in the snow, suffering much from our worn-out shoes. But after a walk of about an hour we reached the shores of a splendid lake, surrounded by snowy mountains and magnificent pine-trees. Here, stand¬ ing close to some granite cliffs, was a collection of inhabited cottages. We entered one of these, pre¬ ceded by our brave guides. It was here they lived with their families. The hut we had just quitted was only a sort of barn, where they kept their agri¬ cultural implements and part of their produce. 4 We can never sufficiently thank these brave and excellent Norwegians for the marks of kindness which they lavished upon us; they gave us more to eat, they wrapped us up in thick furs, they gave us warm boots lined with fur : in short, they treated us like sons or brothers, and not like strangers fallen from they knew not where; and all this so simply and without parade. These people may be little civilised, but they have kind hearts. 4 As it had been thawing for some time and the lake had become navigable, our woodmen embarked with us in a light boat, which they rowed. After an hour on the water we landed at a village called Silgjor; then, after a quarter of an hour’s walk, we reached the house of the pastor Bije. When presented by our woodmen we were cordially wel¬ comed, and put quite at our ease at once. 4 The good pastor did not speak French, but we were scarcely installed in his hospitable house when three of his friends, whom he had sent for, arrived — Dr. Thomason, the medical man of the canton, the lawyer Walloe, and the engineer of mines, Nielson. These three gentlemen, who belonged to the best society, spoke French admirably, so we were at once able to tell them our story. 4 We had not only to relate to them about onr own adventures, but of besieged Paris, of which we brought such recent news. Never were poor orators listened to with greater enthusiasm. 4 After two hours of this conversation we had to leave pastor Bije’s hospitable house, for M. Nielson was determined to have us to dinner. We took leave of our two brave woodcutters who had saved us ; it was impossible to make them accept any money ; we could only express to them our deepest gratitude.’ We must now abridge the story of our travellers, which enters too much into minute particulars. Next morning, 27th November, they left in sledges for the town of Cromberg, which they did not reach till the middle of the night. Here they telegraphed to the French consul in Norway, to inform him of their miraculous escape ; the answer they received next morning while they were breakfasting with the chief magistrate of the town. It was a joyful surprise to them, for it informed them that their balloon had been found in a farm-yard some distance to the north, and that their poor pigeons were quite well. At some few leagues from Cromberg they took the railway to Christiania. As the telegraph had now announced their arrival, and their romantic ad¬ ventures were well known, an enthusiastic reception awaited them at all the stations, for the population sympathised with France in the war. At Drammen they were carried in triumph through the town to the hotel : here M. Eolier found his ortmanteau again, which had been saved with the alloon, so they were able to change their clothes and make a more respectable appearance. Next morning, just as they were about to start for Christiania, a happy surprise was prepared by the good Norwegians for the kind-hearted soldier. On opening the carnage door which was to take him to the station he heard a chirping sound, and directly after beheld his beloved pigeons in their wicker cage, safe and well as if nothing had happened to them. At Christiania they received a perfect ovation. There were grand fetes in their honour to give them a hearty welcome. The French consular agent, M. Hepp, asked to be allowed to keep the balloon, to exhibit it for the benefit of the French wounded. M. Eolier consented, and by means of that and other subscriptions 24,000 francs were remitted to the French Government for the sufferers in the war. After two days in Christiania the bold aeronauts embarked on board the North Star , an English vessel with an English captain, 4 who declared he had made the campaign of the Crimea, and would rather sink his vessel than that the Prussians should have an inch of our bodies,’ and after a passage of five days and. four nights reached London. c 4 1 was horribly sick,’ says our narrator, 4 but my good friends the pigeons bore wonderfully well the rollings of the voyage. They were at liberty in my cabin, where they had as much corn and water as they wanted.’ After remaining thirty hours in London our tra¬ vellers embarked for Jersey and St. Malo, and thence quickly made their way to Tours. 4 5Tou see,’ concludes the soldier, 4 that I ac¬ complished my mission faithfully. I was, it is true, more than fifteen days going from Paris to Tours, but I passed through Norway and England, which was by no means the direct route/ My despatches reached their destination, and what I consider as my only title to glory is that, thanks to my good friends in Norway, T have saved and brought back my poor pigeons.’ J. F. C.

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A A

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178 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIII. CHANGES AND CHANCES. ( Continued from p. 171.) T was a moment of intense delight and relief to Cecil when a telegram reached her one hot morning, late in July, bearing only the words, 4 Passed, and very fairly too.’ She had been to the full as anxious as her brother about the matter, and now they were free to go down to Markhaven together at the end of the week. Markhaven, in the bright summer months, is a gay and pleasant little place, too far from any great town to be overrun with visitors or swamped with excur¬ sionists, and yet having a sprinkling of strangers, chiefly families who occupied the substantial grey houses in the village street. The Philippses rather looked forward to ‘ the season,7 they generally made some pleasant acquaintances then, or, more frequently still, secured the best of the trim lodging-houses for some friend or other, who would appear with a train of children and servants for a six- weeks’ blow on the coast. This summer was a specially delightful one in this particular: first there was the whole Philipps7 party at home, then Bertie and Cecil joined their folk in the pretty High Street Cottage, and a third house was engaged for Mrs. Lancelot Herrington, Miss Trevannock, and Lotta. Janette, who had paid her visit to her French lady, was also in Markhaven, in charge of Aline and Beginald,who had come for sea-bathing. Even Lady Juiia threatened a visit, bo it seemed as if every one had made up then minds at once to patronise this sandy, hilly, little spot. Bertram was charmed with it : there was so much to he done, he declared, quite different to other watering-places — boating, riding, sketching: even a very tolerable brass band made its appearance on the beach every evening, and owed a debt of gratitude to Bertram and Cecil for introducing the fashion of walking up and down in the evening to listen to its strains. c I like to hear, the tunes again,7 said Cecil, ‘and fancy myself for a minute in some dusty London street : and then, like magic, open my eyes on the beautiful fresh sea.7 Bertram was happy and contented, simply because he was at peace with himself ; he had worked hard of late and had tasted the sweets of success, and now he was enjoying another pleasure, that of being petted and made much of by the members of his family. And now that he was happy, he no longer fretted and fumed over his mother’s content, living without carriages or grand servants, nor marvelled at Cecil revelling in her schools and small proteges .. The world was bjright even in this small corner of it, and it was natural they should all be bright too. He had had a serious talk with his mother about things past and present, and told her the desire of his heart, to be allowed to follow the fortunes of whatever regiment he happened to be appointed to. . 4 You won’t mind, mother, * he said, ‘if it is ordered to India, or the Colonies. I like travelling, and I want to feel as if I had a real business in life. I mean to make a thorough good soldier, if I can manage it; I have been nothing good yet. And now let ns forget there is such a thing as parting in store and enjoy ourselves for the present. Ho wonder Hugh has grown such a big fellow, with this splendid air blowing about him ; 1 hope it will do Lotta good, too.7 Lotta was looking more shadowy than ever, but still flitting about and enjoying herself in a quiet fashion of her own. She was shy of the downright homely Philipps7 girls, with their busy life and active fingers; but her delight at seeing Bertram was extreme, and she was always pleased to go out with him for a sail or row, or even to sit quietly on the shore by his side. She talked very little now even to him : she only asked where he should go when he was a soldier, and hearing probably India, she got Carrie to find her the place on the map, and silently measured the dis¬ tance from England. Why, will you go so far?7 she added one day, wistfully. ‘Because I shall be ordered there,7 said Bertram, ‘ and it will be my duty. You will like me to do my duty, Lotta?7 ‘ Oh, yes,7 she said ; and then added, in a soft whisper, ‘ but you need not go.’ Bertram would not understand her, and Lotta sighed and relapsed into silence. ‘ He will think I want him to sta}r for me, if I ask him more,7 she said to herself. ‘But it is not for that,7 she went on ; ‘ it is that I am slipping, slipping away, and shall soon keep him no more from his old home.7 The Manor was being rebuilt, much after the old fashion. Mrs. Lancelot Herrington had brought the plans with her, and shown them proudly to Bertram. ‘ See, we preserve your old Hall, and the gallery will be the same also ; we will even hang the pictures in the same order. Lotta can see to that, she knows exactly how they come; do you not , petite V ‘ Yes,7 responded the child ; ‘ I know them all. I will make a plan, too.7 ‘ There are new rooms here on the garden side,7 continued Aunt Louise : ‘ a morning-room for us all, with a window especially for Cecile — she likes to work and write in a window — and a door to open on tho grass. Every one shall have their own corner in the new house,7 said the hopeful little French lady; ‘for you, Bertram, is a beautiful smoke-room.7 ‘ And I do not smoke,7 said Bertram, laughing. Madame Louise looked disconcerted. ‘But you will,’ she said at last ; ‘ you must, with so beautiful a room.7 . . , -r, ‘ Listen, mother, how she tempts me, said Ber¬ tram, laughing. And so the da}rs went by in pleasant chat, even the mother seldom dwelling on the parting that was to come. * The first disturbance in the peaceful circle was made by Lady Julia. She came down for a few days, as she had given out, and aftdr a rapid glance round, and a disapproving comment on Cecil and Carrie’s embrowned faces, she fixed her keen eyes on Lotta. ‘ Who has seen the child latch" ?7 she asked. 6 Who ? 7 repeated her mother, puzzled.

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iT" No. XXIII. CHATTERBOX. 4 Yes, I ask a plain, question/ said Lady Julia. 4 Under whose care is Lotta ? ’ 4 She is well, she is not ill/ said Aunt Louise, a little anxiously ; 4 you find her pale by Cecile and Carrie, but my child colours never with the sun/ ‘Lotta, go into the garden/ said Lady Julia, de¬ cidedly. 4 Mrs. Lancelot Herrington/ continued she, as the little girl went listlessly out into the brightness, 4 if you do not take care you will lose that child'. She does not grow, she is paler and wilder-looking every time I see her. She has no stamina, no strength/ 4 Ah ! you frighfen me ! ’ said the poor mother, almost gasping at Lady Julia’s quick sentences. 4 It is only what I wish/ said that lady ; 4 you need to be frightened. I do not know what you can all have been thinking of to let her get ' into that state. Come in, child, now; the sun is much too hot for you/ she called out of the window: and as Lotta stepped quietly back over the low sill, several eyes fixed themselves anxiously upon her. She was pale and shadowy-looking, truly ; . not wild— that was too strong an expression ; but with a strange, far-off look in her great eyes, that her mother would not willingly sec. Lady Julia was satisfied now; every one was frightened enough about the little girl. Bertram’s lot was cast with a regiment which would probably be ordered to India in the autumn. He was not sorry for this, as he had a natural taste for travel and a young man’s love of change; but had he been placed in the dullest country quarters he would have tried to be contented, and make the best of it, so determined was he to be steady in the course he had marked out for himself. His last occupation before joining was taking his little cousin and her mother to their old chateau in Brittany. Lotta had been prescribed entire change of scene, and Mrs. Lancelot Herrington had a long¬ ing to revisit the home where she had spent her child¬ hood. It was a quaint old place, with stiff, stunted avenues leading to it, and odd turrets crowning the building at every corner. Here Louise de Laurency had wandered during the first ten or twelve years of her life, thinking every spot charming, and quite unaware that she was a half-educated, ay, only half- fed, little aristocrat. The only grief of her youth was the parting with these long-held lands of her forefathers, and many a conversation had she with Nanette, who accompanied them, about old times. Bertram stayed a week at the chateau, and with him Lotta explored the nooks and corners of this French home. There was a tiny hill in one part of the grounds, from which the sea was visible, and this soon became Lotta’s favourite resting-place. 4 1 am glad we came here/ said she one day to Bertram, as they sat there ; 4 it all goes well with me now/ ‘You like your mother’s home?’ questioned Bertram. Lotta nodded 4 Yes/ 4 This fresh air gives you strength?’ he went on. 4 1 do not know/ said Lotta ; 4 but it is good for me ; g'ood for mother. See how content she is search¬ ing out her old play-places, arranging the old orange trees — her father planted this, her mother would have that, and Nanette can help her memory. She likes it better than the Manor, Bertram.’ 4 Ho yoUy though ? ’ asked Bertram. 4 Hon’t say yes. Remember, you are to be English, the lady of the Manor/ 4 1 am of no country ; I like them all/ said the maiden, wearily. 4 But that does not pi ease me/ said Bertram. 4 Look here, Lotta ; I want you to get strong and well, and be a bright little mistress of the new Manor when I come back from India ; this is all very well, but it is not your place.’ 4 Not my place ? ’ repeated Lotta. 4 No, you are right ; I must go back, and soon, too. My place is nearly ready/ 4 Not yet/ said Bertram, smiling ; 4 don’t be in too great a hurry/ 4 1 am not in a hurry/ said Lotta, quietly : 4 but when you are man and officer, and the new Manor is nearly finished, and m}r mother has Nanette and the Chateau Laurency to please and occupy her, then I might go, think you? ’ 4 Where?’ asked Bertram, puzzled at her matter- of-fact summing up. 4 To my corner in the churchyard— to my home with the angels/ said Lotta, composed^. 4 See, Bertram, I tell no one but you. I would not make mother sorry before the time ; but I must go, and it is right and good so. Once I liked the Manor, and I thought it was my home ; but no ! there was always something I wanted more, and I never knew what till I found out the heaven above ! I must go there ; and I am glad, too, to leave for you your old home : it was pity I ever took it from you, but I did not know. Cousin, I will stay here some weeks, as mother wishes, but after, you must promise — promise to fetch me back to your England. I will go from there to my own place in the sky. Ho I hear you say yes? for you shall not go till you do.’ Bertram made the promise, for without it Lotta would not be content. He had a serious talk with his Aunt Louise and Nanette that evening, not re¬ peating Lotta’s words, but trying to find out from them if they saw any fresh signs of failing in the child. But both were very hopeful ; she was better, they were certain of it. And Bertram went back to England, half persuaded that his little cousin was fanciful about herself, and that when next he saw her she would be strong and well. ( Concluded in our next.) CHINESE MAXIMS. LET every man sweep the snow from his own door, and not busy himself’ about the frost on his neighbour’s tiles. Great wealth comes by destiny : moderate weakh by industry. The ripest fruit will not fall into your mouth. The pleasure of doing good is the only one that does not wear out. Big a well before you arc thirsty. Water does not remain in the mountains, nor vengeance in a great mind.

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PUSSY’S STRANGE FAMILY. MY neighbour, Mrs. Satchel], was made very happy the other day by the appearance of three puppies. The mother — Nelly — a small black- and-tan terrier, was so loving and clever that she was a great pet with all the family. Alas ! before night the joy was turned into sorrow, for poor Nelly died, and the little blind puppies were left motherless. What was to be done ? Mrs. Satchell was more than ever anxious to keep them, in remembrance of the faithful Nelly : but they were too small to be fed and handled, and she feared they must die. A neighbour happened to mention that her own tortoise¬ shell cat had just given her a little family of kittens, all of which were to be drowned but one. ‘ I wonder if Pussy would take to Nelly’s pup¬ pies?’ said 4 Mrs. Satchell.

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No. XXIII. CHATTERBOX. 181 ‘ Oh, no ! ’ replied the neighbour, rather surprised. f It is not likely a cat would suckle puppies.’ ‘ Well, I have read of such things,’ observed Mrs. Satchell ; 4 and I do not think it unlikely.’ ‘ I am sure you are quite welcome to try,’ said the neighbour, good-naturedly. Accordingly the puppies were taken to Pussy, who received them with the greatest kindness. Not so the wee blind kitten, who set up her back and did her best to growl and spit ; but finally yielded, and has grown very fond of her adopted brothers. Puss is an excellent mother; if her mistress carries her and her children into the back-kitchen while the front-kitchen is cleaned, Puss is so afraid they should take cold that she carries them all back to the fire in her mouth, and in every way she takes the greatest care of them. They are now a month old, and very pretty it is to see them at play ; they bark at their mother, tumble over her, and serve her all sorts of tricks, at which she looks proud and hapjjy. I dare say she thinks no one can show such a fine little family. Kitty has all the puppies’ tails to play with, which is, of course, a great advantage ; and they are so fond of her that I expect they will be quite sorry when the day of parting comes, which is, I believe, to be very soon. A*. ° FELICIE’S FUTURE. ?ONSIEUK MICHEL was a hard- fc > working, painstaking music-master. He was not a Frenchman though, having lived fifteen years in France, he had brought with him back to ^ _ England the softer pronunciation * rea^ name> Michael — John / \ Felix Michael. Something else, too, beside a mere accent he brought with him from fair France — a little daughter Felicie, or Fejixe, as she called herself. For her sake chiefly Monsieur Michel shut himself up in the close walls of a London house, and day by day plodded along the hot pavements of London streets in the pursuance of his daily work ; for had he not Felicie to provide for ? and were these not reasons why he should strive to lay by enough to place his child beyond reach of want in future days ? Then alone could he hope to win back peace of mind, for Monsieur Michel had many sad thoughts of which no one knew — no, not even bright little Felixe, who smoothed his thin hair and stroked his hollow cheeks when he came home, weary and depressed, in an evening.

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182 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIII. 4 You work too hard, father,’ she said often; but Monsieur Michel shook his head. ‘ lie thinks so much of mamma/ Fe'Iixe would ex¬ plain to Jerome, her dear friend and almost brother, iim pupil of Monsieur Michel’s : ‘ it is that makes him sorrowful. 1 cannot grieve,’ the child would add, ‘ because, you know, 1 cannot recollect her. I was a baby when she died.’ Felixe was right, it was the remembrance of her young dead mother which lay heavy on her father’s heart. The pretty, spoilt child of rich parents, she had left her luxurious home in Paris in a hasty moment to throw herself on the love and care of the music- master. ‘I will not marry my cousin,’ she sobbed out; ‘ and they will make me, unless you prevent it.’ And, against his better judgment, John Felix Michel and Angelique de la lliviere were married. The Englishman loved his childish bride, and strove to procure her all the comforts, and some of the luxuries, of her old home; but whether it was the anger of her parents, or the neglect of her friends, or simply the rougher life, the poor little Parisian drooped and died soon after the anniver¬ sary of her wedding-day. Pier parents came to look on her as she lay in her coffin, and did not scruple to say to the stricken Michel, ‘ Thou hast done this !’ And he bowed his head repentant and self-convic¬ ted. Pie should have led the wayward, childish creature, back to her friends, he knew ; not let her join her fate to his, to perish because she was not strong enough nor brave enough to meet poverty within and unkindness without. But when the trembling, angry old voices demanded their grand¬ child, Michel drew back ; it .was his child and Angelique’s, no one should part them. They stormed and raged, but Michel was calm. They said that not one penny of their wealth should ever be the babe’s if he defied them now. Still Michel held out, the child was his. He must make her life happy, if only to ease his heart regarding poor Angelique. And the cool, determined man, had his way. Felixe knew no other care save her father’s for the first few years of her life. They moved from Paris to London, and there the music- master redoubled his toil; eagerly watching the sums mount up that were to secure Angelique’s child the comforts of life. Jerome was a new pleasure to Felixe in those days ; she had never hacl a friend before, and the boy, three years older than herself, was of that earnest, impulsive nature, which is so often joined with mu¬ sical genius. He was an orphan ; the only child of a distant cousin of Michel’s, and though living with him, was studying music in its higher branches under one of the great masters of the day. Felixe de¬ lighted in nothing so much as accompanying him on the piano, for she, too, loved music, and inherited her father’s firm, light touch, and quick reading of a composer’s meaning. ‘ Shall I teach like you when I am big?’ she had asked as a little girl. But Michel had shaken his head, and taken her little fingers in his. ‘No, mv child,’ he had said; ‘father will do all that; you shall not woik, but be my little butterfly— gay, bright, and happy. PP is eyes looked back then to the early life of his French wife. Felixe should be what she was before the troubled days of married life came. But Felixe sighed and looked unsatisfied: she did not grow very like her Parisian mother; she had the soft brown hair and grey eyes of some English maiden ancestor, and with them she had inherited a sturdy English independence. She wished to work ; she wished to be busy ; and then, perhaps, father would rest: he was often very tired now. Yes, and each day saw him more weary, till one terrible morning Felixe found him lying stiff and cold in his bed. Not dead, but stricken with that strange malady which says to one limb or another, ‘Lie still , or, worse still, checks and impedes the words of love, and care, and anxiety that seem to pant for utterance. Monsieur Michel lay long ill, and rose from his bed to find his right arm helpless, with small hope of ever recovering its use. It was such a blow to the anxious man that he could not recover it ; he sank into a state of depres¬ sion pitiful to witness, and from which even Felixe failed to rouse him. His hard-earned gains were all melting away ; a few more years of this linger¬ ing affliction ancl nothing would be left for his child. She, too, would feel, as Angelique had done, the world too rough for her, and then he would have two young lives on his conscience. So meditated the poor man as he sat moodily listening to Felixe and Jerome at their favourite instruments. They were executing a brilliant and difficult piece of music. ‘Bravo !’ said Jerome as they reached the end. Felixe heaved a sigh of pleasure and relief ; her set lips unclosed, she turned suddenly round with a fi Was it well done, father ? ’ Then, remarking his despohding attitude, she threw her arms round his neck and whispered in his ear a question as to his grief. 4 Nothing you can cure, child,’ was the sad answer. ‘Monsieur Michel,’ said Jerome timidly, ‘ you are fearful for Fclicie’s future now }rou are no longer able to work for her ; but be comforted, leave her to me, I shall be a man presently : and even now I can earn something.’ But he had no answer, for Felixe had taken her father’s hand, and was stroking it lovingly. ‘Be still, Jerome ! only father shall work for me, and till he is better I shall work for m};self. I can and I will : I am thirteen ! ’ And the little maiden looked proudly round. Poor Monsieur Michel smiled at the childish out¬ burst, and Felixe, delighted to see a gleam on his countenance, went on,— ‘ I have always wished it : so do not look vexed, Jerome, but leave everything to me.’ ‘Is it your opera you think of?’ said Jerome, a little nettied. ‘ For a child it is fair : but you will ? be mistaken if you consider it fit for public criticism.’ _ ‘ No, sir, it is not the opera!’ said Felixe sharply, in her turn; then quickly repenting, added, ‘Do not be angry, dear Jerome, it is stupid for us two to quarrel. ' And for you, father, for six ^ months you must not ask a question about my work.’

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No. XXIII. CHATTERBOX. 183 , "Whatever Felixe’s work might be, it made no difference to those around her ; she went to school regularly as was her wont, and though she did get up earlier in a morning it was only her favourite piano that claimed her attention. Her father thought she had forgotten her fancy for supporting herself, and since he had recovered enough to resume some of his lessons, though he was unable to enter into any engagements that required the use of that feeble right hand, his spirits had in a measure revived. Felixe was childishly happy now, he meditated; and before his little store was exhausted the boy Jerome might, perhaps, as he had said, be able to help: he owed it to him, since he had maintained him almost entirely for years, and, besides, he was Felicie’s only relation. The dream of golden pros¬ perity for Angelique’s child might he over, but her future would still be free from care. It was Christmas time, cold and dull, in foggy London, when Felixe burst into the room one morn¬ ing, something glittering clenched in her hand. 4‘ I work for you now, father ! 7 she said joyfully. 4 See — one, two, three, four, live ! ’ and she laid the sovereigns on her father’s knee. 4 1 earned them all, and I snail have more, much more by-and-bye. Ah ! I am happy now, Jerome ! Father, are you not glad, too ? ’ Monsieur Michel gazed at the coins, puzzled and anxious. 4 Ah, you do not understand !’ said little Felixe. 4 Come, 1 will explain and she began with a gesture which reminded her father of her Parisian mother. 4 See now, 1 wished to work — oh, so much ! — it burns within me, the desire, and I. had long helped little Anna and poor Miriam (who is dull), at our school, to prepare their lessons for the music-master; so this quarter, as our music-governess fell ill, I begged to take her place. She taught the little ones, you understand. Miss Murdoch said she would con¬ sider, would consult you. But no ! that I would not permit ; I simply said I had your consent to work. Silence gives consent, you know, and you never said anything when I told you I meant to work. Well, very soon the mothers grew pleased. I took great pains, you know, with the little ones: I would. not let them be idle or careless ; and then Miss Murdoch heard of it, and she called me and said, 44 Felixe, my child, you teach so well I will give you the regular salary, 30Z. a-year, with the liberty to continue your own education as before, for you are clever and in¬ dustrious, and withal well-grown and able to make the young ladies respect you.” See, I tell all without blushing, for this is real business. “But you must ask your father first,” Miss Murdoch said ; 44 and here is what is your due.” And one, two, three, four, five, out they came ! Oh, father, this is the happiest day of my life!’ Poor Felixe was almost choked with joy. Monsieur Michel was troubled at heart. Here was an upset of all his plans for Fehcie’s future ; he meant her to he so gay, so free from care, and the butterfly refused to flutter — nay, would gather honey from the flowers around. He stammered out something of his thoughts, and Felicie understood him enough to say, — 4 Hind father, to try so to make my future happy. But see, dear one, work makes me happiest, not play. You were glad to work for me, and now it is my best pleasure to do something for you. Besides, I really enjoy my teaching.’ There was such truth in the girl’s statement that Monsieur Michel could not but believe her, and Felicie was allowed to enter openly on her career of teacher. She was so bright, so active, so thorough, that her pupils all loved her: and in her brief holiday-time it was a struggle who should carry her off to their home. But she seldom left her father for long, since he never recovered his strength and died ak she wa3 reaching womanhood. 4 1 have no cares now for your future,’ he said at the last. 4 God has given you some of His best gifts, a brave heart and a love of work : they are more to you than wealth or position. I did not think so mce, but you have made it plain to me/ Mademoiselle Michel was famous then beyond the walls of Miss Murdoch’s school. That kind, good- hearted woman, had procured her other pupils and a larger sphere of work, and Felixe was easily and happily earning her living. Only one person looked gloomily over her pros¬ pects, and that was Jerome. 4 You can do without me,’ he said bitterly one day. 4 1 did so long to work for you.’ 4 Could we not, perhaps, work together?’ said Felixe, smiling yet trembling. There are people will say that there was a want of maidenly modesty in Felixe’s remark, hut Jerome, who knew her best, did not think so, and he and his wife are very happy together. The busy bee has as much enjoyment in its life as the butterllv. H. A. F. A HEAVE HOG. A LAEGE, heavy waggon, which was, notwith- AL standing its enormous weight, dragged along at a smart trot by a vigorous horse, was passing lately through the Hue do la Chapclle, at Paris. An infant of three years of age, having ventured on the public road, unconscious of the danger it was running, was just about to be crushed beneath the wheels of the huge vehicle. A cry of terror escaped from the bystanders, the fainting mother closed her eyes. How could she save the child ? Alas ! it is too late. In vain does the driver make every effort to stop his horse. Quicker than thought a magnificent Newfoundland dog, who was sitting on the pavement, darted forth with one immense hound, snapped up the little being, passed like an arrow beneath the waggon between the four wheels, and deposited the poor child safe and sound upon the opposite pavement. We leave our readers to imagine the cries of joy which greeted this marvellous rescue. That evening the noble deliverer received numerous caresses and little presents, which the inhabitants of the quarter lavished upon him. He ate at least two pounds of sugar during that day. J. F. C. — —

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No. XXIV. CHATTERBOX. 185

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186 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIV. THE TRUE STORY OP (p LITTLE PETER. -NSI^Ace ~"T , JN CL upon a time, nearJy ^ imW four hunted years ago, «*a llll there lived in a little village | l||o° of Picardy, in the north of o Prance, a labouring man, jf whose name was Peter. Fte was very poor, and you could scarcely imagine such mW a wretched place as lie had for his home — a tumble- ® down shed, through which the cold wind blew or the rain poured in; and for all his furniture a heap of straw for a bed, and a rough block of wood for a table. His only clothes were a dark, coarse, linen frock and a woollen cap, with a sheepskin to throw round him in very cold weather; and on his feet he wore wooden shoes, which the French call sabots. Yet Peter He laKamee,for that was his full name, did not think himself particularly miserable : he was not much worse off than his neighbours, and if only he could earn enough black bread to satisfy his hunger, and flavour it now and then with a raw onion, he did not grumble at his hard lot. However, there was one thing which troubled the poor man greatly, and that was what to do with his son, little Peter, a child of two years old, whose mother had died when he was quite a baby. So long as little Peter was contented to lie still on his little bed of straw it was all very well, for the father could go out to mind his sheep and come home quite sure of finding the baby where he left him. Put now that the little fellow was beginning to run alone it was quite another matter, for as soon as ever big Peter had shared his bread with the child and gone off at day-break to his work, little Peter would toddle off to the door, and make the best of his way out on to the Common, and wander away so far that it took his father many a tedious hour to find him again. It was wonderful how mueh the child learned out in the wild country, all by himself : for he did not much care to go down the village, where some well- disposed neighbour would be sure to carry him home, with a shaking for having given so much trouble. Little Peter liked far better to wander about and make friends with all the living creatures of the common or the wood. IPe would clap his little hands with delight at the lark fluttering over his head, the squirrel darting up a tree, or the little rabbits peeping at him out of their holes. So the child grew, and although he had such poor and scanty fare, he was as strong, and bright, and lively as any child who could be found in all the country-side. Put' one day Peter had strayed away from home into the wood’ where he had been many times before, and where his father had often found him and carried him home in his arms. lie had discovered a bird's nest- in a low thicket, where by standing on tip-toe he could just peep into it. There were three little blue eggs, and the child was so happy in the wonder¬ ful sight that time passed on, and he did not notice how late it was getting till he began to feel very hungry, and wondered why father did not come. Poor little fellow ! His father would never come to look for him again, would never carry him on his shoulder or nurse him on his knee ; for the poor man, who had been ailing for some days, was brought home that night stricken with a deadly sickness. Long did little Peter wait and listen for the familiar voice, till at length the poor child found his way home, crying for hunger and weariness. At first no one took any notice of him, though the hut was full of neighbours, who had come either out of kindness or curiosity to see the sick man, or to recom¬ mend to him their favourite remedies. Put little Peter pushed through them, and creeping up close to his father, put his arms round his neck, and nestled close to him. 4 Come, little Pierrot, come with me,’ said his father’s sister, who had been sent for from the other end of the village. 4 Come, and I will give thee such a nice supper !’ 1 Nenm, Nenni, Aunt Margotte!’ repeated the little fellow, again and again ; till at last, taking pity on him, some one went to fetch him a little milk and a crust of bread, and lie was left in peace. The next morning Peter Pe la Kamee was worse with the terrible fever, and before many days had passed he was dead, and little Peter was an orphan. Put the village folk could not make the fatherless child understand what had happened, that the father he loved so well was dead, and would never come back to him. For many days and weeks he wan¬ dered about calling for him, till at length, wearied out, the poor little fellow gave up the hopeless search. Now, indeed, there were hard times in store for little Peter. His aunt Margotte, who was very poor and had a large family of her own, would have been willing to take him home with her; but her husband, a hard, selfish man, declared that he had enough mouths of his own to feed, without taking to other people’s brats. So all that Aunt Margotte could do was to let the poor child sleep at night on some straw, in an out¬ house with her fowls, and give him a morsel of food now and then by stealth. The rest of his living, little Peter, who was barely four years old, had to make by begging from door to door for crusts of black bread, or scraps that no one else wanted : and some days, you may he sure, he came off badly enough, and' had to creep, very hungry, into his miserable bed. This kind of free wild life was all very well in the summer time, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing, but the winter was a terrible time for a little, homeless boy, who had only a ragged coat to wear. Then, too, lie dared not wander far from the houses, or even seek the shelter of the wood ; for when the snow was on the ground the wolves used to come down from the hills, and ter¬ rible talcs were told of their attacking shepherds driving their sheep across the country, or little children who had strayed too far from their homes. Happy, indeed, did the poor child think himself, if.

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No. XXIV. CHATTERBOX. 187 in the long winter evening?, some kind soul took pity on him and let him crouch down near the glowing* embers of a wood fire. During the day his chief refuge used to be in the little village church, which was always left open, though it was only now' and then that the Cure from a neighbouring parish church used to come over and have service there. At such times, little Peter wras always one of the congrega¬ tion, and he used to listen with the utmost atten¬ tion to the prayers ; of which, however, lie could not understand one single word, for they were all in Latin. Still, by dint of perseverance and a wonder¬ fully quick memory, he could soon say by heart the whole of one prayer which was repeated the oftenest, 1 mean the Pater noster — the Lord’s prayer in Latin. One festival day it happened that the Cure came to the church earlier than usual, and found the little boy, whom he had often noticed for being so quiet and attentive, alone in the porch. Peter was raising his hands and looking up in imitation of the good Cure, and wras saying his Pater noster all through without any mistakes. He did not see the Cure come in, and started when the old man patted him on the head. ‘Well done, my little man! Who taught thee ’that V ‘ You did,’ said the child respectfully, looking up with awe at the wonderful man, who could say so much that nobody else could understand. ‘I-Iow then? Thou hast learnt it in church? And now tell me, my child, what thy name is, and where is thy home ? ’ ‘ My name is little Peter/ replied the boy, ‘ and I sleep at Aunt MargotteV ‘ Poor little Peter !’ said the Cure ; ‘ it seems to me that AuntMargotte does not tend thee well, for thy clothes are in rags, and thy feet are swollen with cold.’ At this remark the little fellow looked down care¬ fully at his feet, as though he had never noticed them before ; he was so used to being cold that he never thought of it. ‘Here then, little Peter, is some money to buy thee some warm stockings. And now tell me, wiit thou like to learn some more Latin ? ’ ‘ What is Latin ? ’ asked the little fellow eagerly. c Is there any here in Picardy ? ’ ‘Not muon,’ answered his kind friend with a smile. ‘ There is a great deal more in Paris, and that was where I got mine. But I must leave thee now, my child, for the people are waiting for me.’ So saying the kind Cure passed on, leaving little Peter wondering and bewildered. Put one idea had taken a fast hold upon him : he must find out more about Paris. Prom that time the one question which was ever on his lips was, ‘Where is Paris?’ Put in vain he asked all the neighbours, for he could not meet with one. amongst them who had ever been so far as Paris. One old man indeed told him that his father had once been there, but then he had been in the king’s army, and a great traveller, and was dead long ago. ‘ There, child,’ said his aunt Margotte one day, ‘do not tease us any more about Paris; but if thou wilt work well, and pick up a great heap of sticks from the wood, I will take thee to the big town of St. Quentin next time I go in Farmer Dupiu’s cart to sell my poultry.’ What a wonderful promise for little Peter, and how hard he worked early and late to earn such a delightful reward ! He could think of nothing else, and kept on repeating to himself, ‘ I shall see the big town; I shall go to St. Quentin !’• When at last the eventful day arrived, and little Peter climbed up into the rough cart drawn by two oxen, and sat down at his aunt Margotte’s feet, you could not have found a happier child in all Picardy. They started before daybreak, for they had a long way to go, and the oxen never got beyond a slow, jogging trot. Whenever they came to a hill they had to get out and walk up, for in those days there was nothing like what we should call a road. Every¬ thing was new and delightful to the little fellow, who had never before been outside his native village; but when they really reached St. Quentin, and lie saw the big walls, and the houses close together, and what seemed to him crowds of people, his de¬ light knew no bounds. His aunt Margotte had to shake him well when they reached the market-place to make him mind her, and he of some use in looking after her poultry. Little Peter was quite wild with the strangeness and novelty of this wonderful town, as compared with his quiet little village; and when, in answer to his ques¬ tion whether Paris was like this, he was told that it was ten times bigger, he became more than ever bent upon seeing that great Paris. Put how could he get there, seeing that no living folk in his village had ever been so far and come back again ? Time passed on, and when little Peter was not much more than six years old people said he was too old to be kept in idleness ; so they gave him a long pole, and a farmer employed him in driving geese to the pond in the morning and bringing them home safe again at night. Now this was rather a troublesome business, for the geese always wished to go the wrong way, and it took a great deal of looking after to get them all to the pond, and still more to bring them back. And woe. to the poor little fellow if ever the farmer counted his geese and found one missing ! Plenty of blows, no supper, and perhaps a whole night spout in wandering over the Common in search of his missing charge, was the punishment which awaited him. It was a weary, hard life, and no wonder that the child’s thoughts dwelt more and more on Paris, the golden city of his dreams. He had no one to help or direct him, for the old pure, who had been kind to him, had become too infirm to walk across the hills to the village church, and a stranger had taken his place, and he was a . young priest with a quick, sharp manner, who seemed always in a hurry, as though he had no time to waste words on any one, especially on a little gooseherd. Two more years passed away, and found little Peter De la Pamee still driving geese to the pond. Put at last a day came when his childish patience was worn out, and hev could no longer resist the strong desire of his heart to see Paris. ( Concluded in our next.)

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188 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIV. THE FOUR ELEMENTS. I WILL be a gardener/ said Philip, when he was old enough to choose a trade. 4 It must be so pleasant to live alwa)rs among the green herbs and sweet-smelling flowers/ But after a time he came home and said that he had given up gardening, as stooping hurt his back, and lie did not like having to crawl about on the ground. Then he thought he would be a hunter. ‘ It must be a delightful life/ he said, ‘in the green shady woods/ But before long he came back and com¬ plained of having to get up so early in the morning, and said that the foggy, damp air, gave him cold. Then he thought how he should luce to be a fisher¬ man. 4 What can be easier/ he said, 4 than to float along in a little boat, and to draw nets full of fish out of the water without any trouble ?’ But he very soon changed his mind. 4 It is nasty wet work/ he said, 4 and I can’t bear the water/ At last he thought he should like to be a cook. 4 A cook/ he said, 4 can always have something good to eat ; for the gardener, the hunter, and the fisher¬ man must all bring him what they have gained by their toil/ But he soon came back more discon¬ tented than ever. 4 It would be all very well/ he said, 4 but for the fire. When I am standing before the hearth I feel as if I really must melt with the heat/ But by this time his father was determined that he should not make a fifth trial, and said to him gravely, 4 If you would be contented with your position, you must learn to bear the hardships of this life with manly, courage. He who wishes to avoid all the difficulties which the four elements bring with them must go out of the world. . Think only of the advantages of your present position, whatever it may be, and you will be sure to find that the diffi¬ culties will gradually seem less and less/ Philip followed his father’s advice, and for the future, whenever he heard other people complain, he comforted himself and said, 4 1 have learnt the mean¬ ing of this proverb : — * “ To all there comes a time for grief and joy ; No lot lias happiness without alloy.” * HERRING FISHING. EE the herring-boat, pitching and tossing without a moment’s rest on the wild sea-waves. The full moon is in the heavens, and a silver pathway, now and then obscured by clouds, lies on the waves. The eight men in the boat are wishing it was not so light, for experience has taught them that the darkest nights are the best, when no moonlit glory shines on the midnight waters, and when no man would be able to see his neighbour’s face, if it were not for a feeble glimmer falling from the lantern overhead. Its a rough, unkindly trade, that of night-fishing on the deep. The net may not be stretched in the daytime, for that alarms the fish and makes them leave the place, and so the herring-hunter plies his dangerous art at night, for men 4 must >vork and women must weep/ and children must have bread. We owe very many thanks to our brave-hearted fishermen friends, for they supply our markets with vast quantities of cheap, nice, wholesome food. When we are tucked up in our cosy beds, in the very heart of home, and can hardly hear outside the curtained window the buffeting of the wild winds as they hurry past the house, what are the fishermen doing? Took at them, toiling away, drawing up into the boat the net heavy with its silvery load. What a cheerless night they have of it ! Wet, stiff, and chilled by the night wind; often disappointed, but almost always good-humoured and full of hope, they spend upon the sea the dark hours between sunset and dawn ; and when the boat is full or the nets come up empty the voyage home is made, the harbour light being the star towards which the helmsman steers. The herring lives and moves one of a countless army, whence its name — Heer being 4 a host ’ in the German language. Thousands of millions of these finny folk visit our coasts, coming from the deep Northern seas, about the months of August and September. The reason why they come is to deposit their spawn, spawn being the eggs of the fish. When this is over the herrings go back ; that is, such of them as are lucky enough to escape the nets of the fisherman and the breakfast-tables of those herring- loving people who read Chatterbox. The herring has many relations, cousins as we may call them, some of wrhom you may have seen at the fishmonger’s stall. These are the Sprat, the White- bait, the Pilchard (seldom seen eastward of Start Point in Devonshire), the Shad, and some others. The herring dies almost as soon as he is taken out of the sea-water, whence arises the saying, 4 As dead as a herring!’ The reason of this is, that the gills, or breathing apparatus, are so much divided. ‘All fish/ says Mr. Buckland, ‘breathe by means of their gills. The little red slips we see forming the gills contain blood-vessels, and the blood becomes aerated by means of these being waved backwards and forwards in the water. A. fish, like a man, requires a perpetual supply of air to his breathing apparatus, whether that be gills or lungs. A fish gets his air from the water, a man gets it from the atmo¬ sphere around him. The fish is drowned in the open air, the man is drowned in the water/ Well, when you see a herring, call to mind some¬ times the heaving sea, the dangers, the dark night, the rough, little boat, and the brave hearts and honest hands of those men, who would rather get a liveli¬ hood out of a lion’s mouth than steal, or beg, or live an idle life. Night after night in the late autumn, when winds are high and the tumbling waves are white with foam, they go in hope, and faith, and love, to do their duty in that state of life to which they have been called. Among the many noble fellows who adorn Old England, and keep her glorious flag streaming broad and high, there are none more simple, daring, truthful, and kind-hearted, than those gallant men who go down to the pathless ocean in their little open boats, and bring back its rich trea¬ sures for the benefit of all. G. S. 0.

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390 No. XXIV. CHATTERBOX. CHANGES AND CHANCES. ( Concluded from page 179.) HIN a fortnight of Ills sailing for India in the early autumn Bertram received a letter- from Aunt Louise, begging him to come over and bring them home to the Manor. ‘Lotta will have it so,’ she wrote. 4 1 wished her to spend the winter on the Mediterra¬ nean, as she is weaker of late, and the cold depresses her: but she lias a longing for her Eng¬ lish home, and the doctors will not- have her disappointed. Can you come?’ Of course Bertram could, inconvenient as it was to him ; he would meet them at Calais, he said : the short journey between that place and the Chateau Laurency they could manage perhaps by themselves. They would all go to Miss Trevarmoek’s for a day or two, till they saw how far the Manor was suitable for the residence of an invalid. It was nothing but a shadow, the little figure that came forward to meet him on the pier at Calais ; and the face was the face already of an angel, Bertram thought. Nanette and Aunt Louise at last had taken alarm, and the latter looked piteously at Bertram as she stood behind her child. They saw it all now — the rapid fading, the quiet, settled desire for a Home somewhere else, where there were not the change, and turmoil, and bustle of earth. 4 1 don’t grudge her to the angels,’ said the poor mother, the first moment she had Bertram to herself ; 4 but, oh, I know this malady ! She has much yet to suffer, and I cannot look on it.’ That was what she dreaded most, the pains and wearinesses in store for her chikl, the labouring breath, the aching limbs. Bertram could not console her here ; he knew little of such things. But he, too, felt how real were the mothers fears when he saw the fatigue poor Lotta suffered on the slightest exertion. ITe was thankful when their second day of railway travelling was nearly at an end. That second summer, which we so often find visiting us late in the year, had rendered the journey even more fatiguing: the heat of the rail way- carriage distressed the poor invalid sadly ; she lay quite worn out and speechless on one seat, while her three at¬ tendants watched her with sad looks. All at once a cloud of dust obscured their windows; there was a confused grinding of wheels beneath them, and before any one could ask the why or wherefore of the disturbance there was a crash— a cry — and, as it seemed, all things came to an end. ‘ Terrible Accident on the Nethermore and Stans- by Branch-line,’ said the papers next morning : 4 the L30 train left the rails, three carriages rolling over an embankment. Several passengers injured; one, it is feared, fatally.’ , ... Bertram felt as if he had been in a troubled sleep when he sat up, or father was propped against an ■embankment, and asked, — 4 Where are they ? what has happened ?’ _ There was a wreck of broken carriages around him, and some rustics were pressing near, openly rejoicing over his recovery. But a crowd still was gathered at a little distance round a shed in the corner of a field. 4 What is it?’ he asked again, still confused. 4 The doctor,’ said one of the little crowd: ‘he’s doing what he can, but I doubt he’s no use. They’ve taken the worst case in there,’ pointing to the shed. With a sudden feeling that this concerned him Bertram staggered forwards. Tie was not hurt — on ly shaken — and he must know what was in that shed. He was neither surprised nor shocked when he entered, the people making way for him with mur¬ murs of 4 Let him pass.’ Here lay Lancelotte, paler, fairer, than ever, the weary look gone never t® return, the tired limbs sunk into a rest that would never be disturbed. Her, mother and Nanette stood by awed into quiet. A surgeon, who had happened to be in the train, had just ceased his examination. He looked up as Beitram cane in. 4 She is quite uninjured,’ he said, ‘but the shock has proved fatal. Are you her brother ? Can I be of use to you ? ’ It was a mournful procession that reached the Manor that night, for thither Bertram took the bereaved mother and the little dead heiress. 4 It was her place,’ he said to himself ; 4 she should have it to the last.’ As for him, when lie had seen his aunt quietly in her room, worn out with her grief, tended by good Aunt Mary, he went straight off to Markhaven, to break the news to his mother. She and Cecil were awe-struck at first by the suddenness of the calamity ; but who could blame Mrs. Derrington that, before the news was an hour old, she put her arm round her boy, aud drew him closer to her, whispering,— 4 You will never leave us now, Bertram ?’ But Bertram was prepared with his answer. 4 Mother, it shall all be as itwas,’ he said. 4 1 know kind Aunt Louise has given up all her own rights to me, and will go back to France : but I should not like any change, and I am not fit for it. Let me go about my work, and prove that I can do something first. Fcould not settle down now !’ They did not bury the little French girl in the great vault where the Dcrringtons, father and son, had now for many years been laid, but in the sunny corner of the churchyard that she had chosen for herself. Her motheFwould have it so, and it seemed fittest. The child had no connexion with the dead who lay in the family vault, they had not even known of her existence ; so, Derrington though she was, she was allowed to sleep quietly with only grass and late autumn flowers above her. Very soon after the funeral Mrs. Lancelot Derrington went awa}r back to her chateau, to the scene of har early life, which, as Lotta said, would he her best consolation : her connexion with the Manor was over, the link was broken that bound her to it. She showed no emotion on leaving it : all that had been spent on her parting with Bertram, for whom she felt much affection.

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No. XXIV. CHATTERBOX. WL 4 You would have been my son, I know/ said the poor woman, and Bertram did not contradict her. Bertram was to leave next day, so he went down to the churchyard at dusk to bid farewell to Lotta. He owed something to this child, he knew ; through her moans had been broken that long course, of seliish indulgence he had fallen into. Master at home at too early an age, he trembled to think what he might have become without this gentle interloper. He was not over-confident, not proud of his better feelings now ; he rather feared lest they should not last, and beneath the stars he silently asked for help to do better for the future. And then he went back to his mother, and half the night they talked of their plans for the future, when Bertram came home. Mrs. Herrington was a wise woman as well as a fond mother, and she did not give up the little lrouse at Markhavon. 4 Some clay Bertram will marry,’ she said to Cecil, 4 and then it would be a pang to him to turn me out unless I had some pleasant home to go to, and I love Markhaven.’ So that was retained, and many promises made to the Philippses to spend some weeks there each season. But to all intents and purposes the family took up its abode at the new Manor ; there was so much to done in furnishing it, and re-arranging its old be¬ longings, that the days went swiftly by — to Mrs. Herrington’s idea, at least. Cecil, strangely enough, had a difficulty in settling down in her old home, and to her mother’s surprise accepted an invitation in the bleakest winter time to stay with the Philippses. ‘If it had been Carrie, now, who is"-$o fond of Mima!’ said the short-sighted mother. 4 Cecil likes her poor people there,’ said oiic of the little boys. ‘And Cecil likes skating with Mr. Courtenay,’ said the other. Yes, Cecil did like Mr. Courtenay, the clever citrate, who was so shortly to go to a country rectory, and who celebrated the event by leaving Cecil at Markhaven and riding over to the Manor to tell M i s. Herrington, and ask her to help him to a wife. There was no reason why he should not have the lady of his choice, so the marriage was to come olf in the spring. It was seven years from the time of leaving the Manor before Bertram saw it again. He had stuck to his work and his profession, bringing home with him the reputation of being a good soldier. He had been sorely tempted to return when he became of age, but for many reasons he felt it best to wait a little longer. And meantime his property did not suffer ; his mother, first as mistress, and then as deputy for her son, carefully attended to it. But she gladly looked forward to the day when the Manor would be put into the hands of its real master. It was lovely autumn weather once again when they looked for the home-coming of the owner. The house, somewhat new and bare-looking when he left, had now a comfortable, settled air of habitation ; gay voices rang through it of ‘the boys,’ summoned from school, not unwillingly, rather before holiday time, while little children — Cecil Courtenay’s — played on the lawn. All were assembled to meet their brother; - even Carrie and Lady J ulia (inseparables now ) Car¬ rie hopelessly fashionable, as Clement mourned. Miss Trevannock stood by Mrs. Herrington, waiting, & ! little in the background, as the carriage drove up: she was not to be" first anywhere, but none the less; people looked for her gentle sympathy. 4 My boy!’ said his mother in proud surprise, as the great bearded fellow jumped out into her arms. 4 Bertie ! that is not you ? ’ said the matronly Cecil, with a child on either side of her. i: But it was Bertram, and no one guessed, as he \ welcomed this and that brother, sister, or friend, that | his eyes were vainly seeking, or perhaps trying to conjure up, a little dusky figure that might have looked tenderly on him had things been otherwise. Lotta was not forgotten yet ! But the recollection of her was only now and then, at comings and goings, or in the still evening; when mo3t people were in. ; bed, Bertram would saunter round the garden be- | fore turning in, and think over old times. Mrs. Herrington, after the first few weeks had passed, suggested leaving the Manor entirely to Bertram. ^ j 4 You will marry, my boy,’ she said to him, 4 and it is right you should do so, while I shall be quite happy with my boys at Markhaven.’ 4 But I shall be very miserable without you, mother,7 said Bertram. 4 Ho not leave me, at least till you have found me some one to take your place.’ So Mrs. Herrington stayed on, not ill-pleased, con¬ tenting herself with ‘looking out,’ as she called it, for Bertram. He was difficult to please, that was certain. Lady Julia offered to assist ; she had married Carrie well, and was quite at liberty ; but Bertram, somewhat shortly, declined the offer. He was a man now, and had lost the look of rest¬ lessness which he formerly had ; his anxiety wras that hi brothers should look upon him as a friend, and lie made many a journey to see them at school. ‘Simply, I believe, to tip us,’ said grateful Hugh.; 4 for he never prys a bit into our goings on, but only says— 44 Tell me if you want money.” ’ 4 These lads shall never make the mistakes I did if I can help it,’ thought Bertram. 4 1 had no father just when I most needed one; but they shall find one in me as far as I can manage it.’ And he was as good as his word. There were J plenty more of such fellows in the world as Seymour Helorrpc to lead astray the unwary ; but as long as j the Herrington lads felt that brother Bertie knew best abd.it everything, and never pooh-poohed a*plea- sure scheme unless there was something wrong about it, they were ready enough to appeal to him before j embarking in any undertaking. The onl r alarm he occasioned his friends was the i fear that he would never marry. He told his Aunt Louise the reason of his delay in that matter when she paid a visit to the Manor. ‘ I am looking for some one like Lotta,’ he said. The impulsive French lady embraced him on the spot, and exclaimed, 4 1 always said if would have been ! My son ! I ever called you so.’ 4 But .Lotta was too good for mo,’ .added Bertram; I 4 she is happier with the angels !’ 1L A. F*

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No. XXIV. Bertram and the Surgeon.

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194 CHATTERBOX. No. XXV. TEE RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. ~ A Belgian Story. Translated from the Flemish ^ ~ 9* **■* Conscience by J. F. Cobb, Esq. W (^U • CHAPTER I. HE facts which I am about to relate occurred some twenty A/> years ago in the neighbour?, .pyrol hood of a Flemish village, \ 1 r* to "'kkh I s^ia^ g^ve the C ^ f ^18 MM s feigned name of Jiolder- 3FmkJ AxC'i bout, lest otherwise I might wound or grieve a very lionest citizen by reviving <i tn his mind the recollection V jvy of a sad disaster. *• Lolderhout lies close to the railroad, somewhat less than two hours distant from the town. Although it is a very populous . village, and does a good deal of business, it did not possess a station in the year 1852 ; its inhabitants were, therefore, obliged to go on three quarters of au horn’ further to reach the nearest one. At the place where the high road to jJoIdcrhout crosses the railway stood a little wooden watchhouse, just large enough to contain the bed of a man, whose business it was to shut the gates before the passage of each train. This official had also to watch and close the barriers at a second road, about a bow-shot off, as well as to make the usual signals, in order to prevent accidents. This signalman was a married man with children, and, besides his watchhouse, the company had provided him with an old second-class carriage without wheels, which, planted close, beside the line, supplied them with a couple of comfortable rooms. Hound the carriage wras a small but very neat garden, where bloomed the brightest red peonies, blue columbines, white lilies, stocks, and ranunculuses, while lovely roses spread a sweet fragrance around, flowering, as they did, in abundance on all sides of the carriage. Up the carriage itself a skilful hand had' trained a few wild vines, which had gradually crept all over it, their slender branches and bright green leaves hanging down over the door and windows. The old carriage had very much the appearance of a great bird’s nest overgrown by luxuriant foliage, hut this poetic idea was dissipated by the white cur¬ tains at the windows, and the laughing childrens faces which now and then might he seen peeping through them. It was quite plain, not only that the carriage was inhabited, but also that the good folk who dwelt in this singular' abode were content with their lot, and lived happily, thanking God for His mercies to them. What also contributed not a little to. their welfare was the use of a broad, long strip of ground by the side of the railway, in which was planted everything which could help to sustain a family. It was the middle of the month of J une ; the sun had since early morning shone with almost unbear¬ able heat, but he was now declining towards the west, and although the air was still very warm and sultry, yet we could breathe a little more freely. \ . ■ — - - - On the strip of ground between several rows of potato plants a man was working with his spade. . He looked about thirty-five years of age ; lie was strong and vigorous, and had a pleasing and open countenance, which seemed to tell of the courage and truth of Ills heart. He was hard at work over his potatoes. Now and then he raised his head and looked anxiously towards an arbour overgrown with woodbine, or honeysuckle, which, close to the strip of ground and with its back to the hedge, had been constructed with the branches and twigs of trees. Under the grateful shade of the green foliage sat a very dd woman, motionless as a statue, with closed eyes, and her hands resting on her knees. She must have reached the extreme limits usually allotted to life, for her back was beut almost double, the wrinkles on her face were numerous and deep, and her withered skin seemed to hang upon her hones. ’ This industrious man was the railway watchman and signalman, Jan Yerhelst. When sometimes he stopped in his work to take breath, and rested on the handle, of his spade, with his eyes turned towards the old woman, a quiet smile played round his lips. He saw how the old' woman, having taken her hands from before her face, was moving them about among the foliage of the arbour, as if trying to gather some¬ thing. At last they grasped a piece of honeysuckle, hanging about two feet above her head, which she seized with a sort of childish joy, and which after smelling for some time she carefully put into her bosom. The signalman went up to tho old woman and said to her laughing, * Ah ! ah! mother! now I have caught you! You arc always complaining that you can smell no longer. How did you know, then, that flowers were hanging over your head? You could not see them, and yet you have managed to find them out/ ‘ You know very well, Jan,’ she replied, ‘some days, when the air is quite still, I can smell a little. I think that to-day or to-morrow we shall have thunder, my rheumatism pains me so much/ ‘ Yes, indeed, mother/ said the signalman, 4 there is a change of weather near at hand : there is a black cloud there yonder, behind the mill. The air, too, has been so warm to-day that even the birds sought the shade,’ 1 Come, Jan, sit down beside me for a bit, that I may hear you speak. Alas ! it is very unfortunate to be blind ; always a long dark night without end for me !’ Sitting down on the bench by her side/the signa1- man took her hand in his, and said with loving sympathy, ‘Mother, you are in a^ sad mood again to-day. Sure enough, to be blind is indeed a. great misfortune; but that which God has willed and we. cannot alter we must bear with patience. You arc surrounded with children, too, who love and honour you, and you want for nothing — do you?’ ‘It seems always so quiet and so lonely here/ murmured the old woman. ‘ When we lived in the town I always heard noises ; the voices of the people, the rolling of carts and carriages, the drum-beat of the soldiers going by, and sometimes music — oh ! it is there that I wish I lived !’

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Xo. XXV. CHATTERBOX. 195 ‘But/ remarked Jan Verhelst, . ‘here we hear the sweet voices of the birds, and in the house the singing and merry prattle of our children.’ 4 That is always too quiet, too still, for a poor old blind woman, who, alas! only lives upon hearing!’ said the woman sadly. . 4 What would yop wish, then, mother?’ 4 To live in the town, Jan, is what I should like.’ 4 Put this .thought out of your head, mother. The post of porter at the station is not vacant. More¬ over, why should we leave this post? The com¬ pany has given me, as an especial favour, an old carriage, as well as the use of all this ground, free of rent. We live here somewhat humbly, but free from ankiety. All that we require our land pro¬ duces — plenty of potatoes, salad, celery, radishes, onions. Coals, too, are given us. We have nothing to buy. The air is healthy and1 the country pretty. The people in the village esteem and respect us.’ ‘Yes, that is all very well; you are content with little ; but in the town it was much better. You have risked your life, Jan, and you succeeded in saving a poor conscript, who otherwise would have been crushed beneath the train. Every one praised your act of self-devotion to the skies, and promised you a good place. Why, then, don’t they fulfil their promise ? ’ 4 But, mother/ exclaimed the signalman, 4 my place is a good one; I am quite satisfied. What should we want more than to live quietly and peace¬ fully here ? ’ 4 Jan ! Jan !’ grumbled the old woman, 4 you have not the least desire for promotion:' think, then, of your childi en!’ ‘I don’t forget them, mother. That is just the reason why I like my post so much. Here is a good school, with a kind, honest, clever master. Why our Sanderken, who is only just ten, can read and write like a lawyer, and can talk about all sorts • of things which pass our understanding. I have been to school myself, mother, you know very well ; but our master was a lazy fellow, and allowed us to spend our time doing nothing. So I remained quite untaught, and what I did know that I* soon forgot. Oh, mother, a good school is a great treasure ; and now that 1 have found such a one for my children, I should consider it a folly, almost a crime, to run off and cast such benefits to the winds.’ The old woman nodded her head in consent, and then, as if her thoughts had taken a different turn, she said, with evident pride in her voice : 4 Yres, our Sanderken, that is a pearl of a child ! So good, so clever, so diligent ! And ho is so fond, too, of his blind grandmother ! Already last year lie received many prizes, and now it is true — is it not ? — that lie is to receive the first prize for good writing ?’ 4 It seems so, mother.’ 4 But why, for some time, has he remained away so late in the evening? I scarcely ever see him now. Ah ! I had too much pleasure in listening to him ! He used to repeat to me everything he had learned, and all the master had told him.’ A sound was now heard Tn the distance, like that of a bugle. ‘The train is coming fast/ said the signalman. ‘ Sit still, mother; I will soon come back to you.’ He went to the gates close to h s watchhouse, shut them on both sides of the line, and then ran on about ■ a bow-shot further, where he also closed the. barriers on another road. Here he remained standing with a flag rolled up in his hand, so that the train went by without stopping, and was soon out of sight. Returning to the blind woman he answered her question. • ‘Why has our Sanderken stayed out so late? You know very well, mother, M. Verecken, the notary, has a youngster who is somewhat older than our Sanderken ; but the boy learns with difficulty. M. Verecken has asked me to let the two boys play together, and prepare their lessons together as well.’ 4 Yes/ remarked the woman, 4 but if the arrange¬ ment is profitable for the notary’s son, may it not be j bad for our Sanderken ? ’ . ■ h 4 Hot at all, mother. The notary is a worthy and 1 good-hearted man, and in his family are none but honest people. Our Sander learns good manners there. Moreover, we are greatly indebted to the. ; good notary. When you and two of our children were ill he helped us nobly. Alas ! if you were not blind, mother, then you would see that all which surrounds us here speaks of him. . The flowers which smile upon us on all sides were given to us by him ; the plants, the cabbages, the salad, came from his ' garden : anything he can think of, which will afford us pleasure, he gives to Sanderken, or sends to us. You, mother, may say what you will, but it would be ungrateful to complain. How I am not obliged, as formerly, to work for ten hours a-day away from home. From morning to evening I am with you arid the children, and can rest when I like, and smoke my pipe whenever it pleases me. We want for nothing : the earth, the sky, and the people, too, are kind and friendly towards us. The blacksmith, Jan Verhekt, is a king here ; and although the poor king possesses only an old second-class carriage for his palace, he is yet very happy, and blesses the Lord Almighty for his quiet anti humble lot ! ’ • And so saying he put his arm over the blind woman’s shoulder and embraced her. ( To be continued.) FACTS ABOUT THE LIZARD. T T is a hot day in Africa ; so hot, that the open win- i- dows only let in heat ; the flowers seem to droop, insects buzz and worry ; the sun scorches and glares ; our limbs ache with weariness ; little babies suck their thumbs and fall asleep, with big drops of perspiration standing out from the fat folds of their bare necks ; dogs pant, with their thirsty red tongues lolling out of their mouths; the cattle lie in the shade, chewing the cud rather than be at the pains of ga¬ thering fresh food ; the shorn sheep huddle together in some moist spot under the hedge, too lazy even to nibble ; the day is so hot that it reminds me of a country far away, a country of which you have all heard, but which you have not all seen — India. The heat there, though too severe to be grateful to us, nourishes many a little creature that we seldom, [ if ever, see in pleasant England. There is, among many other reptiles, a little green and brown-speckled [

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196 CHATTERBOX. No. XXV. Lizard ; a pretty, keen-eyed creature, who loves to live with us in our houses. Night after night, when the lamps are lighted, they pop out of their day re¬ treat and dart about upon the whitewashed walls of our sitting-rooms, searching for their food; which, however, is never scarce : moths, mosquitoes, flies, the flying white ants, and the obnoxious little ladybirds, cbmmonly called the flying bug, are all victims when the lizard is in want of a meal ; and many a time I have seen him begin the evening quite a lean, lanky, starved-looking creature, and have left him, in a couple of hours, quite fat and robust. I dare say you will be inclined to think it is very nasty and disgusting that we should allowlizards and such-like reptiles to crawl about on our walls, live in our cupboards, and bring up their families in our drawing-rooms ; but this little harmless lizard is so great a friend to us in eating up many destructive insects that we rather encourage him ; but this house- companion has 'a quality which, as 1 have never seen mentioned in any natural history, you may perhaps be as surprised to hear of as I was to see it. Harm- . less and innocent as he is, and only about four or five inches in length, he is as brave and as great an enemy to the scorpion as the mongoose or ichneumon is to the snake. I have watched a common yellow scorpion crawling quietly along, and presently from an opposite wall a lizard will catch sight of him ; the eager little creature will dart along the walls until he gets close enough to play much the same game that a leopard will with a deer, or a cat with a mouse ; his keen eyes watching the poisonous foe, while lie pre¬ pares to leap upon him. The scorpion is not, I fancy, so keen of sight, nor is he so agile, so the lizard has the whole play to him¬ self, and pounces upon the scorpion as the kites and vultures do upon the callow brood of the farm¬ yard. The fight is never long, and the lizard is so rapid in its movements, that as the scorpion falls to the ground the lizard disappears : whether he gets stung, and like the mongoose goes off in search of an antidote, I cannot say ; but as he is invariably the aggressor I imagine he must be proof against the venom of a scorpion, for instinct in the iowest scale of creation will warn insects of their dan¬ gerous foes. The scorpion that has been attacked falls to the ground to all appearance lifeless, and you may be sure no doubt is left upon the matter, for a boot, or some such handy weapon, is at once applied to make certain of his death. So, you see, there is good reason in making friends of the lizards, who on their own part are so timid that with the least alarm they dart off like lightning, often dropping their tails, partly or wholly, from the shock of fright, and who yet are bold enough to do battle with a venomous reptile that we run away from and dread. The natives have a great dislike for, and superstition about, the eggs of this useful little creature; they will not handle the tiny, pure white, glutinous balls, looking upon them as unclean, and they fancy that ill-luck attaches to any article upon which the lizard may have lodged them : which is unfortunate, seeing that our little friend is not by any means fastidious as to where the nursery for her young shall be. ‘LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP.’ SALMON, far more big and proud Than any of the finny, crowd, Once loudly boasted he could leap The river banks, however steep ; Then, waxing warmer, as the trout Said, with a shrug, ‘ We have no doubt/ Swore, in a lordly sort of tiff, He’d even jump the limestone cliff, Which from the river rose so high Most fishes thought it touched the sky. ‘ Oh ! yes/ exclaimed the water-rat, ‘ I’d like to see my lord do that !’ The perch and gudgeon came to stare, The eel forsook his muddy lair ; Here was the dace’s silvery gleam, And there the gold of tench and bream; The greedy barbel left his meat, He too, would see the salmon’s feat ; • And while, with many a fervent wish, He overpraised the lordly fish, Slyly he thought, 4 1 must confess Better the cheer one salmon less ; So if he leaps beyond the sun Who’ll shed a tear ? not I, for one ! ’ But other fish, more true and kind, Wished him to have another mind. The carp declared a leap so great Could not improve a fish’s state : The minnow reasoned, small and deep, 4 Pray, sweetheart, look before you leap 4 And are you sure/ the grayling cried, 4 There’s water on the other side?’ Then said the salmon, rude and sharp, 4 A salmon listen to a carp ! 4 A carp, indeed ! how infra dig.! Go, prate to fishes not so big ! Then, looking round upon the ring, He curved his bod}- for a spring, Sped like an arrow from a bow And cleared the rock a yard or so. But where is now the salmon’s pride? How vain his struggles and his sighs ! Awhile he gasps upon his side, And broken-hearted dies ! At the dark future’s awful gates The prudent man deliberates, And counts the cost of every deed, Caring for safety more than speed : The boastful hero, blind and rash, Wishes* to shine, and make a dash ; With mean ambition he is fired To see his foolish self admired. So hurries on, and breaks his neck, Or sees his fortune go to wreck — His sun at noonday sets in gloom. And ‘Fool!’ is written on his tomb. G. S. 0.

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‘ But where is now the salmon’s pride ? How vain his struggles and his sighs! Awhile he gasps upon his side, And broken-hearted dies !’ ^rm * /

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198 CHATTERBOX. No. XXV. THE THUS STORY OE LITTLE PETER. ( Concluded from puyc 137.) 'NE bright summer morning Peter took his iiock as far as the Common, but there he left them to find the best of their own way home to their master, while he hurried oft along the well-remembered road which led to St. Quentin. So long as he was 'upon the open Common the child ran as fast as his legs would carry him, but when lie reached the outskirts of the wood he paused 10 take breath. As he sat down to rest a minute the thought occurred to him, that after all he need not be in so great a hurry, for nobody cared enough for him to run after him. -Poor little fellow ! It made him sad for a moment to think that there was nobody in all the world who loved him as other children were loved ; but a child's sorrow is soon forgotten, and the next minute he was rejoicing in his freedom, and looking forward with eager hope to the new life before him. With his few. pence and a crust of bread in his pocket, little Peter went forth into the great world, expecting everything and fearing nothing. Put it was a long, long, weary journey to Paris, and the little traveller needed all his courage not to lose heart many a time at all the dangers and difficulties he met with. He had to beg his bread on the way, but that was nothing new to him; and at night he was thankful to get a shelter in any out¬ house, or more often still to sleep under a hedge. At length, after many days, the boy arrived within sight of Paiis, the city of his dreams. Tfe must have been a curious sight to the towns¬ people, in his linen frock and woollen cap, matle after the country fashion, and sadly worn and soiled by his long journey. But before he wei.it into the city Peter met with a travelling monk, who had been sent to Paris by his convent to collect alms. He noticed that the child looked thin, and worn with hunger and fatigue, and lie kindly gave him some food from his own scanty store. As they sat down together by the river-side to eat it, he asked Peter, ‘ Where dost thou come from, my child? and what brings time to Paris?’ ‘ I come from a little village called Cutli, in Picardy,’ replied the boy ; ‘it is a long way off, and I have walked to the great city to learn all that Monsieur the Cure knows.’ ‘ And what is that?’ asked the monk with a smile. ‘He can toll what the black marks mean in his book, and he can say so much like the Pater nosier that nobody else can understand, and he knows all about Latin,’ said the little fellow, eagerly. ‘Oh, Monsieur,’ lie added, looking up with' bright, earnest eyes into his companion’s face, ‘ do you know what Latin is ? ’ No one could help taking an interest in the strange intelligent child, and in answer to his question the monk took out of his pocket a little book, it was not printed like our books, for people had not long learnt to do that, and printed book's were then very scarce. All the pages were of parchment, and were covered with beautiful fine writing, — the black marks which little Peter so longed to understand. As the child gazed on the treasure with an eager look he exclaimed, ‘Is it yours? all your. own? And can you tell what it means ? Oh, teach me, and 1 will he your little servant, and work for you.’ The good man smiled again at his eagerness, and said, ‘ Knowledge comes not so easily as thou thinkest, my child ; it took me years of study to read this book, ami I am no great scholar now. But cheer up, my child,’ lie added, as he noticed that little Peter’s eyes were filling with tears of disappointment. ‘ I will make a bargain with thee. For a whole week I shall be in Paris, and thou wilt collect alms for me all day, and I will give thee lessons at night.’ You may fancy how gladly the little fellow ac¬ cepted the monk’s offer, and how diligent and perse¬ vering lie was, till his teacher, on bidding him farewell, told him he had never met. with so apt a scholar, and wished him G od speed in his search after knowledge. Thus left alone in the great city, the first thing little Peter did. was to make his way, as his friend had directed him, to the Hue de la Paille, a street in Paris which was a favourite gathering-place for the schoolboys and elder students of the different schools and colleges during their playtime. The little pea¬ sant in his quaint country dress was received at first with roars of laugher ; but the child patiently bore ridicule and uuk'mdness, and after a time made him¬ self useful to some' of those more fortunate boys by running errands, doing anything by which lie could gain in return a little food and a few odd lessons. In this life of hardship and broken study did little Peter ever regret the peaceful country village where lie was born ? 1 think not, for he was one of those noble,, earnest spirits, who do not know what it is to give up or turn hack when they have some great aim in view. For several years after he arrived in Paris we do not hear much about Peter He la Eamec, for at that time, towards the end of King Louis the Twelfth’s reign, the plague broke out in the city, and most of ilie schools were broken up, the 'students hurrying away in terror from the deadly sickness. It does not seem to he known for certain what became of little Peter during this time, whether lie stayed in Paris, but escaped the plague which was raging on all sides, destroying thousands in a day, or whether he went hack for a time to the far-away village in Picardy. This, however, is certain, that about the year IMG, when he was twelve years old, the hoy had found a place as servant in the kitchen of a large school in Paris, called the College of Navarre. It was a hard, trying life for him — harder, perhaps, than anything he had endured before ; for he was now, as it were, the servant of servants, at the beck and call of every¬ body ; and, as you may imagine, with so many masters ho could not please all, aud many were the blows and liard words which fell to his lot.

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. No. XXV. CHATTERBOX. 199 Yet still, in one sense, it was the happiest time he had yet had, for now the young scholar could satisfy the hunger of his soul for learning. ‘ Stolen waters are sweet,’ says the proverb ; and doubtless the lessons which the poor little drudge of the college managed to get must have been sweet and precious indeed. Iiow surprised would many an idle boy in the school-room have been, could he have seen Peter the serving-lad listening outside the door, and eagerly taking in every word the master said! Iiow much ashamed would many a careless boy have been to know, that while he wasted his time in play, and left his lessons undone, there was one who had none of his advantages, and who yet was far beyond him in the race ! At night, when the house was quiet and every one was asleep, Peter would sit up, and taking advantage of the moonlight, or, when that failed, of the embers of the fire, he would write out all that he could remember of the lessons of the day, and all the knowledge that he had picked up in any way from the students. It must have been a curious mixture of scraps of Latin and Greek, and a great deal that schoolboys now-a-da}rs would find far too dry to care about; but the wonderful intelligence of this un¬ taught boy enabled him to bring it into order, and to make himself master of the different subjects he tried to learn. This went on for a long time, without anybody suspecting that the little servant, who worked all day with his hands, worked half the night with his head. At length one day, by some accident, Peter happened to drop the precious book in which he wrote down all his lessons. People in those days wore a kind of loose frock, fastened round the waist by a girdle, and the upper part of this dress served the purpose of a pocket. How here Peter had always carried about his treasure, and when at night he could not find it the poor lad was in despair. Pie spent the night ! in seeking for the one written book which was his whole library, but in vain ; he could find no trace of it. It was the. greatest loss that could possibly have befallen him, and it cost him many tears during that long night. Put the morning came at last, and the little servant went about his daily work with a heavy heart. He happened to be at work in the principal school-room, when he saw one of the masters stand¬ ing at his desk with something in his hand, which Peter’s quick eves instantly knew to be his lost copying-book. His heart gave a leap of joy at the sight, and he stood flushed and breathless to see what would happen next, for lie dared not go forward to claim it. 4 Whoso book is this ? ’ asked the master in a loud voice, when he had called for silence. There was no answer, and the boys looked from 'one to another, surprised to sec their master so much excited. ‘ I tell you that I must know,’ said he. £ Will . nobody own it? Put stay,’ he added, ‘ I see here a wainc written in Greek characters, Peter De la Eamee. is there any student of that name in the college?’ At this question there was smiling and whispering amongst the boys, till one of them, with a gesture of contempt, pointed to Peter, and said,— ‘ Why, truly, yonder stands Peter Dc la Eamee, the little scullion.’ At these rude words there was a hurst of laughter amongst the scholars, to which the master listened in stern silence, then he said. — ‘ Your ill-timod mirth does you no honour, young men. There is not one amongst you who might not well he proud to call this book his own ! ’Come here, my young friend,’ he added, ‘and tell me how you came to learn all this, without having been taught.’ Encouraged by the masters kind tone, little Peter regained all his courage, and went bravely up to the desk, through the crowd of wondering school¬ boys. In answer to the master’s questions he told his story simply and modestly, and begged pardon for having, as it were, stolen his lessons* Then, in his eager desire for more knowledge, forgetting all his fears, he begged the master to ask him questions on the subjects in bis book, in order to find out if he understood them rightly. This his new friend promised to do at a convenient time, and he was so astonished at the wonderful intelligence of the boy’s answers, that he told him he was more fit to be a master than a pupil. And, indeed, not long afterwards little Peter was publicly examined before the university, and the learned men of Paris gave him the highest prize they had to give, by making him what is called a ‘ Doctor of Arts.’ And here the story of 4 little Peter,’ the hoy, must end, though I will tell you in a few words, what happened to him after he became famous. He went on learning more and more himself, and wrote a great number of books to teach other people. In¬ stead of being the lowest servant in a college he came to he the highest master, the head, whose word was law. From being a poor little friendless child in a country village, who was employed out of charity to take charge of a flock of geese, he became one of the greatest and most learned men of his time in all the world. He became Protestant, and being as much in earnest in his religion as he bad been in his studies, he gave great offence to the Roman Catholics and at length, after a long and useful life, he was killed in the terrible massacre of the ‘Protestants on St. Bartholomew’s day, in the year 1572. I must tell you, that when he grew up he turned his name of Peter De la Eam<$e into Latin, and is best known in history as the celebrated Peter Eamus. M. A. LUCE A HD LABOUR. T UCK’and ‘Labour’ both begin with the same dU letter, but end with very different results. ‘Luck ’is ever waiting for ‘something to turnup;’ ‘Labour,’ with keen eye and strong will, bravely turns up ‘ something.’ ‘ .Luck ’ lies in bed, and wishes that the postman would bring him news of a legacy ; ‘ Labour ; turns out at six o’clock, and with busy pen or ringing hammer lays the foundation of a. com¬ petence. ‘ Luck ’ whines, ‘ Labour ’ whistles ; ‘ Luck ’ relies on chance, ‘ Labour ’ on character; ‘Luck’ slips downward to indigence, ‘Labour7 strides upward to independence. Lawrence Gane.

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No. XXYI. CHATTERBOX. 201 The Signalman and his Boy. D D

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202 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVI. THE HAILWAY SIGNALMAN „ & AND HIS FAMILY. J (Continued from p. 19.r),) fK 11 Jy OME, come, mother dear/ he I T&m W murmured; 4 try and make your- \ ''' 1 se^ ham> too, out of love to ^ y a 4 Well, I am content with my / lot, Jan/ said she; ‘if sadness C /X comes over me now and then, it ' U 1 v^j jL is because everything around me pH Vl|Uf here is so silent as the. grave/ VmP [yj ‘Why don’t you sic in the carriage, then, with my wife and ** $ the children ?’ 4 Mie- Wanna is busy washing ; I can scarcely breathe in there. It is too hot indoors to-day.’ ‘ Now, mother, I must go and dig another row of potatoes. Then we will go into our own house. The washing will be done then; evening is already coming on.’ He turned hack to his work and seized his spade. Very soon after lie saw his son Alexander coming along a path.across the fields, with his satchel on his back, and carrying a basket in his hand. The father gazed with pleasure towards his son. He was a smart lad of ten years old, with bright eyes, and whose sweet face already wore a thought¬ ful and earnest expression. As the boy came nearer ho hastened his steps, and when he reached the strip of ground beside the line he began to run. Then lie put down his basket, and, clasped in his father’s strong arms, lie sprang up, climbed up his bod)'-, and pressed a kiss on his cheeks, murmuring at the same time a tender greeting. Tears stood in the signalman’s eyes. He had the deepest affection for ali his children, for his wife, and for his blind mother ; but of his eldest son, his brave, clever Alexander, he was almost too proud ! Now the boy noticed his grandmother under the arbour. Tie jumped down to the ground, seized the basket, and ran with joy up to the old woman. After he had quickly embraced her he put the basket down in her lap and exclaimed:— • Granny ! granny dear ! I have again brought something from the good gentleman, the notary! Strawberries ! splendid ones ! large and round ! they taste like lumps of sugar. Here, granny, try one ! ’ And thus saying, he put two or three strawberries in the blind woman’s mouth. ‘ Oh, you good Sanderken ! ’ murmured the old woman ; 4 the fruit is sweeter than wine ; but sweeter still, my child, is your love, to me. Thank the no¬ tary in my name, and tell him that your old granny Yerhelst will not forget to pray for him.’ She felt the basket. 4 Is that all for me, Sander ? ’ ‘ Yes, granny ; for you — for you alone.’ 4 Then I may do what I like with it? ’ 4 Certainly, you may eat them all up at once if . you like.’ 4 Well, that is good, my dear boy ; then we will i . - — — - - - — - - have this evening a regular feast in honour of the notary.’ Just at this moment a woman, who was still young and held a child in her arms, came out from the place where the carriage stood and called, 4 Jan, come in doors now : and granny, too ; supper is on the table. Don't wait or it will get cold. Look how JBarbele is stretching out lier hands and arms to you ! ’ The signalman came at once, took the child and danced it in his arms, whilst he hummed a merry tune. Sanderken took his blind grandmother’s hand, and all, laughing aud singing, entered the carriage. The old vehicle was divided into two compart¬ ments. In the one the. children slept with their . grandmother. The other was arranged as an eating- room and kitchen. They sat round the table on stools or benches, the grandmother between the signalman and his son Sander ; on the other side, Mie-Wanna, the mother, with one child on her lap and near her another little boy, of three or four years old. The cabin was so small that they could scarcely move, still they were as happy as if they were sitting in a splendid hall at a grand banquet. On the table a dish of potatoes was steaming, beside it stood . a cruet with some vinegar, a little butter, and some sauce. Sander said the grace aloud ; all stood with bent heads and clasped hands, till the last words of the prayer had fallen from the child’s lips. The sig¬ nalman placed a few potatoes on a plate before the old woman, with a lump of butter beside them, then he carefully bruised the potatoes and placed a fork in his old mother’s hand with the wish, 4 May you enjoy your supper, dear mother!’ Then he poured the sauce over the large common dish and gave the sign to begin supper with the words, ‘Now eat your meal while it is hot. A good appetite, my children !’ It was pleasant to see how these honest folk, their eyes beaming with happiness, enjoyed their, humble fare : they ate it as if they were feeding on takes or pastry. It was not long before the great dish was as beautifully cleaned out as if it had been washed. The blind woman alone was behind the rest, for she had some trouble to find her food with the fork : but now the signalman helped her on one side, and then his son Sander on the other. Meanwhile Mie- Wanna had lighted a lamp, for it had begun to get dark. Now the blind woman produced the basket, which she had been concealing under her chair; she said she would distribute the strawberries all round, they must put a plate bofore her, and then each orie should have his share. The wish was gratified at once, and she distributed .the fruit on all sides, while she said, 4 Here is one for Darbelc, here for Dries, here for Mie-Wanna, here for Jan, and this great one is for me. And now we will begin again !’ They began to eat the delicious fruit, all praising its nice taste; but Jan, the signalman, made a sign to his children, which they well understood, for they stopped eating, though the smacking of their lips might still be heard to make the blind woman believe that they were still going on enjoying the juicy strawberries. All the time they were slily putting strawberries on their grandmother’s plate, so that

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No. XXVI. CHATTERBOX. 203 at last she exclaimed, ‘It is a wonder what a quantity there aie ! I shall soon not be. able to cat any more.’ » . 4 There are still a few more, granny/ said Sander. ‘ Why I must have had nearly fifty, child !’ 4 There are only six or seven more, granny/ ‘It is a pity they are so very large, for I cannot eat any more. I know there are nine or ten still on my plate. Have you not been deceiving me out of kindness? It is very likely.. There, Mie- Wanna, take my plate away till to-morrow. Give Barbclc the rest.’ The signalman, who during the last few’ minute’s had more than once taken out his silver watch to look at the time, had now to go again to close the gates, as a train was coming by- When he returned he found the table quite cleared. His son Sander was busy telling his blind grand¬ mother about strange lands, where lions, tigers, and elephants ran about the deserts, and where hundreds of apes sat among the trees. Ilis master had shown him these countries on the map, and- it was grievous indeed, said the lad, that his grandmother was blind, otherwise he would have laid his little atlas open on the table, that he might point out these countries to her himself. JDriesken was playing with a Jack-in-the-box which his one-handed father, with great trouble and diffi¬ culty, had made for him. Every now and then the child would hurst into fits of laughter at the queer capers and quick jumps of the funny figure. The youngest child* was already put to bed. Mie- Wanna was mending Sander’s stockings. Without speak¬ ing, the signalman sat down, lighted his evening pipe, and with a smile of quiet contentment gazed at his honest and happy family. Then he kept his eyes turned upwards for so long a time that his wife at last asked him in surprise what lie saw so remark¬ able in the ceiling. He pushed his chair somewhat nearer to her, and then, with singular solemnity, whispered in her ear, ‘Dear wife, you ask me why I gaze towards the sky: do you not understand the reason ? ’ ‘Yes, yes!’ she replied; ‘God is so good! He gives us all that we can wish, — health and plenty ; and He has made our children so sweet and obe¬ dient/ Then, in order not to disturb grandmother’s prattle with Sander, Jan Verhelst began to chat with his wife in a whisper. They talked of their children, of the abundance -of potatoes they would gain this year, of Sander’s future, and of the notary, who had promised to he. his patron as long as the brave lad continued at school. Much joy must have mingled with their quiet talk, for now and then they pressed each other's hands, and their eyes glistened often with happiness. This conversation had lasted some lime, when the blind woman suddenly raised her head in surprise, and asked ; ‘ Jail, did you hear nothing ? ? ‘ N o, mother,’ was tiie reply. 4 Hid ‘ you think you heard the horn blowing ? It is a good forty minutes before the ten-o’clock express train is due/ ‘No, not that: a rumbling in the distance. It is going to thunder! am quite certain, Jan/ ‘ It is possible, it has been just the sort of weather for it to-day/ said the signalman. ‘ Come, children, you must go to sleep ! Afraid of the thunder? Why? Whoever does Ins duty and has a good conscience need never be afraid.. Get into your bed, that is the best place of all. Ilepeat your evening prayer, and say to yourselves as you close your eyes, “Those whom God guards are in good keeping/” Without saying a word in reply the two hoys embraced their parents and their blind grandmother, receiving in return a kiss and a blessing from all, and then they retired into the second compartment of the carriage. * They could scarcely have been asleep before it began to lighten and thunder; the claps were so heavy and violent that ihe carriage trembled on the shaken ground. Mie- Wanna and the blind grand¬ mother knelt with clasped hands and closed eyes. The man too joined in their prayer, but held his watch in his hand, looking at it now and then. Mean¬ while the storm had become even more terrible, the Hashes followed each other without any intermission, and the thunder rattled like the discharge from a hundred cannons from the darkened heavens. More¬ over, a tempest had now broken forth; during the short intervals between the thunder-claps nothing was heard but the howling of the wind and the rattle of the falling hailstones. # The signalman stood up and lighted the wick to his lantern. • 0 Jan, Jan, what tenible weather !’ said Mie- M anna, trembling. . ‘It would be cruel to drive a dog out of doors in it. Must you really go, Jan ? ’ ‘The express will pass by directly/ he replied. ‘Duty before . everything else. Don’t you trouble yourself, but remain here at your prayers/ He opened the door of the carriage ; the wind burst in with force, and blew out the lamp and the candle . which stood on the table. The signalman hesitated for a moment at his wife and mother’s shrieks of terror. What a fearful hurricane ! The lightning flashes seemed to strike him with blindness, followed by a thick darkness as of the blackest night. Dut lie soon made up his mind, pressed the door to, and jumped hastily down the steps of the carriage to go and fulfil his duty properly. (To be continued.) THE HOUSE AND THE PUKSE. HP HE celebrated Polish general Kosciusko, who A died in Switzerland in the year 1817, was a very benevolent man. AH that he could save by denying himself lie distributed to the poor, and often even more. Once lie was unexpectedly prevented from personally bringing to a family, who lived some distance from him, the relief lie was in the habit of giving them on that day. . He knew that these dis¬ tressed people were awaiting him with confidence, and lie grieved to think that they should he disap¬ pointed; so lie asked one of his neighbours, an honest man, to take what he had set apart for this poor family. Hq was quite willing to do so; and to make his commission all the easier, the benevolent general lent him his horse, which he always rode himself, and he started off immediately.

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the cash I had with me consisted of two small pieces of money. When I had given away these I was obliged, regretting it as I did, to pretend to throw something into the poor people’s hats in order to content your horse and make him go on.’ As his benevolent master never passed by a man who begged of him, the horse had learned always to stand still till he had seen the arm stretched out and the gift bestowed. J. F. C. The neighbour faithfully executed his commission, but came home very late, and when he saw Kosciusko his first words were, ‘I will never ride that horse again in my life, unless you give me your purse too.’ The general, amazed, asked what he meant, and he replied, 4 As often as I met a poor man in the street, who held out his hat and asked an alms, the horse stood still, and would not move from the spot till the beggar had received something. Unfortunately, all

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So delicate and sweet, with petals blushing through the white: — The Dog Rose, and the Brier, called Eglantine, Eor all its prickles such a favourite of mine and thine. Then the Carnation, with its spicy perfumes rare, Crimped and streaked, known as the Pink. And there Are the purple tassels of the Fuchsia, with centres ruby red. And, most glorious of all, the Honeysuckle, laced with golden thread ; This is the Woodbine of the poets, the clasper of the trees. Around whose silken blossoms most thickly cluster bees : And the blue Forget-me-nots — the sapphires of th.e streams. Who could forget the flower ever present in lovers' dreams ? - H. G. A.

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206 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVL THE FLOWEBS OF JU3STE. OPBTNG, with its frosts and chiding breezes, has O departed, and the warm, fragrant breath of Summer -blows upon our cheeks. A notable change has talc on place in the appearance of the country since the beginning of last month, for the trees have now completed their foliage and assumed a much deeper tint of green. The Violet and the Primrose, with most of the other flowers of the early year, have nearly vanished ; but so great is the num¬ ber of the forms ef beauty that have taken their places, that, as we look around on the smiling land¬ scape, we feel that the poet speaks truly when he says, — 1 For who would sing the flowers of June. Though from grey morn to blazing noon, From blazing noon to dewy eve, The chaplefrof his song he weave, 'Would find his summer daylight fail, And leave half told the pleasing tale/ What a glad time is this for the bees! no tiresome searchings for food over many a wide field, but just a lazy buzzing from one honey-laden blossom to another,’ and they are more than satisfied. As the Hawthorn was the “Special flower of May, so is the Wild Bose June’s most abundant blossom. Its fragrance meets us on every road and woodland path. Who is there that does not admire this fairest beauty of Summer, and admit that it deserves the title of ‘ Queen of Flowers ?’ So simple in form, delicate in colour, and sweet in perfume, the Wild, Dog, and Brier Boses, seem to us more beautiful than all the .cultivated varieties of the garden and greenhouse* The Brier Bose is often called the Eglantine by the poets. Thus old Chaucer tells us that on one occasion, # ‘ The Eglantine exhaled a breath "Whose odours were of power to raise from death/ And another poet speaks of ‘ The Eglantine — the red rose of the .wood, Pdch in its blossbms and sweet-scented leaves/ But we might quote enough poetry about the Bose to fill a volume, so we must pass on to another flower in June — the Honeysuckle, or Woodbine. This beau¬ tiful plant is regarded as the emblem of constant affection from the way in which it clings to hedges and trees, upon and around which it grows. ‘ The Woodbkie weds the plant within her reach, Iiough elm, or smootli-grain’d ash, or glossy beech ; In spiral rings as.cends the trunk, and lays Her golden tasseis on the leafy sprays/ Most elegant arc these ‘golden tassels’ with their soft tint of red, and sweet is the perfume they give forth. Another flower we must not omit from our June wreath is the delicate ‘ blue-eyed’. Eorget-me-not. We shall not And if by the dusty highway, or within the shady wood, but on the moist margin of the stream. An old, old story, gives the. fol¬ lowing origin of its name : ‘ A knight was wandering by the side of a stream with the lady lie loved, ihe fair maiden, seeing some of these blue flowers growing at a little distance from the edge, expressed a wish to possess them. Anxious to gratify her, the gallant plunged into the water; but, sad to tell, as he plucked them the current swept him away, and he had only tinie to throw them at her feet, with the farewell cry of “ Forget me not !” when he sank to rise no more.’ Then, as we are told in verse by Bishop Mant,— ‘ The lady fair of the Knight so true, Still remembered his hapless lot; And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue, And she braided her hair with the blossoms blue. And she called it “Forget-me-not.”’ Having now described a few of the most beautiful wild flowers of Juno, we have little space left, to speak of the ornaments of the garden, so we must content ourselves with merely naming two of the commonest— the Fuchsia audBic Carnation. These plants may be seen in almost every cottage garden, and must be well known to all our young readers. A large Fuchsia shrub, when covered with its elegant crimson and purple hanging flowers, is indeed a beautiful sight. As for the Carnation, its sweet scent pervades the whole garden, while its striped crimson and white flowers are peculiarly soft and rich in appearance. Xi. B. A. WE’LL BIDE TOGETHER. (i pi BEAT tears rolled down his rugged check, (\jf Who ne’er for years had wept, Till pillowed on his aged breast The little outcast slept ; And while he viewed the early marks Of sorrow and neglect, Some pitying angel bade him then That orphan child protect. ‘ Thou canst not brave,’ he softly said, ‘ Poor bird, the bitter weather, Alone in this bleak world — ah, no ! Please God, we’ll bide together.’ A smile was on the old mail’s face, He wore a look of pride, As Gerty, when the spring returned, Came tripping by bis side. Her trembling Band in his lie held : ‘ Ah ! Heaven wa3 kind, to me,’ He said, ‘ who sent this orphan child My joy in age to be. ’Tis sweet to rove this old green lane, And feel this balmy weather, And know that I am not alone — Thank Heaven ! we bide together.’ At length the old man’s limbs grew weak, His eyes grew pale and dim ; The helpless child lie sheltered first Became a guide to him ; ^nd when, as in a quiet dream, ITis spirit passed away, ’Twas she who knelt beside his couch Whose lips he taught to pray. Alone she wanders through the lane They roved in summer weather, > And, gazing on the stars, she sighs, ‘* We there may bide together !’ J. F. Carpexter. 4

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No. XXVI. CHATTERBOX. 207 THE WHITE SPAREOW. c Sleep is the worst of thieves — He steals half our lives.’ ’Wl N most parts of Germany there SQ H2I passes current among the people Kill/ this proverb, — Ifj 1 1 If 1 He that would thrive Must the white sparrow see/ The meaning of the proverb is not at first sight so plain as that of some others that circulate among us.; such as, ‘Early habits make the man,’ and .‘Honesty is the best 'policy;’ but the moral which it is meant to convey is not the less true and important. I will therefore tell the story of its origin, just as I received it myself from the lips of an old and valued friend. There was once a farmer, with whom everything appeared to grow worse from year to year. Scarcely a week passed by that either the tax-gatherer or the pawnbroker did not come to his door and say, ‘ I am really very sorry, ITerr Huckwart, to be compelled to put you to inconvenience, but I am obliged to do my duty.’ -it The friends of Herr Huckwart also tried to do their duty to him. They advised, they entreated, and they helped him; but all in vain: and so one after another gave him up in despair, declaring with a sigh, that as for poor Huckwart there was no use in trying to help him-*— he was past being helped. He had one friend, however, whose heart wTas in the right place, and who was not only a good man, but a clear-sighted one. This friend thought he would not give up Hen' Huckwart without making one more effort to save him. So one day he led the con¬ versation, as though by accident; to the subject of sparrows — telling many anecdotes of these birds, and saying how greatly they had multiplied of *late, and how cunning and voracious they had become. Herr Huckwart shook his head gravely, in answer to this remark, and said, — ‘They are, indeed, most destructive creatures. For my part, I have no doubt that it is mainly owing to their thefts that my harvest has of late years been so scanty.’ To this conjecture his old friend made no rejoinder ; but, after a moment’s pause, he CQntinued the con¬ versation by asking, — ‘Neighbour, have you ever seen a white sparrow?’ ‘No,’ replied Huckwart; ‘the sparrows on my fields are all the common brown sort.’ ‘ That is very probable,’ replied his friend. ‘ The habits of the white sparrow are peculiar to itself. Only one comes into the world every year ; and being so different from its fellows, the other sparrows take a dislike to it, and peck at it when it appears among them. For this reason it seeks its food early in the morning, before the rest of the feathered tribe are astir, and then goes back to its nest, where it remains for the rest of the day.’ ‘ That is very strange ! ’ exclaimed Huckwart. ‘ I must really try to get a sight of that sparrow ; and, if possible, I will catch it too.’ On the morning following this conversation the farmer rose with the sun, and sallied forth into the fielcll He walked around his farm, searched his farm-yard in every corner, examined the roofs of his garners and the trees of his orchards, to see whe¬ ther he could discover any traces of the wonderful white sparrow. But the white sparrow, to the great disappointment of the farmer, would not show itself or stir from its imaginary nest. What vexed the farmer, however, still more, was, that although the sun stood high in the heavens by the time he had completed his round, not one of the farm-labourers was astir; they, too, seemed resolved not to leave their nests. Herr Huckwart was reflecting on this state of things when he saw his lad Caspar coming out of the house, carrying a sack of wheat on his shoulders. He seemed to be in great haste to get away from the farm ; and Herr Huckwart soon perceived that his steps were not bent toward the mill but^ to\vard a public-house, where Caspar had a long score to. pay. He hastened after the astonished youth, and quickly relieved him of his burden. The farmer next bent his steps to.the cow-house, and, peeping in to see whether the white sparrow had perchance taken refuge there, he discovered, to his surprise, that the milk-maid was handing a liberal portion of milk through the window to. her neighbour. ‘ A pretty sort ef housekeeping this is ! ’ t bought the farmer to hfmself. as lie hastened to his wife’s apartment, and aroused her from her slumbers. ‘As sure as my name is Huckwart,’ lie exclaimed, in an angry tone, ‘there must be an end to these tricks.’ Everything is going wrong for the want of some¬ body to look after things. So far as I am con¬ cerned,’ thought the good farmer to himself, ‘I will rise every day at the same hour I rose this morning, and then I shall get my farm cleared of those who do not intend to do their duty properly. Besides, who knows but some fine morning or other I may succeed in catching the^white sparrow?’ Days and' weeks passed on. The farmer held to his resolution ; hut he soon forgot the white spar¬ row, and only looked after his cattle and his corn¬ fields. Soon everything around him wore a flourish¬ ing aspect, and men began to observe that Herr Huckwart (Backward) now well deserved to be called Flerr Vorwart (Forward). In due course of time his old friend again came to spend a day with him, and inquired, in a humorous tone, ‘Well, how are you getting on now*? Have 3rou succeeded in catching* a glimpse of the white sparrow?’ The farmer only replied to this question by a smile, and then, holding out his hand to his old friend, he said, ’ God bless you, Herder ! you have saved me and my family from ruin.’ Often, in after years, when Herr Huckwart was a prosperous man, he used to tell the story of his early life ; and thus, by degrees, the saying passed into a proverb, — ‘ He that would thrive Must the white sparrow see./

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The Signalman and his Wife finding the Notary after the Accident E E

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210 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVII. THE RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. ( Continued from ]). 203.) IE -WANNA meanwhile lighted the lamp and the caudle again, and clasping her hands together she said, trembling, — ‘Oh, mother dear! that our poor Jan should have* to go out in such awful weather! Oh, that no harm may happen to him!; 4 Silence, my child ! silence ! ’ whispered the blind woman : ‘the ground moves; it is as if the world was going mad ! ’ They did not say a word more, but continued their silent prayer with beating hearts duriug the roar of the thunder and the hurricane. After a long time Mie-Wanna suddenly sprang up, and, pale with horror and fright, exclaimed, — ‘ Mother, did you not hear it ? Was it not Jan who called for help?7 ‘No : it was the express train going past/ ‘But what a strange crash it was I heard just then!’ ‘ Nothing, child ; it was only the rattle of a thunder¬ clap/ ‘Ah, no, mother: I am sure it was some one calling! God be with us! Listen! listen! Jan is calling for help — an accident has happened to him ! Stay, stay, I will run ! And she sprang through the darkness and hail¬ storm to the place where, betweeu the lightning flashes, ' she saw the glimmer of her husband’s lantern. ‘Jan! Jan! what has happened to you?’ she asked, full of fear. ‘An accident,’ lie, stammered out, holding his lantern close to the ground, and searching about. ‘ A terrible accident has happened. A dead horse is lying there beside the railroad. Look, by the light of the flashes you will see the pieces of a broken gig. The express train passing by has smashed it. Were any persons in it, or had this horse run away without a driver?’ ‘Had you not shut the gates, then, Jan?’ ex¬ claimed his wife. ‘ Certainly : well and carefulty shut them,’ was the reply. * But how the gig could come upon the line I cannot conceive, for I was yonder at the other road, and standing sentry as usual, with my lantern in my hand. God grant that there were no men in the "gig ! ’then the accident will not be so frightful, for the express has passed by without damage to itself/ ‘0 my God!/ cried his wife, as she suddenly, and in terror, seized Jan’s arm. ‘ Is it possible ? ’ ‘ What makes you so terrified, Mie-Wanna ? ’ ‘All! there before us, by the light of that last flash, I saw, I think, a man lying on the ground !’ When he came to the place pointed out, the signal¬ man put liis lantern to the ground. He and his wife both started back at the same time with a shriek of horror. Jan Verhelst then stepped forward again, and with a trembling voice said, — ‘ Don’t come any nearer, Mie-Wanna. Oh, it is a ghastly sight ! Poor man ! There lie lies, a muti¬ lated corpse, with bleeding head ! How could it have been?’ ‘Don’t you hear that noise, there, behind the hedge?’ whispered his wife. ‘ What do you mean ?’ ‘A groaning as of a dying man/ ‘ Wnat ! is there another victim ? Dreadful ! dreadful ! Mie-Wanna, dear wife, take courage and be brave. It is enough to make any one give way with pity and fright.’ While he was speaking these words he stepped up close to the hedge. There lay, with his face to the ground, a man, from whose head blood was stream¬ ing. His breathing made a rattling in his throat, like one lying in his death-struggle. ‘He still lives!’ cried the signalman. ‘There, Mie-Wanna, hold the lantern, that 1 may try to help the unfortunate man while it is still possible.’ He put his hand under the body, turning him round with his face uppermost. But then a shrill cry. escaped from his lips; his legs began to totter; he sank down on his knees and exclaimed, ‘ The notary ! Alas! it is the notary !’ ‘Alas! our benefactor ! Poor M. Verecken ! this you have not deserved, you good mail!’ cried Mie- Wanna. Tears streamed from the eyes of botli husband and wife. ‘Alas! and those mangled remains yonder are Joseph, M. Verecken’s coachman! ’ ‘Yes, the poor fellow! Put the lantern down/ said the man: ‘hold the body bv the legs: we will take the wounded man into our watchhouse, lay him on our bed, and wash and bind up) his wounds. lie- strain your tears, and step straight forward near to the line, Mie-Wanna. Take care not to stumble; to shake might do him harm. Alas, poor man, how he must suffer ! ’ They laid the notary in the watchhouse, and, weep¬ ing and lamenting, began to wash the wound in his head ; but notwithstanding all their efforts they coukl not stop the blood, which flowed down on to his neck. The signalman; became still more alarmed when he thought that his benefactor, for lack of surgical help, might bleed to death. ‘Go, Mie-Wanna,’ he cried, ‘ to the village, dear wife, for the doctor — for the mayor — for assistance ! Run to the “Elephant.” It is nearly ten o’clock — there, should you miss the doctor, you will find the mayor and other gentlemen. Make haste ! wake all the people on the way, and tell them about, the accident, that they may come to help us. I will run over to the carriage "to set grandmother and the children at ease about us/ He found the old blind woman, with young Sander in her arms, pale and terrified, was imploring Heaven to have pity on them. ‘ Mother, remain calm, and don’t frighten the children too,’ Jan said. But at the sound of his voice she raised her hands and cried out with joy, ‘ Jan ! Jan ! is it you ? Ah,

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No. XXVII. CHATTERBOX. 211 you are alive, then ! God he praised ! I thought that you were dead.’ 4 lie silent, mother dear, I have no time to say much,’ said he. 4 Watch over the children, . and make them stay in their beds. A terrible accident has happened. The notary’s gig has been run over by the express train. M. Verecken and his servant have been severely wounded. I must go back to help them. No one is to leave this carriage without my leave.’ ITe returned hack to the watchhoiise. The tem¬ pest had almost ceased ; but although it still rained in torrents one could see a few stars shining. Jan Verhelst did not know what to do to help the notaiy. Washing his head with cold water did not succeed in stopping the blood. At last with his lingers he tried to close the open wound as much as possible. Then he remained bending motionless over the body, and bedewed his benefactor’s, head with silent tears. ITe was not long left there alone, for soon the doctor, the mayor, and ten or twelve of the chief inhabitants of the place, had run up together. Mie- Wanna had found some in the 4 Elephant/ and met- others on the way, to whom she had told the dreadful tidings. Meanwhile many other persons had.followed out of the village ; the watchhouse was well-nigh sur¬ rounded by an inquisitive and terrified crowd. The doctor was busy binding up the notary’s head, and examining him to see if he had received other wounds. Some people had taken the signalman’s lantern, and, in accordance with the mayor’s order, were car¬ rying the mutilated remains of the coachman to the dead-house. All this time there were lamentations and surmises among the crowd about this fearful accident, and the manner in which it had occurred. Every one ques¬ tioned the signalman, and wanted to know how it could be possible for a gig to get upon the rails when the gates were shut. Tie could give no explana¬ tion for it, and asserted that he had done his duty and had closed the barriers. Some seemed to be¬ lieve him, but others looked doubtful, shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads. The mayor, above all, felt a painful mistrust. That Jan Verhelst hitherto had been esteemed by all as an honest man and a trustworthy official he knew very well, but how came it now that he and his wife should he in tears and that they could scarcely speak for fright? Certainly the notary was their friend, still this hardly explained their extreme anguish. Only one who was guilty, he thought, could he so deeply affected. As he was a cautious magistrate he re¬ marked at the conclusion of his examination, 4 We must investigate the matter and the truth will un¬ doubtedly come to light. Till then we must presume no one to be guilty.’ And he added in a low voice to himself, 4 How could a gig come on to the rails when the gates were shut? The notary, of course, will be able to tell us when he regains the power of speech.’ But the poor notary still lay quite uncon¬ scious. TIad it not been for the heaving of his heart, one would have believed that no spark of life re¬ mained in him. The doctor said now that he had done his work, so they must try to carry the notary to his own house. There was no barrow at hand, but the signalman took the door of his watchhouse off its hinges. ‘Here is a litter,’ he said ; 4 place M. Aerecken in it with my bed, and then carry him carefully home.’ This good advice was followed. They were just about to leave the watchhouse, when suddenly Mr. Frederic, the eldest son of the notary, arrived, who had hastened up to the spot as soon as he heard the tenible news. The unfortunate young man fell upon his father’s body, and wept, and sobbed, and lamented so bitterly, that every heart heat with deep emotion, and many eyes were filled with tears of sympathy. When he had become somewhat calmer, and had found a little relief in the assurance that his poor father still lived, the youth sprang up and exclaimed, holding up his clenched fist before the signalman, — 4 You — you are to blame for this accident! Lazy rascal ! why didn’t you shut the barriers? Ungrate¬ ful fellow ! we have shown you nothing bift kindness, and done all for your good — and this is how you re¬ quite us ! If my poor father dies, you, you, will have murdered him ! ’ ‘Mr. Fredeiic, I forgive you this cruel accusa¬ tion,’ answered Jan Verhelst, sadly but calmly. 4 1 understand your despair: your grief blinds you. I have done my duty ; my conscience is quiet. Your terrible affliction causes me to shed tears of sympathy, sir, but your false accusation does not offend me.’ A few of his friends had surrounded young Mr. Verecken, and begged him to compose himself. Meanwhile about a dozen men were lifting the door from the ground, and carrying it off towards the village. 4 You, Jan Verhelst, must follow us to give your explanation of this accident at the Town Hall,’ said the mayor. 4 Impossible ! I cannot!’ replied the signalman. 4 Within an hour a goods train is coining by. I must then be standing at my post.’ 4 In the name of the law, I order you.’ 4 1 am willing to obey you, M. Mayor/ answered Jan Verhelst, 4 if you will take upon yourself the responsibility of all that may occur. Otherwise I must decidedly refuse.’ The mayor reflected for a few moments. 4 Certainly/ he said, 4 the railway cannot be left without a watchman. To-morrow we must hear the account of this affair and receive declarations.’ He beckoned. to the policeman who stood beside him, and whispered into his ear: ‘Go immediately to the town, and inform the chief magistrate of what has just occurred here.’ 4 1 understand, sir/ he replied. The mayor and most of the bystanders followed the sad procession of those who were bearing the notary to his home. 4 Come, Mie- Wanna, cheer up/ said the signalman to his wife ; 4 go to the children now in the carriage, and don’t weep any more — that won’t help us. We are not to blame, our good conscience will make us feel strong against all the suspicions of these people. I can’t stay with you now, forj must go and examine the line, to assure myself that there is nothing more lying upon the rails.’ (2b be continued.)

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4 i WOLF, with hunger fierce and bold, _ Bavaged the plains and thinned the fold ; Deep in the wood secure he lay, By thefts at night regaled by day. In vain the shepherds wakeful care Had spread the toils, and watched the snare ; In vain the Dog pursued his pace, The fleeter robber mocked the chace. As Lightfoot ranged the forest round, By chance his foe’s retreat he found. Let us a while the war suspend, And reason as from friend to friend. ‘ A truce ?’ replies the Wolf. Tis done. The Dog the parley thus begun : — ‘ How can that strong intrepid miud Attack a weak defenceless kind ? i i

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No. XXVII. CHATTERBOX. 213 Those jaws should prey on nobler food, And drink the boar’s and lion’s blood. Great souls with generous pity melt, Which coward tyrants never felt. How harmless is our fleecy care ! Be brave, and let thy mercy spare.’ ‘ Friend,’ says the Wolf, ‘ the matter weigh ; Nature designed us beasts of prey ; As such, when hunger finds a treat, ’Tis necessary wolves should eat. Hence, and thy tyrant lord beseech ; To him repeat the moving speech ; A wolf eats sheep but now and then, Ten thousands are devoured by men. An open foe may prove a curse, But a pretended friend is worse.’ — Gay's Fables . Indian Carriage. OUR BALLOON TRIPS. I. — PROM HOME TO BOMBAY. By George S. Outram. OME, boys and girls, step into my balloon, and I will take you a journey. It shall not last many minutes, but you shall in that time cross a quarter of the globe, and visit Bombay. We are off ! Up we go ! And now a cloud beneath our feet hides the world from us. The cloud is gone somewhere about its business, and we can see again our beautiful England, but we are too high to see That dark blue is the London smoke, and that shining river of melted silver there is the sea separating France from England. Now we are racing oyer France, and I think 1 can spy Paris, for the sun is shining on its hundred thousand roofs. What are these we are now coming to ? Pray mind, Mr. Steersman, that you don’t run aground on one of those glittering Alpine peaks ! Ah ! that is the Matterhorn, where three ill-fated Englishmen and a brave Swiss guide fell, and perished, seven years ago. And now we catch sight of that famous blue inland sea, where St. Paul sailed and was shipwrecked, and houses or people. where the navies of Greece and Rome fought, and the gallant Nelson lost an arm and gained undying fame. Whilst one of our party is saying, ‘How very like Italy is to a man’s leg ! ’ another shouts out, ‘ Why, that must be Africa ! ’ Yes, sure enough, there is Africa ; and soon we are rapidly crossing a part of its deserts, and admiring which, thanks to the waters of her precious Nile, looks like a broad green ribbon. And now the Red Sea, bright and shining, takes our thoughts to Moses and the Exodus ; and while we are wondering where God divided it for His flock, it is left behind, and Arabia lies beneath us. We think we see the Euphrates, that ancient river, by whose banks the flowers of Eden grew, and where mighty cities have risen and fallen. Flow truly can that river say, — ‘ For men may come, and men may go, But I go on for ever.’ Here is the sea again — a larger sea than we have yet looked at. It is the Indian Ocean. We travel some time in silence over the waste of water. At length the sharpest pair of eyes in our company spies India, and a voice sings out, ‘Land, ho!’ We are soon hovering over the coast, and here our balloon comes to a full stop. Now then, pull the string, and let out the gas. Down we so with great speed, and soon we see

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CHATTERBOX. No. XXVII. • 214 a little island, with one or two others dotted about ; then houses, mosques, temples, churches, forts, ware¬ houses, ships. And now we can even see that those mud-huts in the densest part of the city are thatched with palmyra-leaves. Bump! Well, any sort of land after so much thin air, though we don’t much like the look of this, as we step out of the balloon. It is moist and marshy, for we have chosen rather a bad time for our visit. They call it the rainy season, or the wet monsoon, and the middle of the island looks like a swamp. But come, we must look about us, to find out the bright side of Bombay island, for a bright side there must he. Men would never flock together in thousands if there were no advantage in it. What can it be, then, which makes Bombay Bombay? ‘ Oh, I have it !’ says one of the company. ‘ My father is a sailor, and he once told me that Bombay meant, ‘in the language of Portugal, “ Good har¬ bour.’” Ah, that will do, my young friends. An island which grows nothing hut rank grass and a few cocoa- nuts may be pardoned if it acts as a breakwater to the proud waves, and makes a safe haven for ships. A good-tempered Jack Tar whom we meet tells us that there is no harbour in all India to he compared with Bombay. We ask him to tell us the history of the island, but Jack replies that he is no scholar. So, having thanked him for what he has given us, we apply to an English officer, who points out to us all that is worth seeing, and meanwhile informs us that the Mogul, or Emperor of India, gave Bombay to the Portuguese 350 years ago ; and when our King Charles the Second married the Princess Catherine of Portugal, the bride brought to him as her dowry three valuable presents : one was the town of Tangier in Africa, opposite to. Gibraltar ; the next was half a million pounds in hard cash ; and the third was the island of Bombay. But when the Earl of Marl¬ borough went with ships of war and soldiers to receive the island the old governor would not give it up. Two years afterwards the English took possession of it, and they have kept it ever since. Bombay is the oldest of our settlements there, and it has proved the foundation-stone of our Indian empire. The climate is moderate, owing to sea-breezes and the long rainy seasons. 4 Do you see that tall, handsome man ? ’ said our kind guide to us. ‘He is a Parsec, and one of the chief merchants here.’ We had heard of Parsecs, and we remembered how they offered their prayers for the Prince of Wales when he was thought to be dying of fever, so we were glad to see one. The officer told us how generous and splendid the higher orders are, and how active and clever the lower classes are: but he astonished us by saying that they all worship the Sun. They came from Persia ever so many hundreds of years ago, because the Arabs, when the}7 conquered Persia, made everybody give up sun- worship and obey Mahomet. Those who would not o-ive up sun-worship fled to India, and are known as Parsees, from Pars, the old name of Persia. Night and morning they crowd the shore, and adore on their faces the setting and rising sun. We now stood beside a round budding, which seemed nearly thirty feet high. Above and about we noticed large birds of prey hovering. Our guide told us this was a Parsee burying- pi ace. The dead are laid inside these buildings, and the vultures pick the flesh off the bones ; from time to time a person goes and rakes the bones into a well, which is made in the centre of the tomb. Bich men who can afford private tombs are exposed, when dead, iu the same strange manner. We were amused with the bustle and variety in the docks and warehouses. Bombay is well supplied with plenty of excellent timber from the dense forests on each side of it. Teak is a most valuable wood for shipbuilding, for it lasts much longer than oak; and as labour is cheap, many ships are built here. In the days when England had none but wooden ships, a seventy-four-gun ship, the Minclen, was built by Parsee workmen, without any aid from English hands. Would any stay-at-home youngsters like to know what we saw" among the goods which come to Bom¬ ba}7, and go away to all parts of the world ? Here are some of them put in apple-pie order : — Assafoetida (a valuable gum medicine), bdellium (another similar medicine), and bullion (which is money) ; coffee, cotton, cotton-wool, copper, copals (a kind of resin), and cocoa-nuts ; dye-woods, dried fruits, and drugs ; galls and gum arabic ; horses and iiemp; indigo ; metals of various sorts ; and myrrh, opium, and oli- banum (a clear, pure, and fragrant resin): pepper and pearls; rice, silk, sugar, spices, and sandal-wood; tea, and timber, and a thousand other things. Our kind officer, after showing us all he could think of, proposed to take us a little sea-trip to the curious island and temple-cave of Elephanta. We gladly said ‘ Yes,’ and having embarked in his cutter we had a delightful cruise of seven milcs.^ The island is formed of a black sort of rock, and is five miles from the Mahratta shore. Not far from the landing- place we saw a mutilated figure, which our friend told us was once the figure of an elephant, and perhaps the object of worship. It was split in two by gunpowder many years ago, owing to Portuguese zeal against idolatry; the In ad and neck dropped off in 1814. About half-way up a steep hill-side a cave has been scooped out of the solid rock. It is an almost square room, of the vast size of sixteen thousand square feet. The roof is held up by many pillars* curiously carved, and along the sides of the room are nearly fifty figures, more than twice the height of man. Facing the chief entrance we saw a giant head with three faces, representing the triple god of the Hindoos. At the west side we went into a room twenty feet square, having in the centre an altar. The entrance into this shrine is guarded by eight naked figures, eacn more than thirteen feet high. Our guide told us that no man can throw any light on the darkness which shrouds the history of this temple. W ho made it, and when it was made, no man knows. Having returned to Bombay we thanked the kind officer for his attention, and it being now nearly dark, we stepped once more into oiir balloon. We had a delightful starlit ride to England, and I think we must have travelled slowly, for when we landed in the meadow it was wet- with morning dew, and the light was breaking in the East. G. 8. 0.

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No. XXVII. CHATTERBOX. 215 I v ^ CAPTAIN MARRYAT , AT HOME. upon a time, in a large bare Irv4^ play-room, a governess read aloud, mLjW) Ilk to six or seven children, a story called wvlii Masterman Ready. The governess J had ^ie kig arm-chair, and the V\ children, boys and girls, clustered A H round her; some leaning against her, some crouching at her feet, and ^ ^ie ^eas^ anc^ y°ll»gest on her knee. They thought it a delightful book, \ only too sad when poor Eeady dies. •- Little Nellie, on Miss Hunt’s knee, had to slip off then, and hide her face; while there came an odd sort of choking sound from behind the chair where Alick and Donald, the big boys, were leaning : but it was not the fashion to cry over books in those days, so the children only seemed gruff and stern during the melancholy bits. By-and-by these young folk read other books too, The Children of the New Forest, and The Settlers , and liked them nearly as well, and all the time I don’t think they once gave a thought to the writer, ■ they were so engrossed by the written story. But years after, when one of them grew up and found that books had a beginning before they ap¬ peared on the counter at the bookseller’s shop, she (for it was one of the girls) had two smart blue volumes brought her from the library, which told all about the author of Masterman Heady , and those other charming tales, and she resolved to note down, for the pleasure of other children, such inci¬ dents in the life of that good sailor and amusing writer as should seem fit to her, and particularly about his own children. . He was a sailor, this Captain Frederick Marry at, though of the sea part of his career much will not be said, as you may read of it in many’of his books for grown-up people. What will perhaps be more in¬ teresting to hear is that he had children of his own, girls and boys — hoys who went to sea, and were merry, dashing fellows ; and little girls, who played about their father’s room while he wrote his tales. You will like to know about Willy, the pretty boy of six, who went a long sea voyage with his father, and was dressed in real sailor’s clothes. He was a great pet of Captain Marry at’s, and we read an amusing story of the conduct of a baboon to him on ship-board. Willy always had a piece of bread and butter at twelve o’clock to keep him patient till dinner-time, and one day he was coming out of the cabin with it in his hand, probably staring about him the while at the sea, and the sky, and the sailors in the rigging, ■ when Master Monkey spied him, and wished sorely for the bread and butter : not only wished, but snatched it. Poor Willy set up a terrible howl when he saw his lunch going down the baboon’s throat, but being# by far the smaller of the two he could not recover it: his father, however, was close to, and gave the monkey a good whipping for his theft. Next day Willy came up the cabin-stairs again at the same time, with a new and perhaps larger slice of bread and butter : again the naboon made a dash at it, actually had it in his hand and then caught the eye of Captain Marry at. ‘ YVillv screamed, and the monkey gave him back his lunch untouched: the fear of another beating was powerful enough to restrain him, and the little boy was left in peace for the future. It was a great grief to Captain Marryat when this pretty boy, whom he loved so much, fell ill and died at seven years of age. He had many little girls left, however, and he took a pleasant house in the country, where they must have greatly enjoyed themselves, playing about in the fields and garden. They had a governess to teach them ; and being a little wild at first, their father in¬ vented a plan to ensure good behaviour among them. Every Saturday a procession walked into his study, the governess and all the little girls, and then Cap¬ tain Marryat asked who had been good that week, and the best child was put forward. Then lie went to his desk, and took some pretty present from it as a reward. Afterwards the next best had something, and the next, but alas ! all were not always good, and sometimes there was a little naughty one hiding in the background. But she too was called up at last and made to promise she would try to be a better girl the next time, and to encourage her in this she also had a gift ; and then the governess had a present as well, so all were pleased and happy. Captain Marryat said he found this was a very good way of managing, and so I dare say it was ; anyhow the children did not grow up worse than other child¬ ren, and they dearly loved the father who was so kind to them. 1 think most children would have liked to have been invited to a party lie once gave when he lived in Brussels, before he took that pleasant English country house. He determined that it should be a very grand party, and that there should be a Christ¬ mas-tree. Now Christmas-trees were not at all common among the English at that time, so it was thought a great deal of, and Captain Marryat resolved that it should be a real beauty. So he vrent into the town, and bought almost a whole shop — everything in the window and on the shelves ; toys for the children, and more grown-up things for the ladies and gentlemen, so that not only the tree but the room was overflowing with presents. You may fancy what it looked like, when you hear that there were seven rocking-horses. This party went off remarkably well, as it was meant to do. Space fails to tell of Zinny and Juno, his pet little do°rs, who galloped about over his papers or snuggled underneath his coat ; of Dumpling, his fat pony, who was a good deal like a donkey, and would rub up against a wall or post when mounted by any one he did not approve of, to the great discomfort of their legs; and of Boatswain, his big Newfoundland, who, when he saw his master’s winter clothes airing out of doors, one day seized them, dragged them into a heap, and defied the servant in charge to touch them, even for the purpose of putting them away. Those youngsters, however, who now read Masterman Heady , and those other tales by this pleasant writer, will like them none the worse, we think, for knowing a little of the home life of Captain Marryat. H. A. F.

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Willy and the Monkey.

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No. XXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 217

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218 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVII L THE RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. (Continued from p. 211.) AN led his sorrowing wife to the carriage, then with his lantern in his hand he went along the rails. He had good reason to examine them cautiously and care¬ fully, for in two or three places he found remains of the broken gig lying on the line. It was a long time before he was fully con¬ vinced that the line was quite clear. Still he did not then return to his wife. He remained standing with his arms crossed, close to the line, meditating upon his position, and the consequences which this accident might have for him and his family. When he thought of all that wTas probably before him his head sank upon his breast, and a painful trembling came over him. He was so happy in his humble post ! Round him grew so abundantly the fruits of his labour. Here his son Sander had found a good sehool ; here he had lived with his children in ‘peace and without want. Was he about to lose all this? Would the Directors of the railroad believe his de¬ claration of innocence ? It would only cost the clerk of the Company a stroke of the pen to dismiss a poor servant and plunge him in distress. He tried to seek some comfort in the thought that they would not deal so lightly with the livelihood of the father of a family, who had risked his life and lost one hand in rescuing a man from a certain death. But how could he tell what they would do ? And if he were dismissed, what would become of his blind mother and of his poor children ? He might not be able to get work elsewhere. They would have to beg! His good son Sander would have to hold out his hand for alms ! He stood there busied with his painful thoughts, but his watch told him that the time to shut the gates had come. Some time after the goods train passed by, Jan Verhelst went with heavy, uncertain steps, to the carriage, asking himself on the way what, he should say when he got there. He did not wish to im¬ part the terror which he suffered to his wife and blind mother. His duty was to keep up his courage, and remain calm ; for should he tell them that he feared he might lose his post, they would fill the carriage with their lamentations, torment themselves, perhaps groundlessly, and disturb the sleep of the children. With this resolve he put out his lantern and climbed up the steps of the carriage. chapter n. Next morning, at the first dawn of the rising sun, the signalman and his wife were sitting together in the carriage in silence, then heads bent down upon their breasts. During the night they had talked so much to each other about this sad occurrence, that they had now nothing more to say. Both looked very sad and downcast. Jan Verhelst kept his eyes closed and pretended to sleep, in order to avoid the anxious questions of his wife, while she gave herself up to the most painful thoughts. At last he got up and left the carriage, that he might once more examine the line, and watch for the first morning train. Tie began by placing the broken pieces of the til¬ bury behind the hedge, and worked for a long time with his spade to make the ground smooth again, to remove all traces of disorder, as well as to cover up the terrible blood marks. The villagers soon came to the spot, and pressed the signalman with ques¬ tions. He replied to all that he had shut the gates, and had not the least idea how the accident had happened. The notary’s gardener, who came a little later, told him that his master was still alive, but lay as sense¬ less as on the previous evening. The doctor saw some little improvement in his condition, and hoped that he would recover. This man, who was a great friend of Jan Verhelst, asserted his entire belief in his innocence. This mark of confidence, and the good news which he brought, gave the signalman a little more courage, and he listened — comforted, and al¬ most happy — to the gardener’s words, who tried to convince him that he ought to take no heed of the suspicions of the people, and that he had really nothing to fear. Only then could Jan Verhelst summon up courage to go to the carriage and embrace his children. lie calmed, as well as he was able, the anxiety of his wife and mother, assuring them that probably the matter would pass off without any evil consequences to him. Thus a great portion of the morning passed away, and the signalman grew more and more confident that the blame of the sad accident would not be laid to his charge. Two trains had already passed by. Jan Verhelst had returned again to the carriage, and was comforting its inmates, when he heard his name loudly called outside. Surprised, and fearing some danger, he sprang up, followed by his terrified family, and looked out from the steps. How pale he turned ! how his children’s cries pierced his heart ! There he saw gens d’armes and strange gentlemen standing near the railway, occupied in minutely inspecting the. spot where the accident had happened. The village police¬ man approached Jan Verhelst, and told him that a chief magistrate and a deputy of the king summoned him into the watclihouse to hear his explanation. The poor signalman could not turn away his eyes from the gens d’armes. Did they come for him ? To arrest him? Was he to be taken to prison? Im¬ possible ! What harm had he done ? Only after the policeman had twice repeated to him the magistrate’s commands, he stepped towards the watclihouse. A moment after, the magistrate, the deputy, and his clerk, were sitting at the little table ; while Jan Verhelst, half dead with shame and. fear, stood, be¬ tween the two gens d’armes like a criminal awaiting his sentence. 4 Your name, and Christian name ? Where and when were you born ? ’ asked the magis¬ trate. But the signalman scarcely understood him ; he lifted up his arms, and turning his eyes filled with tears towards the sky, exclaimed: 6 0 God! protect

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No. XXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 219 my blind mother and my poor children ! they will die with fright.’ And in fact, the grievous lamenta¬ tions and heart-rending cries of his family were so loud and incessant that inside the watchhouse they could scarcely hear each other speak. 4 Gens d’armes ! ’ ordered the magistrate, 4 go and tell the policeman to remove those people out there from before the watchhouse ; by force if necessary.’ A few sharp cries were still heard, but the sounds gradually decreased, and at last there was complete silence. A heavy sigh escaped from Jan Verhelst’s oppressed heart, who in spirit saw his crying children and his weeping wife driven away by the rough policeman. Now they could continue the examination without interruption. The signalman told his name, birth¬ place, and calling. Then the magistrate said to him : fc Jan Verhelst, you are accused of murder through carelessness. You have neglected to shut the gates before the express train went by. Through this care¬ less negligence you have caused the death of one, perhaps of two men. Do you confess it ? ’ 4 Oh, sir! believe me, I am innocent!’ replied the signalman; ‘the gates were shut, quite asthe}^ ought to be.’ 4 How, then, can you account for what happened yesterday evening?’ 4 1 don’t know, sir ; my conscience hesitates to accuse others.’ 4 Indeed ! Do you suspect any one, then, of opening the gates?’ 4 No, sir; and yet they were opened.’ 4 Or left open through negligence. Tell us all you know about the affair.’ 4 It was a few minutes before ten, sir. The express train wras about to pass through. It was lightning, hailing, and raining so violently, that one could scarcely keep one’s eyes open. 1 took my lantern, shut the gates carefully here at my watchhouse, and then went along the line to the second road, about a bow-shot further on. There I performed my usual duty again in closing the barriers, and remained according to the regulation standing by the gates to watch for the train passing by. I confess, sir, that, suddenly dazzled by the glare of a vivid flash of lightning, I was for a moment blinded and kept my eyes shut. J ust then the train flew by. An unusual noise, a strange crash, came to my ears from the distance. I ran up at once, and found a dead horse and a broken carriage lying close to the rails. On my cry for help my wife ran up at once ; after some search we discovered to our great terror, first the mutilated body of the coachman, and then, not far from the hedge, the severely-wounded notary. More I cannot tell, gentlemen, for that is all I know.’ This clear and simple explanation did not seem acceptable to the magistrate. He narrowly cross- examined the signalman, and obliged him to repeat his declaration several times, doubtless in the hope that he would contradict himself, and thus betray his guilt. Jan Verhelst, tortured by this long examination, was pale as death, and the cold sweat stood on his forehead. Nevertheless he always adhered to his first explanation, and did not say a single word which could cause him to be suspected of concealment. The magistrate was an elderly man, who had grown gray in the exercise of his responsible office. Between him and M. Verecken an intimate friendship had existed for many years, and frequently in summer the magistrate and his family came to spend a few days with the notary. This circumstance rather increased his severity. He pitilessly continued Ins examination ; in his determination to discover the truth he kept the signalman cowed beneath his pene¬ trating glance, and did not leave the unhappy man time to breathe, although the deputy now and then tried to get him to be a little more indulgent. The deputy, who was a much younger man than the magistrate, appeared to believe in the innocence of the poor signalman. His plain, simple answers, his quiet submission, his open countenance, all told of honesty. The bitter lamentations and cries of the poor man’s children had also touched the deputy’s heart. He did not conceal his sympathy for the accused. Already more than once had he comforted and encouraged him, by endeavouring to make him understand that such a strict investigation ought not to frighten him, and that if he were innocent he had nothing to fear from these painful formalities, which were quite necessaiy, both for his own defence and to bring the real truth to light. The deputy now again whispered to the magistrate, advising him to stop this long and repeated examina¬ tion ; he said it was quite evident that there was no hope of getting any more information out of this man. The magistrate probably believed in the signal¬ man’s guilt, for it was reluctantly, and with an un¬ favourable shake of the head, that he yielded to his colleague’s advice. Turning once more to the signal¬ man lie said, 4 Jan Verhelst, for the last time answer me candidly: have you not through negligence . caused the accident ? — have you nothing more to say about it? ’ ‘Nothing, sir,’ said the exhausted and tortured man, almost in a whisper. 4 Very well ; you must sign this declaration before us, then you will follow the gens d’armes to the town. You will await in prison the decision of the tribunal.’ This word ‘prison’ seemed to strike Jan Verhelst like a blow, and to arouse in him the feeling of manliness and innocence. He raised up his head, assumed a bold front, and addressed the magistrate with flashing eyes : — 4 To a prison ? — to a dungeon ? ’ he cried. 4 1, Jan Verhelst ? — I, who have risked my life ? — I, an in¬ nocent man ? — oh no, no ; it is impossible ! In pri¬ son like a thief or a murderer? Don’t you know, sir, that I have a wife and children, that I have an old blind mother ?• And who, in my absence, is to watch the railroad ? ’ 4 That is already provided for.’ 4 No, no! To the prison I will not go! Kill me rather before your feet ! ’ 4 By resisting authority you accuse yourself,’ said the magistrate very coolly, at the same time making a sign to the gens d’armes. They immediately produced a strong cord, which they began to unroll slowly, indicating thereby that they would have to bind the signalman if he refused to follow them. (To be continued.)

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220 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVIII. A TRUE STORY FROM INDIA. DURING my residence in India, not being very strong, I went with my husband and little boy for change of air to a quiet village, about fourteen miles from our large station. It was a very pretty, cool place on the sea-coast, where the collector of the district went from time to time to collect rents for Government and to measure salt, which is made, or, rather, gathered there. The back-water comes in

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No. XXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 221 over the plain, and when it recedes the force of the sun draws forth a large quantity of salt, and the ground looks as if covered with snow. The collector kindly lent us his mud-hut to live in, and at night we slept in a tent. I soon became much stronger, and in a few flajrs was able to walk a little, and enjoy the beautiful sea-breezes. The natives of that village, who are employed in fishing as well as gathering the salt, had never seen an Englishwoman before, which will account for what I am going to tell you. One evening, after sunset, I took my work and camp-stool and sat on the beach, waiting for my husband, who had gone to shoot the snipe, teal, blue pigeon, and golden plover, which are found there in great numbers. After I had been seated a few minutes, two or three fishermen came and stood quite close to me, looking at me very steadily, and began . talking to each other, and making signs in another direction, as if calling some one. In a short time a few more came, and then a few more — some women and children — till, at last, there were fifty standing round me, coming closer and closer, jabbering to each other, and making curious grimaces. I was becoming very nervous, but I went on working, though my fingers shook so I could hardly hold my needle. Fortunately I soon saw one of the grooms (called in India ‘ horse- keepers ’) passing, and I begged him to send my ayah (or maid) to me directly. She thought I was ill, and came running as fast as she could. She said in her broken English: — ‘My darling missis, what's the matter? What sorry white face missis got!7 I told her how frightened I was, and asked her what these dreadful people were going to do to me, or if they wanted money? She spoke to them in their language, which is called Tamil, and scolded them for being so rude as to stare and frighten me so. They then all bowed their heads and made salaam, begging me not to be angry. They did not want money, they only wished to look at me as long as I would allow them, for they had never seen any one so beautiful before, and asked the ayah if I came from the skies. They said I must be some sort of a god, but quite different to theirs, and by looking at me all their sins would be taken away. I dare say you little chatterboxes who read this story, know that black people worship wooden and stone gody ; but perhaps you do not know that they admire fair skin and hair very much, and that many of the men in some parts of India dye their beards red. As I have a fair complexion and red hair, you may suppose that these poor creatures did think me very beautiful, or, at any rate, very different to anybody they had ever seen before. We soon became great friends, and when I walked on the beach with my little son and my good, faithful ayah, boys and girls came in numbers dancing and playing round us. We stayed there three weeks, and I was really quite sorry to leave the pretty fishing- village and my amusing half-naked little companions. ENTERTAINING STRANGERS. T II E R. it’s snowing hard, and eleven’s striking ! ’ ‘Tie’ll not come to-night,’ said a hard-featured woman, lifting her eyes from her spinning-wheel. ‘ You must shut ail up, Kate, and wait for the morning ; we’re chill¬ ing ourselves for naught.’ It was a poor Yorkshire cottage in which the speakers sat, but their decent apparel and mode of speak¬ ing told of better days, not accord¬ ing with the bare rooms and the scanty fare which mi^ht be seen in the little larder close by. Kad times were here, Nancy Doddrell would have told you ; times of famine, and tumult, and restless suspicion, those closing years of the old century. Food was scarce, there had been a bad harvest ; and work was scarce too, many an able-bodied man being helpless because his employers had not where¬ with to provide work for him. _ The comer whom the women were expecting to¬ night, and for whom Kate, the bonny, adopted daughter of the house, was looking out so eagerly, was old Nancy’s only son, Thomas Doddrell, her promised husband. But he was out of work, too : the great woollen mills in which he had been employed were closed ; the depression of trade had been too much for them.

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222 CHATTERBOX. No. XXYIir. b 4 1 wish he’d come to-night/ said Kate, with a sigh; ‘you’d have slept better, mother, with some man about the place in these rough times.’ Kate had reason to say so, for twice had she and the old woman been roused from their beds to answer the clamorous call of some passer-by for food and money. The ill-affected and ill-disposed made their living at this period by terrifying helpless women, and demanding from them whatever they thought the house contained. Even the quiet, poverty-stricken cottage, did not escape such visitations, and the little store of food grew pitiably small under this system of black-mail, while there was some doubt where fresh supplies should come from. Old Nancy grew to look older and sterner on short commons and anxious thoughts, but blithe Kate could not fret, and seemed to flourish even on spare diet. Bread had long been reckoned a dainty, quite out of reach, and a few potatoes were hidden away as a special treat for absent Tom. Oatmeal was their usual fare, and Kate was putting aside the basin and plate intended for the expected visitor when a knock at the outer door startled her. The deep-lying snow had prevented any sound of footsteps reaching her ears, and she turned pale, for night-visitors were not welcome now, saving Tom, who would never have knocked at the door, but would have pressed his face to the uncurtained window, and cheerily called on his women-folk to open for him. /Keep quiet, and make as if we had not heard/ said old Nancy, in a whisper. But the knock came again and again, loud and persistent. And presently voices were raised begging for shelter. Then Kate pleaded for those outside, fearful as she was of night-visitors. It was snowing, it was bitterly cold ; maybe some poor soul had got belated on the road, and needed shelter. Should she open ? Nancy held, out awhile, and then, following Kate closely, they did open the door. There stood two dark figures, cloaked and hooded, and shivering in the snow — a man and woman. ‘ Oh ! come in, come in to the fire ! ’ said Kate, r ‘ You’ll not be for using the only bit of peat left ?’ whispered Nancy, looking at the new-comers sus¬ piciously. They were young: like brother and sister, or husband and wife ; and though they were covered from head to foot in long cloaks, their chattering teeth and blue lips betrayed the need they felt of warmth and shelter. While Kate put the dying embers together, and dragged a s tool near them for the girl to sit on, the man began an explanation of their case. ‘We are sorry to disturb you/ he said, ‘at this time of night, but the coach upset in the hollow down yonder, and though they righted it, the horses were hurt, and we could not go on. My wife and I put the windows up and resolved to stay in the coach till morning, but the cold became so intense that we feared we should be frozen to death, and so we got out and made for your friendly light. May we ask for shelter till morning, when the coachman will return with fresh horses? and if you had where¬ withal to feed two hungry people, we should feel deeply grateful to you.’ Kate looked at her foster-mother, and then at the door leading to the cellar where the few potatoes were bidden, but Nancy shook her head warningly. Why should strange folk be fed, and their own flesh and blood be left to hunger ? If those potatoes went, what could they bring out for Tom next day ? So thought old Nancy; but Kate drew her into a corner, and. pleaded for just a few for the lady. ‘ We can’t offer her only oatmeal and water/ said she% So, much against the grain, Nancy let Kate have her way, and presently the travellers’ faces began to look cheerful over the warm but scanty fare, and their benumbed limbs thawed in the cheerful glow into which Kate had bewitched the grey ashes. What if there was less fire and food for Tom ? they could not have let these poor things suffer when they had come to the cottage. Their first duty was certainly to the stranger at their gate. Even Nancy softened at last, and helped to rub into something like warmth the poor lady’s hands and feet. ‘ We never expected such an accident/ she said, piteously ; ‘ we were on our way to visit our friends in Leeds/ And then they fell to talking of the bad times ; and Nancy spoke of Tom and his enforced idleness. ‘ Was he in Thorpe’s mill ? ’ asked the young man. ‘ Aye/ said Nancy, ‘ that was the name/ ‘ I know Thorpe/ he said. ‘ Were you in his mill?’ asked the old woman. Kate pulled her apron : for, in spite of draggled clothes, the younger woman had better guessed the position in life of the visitors than old Nancy had. But the young man did not seem surprised or offended. ‘ I was in Turner’s mill/ he said, in reply. ‘And they’d no work for you,’ resumed Nancy, ‘ either ? Aye, well we must hope for the best, though it’s a bad look-out for young people with a family/ and she glanced at the tired girl in the corner. ‘ You’ll be glad of a place to lie down in, I fancy. Kate, show them our room ; we can sit by the fire to-night/ But this the new-comers would not permit, and it was finally settled that the lady should occupy Kate’s bed, while she and her mother took the other, and the man lay on the settle by the five. Next day Kate took them through the deep snow back to the coach, having previously clad the lady in her own stout shoes and stockings, while she carried the thinner foot-gear in her hands, well dried and ready to put on the traveller on reaching the coach. They had made great friends, these two young women, in the short time of their acquaintance, and Kate had confided all her hopes for the future to the happy young wife. ‘ It can’t be yet awhile/ she had said, ‘ while Tom is out of work ; but I can wait.’ And then the gentleman had taken out a pocket- book and written down the Doddrell’s address, and asked where Tom was to be found in Leeds.

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No. XXVIII. CHATTERBOX 223 ‘We expect him home every day/ said blushing Kate, ‘ till lie gets work again ; but just now he’s to be heard of at Potter’s Entry, London Road ; ’ and then the coach drove off, and she went back to her poor home. The travellers had tried to press a gold coin on the old woman, but this Nancy would not hear of. ‘Folk out of work like my Tom should never be asked aught for bit or sup in my house/ said the really kind old woman, and all Kate could say would not convince her that the guests of the night past were not poor struggling people like themselves. ‘ Gentlefolk they may be/ she had owned ; ‘ but Kate, girl, you heard them complain of the bad times yourself, and say that pies and puddings haven’t been seen in their house this many a day.’ And she snuffed at the idea that the money saved .by giving up these dainties did not go to their own enrichment, but that of people poorer still. ‘ Why, didn’t the lad himself look half-clemmed ? Kate ought to be ashamed of herself for trying to make out they were rich people ! Did she grudge the potato or the bit of oatmeal they ate ? 7 Kate assuredly did not, and went about her work all day with a smile on her lips and joy at her heart. If Tom had not left Leeds the pleasant-spoken gentleman had promised to see him, and tell him that all were well at the cottage. And Tom himself might appear to-day. Either way, it was something plea¬ sant to think of. But Tom did not come, and after waiting a few days in suspense, an old carrier dropped a letter at the cottage. It was from Thomas Doddrell, and contained the joyful news that he had got the situation of overseer at Turner’s mill, and should get leave in a fortnight to come and marry Kate. ‘ Master Turner’s is such a big place, it isn’t likely to be done up/ he had written. ‘ But why didn’t you send me word you had had the young gentleman and his wife staying all night at the cottage?- I owe all my good luck to the care you took of them. They spoke for me to the old gentleman, and said something handsome about Kate, too.’ Old Nancy would hardly believe then that the belated travellers were one and the same with the rich manufacturers of Leeds ; they had had no high ways with them, she said, and she had treated Master Turner all as one as her Tom, and he hadn’t seemed to mind it. ‘ Cold and hungry folk are mostly the same every¬ where, missis/ said the old carrier, to whom she tried to explain the matter. At the close of the fortnight Tom made his appear¬ ance, and the banns having been previously put up, it was no lengthy matter to make Kate his wife* He took her back to Leeds with him : but in another ten days they were to return and fetch old Nancy, who meantime employed herself in packing up the small stock of household furniture and giving up the cottage. Times were mending now for the little family. Tom’s wages would more than keep the three in the humble way they had been used to, and, when these famine prices were over, would place them at once in easy circumstances. ‘ It was angels unawares we entertained that night mother, wasn’t it?’ said smiling Kate; ‘and young Mrs. Turner is like an angel, she’s so sweet and kind.’ ‘Aye, and I nearly turned them from the door/ said old Nancy, ‘ with my foolish fretting lest there shouldn’t be enough for Tom there! It’s a lesson to me, Kate, and I'll mind it ; no one shall ever leave our door for the future without bit or sup. We owe it to God for ITis goodness, and He can make the loaves last out here as well as He did on the moun¬ tain side.’ Mrs. Doddrell kept her word: their house was known in years to come, aye, after the grass was green on her grave, as the most hospitable dwelling in Yorkshire ; and that is saying a great deal, as any one who knows the county can tell you. H. A. F. THE STAG IN TROUBLE. THE picture shows us a poor stag in great trouble. His horns, or antlers, are entangled with the branch of a tree, and he struggles forward without knowing that he is only making matters worse. His efforts to get free are only fixing the horns more tightly in the branch, and increasing his difficulties. The same sort of thing happens sometimes to those who should be wiser than the stag. We catch our horns, so to speak, and are suddenly held back at the moment when we particularly wish to go forward. We are thwarted in some fancy or plan at the very moment we thought we had attained our wish. Well, then, it will be best to wait quietly and take a survey of the matter,— not struggling to free our¬ selves of the difficulties lest we make them greater. Look again at the picture, and imagine the branch and the antlers to represent two evil tempers — the cold, unmoved, provoking temper, and the hasty, passionate one. See the pain which is being caused to the owner of the horns— the starting eyes, the foaming mouth, the gasping breath. And if the cold branch does not feel, it is injured all the same. The leaves and the bark are being torn, and they will come off in the fight almost, if not quite, as badly as the other. Hasty, bitter words, have caused worse entangle¬ ments than that of the picture, for they can never be recalled, while the misfortune into which the stag’s haste has led him will no doubt be remedied. Not long ago, however, the temper and not the haste of a stag got him into trouble. A woodman was crossing a deer-park late one November evening, when suddenly a stag left its companions and rushed at him. The man made for a high gate, and he and the stag reached it at the same.moment. He had no time to climb it, nor to open^it, and in a moment he was pinned against it. Luckily there was plenty of room for the man between the wide branching antlers ; but these had become fixed in the bars of the gate, and there seemed every chance of the two passing the night in this unpleasant position. Happily, however, the woodman bethought him of his axe, and there was . nothing for it but to chop off the horns— and this he accordingly did, setting himself and his enemy free at the same time, and leaving the latter, let us hope, a sadder and a wiser stag.

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224 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVIII. The Stag in trouble,

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226 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIX THE RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. {Continued from j). 210.) T the threat of such a degra¬ dation Jan Verhelsfc sprang up, and clenched his one fist in preparation for a hopeless struggle. But the deputy ap¬ proached him, and tried to convince him by friendly words that all resistance was useless, and that while he was asserting his innocence he was about to make himself really guilty by a misdemeanour. The im¬ prisonment would only last until the investigation was thoroughly completed, and if it was proved afterwards that he really had shut the gates, then he would be restored to liberty aiid to his post. By these comforting words the signalman was soothed. Still, what troubled him most was the terrible thought of the shame and grief his wife and children would experience when they heard the sad news of his disgrace. 4 Trust that to me,’ said the deputy to him. c Their jot has excited my compassion. I will go to them and make them understand that they are not to despair, and persuade them to await with confidence the final issue of this sad affair. Submit yourself without resistance. I will go at once to your family.’ And he left the watchhouse immediately. Jan Verhelst declared that he was ready to submit with perfect obedience, but the poor man implored with tears in his eyes that he should not be disgraced by being bound like a thief. ‘ The clerk read his declaration out to him, and he signed it without hesitation. 4 Gens d’a ruies, remember you are answerable for the prisoner,’ said the magistrate. ‘ Bo your duty, and lead him to the town.’ Between the two gens d’armes Jan Verhelst left his watchhouse. He looked once more towards the carriage, but did not perceive any one of those who lay so near to his heart. The generous deputy was probably distracting their attention to save them from beholding their father’s disgrace and shame. Between four and five hundred people were stand¬ ing near the gates, who, out of respect for the authorities, retired on to the line. Jan Verhelst, when he perceived all these hund¬ reds of inquiring eyes fastened upon him, felt a shudder pass through his veins, and with a sup- ressed cry of anguish he let his head fall down on is breast. One of the gens d’armes had to take his arm to support his tottering steps. When the thick crowd had been forced back by the policeman, to allow the sad procession to pass through, many cruel and heart-breaking words came to poor Jan Verhelst’s ears. Seeing him dragged like a criminal between the gens d’armes to the prison the crowd thought that flie magistrate had certainly found him guilty. By negligence to his duty he had caused the death of two human beings. The notary— the benevolent, the universally-esteemed man— lay dying ! ITad not the signalman murdered him ? jSTo wonder that a feeling of scorn and hatred burned in the hearts of most of the bystanders towards him. As he passed through the village Jan Verhelst was cursed and insulted by the crowd. He repeatedly heard the words, 4 Ilascal ! lazy fellow ! murderer ! ’ Yes, he saw people take up mud from the street, which they would have cast in his face had not the policeman, who marched before with his drawn sword, prevented them. This shame and torture lasted till they reached the opposite end of the village. Here the policeman, with some better-disposed men whom he had called to his help, had put a barrier across the streets, so that the prisoner and his guards could proceed without being pursued any further by the angry cries and insults of the excited populace. To shorten the way to the town the gens d’armes went by a by-road, and they obliged the prisoner to hasten his steps in order to escape as far as possible from the pursuit of the villagers. The signalman obeyed, but did not speak. His heart seemed broken. He still saw before his lips that bitter cup of shame which in so short a time he had to drink to the dregs. Horrible thought ! he had risked his life to save a man, and now men were cursing him ! They wanted to throw mud at him, and stone him like a mad dog ! As he walked on full of those painful thoughts, some dreadful sounds came to his ears. He turned pale, raised a distressing cry, and remained standing, without venturing to turn round. 4 Well, now, what is the matter, comrade?’ the gens d’armes asked him in amazement. 4 It is only the villagers who keep shrieking and calling after us from the distance. Forwards! forwards! or they will overtake us.’ 4 Yes, forwards, quickly ! — O God, my poor child¬ ren ! ’ sighed the signalman. He hastened his steps indeed, and hoped to escape a meeting he so greatly dreaded. Ilis wife and children had seen him carried off between the gens d’armes.' If this fearful spectacle should now meet their eyes, how it would break their hearts ! How could he himself stand such a trial ? But quickly as he hurried on, the cries and lament¬ ations became more and more distinct. The word ‘Father! father!’ uttered by children’s voices, reached his ears. His unhappy family were approaching him nearer and nearer. Would those loved and loving beings follow him to the very door of the prison? He turned his head. There he saw in the dis¬ tance his blind mother, supported by his wife and his good son Sander, trying to run after him. Mie- Wanna was carrying liarbele in her arms, and Briesken was trotting along by the roadside: all, crying and sobbing, were holding out their hands to him. All that he loved and Valued on earth— his own flesh and blood— his hope, his happiness— was there collected together. 4 Oh, I implore you, friends!’ begged Jan Ver- helst, with clasped hands, 4 let us stop for a moment. Here comes my poor family ; they are running after me. Only allow me to say a word to them.’

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No. XXIX. 227 % CHATTERBOX. ‘Yes, but,’ grumbled one of the gens d’armes, ‘we don’t know whether - ’ ‘ Only one moment, out of pity ! one last farewell ! I shall tell them that they must go home at once.’ ‘Very well: be as quick as you can, then.’ A short time after his wife and children hung round his neck and clasped him tightly in their arms, as if the}' would never let him go again. Meanwhile they filled the air with mingled cries of anguish and affection. After repeated kisses, and after the first outpouring of them grief, Jan Verhelst tried with a contidence which he did not feel himself to make them under¬ stand that they were troubling themselves too much. He was being led to the town that his declaration might be heard again and signed. Probably he should have to remain there some days, but the magistrate would quickly investigate the matter, and if his innocence was proved — of which there could he no doubt — then he would return with his honour re-established and free from all suspicion. They must go home now, and await his return with patience. Their lamentations cut him painfully to the heart. He implored them not to follow him any longer. All that they could now do for love to him was to pray G od that He would speedily make his innocence clear. He would now give them each a farewell kiss, and then they must go back. All seemed encouraged by his words and willing to follow his advice. But when the signalman pressed the old woman to his heart, and said to her, deeply moved, ‘Farewell! farewell! mother dear!’ the poor blind woman fell fainting to the ground. Then the cries and lamentations began afresh, the children especially were so overcome oy fear and terror that tears of pity stood in the eyes of one of the gens d’armes. Jan Verhelst knelt down beside his blind mother, raised up her head, and washed her cheeks with water from a flask which one of the gens d’armes had handed him. As soon as the fainting woman showed signs of consciousness the signalman was warned that he must at once continue his way to the town. His guardians had kiudly yielded to his wishes, he must now let them see that he did not intend to make an ill use of their good-nature. The prisoner hastened once more to embrace his children; he tenderly pressed the little Barbele to his heart, and then whispered a few serious words into liis wife’s ear, which she seemed well to under¬ stand, for she replied with firmness, ‘Go, Jan; go, dear husband : we won’t follow you any more. I will watch over the children, comfort them, and pray with them, till you come back. Keep up your courage ; God is just.’ _ ‘Yes, courage! courage, Mie-Wanna!’ said the signalman, with a choking voice, as he placed him¬ self between the gens d’armes, and without looking back again hastily continued his way. Then the courage he had hitherto maintained quite failed him; tears burst from his- eyes, and he sobbed like a child ; his heart was so overburdened with woe that it was some time before he could reply calmly to the ques¬ tions of his companions. Hid the gens d’armes believe in his innocence or in his guilt? This lie could not discover from their speech. They were probably indifferent on the point, or did not wish to give any opinion about it. The elder now said to the prisoner, ‘ A murder through' carelessness ! That is a serious matter, com¬ rade. Were I in your place I would confess every¬ thing, and explain how the accident happened. Then you would have a chance of receiving a much lighter sentence.’ ‘ But, friend, I have confessed everything,’ answered Jan Verhelst. ‘ Should I now contradict myself ? ’ ‘ You must know best, it is your affair. But think it over, for it is good advice which I give you.’ ‘It is, indeed,’ said the other gendarme; ‘I knew just two such cases. I was posted once in a parish in West Flanders. There a woman was killed owing to the gates not being shut before the passage of a train. The signalman denied his fault, and he was condemned to two years’ imprisonment. A little time after I was stationed near Louvain ; there a similar accident occurred. Three persons were killed. The signalman, with tears, confessed that he had neglected to shut the gates in time. This affair was much more serious than the other, but because he had so openly acknowledged his guilt he was only sentenced to three months’ confinement.’ ‘ This should show you all the more how you ought to profit by these two incidents,’ remarked the elder gendarme. ‘ Come, comrade, are you quite sure that you closed the gates ? ’ ‘I am as certain of it as of my own existence now on the earth,’ said Jan Verhelst, wounded and pained by the doubt of his companions. As they could get nothing else out of him but the assertion of his innocence they ceased the conversation. (To be continued.) OUE BALLOON TRIPS. II. — FROM HOME TO CONSTANTINOPLE. By George S. Outram. EVERAL of our young friends having expressed a desire to see Constantinople, I arranged a bal¬ loon-trip to that famous old city ; and on the appointed day a large eager party of boys and girls, brimful of expectation, crowded the car. I gave orders to the con¬ ductor to steer our airy ship to the shore of Belgium. We were soon across the sea, and gliding over the flat lowlands. Then rose be¬ neath us the steeples of Brussels, the forest of Soignies, and the battle-field of Waterloo; but we could not tarry to look at the ruined walls of Hugou- mont, or the lion-crowned hill of earth. It was not long ere the wonderful spire of Stras- burg appeared, and as we swept over that old city we had sad memories of the recent war. But our light hearts soon forgot the horrors of bloodshed before the pure white robes of the Alps which God made. Between two lordly peaks we sailed, over snow and ice, over fearful precipices and nestling valleys. Now we look down on lovely plains, where oranges

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4 Street in Constantinople. and lemons grow. There glitters in the warm sun¬ shine the fine lake of Como, long, narrow, and winding. And now Verona, a pleasant city, made famous by our great poet, Shakespeare. As we turn our backs on its old towers and ram¬ parts, a little girl hopes that the Capulets and Montagues and their servants can walkabout Verona now, without stabbing each other. We hope so, too. Eastern Women. All were eager to see Venice; that strange city, ‘throned on her hundred isles’ (so says the poet) ; but, really, she is built on more, than sixty islands. They rise just above high water in the midst of very shallow seas, which are separated from the open deep sea by a long strip of land. Covered with houses and churches, the islands are joined to each other by more than three hundred and eighty bridges. We

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A Coffee Shop in Stamboul. saw that instead of roads and streets there are canals ; instead of cabs and omnibuses, there are boats gliding about everywhere. One of our party said, ‘ "VVhat could have made people choose such an odd place to live in?7 I explained to him that it was fear. There was a dreadful man, called Attila, who led thousands of savage people everywhere. They robbed and mur¬ dered, and made bonfires of villages and towns, so that many people ran away from their homes in Italy, and took refuge on some of those small islands where Venice is. In the course of ages Venice be¬ came a very great city, and her people had ships without number, for trade and for war. A Venetian ship brought the body of Saint Mark from Alexandria. It lie* buried there, near that tall belfry. The chief man in Venice was called the Doge, or duke. Every year the doge used to marry the Adriatic Sea in a very solemn manner, by throwing a ring into it. The brave sailors of Venice took many islands and many cities. They helped the Crusaders, and fought battles with Saracens, Normans, and Turks; but, after all, their bitterest enemies were their near neighbours and rivals, the people of Genoa. Venice was nearly ruined by Napoleon. But fly away, balloon ! fly away over the Adriatic Sea; over the broken land of Croatia; over the forests of oak and beech ; over the dens of wolf and lynx in the wooded heights of Bosnia. There is the Danube, a noble river ; and there is the city of Belgrade, called the ‘House of the Holy War/ Here we begin to feel the soft air of Turkey. Here the Turks sawed Rliigas the Greek into small pieces. Here they stuck thirty-six Servians on pikes or pales, and some of the unhappy sufferers lived for seven days. Cruel Turks ! How hateful is cruelty, in Turk or Christian! Poor Belgrade! No town on earth has been more battered. Who remembers the lines ? — ‘ An Austrian army, awfully arrayed, Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade ; Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction’s devastating doom.’ And so on, down to Z. But on and on we go, over the craggy peaks and barren sides of the Balkan mountains. A cold and snowy climate, this. The few roads lie in the bed of torrents, and the poor traveller runs the risk of being drowned. On our right hand rose Mount Rhodope, where Orpheus wandered, nowamonggroves of myrtle and now over acres of snow, to And his lost Eurydice. There is Adrianople, a town so large that some of our lads took it for the great city we were coming to see. Nobody, however, took any further notice of it as we passed it by, for all eyes were straining to catch the first glimpse of Constantinople.* Soon it came into view, and though utterly unlike our huge smoky London, we thought it looked as grand, and much more beautiful. We flew right across the city, and landed in the garden of the English ambassador, in a part of the city called Pera, which is to Constantinople what Southwark is to London. Only the Golden Plorn, which sepa¬ rates the two, is a wider and more beautiful piece of water. W e left our balloon under the care of the ambas- * See Chatterbox, for 1SG7, p. 164.

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230 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIX. sador’s servants, and wandered forth, in great excite¬ ment, to see all we could. We looked for a long time at the city before we stirred. It is built on seven hills, which rise from the edge of the water. These hills are covered with a mass of white walls and tiled roofs. From every part of this mountain of bricks and mortar arise domes, covered with metal and glittering in the sun. Minarets, which are grace¬ ful slender spires, shoot up on all sides, whilst dark- green cypress-trees, and several very large planes, give a refreshing garden-like look to the whole. The city is washed on one side by the Sea of Marmora, and on the other side by the Golden Horn. ‘Where is the Golden Horn?7 said several young¬ sters. ‘ There, my dears ; it is that water below you, be¬ tween us and the big city.’ 4 Why is it called the Golden Horn ? 7 asked others. ‘ Partly because it is bent in the shape of a horn, and partly because eveiy wind has wafted riches into it — rude things from Scythian forests ; things made by cunning fingers; com from Egypt; gems and sweet-smelling spices from the furthest East.7 The Golden Horn is seven miles long, and so deep at its sides that ships of the largest size can lie close to the edge. When we were satisfied with our look at the city we strolled into a very large graveyard, full of tombs and cypress-trees. The Turks do not permit any people except themselves to plant a cypress. When a Turk dies his son buries him, and plants the cypress at his grave’s head.* These trees give out a strong and wholesome odour, and are very useful. on tliis account in keeping the air of so great a burial- place pure. We saw many marble pillars, and gilded tombs with turbans carved on them. Children’s tombs had little turbans. Through the vast graveyard wandered slowly and silently a flock of the most beau¬ tiful sheep. We wondered to see tlieir wool so white ; and some of us could not help smiling at their oddly- twisted horns. We passed through the cemetery, went down some narrow lanes, and then crossed the Golden Horn on a bridge of boats. Our first business was to visit the palace of the King, or Sultan. The Sultan does not live there now, but in a new palace outside the city ; so the old pa¬ lace is left silent and desolate, except that a few servants are kept there to attend to the place. And, oh, what a large and curious spot it is! We had leave to wander about it, and we felt quite confused with all we saw. Slopes of grass, sheep quietly feeding, groves of trees, fountains, flower- gardens, towers, mosques, minarets, courts, terraces, without end. Inside the palace countless small rooms, gilt ceilings, shabby furniture, poor pictures, and views from the windows that beat all we ever saw before. The whole of the palace stands exactly on the ground occupied by old Jdyzantium. That city spread over loO acres, and took up the first of the seven. hills. Many, many years after it was built, Constantine, a great king of Home, built a new city on five of the seven hills. After him another king, named Theo¬ dosius, made a wall enclosing all the seven hills. When we had seen the palace we went out into the city streets again, through a grand, handsome gate. This is called the Sublime Porte. On each side are places made for holding the bloody heads of men who have been condemned to die. \ cry near this gate we saw the great swelling dome of the finest church in the city. It is called the Mosque of Santa Sophia. As we went towards this church we found it difficult to walk. The road-makers seem as if they had flung down stones of all sorts and sizes, here and there, and had left them to find their places without any further help. We all thought Santa Sophia was a very glorious temple. In other days it was a Christian cathedral. The beauty of the outside is much spoiled by great ugly buttresses, which were built to keep the walls up : but the inside is truly beautiful. The whole space of the. floor is covered with rich Turkey carpets, on which the Mahommedans kneel, with their faces turned towards Mecca. The dome, something like St. Pauls, London, is very large, and the ceiling is gilt. Great shields hang round the walls, and on them are blazoned the names of Mahommed and his chief saints, and at each quarter of the dome are the figures of angels, the face of each being hidden by a star. We saw many more grand churches, some built entirely of white marble, all with domes, and with four or six minarets. From these minarets the voice of the muezzin is heard, instead of bells, calling the people to their prayers. The Turks hate bells, and will not allow them anywhere except in one Greek church. You can always know a place of worship by its minaret. Some of the smaller ones are made of wood. As we wandered about this strange old city wo wondered where ‘ the million 7 of Stamboul were gone. The narow winding streets were mostly dull and de¬ serted. Windows were in some of the houses : but they were closed with lattices. In other houses there was nothing but a low, narrow door. At last we stumbled on a bazaar, which is a long, wide, covered- in passage, with here and there a dome, which lets in some light. How we found the people, for the place was crowded ; and shops and coffee-houses, and buy¬ ing and selling, and smoking, made the place like a fair. We tasted the coffee : it was very black, and served milkless and sugarless. Of course none of us liked it. It was amusing to watch the grave shop¬ keepers, sitting with all their goods spread round them. They never got on their legs, but reached out their hand and offered the article to the buyer, all the time puffing tobacco-smoke into the air. All the trades herd together in the bazaars, just as in London booksellers do in Paternoster How, and coachmakers in Long Aero. The ladies’ slipper shops make the gayest show. The slippers are beautifully ornamented with gold and silver braid, silk, and jewels. Lesides traders sitting in their shops, we saw others carrying things for sale, and bawling out their value at the top of their voices. Nor must we forget how we all enjoyed a draught of pure, cold water, handed to us by water-carriers, called saegees, who are often employed by pious persons to give drink, to every thirsty soul without money and without price, as it is considered an act of charity well-pleasing to God. We much wished to make our way to the ‘ Seven * See Cho.tterbox for 1SGS, i>. 2S4.

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No. XXIX. CHATTERBOX. 231 Towers,’ and also to see anything worthy of notice. Once we caught sight of some very old arches, covered with long creeping plants. These are a part of the aqueduct which Valens, an emperor, built to bring water to the city from the mountains of the .Black »Sea. Very few remains of past days are left in the city. A few broken pillars and crumbling walls are nearly all. We peeped into the horse-course, and saw several broken monuments, the chief one being a tall, blackened pillar, still about ninety feet high. It is made of marble blocks, held together by rude iron hoops. Our young folk wondered why it looked so black, and why it was called ‘ the burnt pillar.’ An old gentleman told us that there Is no city in the world which has had so many fires. He had^ been burnt out many times. When a house is on ‘fire the engines come hurrying up covered with flowers. A Turk loves flowers, and can do more work if he has a rose to smell at. If a man is caught rob¬ bing at a fire, they seize him and throw him into the flames. There are two very high towers, built so as to command a view of the whole city. Watchmen stand on the top, and whenever they see smoke by day or fire by night they beat a very "big drum. The old gentleman being so kind as to tell us all this, one of our boys asked him why every church had the image of a crescent-moon on the top ? ‘Well, my dear,7 he said, ‘I believe that in old days, when this was a much smaller city, one Philip of Macedon, a great soldier, tried to take it by night, when on a sudden the moon shone out so brightly that the citizens saw their danger, and beat off Philip. In gratitude to the moon, they made her their symbol of hope and victory.7 We asked the old man how he liked living among the Turks, and whether they were not very cruel? ‘ Well, my young friends,7 said he, 4 the Turks have always treated me well ; and let me tell you, in many things they set us an example we should do well to copy. They are most kind to all sorts of animals. Look there, at that man coming from the baker’s shop ! 7 We looked, and saw a man with a sort of thick pan¬ cake, which* he tore in pieces and flung to the dogs. We now asked our old friend if he could show us anything more worth seeing ? He took us into a little court, and told us that under our feet there was a lake or reservoir of water, in which were three hundred and thirty-six marble pillars supporting a roof, and streets and houses built on it. There used to be a small boat tied to one of the pillars, and the master of the house could row himself about. Saying ‘ Good-bye, and thank you,7 we went on to the Seven Towers. We could not count more than four. These old mouldering towers are the first thing a sailor sees when coming to the city of Constantine’. They are near the sea ; and they have witnessed many tears and heavy hearts. We now embarked in a little fleet of boats — the favourite way of travelling here. A Turk is a shocking bad walker, with his long robes and loose slippers. And as for riding, how can a man so heavy ride in comfort ? All his care is to keep his turban on his head and himself on his steed. But, 0 the joy of gliding about in a caique ! With a carpet at the bottom, and a soft cushion in the stern, there the Turk lies, a picture of happiness. The un¬ failing pipe is between his knees, and he fits the boat as an oyster fills its shell. We enjoyed our water-ride by the old city walls, and round the point where the Sultan’s palace and gardens are, and across the Golden Horn to Pera. We could see, far away, the giant peak of Olympus. The Sultan claims it for his own, and he lets it to a man at so much rent. The man sells the ice and snow off the mountain to cool the sherbet they drink, and he is bound to send a boat¬ load every day to the Sultan for his use. We soon lauded at a place called Tophana, and went uphill through a number of queer streets, where rotten wooden houses stood on each side. Some were propped, others needed propping, and plainly said, ‘ I am coming down on your head. Get out of my way, if you please.7 We saw the rudest coaches crawling up the steep streets — more like stairs than streets. The coachman does not drive, but walks at the horse’s head. Yellow dogs — half wolf, half jackal — lie every¬ where, as if we were to tread on them. At length, wearied out, we gained the Ambassador’s garden, and stepped with a sigh of relief into the car. Anchor being weighed, we started off home, most of our freight fast asleep, the rest wondering whether those were real mountains in the moon, and whether it had as funny an old place on its bright face as the one we had just left. G. S. 0. A FBUIT-BAHG-E IN VENICE. ‘ There is a glorious city in the sea — The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, Ebbing and flowing - ’ SO sang Bogers. But there is another sea, beside the one here alluded to, ebbing and flowing in the broad and narrow streets of Venice : we mean, the thick-pulsing tide of human life, which in mar¬ vellous variety of costume ebbs and flow's all day long, and great part of the night too, through the strange thoroughfares of this wonderful city. But Venice is not only wonderful, there is no city in the world like it ; for though some of the Hutch cities, as Amsterdam, may be said to remind one of it, they do no more, and Venice has no peer. Venice has neither pastures for cattle, nor meadow's for sheep, nor cornfields, nor vineyards, nor orchards — has, in a word, not a yard of soil for the growth of any human food, but it stands isolated by a belt of shallow sea. Hence the traffic for all kinds of mer¬ chandise is carried on in barges, boats, and gondolas ; hence the quay-sides are studded with stalls for fish, flesh, and fowl of all sorts ; while piles of green stuff, many-coloured, many-flavoured fruits, huge gourds and luscious figs, are heaped agaiust the mouldering marble of old palaces, like winter - turnips in an English farmstead. Fuel, meat, vegetables, fruit, water, and so on, are all brought in boats and barges from the main¬ land, six, eight, or ten miles distant ; rowed across the lagiuie and through the canal-streets. The bustle of these laden boats, the variety of their cargoes, their passing to and fro, their lading and unlading at the various quay-sides and water-steps, make up a large and picturesque part of the daily outdoor life of Venice.

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CHATTERBOX. No. XXIX. Scene in Venice.

Page 240

The Signalman in Prison.

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234 CHATTERBOX. No. XXX. THE RAILWAY SIGNALS! AH AND HIS FAMILY. ( Continued from page 227.) PSjIIEY were now approaching the first houses of the town, and the signalman maintained a gloomy silence. Ah ! in this town Jan Yerhelst was born ; here he had played as a child, and as a man had worked and lived up to his thirtieth year. Many knew him here. Now they would see him go through the street between two gens d’armes, without knowing of what crime he was accused. They would, perhaps, take him for some miscreant accused of violence or theft. He, Jan Yerhelst, who would rather die than do the slightest injury to any one, had now to walk through his birthplace between two gens d armes like a thief, a burglar, or a murderer ! He bent his head and closed his eyes as soon as he reached the first street of the suburbs. Thus he thought to hide hiiliself for shame. But he could not help looking from time to time in order not to stumble. He became a little lighter at heart, though the street-boys did run after him, and the people called out to him, indeed ; but lie had not lived in this quarter of the town, and had no acquaintances here. His way now brought him past the. rail way station where lie had saved a human being’s life. He fixed his sad gaze on the great engine factory which stood within the station. There he had worked for ten years as a blacksmith. Who would ever have foretold as he stood hammering at the forge, with the sparks flyiug around him, that one day he should pass by there, half dead with shame, between two gens d armes? While these bitter thoughts were bringing fresh tears to his eyes the clock struck twelve, and imme¬ diately hundreds of workmen streamed out of the station. Jan Ver heist’s steps trembled so he could scarcely proceed. Most of these workmen knew him. Many were his old friends. Could there be yet more gall in his cup ? The gens d’armes seized him by the arm and dragged him forward. Then he really shut his eyes, and, tottering and stumbling, staggered on tlirough the crowd of workmen. He heard how his name was pronounced on all sides, as well as cries of amazement. ‘It is Jan Yerhelst ! — yes, it is Jan Yerhelst! ’ they exclaimed. ‘ What crime has he committed ? Stolen ? It is im¬ possible! Who knows? Perhaps he has been lighting and stabbed some one with a knife ? But he was goodness itself. A hasty act! It may happen to any one! Poor Jan Yerhelst! Poor Jan !’ And thus he heard as he passed through the streets how his former friends lamented his lot ; how some spoke in his praise and could not believe in his guilt ; but how most of the people pointed at him as a thief or a murderer ! From grief and shame he became almost uncon¬ scious, and did not notice the way he was goimr. But when the elder gend’armc said to him, ‘We are there, comrade/ he opened his eyes, gazed with a look of joy at the dark walls of the prison, raised up his arms, and exclaimed, ‘ Itelcased ! released at last from that painful torture ! Thanks, thanks, O God !’ A few moments after the hinges of a ceil door grated behind him, and lie sank weeping upon the wooden bench. Alone ! He was alone with his shame and his despair ! chapter m. The signalman had already been confined for seven days in the narrow cell of the prison. He knew nothing whatever as to the fate of his wife or children, or concerning the condition of the wounded notary. Once, in the closed prison-van, he had been taken to the court of justice, and in the magis¬ trate’s private room ho was questioned and cross- examined for more than an hour, with such cruel severity that the. poor man returned to his cell with the firm conviction that, notwithstanding his inno¬ cence, he would certainly be condemned. In the belief that the signalman was guilty, and that he was trying to impose upon him, the magis¬ trate had ordered that he should be kept in the strictest solitude. All people from without were de¬ nied admittance to him, and no one might bring him any tidings. He had, during his first six days in prison, seen no other living being than the gaoler — a silent and morose man, who came and went, to bring him his food, like one without feeling or power of speech. One day the chaplain had visited him and given him some spiritual consolation, but he had heard nothing else from him. Who could describe the agony of mind which the innocent Jan Yerhelst endured as he lay in a solitude like that of the grave, while his freedom and his honour — perhaps, too, the lives of the beings so dear to him — were at stake ? No means of defence, no voice to give him courage, no friendly heart to listen to his complaints with sympathy.! What were his wife and children doing? Had they not, perhaps, been driven from their hum¬ ble dwelling? Is his blind mother sick, or dead? His brain was turned by these gloomy thoughts in his long solitude ; he imagined to himself everything black and terrible ; his dreams had become one con¬ stant nightmare. Now he saw his sobbing family kneeling in the carriage round the dying bed of his old mother; then he heard the despairing cries of his good wife, or read upon the sweet and gentle face of liis son Sander how deeply shame was gnaw¬ ing at the heart of that intelligent boy. Worse still ! he thinks that he is condemned, and from the prison in which henceforth he is to live he sees his destitute family in the street, stretching out their hands to hog for a morsel of bread ! This terrible suffering had in a short time wasted Jan Yerhelst like a sharp fever; he, the healthy, strong smith, was now as pale as a sick man ; his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes had so changed his appearance that one could scarcely recognise him. And now the morning of the seventh day of im-

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CHATTERBOX. 235 No. XXX. risonmcnt had dawned. Jan Vcrhclsfc sat on his ench with his hands before liis face. A death¬ like silence reigned around; one might well have imagined that no other living being was breathing in that dark building. But he had accustomed him¬ self in that dreary stillness to distinguish noises; so now he looked up and listened with eager attention, but soon after, heaving a deep sigh, he let his head fall down again upon his breast. A moment after he sprang up and advanced a few steps towards the door, while a gleam of hope seemed to hover upon his lips. He seemed to be expecting some one else besides his morose guardian, for he returned disappointed to his bench and lamented. ‘ Vain hope ! he won’t come ! Every one considers me guilty, every one condemns me! lie, too, most likely ! Has the chaplain given him my message? Merciful God! how long shall this torture hist? Let them condemn me, if Thy holy will has so determined. I shall submit myself and patiently suffer; but, 0 Lord, only raise this stone which is upon my wretched, lonely grave, that I may know what has become of my unhappy family!7 For a whole half hour he sat motionless, and had given up all hope, for although he now heard bolts Being withdrawn in the prison, he appeared quite indifferent to the sound, and remained absorbed in his painful dreams. Suddenly he heard a key turn in the lock of his cell. Then lie jumped up, and when he perceived who it was. that entered with the gaoler, tears of joyful surprise poured down his checks. ‘Thanks, M. Deputy!7 he cried, sobbing. ‘Oil, thank you, that you have not been deaf to the prayer of a wretched man such as I am! God will reward you for this kind action ! 7 ‘ Compose yourself,’ said the deputy in a kind voice. * V ou asked me to come to you : have you anything particular to say to me about your sad affair ! 7 ‘ Ob, sir !7 cried the signalman, with clasped bands, ‘can I not be relieved from this terrible solitude? If you only knevv how quite cut off from the world I lie here, dying with anguish and despair! I know nothing about my blind mother, my wife, or my poor children— give me tidings of them, and I wili bless your name till my dying day !7 ‘ Ifc is impossible for me to give you any news of them,7 answered the deputy, ‘ because since the day of the accident on the railroad I have heard nothing of them : but this. afternoon I must go to Bolderhout, and I will obtain information about your family.7 ‘ Oh that you could feel how happy you make me ! 7 cried the signalman. ‘ This solitude, sir, when it oppresses an innocent father of a family, is a cruel torture, a horror not to be described. What an inhuman invention to bury alive an unfortunate man ! You are good, sir, but has that magistrate no heart ?’ | The magistrate docs his duty,7 was the answer. ‘ Solitary confinement is very frequently the only means by which to discover the truth, and without this severe separation of the suspected many crimi¬ nals of the worst kind would remain unpunished. The. welfare of the majority is the chief thing to be considered by law, though, unfortunately, it is some¬ times cruel to others.7 ‘ Does the magistrate believe me to be guilty, sir V ‘ Probably lie does.7 ‘ And you, sir?7 said the signalman, anxiously. The deputy shrugged his shoulders very slightly. ‘ 0 sir ! you, the good-hearted, the noble-minded man, do you doubt ? Is there then no mercy for me ? Shall I be sentenced ? Will my family go about bent down beneath their disgrace in sorrow and misery? 7 ‘ [ don’t say that. I hope that the court of justice will acquit you; but I must not pass any personal judgment on your matter until I have attentively read all the different acts with regard to the exami¬ nation of the affair. No one yet is able to explain how the accident happened ; it appears to every one impossible that a gig should come upon the rail¬ road when the gates were shut. There is a man of Bolderhout who asserts that he once saw the gates at your watchhouse open while the train was passing by- - ’ ‘ That is a falsehood !’ cried Jan Verhelst. ‘Another declares that now and then you were the worse for drink.7 ‘ What baseness ! I have never drank more than one glass of beer, and very seldom even that, on the same day !7 ‘ It is doubtless idle gossip, and the magistrate will give little importance to it. We are seeking for more serious proofs, if such are to be found.7 ‘But the notary? he is my benefactor; lie will not let me he condemned !7 cried the signalman. ‘ The notary still lies in great danger, as I was told last evening. Whether he has yet spoken I don’t know. At all events, he has not declared your inno¬ cence, for his son is more eager than ever for your prosecution, and everywhere calls for vengeance upon you. But all these things need not frighten you too much ; it appears to me probable that the court will acquit you, unless the investigation now going on brings to light some new proofs against you.7 The signalman, crushed and despondent, sank back upon the bench. ‘ O my God!7 he moaned with many hitter tears; ‘ how is it possible ? I have during my whole life laboured and slaved like an honest workman ; I saved a man’s life at the risk of my own ; never have I done harm to any, and now every one hates me as if I were some base wretch ! The people of Bol- derhout cursed me, and wished to throw mud at me : now they accuse me of drunkenness ! The son of the notary, who professed esteem for me, and has given me more than one proof of his kindness, desires my condemnation ! Alas ! is there so much' injustice and malice concealed in the hearts of the best of men ?’ ‘ But remember,’ the deputy replied, ‘ they think you are guilty. They are sorry for the lot of the notary, whom you yourself consider your benefactor, and they hate and curse, not your person, hut the negligent carelessness whereby you, according to their opinion, have caused the death of two men? If the court acquits you, they will doubtless, by in¬ creased friendship and regard, do all they can to make you forget that tliev have unjustly accused you.’ (To be continued.)

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In valley and meadow tgetb< r well play And welcome the midsummer sky.’

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89MMSR - COMPOSED EXPRESSLY FOR ‘CHATTERBOX.' Sjpiritoso , fe — gMliiilil On, on to the green-wood, On, on and a - way, The day-star is up wide and =ta* I-cap— i- high ; In val - ley and meadow to-gether we’ll play, And welcome the mid-summer sky. *Sr-l k£ — Ejt =&- So light -ly we’ll trip thro’ the for-est and grove, Our limbs full of vig-our, our hearts full of love. rb - fe t/ EE Singing mer-ri-ly, mer-ri-ly goes the old mill, Our voices keep time to its old click-clack still. & i r & r~ ~~ — — l & & . i ! !* ' ^ - I® — i — P - ! t=b- - * I - i - , a 1ST, on, to the greenwood ! on, on, and away ! J/ The day-star is up wide and high ; In valley and meadow together well play, And welcome the midsummer sky. So lightly we’ll trip through the forest and grove, With limbs full of vigour and hearts full of love, Singing, ‘ Merrily, merrily goes the old mill ! ’ Our voices keep time to its old click-clack still. At eve homeward speeding our chorus shall tell What pleasure, what joy and delight, In valley and greenwood doth peacefully dwell, Where Freedom enjoys all its right, Where Innocence, Happiness, go hand in hand. Then gaily we’ll join in our chorus so grand, That sings, ‘ Merrily, merrily goes the old mill ! ' Our voices keep time to its old click-clack still.

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23S CHATTERBOX. No. XXX THE STORY OF JEREMIAH HORROCKS, THE ASTRONOMER OE LANCASHIRE. CHAPTER I. BOUT two hundred years ago there lived in Lanca¬ shire a wonderfully clever hoy, named Jeremiah Hor¬ rocks, who was exceedingly fond of learning. He was born in 1018, in the little vil¬ lage of Toxteth, near Liver¬ pool, which place was full of such very good people that by some it was called ‘the Holy Land of Toxteth/ For a long time there had not been any church, chapel, or school at Toxteth ; but the people met together, all the same, every Sunday. They found a lovely, shady glen, called ‘the Dingle/ and this they made their chapel; there they used to sing hymns under the shadow of the trees, and as they sat on the soft grass the clergyman would read the Bible to them ; then they would all kneel on the ground and pray, while the sun shone upon them through the trembling leaves and the wind fanned their faces. It was a beautiful chapel for them, but as it would not do in stormy weather they did at last build one, and also a school-house; and they sent for a clever master, named Richard Mather. Now at the school the best pupil of all was the little Jeremiah Horrocks. Oh ! how hard he worked at Latin and at everything that was taught there ! When he came to be about fourteen he wished much to go to the great University of Cambridge, but his friends had little money, and scarcely knew how they could afford to send him. We should think fourteen too young for the University now, whereas in those old days people sometimes sent their sons there as early as thirteen. Well, the boy Horrocks did go, but in the most economical way possible, taking every care to spend as little as he could ; for he said to himself something like this : ‘ I must learn ; I long to learn ; I cannot do without it ; but I must take care not to spend any more money than I can help. How wrong it would be to get into debt! How wrong to spend more money than I have ! and how unhappy that would make my relations and friends!’ So when he saw others at Cambridge, who were rich, spending large sums of money on all manner of pleasures, lie did not feel jealous or discontented, hut he shut himself up in his room with the books he loved, and felt happier than I can tell you. Every evening he went to the College Chapel to hear the service, and afterwards he would take quiet walks in the moonlight, and think over the beautiful chants and prayers he had heard ; and as he walked lie would look up at the millions of stars, and wonder how far off they were from him and from each other ; whether they moved or were still, and whe¬ ther they were worlds like our own. When he was alone in his own room afterwards he would think in this way; ‘Are there not books in which I could read about the stars? I will save up whatever money I can spare, and buy some of these books/ In a letter to a friend, lie said he thought if ‘ noble’ to gaze at the wonders of creation, and to try to understand about them by studying. So, instead of wasting money in pleasure, he spent it on astronomical books, buying a few, borrowing some, and receiving some as presents. Thus, at last, lie collected about thirty most interesting volumes. One of these, with his name written in it, is now at Cambridge Univer¬ sity. There was nobody at Cambridge then to teach him astronomy ; but he was not discouraged ; and in writing to a friend lie said, ‘ Instead of tutors, I will have books/ And he prayed to God to help him in his work. One thing, however, did make him sad : he wanted a companion to whom he could talk about the beau¬ tiful stars : but he found all his young friends liked to laugh, and have all manner of fun and chat about horses, and dogs, and hunting, and amusements, better than to hold long conversations on the dis¬ tant stars. So he could not help feeling sad at not meeting with sympathy. One day a letter wa3 brought to him ; he did not know the handwriting; he looked at the letter, and turned it over and over, saying to himself, ‘ Who can this be from?7 At last he broke the seal, and found it was from a person he had never seen, a youth of his own age (he was now about nineteen), named William Crabtree, who lived at a place near Man¬ chester called Broughton; who had heard of his great love for astronomy, and who wished to be a companion with him in his studies. He asked Jere¬ miah Horrocks to be his friend. How rejoiced Horrocks was ! This was exactly what he had been wishing for! I am not quite sure whether he had left the Uni¬ versity when that letter arrived, or not ; but I know he was so busy that he could not answer it for three weeks: so I dare say he locked it up carefully, and said, ‘I will send a long letter to this unseen friend as soon a3 ever I can/ This he did, and the two young astronomers wrote often to each other, telling all the wonders they found out about the stars, the sun, and the moon. When Horrocks was twenty he became clergy¬ man at a church in a desolate village far away from any large town. This village was named ILooie, and is in Lancashire. Although he had a good deal to do now, yet lie could still leave himself a little time for his beloved astronomy. And what do you think he had bought for himself ? A telescope ! Have you ever seen a telescope? If not, ask some friend who has one to let von look through it. They are very expensive, but I have read that Horrocks gave very little for his, and yet it was such a good one that in one of his letters to William Crabtree he says he could, when he looked through it, see the ‘ smallest of the spots on the sun/ Every night after he had been working hard all day, visiting the poor and the sick of his parish, and teaching too, he would spend some happy, silent hours all alone in the dark, gazing at the far-off stars through the telescope ; and he wrote dowu what he

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No. XXX. CHATTERBOX. 239 saw ; and lie knew that Ills friend William Crabtree was doing the very same thing. Then they sent to each other what they had written. CHAPTER n. Now Ilorrocks had read much about the transit of Venus, and I will try to tell you what the ‘transit of Venus ’ means ; for in this present year you will hear people talking about it, as one will happen about the 8th or 9th of December. One of the planets named Venus, at a certain time passes between our earth and the sun, and if you look for it through a telescope on the right day, you can see the shadow of Venus perfectly round, and very dark, passing before the dazzling face of the sun. ITorrocks knew that astronomers had for hundreds of years tried to catch a sight of this ; but they had not been able to do so yet. Now he was determined if he could to see this wonderful thing going on in the heavens ; it was not from idle curiosity that he wished this, for he was no longer a boy now, but a man. He knew it was a very useful thing to the whole world that somebody should at last see this transit ; useful to seamen, to astronomers, and others, in a way which I cannot explain to you. Well, Horrocks found out by hard study that there would be a transit on November 24th, 1639. Nobody else knew there was to be one then, and if it had not been for Jeremiah Horrocks the beautiful planet Venus would have passed before the face of the sun, and thrown its shadows there, without having been seen by any one in this world. Horrocks thought and studied very much indeed before he said a word about it; but when he felt certain that lie was not mistaken, lie wrote to his dear friend, to whom he told everything. He told him what would happen in the heavens on November 24th, 1639, and begged him to watch all day most attentively with his tele¬ scope. Now Horrocks had a younger brother, named J onas ; he thought he also would like to watch. I suppose lie had a telescope also. His elder brother told him about Venus, and I dare say the letter was most interesting. So J onas promised to watch. November 24th fell on a Sunday ; ITorrocks had no clergyman at IToole to assist him, so he knew he should be obliged to leave his telescope at least twice during the day, once for the morning and once for the afternoon service at his church. He did not so much mind leaving it in the morning, as he was almost certain the transit would not take place until later in the day. But when the afternoon came I cannot tell you how anxiously he watched for Venus, expecting to see the dark shadow every minute. At about two o’clock or a little after, when his eyes were fixed most intently, and he was almost breathless with expectation, suddenly he heard the church bells begin to ring ! What was to be done ? Should he lose the sight of this transit for ever? He knew it would not happen again for more than a hundred years. But he made no complaint; he 'walked out of the room and went oft’ to the church, where he saw the congregation assembling. ITe read the service as usual ; but very likely lie could not help thinking now and then, ‘Have I lost the transit ? ’ As soon as the service was over he made haste to go to the telescope again, and to his great joy he saw that the transit had only just begun ! The sun shone forth brightly ; the clouds all disappeared, and the shadow of the beautiful planet Venus was plainly seen. His heart was full of joy ; but yet he was too wise not to be calm ; so he collected his senses, and wrote down exactly what he saw before him. TIow happy he was when he fell asleep that night ! He had seen what he had been thinking of for months past. Soon afterwards he began to write a little book, telling people all about the transit of Venus, that the whole world might share with him the happiness of that Sunday afternoon : and when it was finished he wished to show it to his friend William Crabtree, and to talk over that and many things besides. Ac¬ cordingly he fixed a day for this meeting. He settled to visit Crabtree on January 4th, 1641. How happy Crabtree was at the thought of having his dear "Horrocks with him ! He wrote to a friend, who lived in Yorkshire, and promised to go and see him, and to bring with him ‘ his second self/ Jeremiah Horrocks. Horrocks had written to him thus : ‘ I shall be with you on January 4th, if nothing unex¬ pected should occur.’ But that meeting was never to be. How little he thought what would happen ! On January 3rd, the day before he was to travel to Broughton, Horrocks quite suddenly died, very early in the morning. Thus his friend, who was expecting him every minute, instead of seeing him arrive at the door heard the mournful news that he should see his face no more in this world. Crabtree left alone, and plunged from the height of joy to the depth of sorrow, gathered together all the letters he had ever received from his dear Hor¬ rocks. Tying them up, he sorrowfully wrote on the packet these words, — * Letters of Mr. Jeremiah Horrox to me, of the years 1038, 1639, 1040, until his death, very early on the morn¬ ing of the 3rd of January, when he expired very suddenly, the day before he had purposed coming to me. Thus God puts an end to all worldly affairs ! and I am, alas ! bereaved of my dearest Horrox. * Irreparable loss ! Hence these tears ! * _ More than two hundred years after Crabtree lost his friend so suddenly on that J anuary morning, the people of Hoole began to think about the good young curateand wonderful astronomer, who once ministered at the church, walked in their shady lanes, and medi¬ tated in their fields. . At St. Michael’s there is now to be seen a memorial window, on which ITorrocks is represented watching the transit ; there is also a little chapel added to the church, which is on purpose for thirty poor people; and besides this, a marble tablet is erected there, on which is an inscription ending thus, — c In Memory of one, So young aud yet so learned, So learned, and yet so pious, This church, in which he officiated, Has been enlarged and beautified.’ M. P.

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Page 248

Hunting Mare, by Harrison Weir.

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242 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXI. WONDERFUL SAGACITY. "5^. YOUNG gentleman bought a hunting- mare from a farmer at Mai ton, and he took her with him to Whitby. On Wednesday the mare was missing from the held, and a search was made, but to no purpose. On the next day the search was renewed, the gentle¬ man and his groom going about ten miles on the Guisborough Moors, and then to Sleights, where they heard the mare had crossed the railway the previous morning. At this point the trail was easy. The mare had taken the high road homewards, and at Saltersgatc six men had tried to stop her without success. At Pickering she jumped a load of sticks and the railway gates, and then found herself in her old hunting country, making across liyedale for * home.’ In so doing she would have to cross two rivers and a railway. She was found at home on Thursday night, with one shoe thrown and rather lame, but otherwise no worse for her cross-country gallop of nearly sixty miles, done in one day, for her former owner found her on the Wednesday night standing at the gate of the field where she had grazed for the two previous years. THE RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. (Continued from page 230.) TAN VERHELST, utterly cast down and dis- couragcd by the doubt which the deputy had allowed him to perceive as to his innocence, refused all comfort, and burst into tears. For some time the deputy assured him of his sympathy, then he said, — ‘ Come ! I must leave you now. Cheer up and don’t despair, I will go to the magistrate, and ask him to allow your wife to visit you in the prison.’ Springing up with a cry of joy, the signalman seized the deputy’s hand, and kissed it with delight. ‘ Whether I am condemned or not, may God bless you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Yes, yes, sir, ask that such favour may be granted to a poor, unfortunate man. I shall kneel here on the ground and pray, pray to Heaven, that your generous words may be endued with power ! Thanks ! oh, thanks !' And he sank indeed on his knees to the ground, and raised his arms on high. At the door oi the cell the deputy stood for a moment, and said, — ‘ I meant to ride to Bolderhout quite late in the afternoon ; but in order if possible to shorten your suspense, I will try to go there this morning, imme¬ diately after my visit to the magistrate. Cheer up, in all probability you will hear tidings of your family to-day.’ The gaoler locked up the cell, and the deputy left the prison with real compassion in his heart. CHAPTER IV. Ox that same forenoon an unfortunate family was leaving the village of Bolderhout. Mie- \\ anna, the signalman’s brave wife, walked first along the road, with little Barbele in her arms. Driesken ran by her side. After her came the blind grandmother, led by her grandson, her faithful Sander. All were laden with packages, as if about to make a long journey. During the last seven sorrowful days they had wept so much that the fountain of their tears was dried up. They walked bent down under their grief ; but their eyes were dry, and they trudged onward in gloomy silence. Mie- Wanna alone sometimes turned her head towards the village, and with her sad gaze seemed to be looking in the direction of a well-known spot. There by the railroad stood the carriage — the cradle of their Barbele, the home where they had passed the happiest years of their lives; now lost, lost for ever !’ The railway company had appointed another signal¬ man. Although this man was also married, he had out of pity offered Jan Yerlielst’s wife and family to remain in the carriage till they were certain as to his fate. She had at first thankfully accepted his offer, but she soon found that she could not remain at Bolderhout. She could not show herself any¬ where without being insulted by the inhabitants. Her good son Sander must always hear how his former schoolfellows called out after him, ‘ Murderer ! mur¬ derer !’ and for three days the poor boy had not dared to leave the carriage. His master alone remained kind and friendly to him. To get some advice and a little comfort from him Sander had to wait till it *was dark, and then choose by-ways to reach his dwelling. In thinking that the notary would die, and that Jan Yerkelst s neglect of his duty was the cause of his death, the villagers found a reason for hating his wife and children ; but they would not have perse¬ cuted them so harshly had they not been urged on to do so by the notary’s eldest son, who, by his accu¬ sations and calls for vengeance, did his best to excite them. Mie-Wauna had, therefore, determined to leave Bolderhout and to go to the town with her family ; though what to do there she did not know. She thought that she would hire a small house or a couple of rooms, sell her little property and furniture, and, by saving and hard work, try to maintain her mother-in-law and her children, and provide them with daily bread until better times ; for she no longer believed that her husband would be set at liberty. The vain petitions which she had made to be allowed to visit him, or to hear something about him, his dismissal from his post as signalman, the hatred, the threats and curses of the people of Bolderhout — all these facts had impressed on her the belief that her unfortunate husband, notwithstanding, his inno¬ cence, would be condemned to a long imprisonment. Silently did they proceed along the path through the fields. The grandmother and the children, who were not quite so hopeless, now and then spoke some words of comfort; but Mie- Wanna, in order not to betray her feelings too much, replied very seldom, and then in the shortest way. They had gone some distance when Sander, in a low voice, said to the blind woman, ‘Granny dear, you are smiling so happily ! What are you thinking about?’ (See page 248.) The old woman slackened her pace and replied,

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No. XXXI. CHATTERBOX. 243 ‘Sanderken, keep a little behind with me. Your mother looks at everything on the dark side. She does not believe me, but I am quite sure that my beautiful dream was sent me by God.’ ‘Ah, granny, don’t think about it! it can’t be true ! ’ ‘How ! it ean’tbe true? So young, and yet so un¬ believing ! Listen, child ; I will tell it you once more. I was lying in bed, in our carriage, with my hands clasped as if 1 was praying, as I like to fail asleep. I began to dream that i was sitting on a chair in a great church. There was music : the organ played, and the choir sang beautifully. I fell on my knees to the door, and with tears in my eyes, and my hands raised to Heaven, I cried, “ 0 God ! 0 sweet Jesus ! by Thy bitter Passion and precious Blood, hear the prayer of a poor blind mother ! Have pity upon her innocent son ! llelease him — release him from prison, that justice may not be set at nought ! Blessed be Thy name for ever and ever ! ” Then I suddenly saw in the clouds of incense which rose from the altar — yes, Sanderken ! when I dream, then I see with clear eyes as in my youth — I saw a beautiful brightness, and in the midst of it an angel with long wings. With a heavenly smile on his face he came up to me. I was trembling with awe and hope. The beautiful angel took me by the hand and said, “ Stand up, woman, and be comforted. God has heard your prayer. In three days your son shall be set at liberty, and you shall press him in your arms.” I raised a cry of joy and awoke at once. Well now, Sander, do you think with your mother that this happy vision was nothing but an empty dream ? Don’t you think that it may come true ?’ ‘Ah, granny dear, I would gladly believe it ; it is so beautiful,’ answered the boy, sadly. ‘But what the schoolmaster told me makes me think differently.’ ‘And what has the schoolmaster said to you ? ’ ‘According to his explanation, granny, father can¬ not be released until the tribunal has sat and passed sentence upon him. Before it assembles weeks must pass away — perhaps months, and all that time my poor father must remain in the dungeon. Alas that we can hear nothing of him! God knows, granny* dear, whether father is not sick with sorrow and misery ! ’ ‘Don’t begin to cry again, Sander/ ‘ I’m not crying, granny ; but it is too cruel.’ ‘Yes, child, it is cruel. They look upon your father as if he were some wicked wretch. It is hard to forbid us to visit him and comfort him, and not to allow us to hear from him whether he is sick or well ! Alas, child ! I begin sometimes to think, too, that he may be unjustly condemned. You are crying again, Sander, so I won’t speak any more.’ Mic- Wanna had slackened her steps, and said re¬ proachfully to the blind woman, ‘Mother, mother, why don’t you leave our Sander in peace ? Has not the child enough of his own sorrow ? Come on both of you, and be silent; we have nothing comforting to say to each other.’ ‘Well, well, I will walk a little faster,’ answered the old woman. ‘But I cannot stifle my bitter woe in silence. Talking unburdens the heart'.’ ‘ Don’t weep any more, Sander dear !’ said Mie- Wanna. ‘As soon as we have found a house in the town to sleep in I will go to the station. The super¬ intendent of the engine factory and smithy, who was always your father’s friend, will help me. We won’t rest till I have been allowed to visit your father. If I find him well in health, then I can com¬ fort him. Ah ! that will be a great comfort to us in our bitter sorrow! I know, also, .a gentleman who was present when your father, to save another’s life, risked his own. At that time he praised him, and promised him his help at any time. I will go to him and to several others, and do all I can to be admitted to your father. Let the hope that I shall succeed comfort you ; it will do you more good than talking so much. And you, granny, try and keep silent; it will not help you or them making the children cry so. God is Master, and if He lays a cross upon our shoulders, however heavy or painful it may be, we must bear it with resignation. Our lamentations cannot alter our sad lot; all depends upon His holy will. To remain in silence and in fervent prayer is the best that we can do.’ (Continued at page *2-1-7.) HAYMAKING. (p\ H ! haste to the meadow, where lies the mown kj grass, Stretched low in its sweetness a-dying ; Tall bread-earning laddie, and fun-loving lass, Oh ! haste, for the moments arc flying. Up, up with the wallet, the rake, and the prong, And toss the sweet hay to the breezes; Shake well the green blades, for the hot summer sun To ripen and burn, as he pleases. Sec how, as by magic, the hay is turned o’er, And soon in long rows it is lying; And soon the round haycocks, a dozen or more, The children’s sharp eyes are espying. Upon them they roll, and right o’er them they leap, And tumble one into the other ; They build them a house where the sun can scarce peep, And many a playfellow smother. See there, ’mid the haycocks the young lovers move, He lightening her labours before her ; Sweet earnest it is of the sheltering love He swears through his life shall be o’er her. And through the long morning beneath the sun’s ray ^ All work with a will and a pleasure, For ‘ while the sun shines is the time to make hay,’ When he sets is the haymaker's leisure. Beneath the tall hedgerow they sit them to dine, W here woodbines and roses are clinging, Where soft mossy hollows invite to recline, And song-birds in chorus are singing. So, weary and hungry, they press one by one To the meal which no dainties embellish : The farmer’s brown ale from the bottle of stone They drink with a haymaker’s relish. And when the day’s over and night ’gins to fall, And homeward are turned their bright faces. They climb the large waggon, men, women, and all, While the little ones scramble for places.

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244 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXI. An overbold urchin has climbed the steed’s back, Another holds on by the crupper ; Thus bravely escorted, with joking no lack, They haste to the farmer’s good supper. And there we will leave them ’mid frolic and fun, ’Mid laughter and song without measure : For well tliey made hay ’neatli the hot burning sun, And well they have earned rest and leisure. X. B.

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£AUEEN of the garden, the hundred-leaved, the lovely Rose, Which exhales such perfume and such beauty can disclose; Which with elegance and grace charms the admiring eye, Eclipsing all other flowers, that look mean when she is by. • Yet very stately are the Foxgloves, in whose purple hells delight The fairy folk, when they frolic on the midsummer night ; Listening to the music of the Hare-bells, heard only by fairy ears, The strain, so fine, and low and sweet, that never mortal hears ; And many blossoms are there in July, pleasant to smell and to view, Creeping along the ground, climbing and twining the hedges through; Such as the blue Corn-cockle and the Clematis, the Travellers* Joy, And flowering Grasses, so light and feathery, the delight of girl and’ boy. H. G. A.

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246 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXI. TEE FLOWERS OF JULY. ; r OW ^ercety bums the mid-day sun of jlv lytk July! turning the leaves brown, drying lip the small brooks and •)j| 1 ^Vur streams, and changing the hard Jg^jhvL SUI^acc °f the roads into fine dust, ° / fr that powders every bank and hedge- row* The early morning and the f\ ' evening are now the most pleasant hi* parts of the day for country ram- b bles; then only can we enjoy the ^ many beautiful sights and sounds that this season presents without fatigue. At the beginning of the month the meadows are covered with busy workers, cutting down the tall, scented grass, tossing it in the sunshine until its juices are dried out of it, then loading the creaking waggons, and, last of all, piling it into neat, shapely stacks, for the winter use of the cattle. Beautiful are the flowers of many of the grasses that fall before the scythe or the reaping-machine, and very bare and naked look the fields when all this beauty is swept from them. The broad fields of waving corn, fast turning golden under the July sun, offer a pleasing contrast to the smooth-shaven meadows. Growing between the tall stalks, a multitude of pretty flowers attract our attention as we pass along the narrow pathway. 4 Everywhere about us they are glowing : Some like stars, to tell us spring is gone; Others, with blue eyes with tears o’erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn.’ Very conspicuous are the bright blossoms of the Corn Blue-bottle. Its stems, which are two or three feet high, and the under-surface of its leaves, are covered with a soft cottony down. This flown* is said to be an especial favourite with the butterflies. In Kent and Northamptonshire the peasant children call it Blue-cap, while the Scottish lads and lassies know it as Blue-bonnet. Several beautiful flowers are now to be met with on the dry heath and moorland, of which none is equal in elegance to the little Hare-bell, with its deli¬ cate stems and drooping azure blossoms. 4 On its fair fragile stalk, all lightly swaying, Trembles the hare-hell at each passing breeze ; Or bends to eartli, if haply, there delaying, Seek its blue depths the velvet-coated bees.’ Like the frail anemone that decked the woods in early spring, the hare-hell withers quickly when plucked and carried in the warm hand. And now in hilly places, or amid the rocky masses bv the wayside, blooms the Foxglove, one of the most handsome and stately of our English wild flowers. Its blossoms grow in a long cluster upon a stem from three to four feet in height, and are of a pale purple, spotted inside with a darker colour. In shape they resemble thimbles or gloves, and are known : in Wales'as Fairies’ Gloves ; hence, some say, is de¬ rived the name foxglove or folksglove, the fanies being there called the 4 good folk.’ The poet Cowley said, — ‘The foxglove on fair Flora’s hand is worn. Lest while she gather flowers she meet a thorn.’ Passing the tall hedgerows, which arc festooned with many beautiful climbing plants — the W ild Hop, the Bryony, and the Clematis or Travellers’ Joy, we make our way to the garden. Here all our attention is absorbed by the Boses — red, pink, white, and yel¬ low'; they delight us as much by their soft and delicate tints, as by their delicious perfume. The varieties of the 4 queen of flowers’ that have been produced by the skill of the gardener are said to number upwards of two thousand, so that we cannot wonder that whole acres of land arc in many places devoted entirely to their culture. Some of the most com¬ mon, but at the same time most beautiful kinds, may, however, he seen twining round the porch or clus¬ tering about the window’s of humble country cottages. IL B. A. ■ . . . - , THE RAIN. n) AIN, rain, SlX On the pane Beat your heavy showers; H ust you last, Hard and fast, For so many hours? Net for every drop you pour There will he a blossom more In the summer bowers. Bain, rain, Please refrain, For a short time merely ; Clouds will fly, And the sky Shine out blue so clearly : I might walk the showers between, In the meadows fresh and green, That I love so dearly. Bain, rain, W7ho’d complain, If you’d give us measure ? Only you Really do Hinder children’s pleasure, When you still will pour away On the one half-holiday, Which is all our treasure. Bain, rain, Soon again AVill the leaves be thirsting; By-an d-bye Heat will dry Buds that should be bursting. Come again, When the flowers All complain, In the bowers. Welcome, rain ! Only stop, Now' — nor drop, Drop, drop, drop, on leaf or stalk, Flower and spray Without stay, Or I shall not have my walk. To^i Hood.

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No. XXXI. CHATTERBOX. 247 A CHILD’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. O HE had been told that God made all the stars That twinkled up in Heaven ; and now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, As if it were a new and perfect world, And this were its first eve. She stood alone By the low window, with the silken lash Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth Half parted with the new and strange delight Of beauty that she could not comprehend, And had not seen before. The purple folds Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky That looked so still and delicate above, Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half smile, As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. Presently, in the edge of the last tint Of sunset, where the blue was melted in To the faint golden mellowness, a star Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight .Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, Her simple thought broke forth expressively — 4 Father ! dear father ! God has made a star ! ’ N. P. Willis. heavy at my heart, and I must say what I feel. Eat and drink, but don’t stay longer in my house than is necessary.’ As he uttered these last words he went out into the yard and vanished in the stable. His hard speech brought tears intt, the eyes of the grand¬ mother and the children. Mie- Wanna alone swal¬ lowed her shame; although the good woman tried to comfort and calm her, she stood up and said, — 4 We are grateful to you for your kindness, good woman. Come, children, let us proceed on our bitter way. Don’t weep, but raise up your heads. If men are cruel and unjust towards your poor father, God above knows well that he is innocent.’ Though she showed such courage and pride, her heart was well-nigh bursting, and as she again turned to the high road she had hard work to restrain her tears. A few minutes after she saw an open carriage coming along in the distance. As it came near, she thought that she had before seen the gentleman who sat in it. The carriage suddenly stopped when it had come quite down to her, and the gentleman jumped out and approached the group. He was young, and on his face there beamed a smile of pleasant surprise. 4 You are the signalman’s wife from Bolderhout, are you not?’ he inquired. 4 Yes, sir, at your service,’ was the reply. 4 Do you just come from the village?’ 4 Wo have left it this morning.’ 4 Tell me, how is the notary going on?’ 4 Badly, sir ; very badly. Since the accident he has remained unconscious and unable to speak. Yester¬ day evening he appeared to understand a little. The doctor thought from this that he was certainly about to die, for the priest was summoned to administer the last sacrament.’ 4 His death is much to be deplored.’ 4 Alas ! yes, sir.’ 4 Especially for your husband. Should the notary recover, he would be able to explain how the gig came upon the railroad, and thereby perhaps prove the signalman’s innocence.’ 4 And now, sir, will my poor son be condemned?’ cried the blind grandmother. 4 1 don’t know, good woman : the affair is making so much stir that the Procureur of the king has taken it in hand himself. I am his deputy, you know me; on the day of the accident 1 tried to comfort you and your children.’ 4 Indeed you did, kind sir, and may God bless you for it. Oh, you look as if you could be just ! Are there no means by which 1 can see my unhappy husband? . Have pity on us !’ 4 1 was just riding over to Bolderhout, good wo¬ man, and meant to come and tell you that you may visit your husband in his prison.’ Mie- Wanna gazed in doubt at him; she scarcely' dared to show her joy till her hope was confirmed. 4 May we visit him in his prison ?’ she stammered. 4 Certainly, good woman ; you arc quite at liberty to do so. Go to the prison and you will be admitted to him. I have spoken to the governor, the porter has orders to let you in freely.’ (To be continued .) THE RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. ( Continued from page 21 3.) PIEY spoke very little more now, and walked on as quickly as the feeble */ steps of the grandmother allowed JlfA them to do. When they had reached the Vs / vj road, and were approaching a large farm, Mie- Wanna said, 4 Let us go * p " in here and ask for a little milk for Barbele ; then the children can rest a little.’ ^ With a somewhat timid feeling they all entered the courtyard, and made their request to the mistress of the farm. ‘ She, moved with compassion at the sight of the old blind woman and the children, asked them into her house, offered them leave to sit down and rest, and with friendly words brought them a can of milk. But when the farmer came in he surveyed the poor family with a stern and displeased look. 4 Are you not the wife of Jan Verb elst, the signal¬ man ? ’ he asked. 4 Alas, yes ! at your service, farmer,’ replied Mie- Wanna, with a sigh. 4 Indeed ! So you are the wife of the guilty official who caused the notary of Bolderhout and his coach¬ man to be run over?’ he said, with a look of disgust. 4 1 pity you and your children ; you could not help it, but your husband will certainly be punished as he deserves. It is dreadful how people are murdered now-a-days through negligence or through design. A similar accident might happen to a whole train, containing hundreds of travellers. My words trouble you, woman ; I understand it : but the matter lies

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248 CHATTERBOX. No. xxx r. jNSjSSS*-- ‘ Granny clear, what are you thinking about

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K K

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250 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXII. THE HEN AND HER DUCKS. ryiHERE was a little lien, Jt Very small and thick. And this little lien Never had a chick. But in the straw one day She began to scratch; Eggs four did she lay, Little chicks to hatch. The farmer heard her cluck, And he thought it best To put the eggs of a duck Into Biddy’s nest. Soon the hen marched out With a pretty brood, But what she led about She never understood. Proud was the little Bidd}7, As she called ‘ Cluck ! Cluck !’ She did not know, the niddy ! A chicken from a duck. Tin? first pond they came nigh The ducklings waddled in, While poor Biddy could but cry And make a piteous din. The ducklings did not know W hat frightened their mother % Or made her scream out so, And make such a pother. For they liked it right well To splash in the waters, While the hen could not tell What had taken her daughters.. So she spread out her wings, And went screaming about, Till the fat little ducklings Had all paddled out. The poor hen did not know. For nobody taught her, That young ducks always go Right into the water. And she never understood That farmers play tricks ; So she thought her little brood Were all honest chicks. And hard she did strive To teach them aright, For to see them all dive Gave her many a fright. But the ducklings grew strong. And she stopped her cries, For she thought she was wrong. And the little ones wise. The ducks grew up and went away. And Biddy felt distressed, Till she laid some eggs one day, In her warm and cosy nest. She kept her eggs all hot. And sat upon them well. Till by-and-bye a funny lot Of chickens broke the shell. The mother hen was proud and fond, But little did she know, For down into the farmer’s pond She made her chickens go. When she saw they could not dive She made a great ado, For she thought she ought to drive Tier little chickens through. The little, timid, tender things, Were all afraid to go ; But she beat them with her wings — She thought she must do so. They knew not what she meant ; She drove them round and round, Till into the pond they went, And there they all were drowned. Poor little Biddy could not think What made her first brood thrive, And all the others sink Before they learned to dive. It was a pity she didn’t know It could not bring good luck, To train a little chicken up As if it were a duck. Lyjdia Maria Ciiild ( altered !). TRAVELLERS’ TALES. ^NE day the children asked a droll uncle of theirs to tell them a story, and he carelessly amvered : — ‘ Oh, you children are not worth telling a tale to ; you won’t know what is true when you hear it, and then you accuse your poor uncle of telling travellers’ tales, and I - ’ Here a shower of kisses and hugs stopped the poor uncle, who was dragged down and laid on the lawn, with a pile of cushions for his d a row of lilliputians sat on his long legs. ‘Hush! hush!’ in every kind of young voice, shoulders, and and then perfect silence followed. ‘ Now, uncle, begin, and see if we are not worth telling a story to.’ ‘ But I am hushing,’ said uncle. I thought some- • body said t; ITush ! ” ’ At last the ‘ tiresome ’ uncle consented to tell a story, which he said ‘ was true and wasn’t true ; a story which they should say was too wonderful to be true, and which he would say was not wonderful enough, if you came to that, to match some things that he knew. A story that had its beginning m very old times, but he did not know when, where, or what the end of it would be. He only knew that at the end of half-an-hour a lot of strings would lift linn up and take him off the lawn, and another lot of

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No. XXXII. CHATTERBOX, 251 strings would take him to the station; whereat the children cried out that if he talked so much nonsense he would not have sense left to tell them a story; whereat he looked at their mother, and said 4 Did I not say so? These boys and girls don’t know when one is telling true tales ! Dut now, bairns, w ill you write out for me by next time what you think is true and what isn’t of my TRAVELLERS TALE, which happened when I was in a country a very peculiar country. I don’t think it was Persia, ex¬ actly, and I don’t think it was Ireland : and I ani sure it was not in — the — bush. Perhaps it was in Cumberland, but I don’t think it matters just yet. I only know that after a bitter cold journey we got there, and when we had got there we ate, and drank, and talked, and rested, when, to our surprise, changes began throughout the whole room. The pictures doubled, themselves across and across glass, frame, and all, and ran up their cords till they settled like big spiders up among the cornice. The tables doubled up their legs under them and lay down flat. The sofa in all haste rolled itself up from end to end, till it looked like a thick slice of jam-pudding, with the pillows for the finest lumps of jam ; the chairs in a moment unseated themselves and became a bundle of sticks, more or less- neatly packed together. The curtains seemed to pull down their poles, and dragged their rings and all behind the folding-door, where they became a mass of red cloth and glitter. . The mahogany bookcases sank down with a succession of flaps, as the books flew into a discordant heap, mixed and mingled, or sprawling helplessly on their backs. The coal-pan wizened itself into a crinkled ball with the coals in the middle, and lay in the corner. The proceedings of the wall-paper were simple, but had a considerable effect : the pattern all over the room at once detached itself, and fluttered down like a great fall of dead leaves, and lay in heaps till the current of air, which had been going steadily up the chimney, turned back on its steps— for the register-stove clapped itself to— and blew the pieces all over every¬ thing in its attempts to get rid of itself elsewhere. The great stand of greenhouse plants in the window reversed themselves, and burrowed down among their roots. The carpet rolled itself up in breadths wherc- ever it could get free, ripping its seams and snapping itself off from under the furniture in the most ruth¬ less manner. The fender and fire-irons in one moment melted themselves down, and appeared as one large and three smaller spills of metal, of no shape at all, and quite soft. To complete all, the shadows, finding themselves thus left alone by the substances, flew together and wrapped themselves round and round, and in and out, and sank, a mass of darkness, into the corner behind the other folding- door. All this was done pretty much at once ; and now perfect silence ; then occurred what nobody saw, and yet which did happen. All the colours of all the things muddled themselves up, crept swiftly out, and hid themselves, nobody knows where. 4 In the meantime matters out of doors had been going on much in the same queer way. Things which had never been out of the water in their lives jumped into the air, and nothing short of absolute force would make them return to their native element, and then they died of chagrin : some creatures, whose lives are not long at the best, had no sooner spent a short time in perfect comfort and quiet repose in their . own sweet homes than they took to smashing and tearing them to pieces in such a way as to leave no possibility of their ever entering them again, doing it entirely of their own accord, no one threatening or urging them to it. Other creatures, with the most perfect willingness and speed, changed themselves into food for black, white, brown, red, and yellow monsters, who continued to prey upon them from year’s end to year’s end. Docks and stones, which had continually remained rocks and stones for more years than }rou and I are likely to count over, laid themselves on the wings of the wind and were by him carried away, and at length dropped in small atoms over the face of a vast extent of country. Enormous rivers that had borne navies on their bosom, lakes that had defied for many generations the attempts of men to drain them, mounted slowly and majesticall3r into the air, and then some of them rushed frantically off, and were found seek¬ ing new beds hundreds of miles away from their own country: while some, as it seemed, not liking the exchange from terra-firma to cloud-land, came back in double-quick time to their old home. A part of one particularly small lake near us lost its way, and got stuck on the top of a mountain in Brobdignag or somewhere else, 1 forget which, but I have heard that there it is to this clay ; or, if it docs partially succeed in getting down, it is dragged up again by the hair of its head, as it were, and stuck again on the very top. 4 Creatures in general seemed to have lost their senses, and to have gone raving mad. Some who were quite without wings of any sort, but who, in¬ deed, on the contrary, were naturally furnished with a great abundance of legs, as if to keep the very idea of flying entirely out of their heads, now in this time of general confusion would mount up to various lofty places, and then throw themselves off into the air, m which they were as utterly unaccustomed to fly as they were to drink raspberry syrup. 4 The supper was laid in the dining-room, but when the family hoped to begin they found that no knife would cut, no fork would hold, no spoon would divide the pies, or meats, or bread, that were laid. In vain did they try, after many apologies to each other, and with much shamefacedness, to nibble or gnaw a single scrap, and they only succeeded in getting off such a scrap as showed them how good the rest must be. When, hungry, frightened, and miserable, they sought their beds, they found them one, or rather, many indistinguishable masses; sheets, blankets, mattress, featherbed — all — which were which you could not tell. Melted completely into lumps of pulp lay the beds upon the iron bedsteads : and as the household looked, and wondered, and lamented, all gathered together in the chief bedroom, where the bedstead arranged itself into so pathetic a form that of the whole assembly none were unaffected. Some wept outright ; some set themselves to thinking, as they had not done for years; one became deeply melancholy: even the proceedings of the dressing- table, which soon began performances of a similar

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252 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXII. kind, only generally mirth-exciting, were quite un¬ able to cheer her up. The young folk clapped hands at bedstead and toilet-table equally, till a strange, sudden, and absolute departure of light brought the meeting to an end, only to send each individual to encounter more surpri - There, young folk, my time is lip. . Rem ember to do what I said ; explain the true, pick out tho rubbish, and collect things to tell rue next time I come. And may that be soon !’ ‘Soon! soon! soon!’ cried a chorus of voices. ‘But the strings, uncle ?’ 4 A — h — ! ’ and their merry friend was gone. J. E. C. F. SUMMER-TIME. O UMMER-TIME ! What a pleasant sound these O two words have, and how many pleasant thoughts do they call up ! They tell of long warm days, of trees gay with fresh green leaves, through the boughs of which the sunshine steals and makes golden patches of light on the grass beneath ; of blue skies, across which the white clouds flit, moved by the ‘ soft, soft wind, from out the sweet south sighing.’ What a time of pleasure summer is, too ! what a season of long rambles and rides, of cricket, croquet, fishing, boating, and what not! The people in the picture have chosen ‘boating,’ you see, and are, I think, making for the quiet pool in the foreground. Fishing they certainly are not, unless it be for the white water-lilies. Perhaps they are enjoying another summer pastime that I have not mentioned in my list, though it is a very pleasant one ; and one, too, which improves, and rests, and refreshes the mind as well as the body, — I mean ‘ botanising,’ or studying the flowers and plants which surround us on every side. I do not mean by ‘ botanising’ just idljr picking the bright blossoms and leaves we see, to smell and admire for a few moments, and then to fling them aside when carrying them becomes troublesome. N o : botanising means more than this. It means examining the structure of the plant, its leaves and stem : taking the flower, and, after observing the form and number of the petals, turning them back and noting its pistil and pretty, delicate stamens, all so wonderful and perfect, and bearing the marks of ‘His hand Whose name is Wonderful;’ and when these points have been observed, then consulting the books written by the men who have given much study to this science, and so learning to put your flowers into their right ‘ classes,’ 4 sub-classes,’ and ‘ orders.’ You will meet with lon£ words, but you must not mind that. The girl and boy in the boat in our picture will have to grasp some very hard words with their water-lilies, for these pretty water-flowers belong to the natural order JSfymphcecicece , which order belongs to the sub¬ class 1 halcimiflorce, which again belongs to the great class of Dicot yledones. These are dreadfully long words, but I dare say some kind friend will help our little friends with them; and if they cannot remember them, they can remember that water-lilies chiefly grow in quiet waters, and are mostly found in the northern hemi¬ sphere. There is one very splendid foreign water- lily, called the Victoria Decjia , or Victoria Lily, which comes from South America. Its flowers, when they are wide open, arc sometimes more than a foot in diameter, and its leaves vary in diameter from four to eight feet. Fancy a leaf large enough for the tallest man you ever saw to lie down quite flat on his back on! There is a specimen of this great lily to be seen at the Kew Gardens. The quiet pool in front of the picture has, you see, plenty of other leaves on its surface and edge, — ferns, reeds, rushes, and those lance-headed leaves, all of j which have their different orders and classes, and about which there is much to learn and much to admire. K. W. SATURDAY NIGHT. <up)IACING the little hats all in a row, JT Ready for church on the morrow, you know ; Washing wee faces and little black fists, Getting them ready and fit to be kissed ; Putting them into clean garments, and white — This is what mothers are doing to-night. Spying out holes in the little worn hose, Laying by shoes that are worn through the toes, Looking o’er garments so faded and thin — Who but a mother knows where to begin ? Changing a button to make it look right — That is what mothers are doing to-night. Calling the little ones all round her chair, Hearing them lisp forth their soft evening prayer, Telling them stories of Jesus of old. Who loves to gather the lambs to His fold; Watching they listen with childish delight — That is what mothers are doing to-night. Creeping so softly to take a last peep, After the little ones all are asleep ; Anxious to know if the children are warm, Tucking the blanket round each little form ; Kissing each little face, rosy and bright — That is what mothers are doing to-night. Kneeling down gently beside the white bed. Lowly and meekly she bows down her head, Praying as only a mother can pray, ‘ God guide and keep them from going astray.’ BROTHERLY LOVE. rPHE eldest son of a rich merchant had given him- JL self up in his youth to evil ways. He irritated his father, and scorned his advice. The old man, before his end, made a will by which he disinherited his eldest son, and soon after died. The disinherited son repented of his past ill-behaviour, and altogether changed his manner of life. His younger brother went to find him. He embraced him and addressed him in these words : ‘ My brother, our father, by his will, only wished to punish the man you were then, and not the man you are to-day. I give to you the portion that is your due.’ E. H. C.

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No. XXXII. CHATTERBOX. 253 Summer-Time.

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254 CHATTERBOX No. XXXII. THE BAIL WAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. {Continued from page 217.) IE- WANNA. pressed the children to her heart in her delight at this unexpected happiness which God ; \3^Sf|/'7/v7 V hi His mercy had sent to her ; , they should sec their father, em- iBm yxMfk brace him, and, by the outpouring their love, pour comfort and strength into his heart! * She loaded the deputy with l/oP her blessings, and called him a JtKS benefactor, a deliverer, an angel. o]r 4 Sir, forgive an afflicted wife,’ she said after awhile. 4 We may visit my husband ; when, when will it be allowed?5 4 To-day ; whenever you like.5 4 Ah. God grant that I may find him well ! 5 ‘Tie is well, good woman.’ 4 Have you seen him, sir?5 - 4 Yes, this morning.’ 4 Mother, children, the gentleman has seen father this morning! He is well ! Oh, what good news ! What happiness ! what happiness !’ The deputy meantime had taken out his pocket- book, and was now writing something with a pencil. Then handing a card to the woman lie said, — 4 Do you know where the prison is?’ 4 Yes, sir ; I was born in the town, and have long lived there/ 4 Well, then, you are to ring the bell at the gate, and show this card to the man who opens it. He will directly call another official, who will lead you to your husband. Be comforted, then, in the hope that he— and I am inclined to believe it— is^ inno¬ cent, and will be acquitted by the court of justice.’ He beckoned to his driver, and got into his carriage. As he saw many hands stretched out by these poor people to thank him, he made one more encouraging sign to them, and then called out to his coachman, 4 Whip up the horses ! To Bolderhout with all i speed ! Put me down at the chateau of Lady Van der Henoel.’ He remained in deep thought for a long time : ! probably lie was reflecting how justice often passed \ over the guilty while the innocent had to suffer. The conviction that Jan Yerhelst had spoken the ; truth, and had shut the gates, was growing stronger and stronger in him — but how could he prove it? There were no other witnesses to be found, except the victim himself. The coachman had been killed on the spot, an cl perhaps the notaiy had by this time breathed his last. In this sad state of affairs it might easily happen that the poor signalman, whether guilty or innocent, would be condemned by the court. This thought pained him : a deep sigh escaped his breast. Then he shook his head, and a slight ! smile came over his lips. 4 A deputy who laments and troubles himself about the fate of an accused!’ he murmured to himself. 4 We ought to have no feelings or heart upon such matters, people say. Do we not remain men, then, in our anxious office ? Ah, how bitter sometimes our duty is to us ! I don’t know why I feel such an interest in this signalman. His blind mother, his children, this brave deed of self-sacrifice perhaps. Whatever it may be, I should learn of his acquittal with delight; but all shows that - ’ Just then, at a turn in the road, a gig came up. The deputy greeted the person who sat in it. Both carriages stopped. 4 Good morning, M. Mayor,’ said the deputy. 4 And the notary ? Is he still living Y 3 4 Certainly, M. Deputy,’ was the answer. 4 He is better since this morning.’ 4 Better !’ 4 Yes, much better.’ 4 Is he conscious yet?’ 4 It appears so, for he has already recognised and spoken to his wife and children.’ ‘God be praised for it! We shall know, then, how the accident happened. Do you know, M. Mayor, whether he has been asked to explain it yet?’ 4 That I can’t say.’ 4 Ah ! I will know at once. Good day, M. Mayor.’ Both carriages drove off again. 4 Go straight to the house of the notary, M. Verecken,’ the deputy said to his coachman. Half-an-hour after he alighted before the hand¬ some house of the notary, and asked the servant who opened the door if he could speak to M. Frederic. The deputy must be on intimate terms here — a friend of the household — for the servant let him in without any further questions, and said to him, — 4 Yonder, under that weeping ash, .you will find M. Frederic ; at least he was sitting on the bench there not five minutes ago.’ When the deputy had reached the end of a winding- path lie saw the eldest son of the notary sitting in an arbour under the overhanging branches of an ash- tree. The youth seemed deep in thought; not so deeply, however, as not to hear the footsteps of sonic one approaching. ITc arose, and with a kindly smile held out his hand to the deputy, and exclaimed with, jov, — Good day, M. Masmans ! there is good news to- 4I have been truly informed, then ? Your father is better ? ’ 4 Much better, thank God ! He will recover, the doctor says. Come, M. Deputy, sit down for a little while in the arbour, and let us have a chat. My father is asleep now.’ . Sitting down on a bench opposite the youth, the deputy inquired, — • . ‘I was told that yesterday evening the priest was sent for to your father in all haste; was that a false report?’ ‘ No, it was not. Since the terrible accident my father has lain motionless. The doctor thought lie had received a concussion of the brain, and might die of it, without waking from his heavy sleep. Yes¬ terday evening my father suddenly appeared to be awaking. He looked round, and gazed on us with astonishment, like some one who was just returning to consciousness. The doctor spoke of a serious crisis, and ordered the priest to be called. We lett

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No. XXXI I. CHATTE 1RBOX. 255 the room. Some time after we were again allowed to approach the sick-bed. My father was lying with his eyes open, and though his look was very vacant, there was a ray of intelligence every now and then in it. At last he began to mutter indistinct words ; at one time I thought that he pronounced my name. But the doctor had forbidden us to speak, or make any noise. We could see that my father was very confused in his head, and very drowsy. In the middle of the night he fell into a deep sleep, which still lasts. The doctor has been watching for long time by his bedside, and tells us with joy tM at this is, since the accident, my father’s first matural sleep. He assures us that when my fathejv 'awakes he will be much clearer in his mind, anc[/will doubt¬ less recognise us all.’ / ‘ Then your father has not spoken,, distinctly yet?’ said the. deputy, thoughtfully; ‘ axid you have not been able to ask him any questions ?’ ‘ What should I have to ask liihn?’ ‘ Yes, Frederic, he is the only living witness of the accident on the railway. lie/ alone can explain how it happened.’ 6 But, M. Deputy, that iA clear as daylight !’ cried the young man ; ‘ the signalman neglected to shut the gates.’ 6 That is not certain.’ ‘ How, not certain ? ’ * Deflect, Frederic, that the honour and freedom of a poor father of . a family is here at stake. One ought not to judge without clear proof.’ This remark appeared to displease and anno}’ the young man. H exclaimed in surprise, — ‘You defend the guilty official who has caused a murder by negligence, who has brought my father to the very brink of the grave, and caused him intense sufferings fora week?’ ‘ I do not defend him ; but I am not sure of his guilt.’ ‘ if he had shut the gates as he asserts, how could the accident have happened?’ ‘ If any one else had opened them afterwards?’ ‘ That is impossible, M. Deputy ; the signalman is bound to close the gates only a tew minutes before the passing through of the train. It was awful wea¬ ther ; it thundered and hailed as if the world were coming to an end. Every one was trembling with frighff. How. should any one, then, for his own- pleas/hre, in spite of the storm, go to open the gates ? Jaiyverhelst had not a single enemy. Before the accident he was esteemed and beloved by every one. N o, no ! he is guilty ! On account of the terrible weather he remained in his carriage, and by his lazy negligence caused this misfortune to my father and our coachman.’ ‘ Let us hope, Frederic, that your father will re¬ cover.. He alone can pronounce upon the fate of the poor signalman.’ 4 But, M. Deputy, my father won’t be able to say anything except that the gates were open. Don't you see that plainly? ITow otherwise could our coachman have driven the gig across the line ? I am quite convinced that justice will condemn the signalman.’ 4 Perhaps so ; but for lack of witnesses there will always be a doubt.’ Ah ! but / will take care, at any rate, that such ginlry negligence does not remain unpunished. To be s ure of Ins condemnation, I will engage the best counsel in the town to plead against him, that I may have sure revenge on the man whose negli- gen :e has been the cause of this disaster.’ I would not do that, Frederic,’ said the deputy, yaking Ids head sadly. 4 If justice acquits the sig¬ nalman, it wi^ doubtless be because there are not sufficient proofs ai his guilt. Does not tlfe thought frighten you, that Vou may thus be condemning an innocent man ?’ V ‘But 1 am quite sVire that the gates were left open.’ \ 4 Have some little compassion for his blind mother and his unfortunate children. Ah ! if you had seen the poor people as I had done — hopeless, weeping, la¬ menting - ’ 4 1 have seen them, M. Deputy. I secretly wiped away tears from my eyes— tears of compassion for the Jot of his innocent family, especially ior his sou Sander, a good and sensible boy, whom we all loved. But I overcame the tenderness of my heart, and tried to force myself to hate the signalman. Have I hot a duty to fulfil towards my father, towards our dead servant, towards the whole community ? If we allow such fatal negligence to go unpunished, do we not cause the greater frequency of such accidents on railways ?’ He was interrupted in his angry speech by the appearance of a maid-servant, who said to. him, with joy, ‘ M. Frederic, your father is awake ; he is much,- much better! He is looking everywhere for you, and has pronounced your name.’ 4 (Tod be praised !’ said the youth with joy. ‘ I ant coming ! I am coming ! M. Deputy, you under¬ stand, I am sure, that 1 must leave you ! ’ 4 May I wait here for some good news ? ’ asked the' deputy. ‘ Oh, it delights me more than I can ex¬ press to be able to believe that your father will recovei* !’ ‘ Stay, stay, by all means !’ said Frederic. ‘ Have patience ; I hope you won’t find it long. I will come back myself and tell you how my father is going Oil.’ As he said these last words he vanished behind the ' shrubs at a bend of the winding path. (To be continued.) THE NEEDLE. WHO amongst us has not a great reverence for that little dainty tool, such a wonderful brightener and consoler ; our weapon of defence against slothfulness, weariness, and sad thoughts; our thrifty helper in poverty, our pleasant friend at all times? From the first ‘ cobbled-up ’ doll’s frock, the first neat stitching for mother, or hemming of father’s pocket-handkerchief ; the first bit of sewing shyly done for some one who is to own the hand and all its duties ; most of all, the first strange, delicious fancy work, sewed at diligently, in solemn faith and tender love, for the tiny creature as yet unknown and unseen: — truly, no one but ourselves can tell what the needle is to us women. /

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The Deputy and Frederic,

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Boy overhearing the Conspirators’ conversation,

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2o3 CI-IATTERBOX. No. XXXIII. THE GREAT FAIR OF AMSTERDAM. first week of the fair is devoted to file children. Its foundation goes back to the year 1(322. the time when the Spaniards had planned to blow up the Exchange, with all the assembled merchants, by means of a boat full of gunpowder, which they were to send into the canal. A boy crouching down under a bridge overheard by accident a conversation of the conspirators. He ran to warn the Burgomaster, or Mayor, who was at once alarmed, and proving the truth of the informa¬ tion, hastened to prevent the danger by blocking up the canal. The merchants had been much . frightened ; but when the danger was past they sent for the boy, and asked him to demand the reward which he wished for having saved their lives. The boy was afraid to speak ; at last, when he had been offered- various titles and .dignities, he ex¬ claimed, — ‘Well, I wish that during the fair we should be allowed to play in the Exchange.’ The request was thought a strange one, but as he insisted, they satisfied him ; and since the year 1622 the children of Amsterdam have the right during the whole of the second week in September to play in the Exchange, in the intervals of the hours when it is used for business, and to make as much noise as they like there. Last year the merchants wished to rebel against this ancient usage, and would not give up their Exchange to the noisy children. But these came in such large numbers, accompanied, too, by so many mothers and nurses, and raised such yells and cries, that the good men were obliged to give way, and the old custom thus established again has been revived this year with great rejoicings. In the interior of the Exchange drums were hired out to those who had none ; all beat upon these in¬ struments with the full strength of their arms, from the child who could scarcely walk to the big boy of fourteen. The noise was not to be. described. All these little fellows marched round under the. vast porticos of the courtyards with the serious air of Dutchmen. Some wore generals’ hats made of varnished paper, others admirals’ epaulettes ; it was' quite a mimic military spectacle. Every year, among all Dutch families, those first days of the great fair are looked forward to; the parents say to the children, — ‘ If you are good, I will take you to the Exchange ; and if you are very good indeed, you shall have a drum.’ * J. F. C. PRESENCE OF MIND. EATE and Maria leant over the fire, And their long locks were caught by the blaze, And 1 grieve to relate what a terrible fate Of one child soon ended the days. With shrieks of despair Kate ran to the air ; Mary smothered Iter head in a shawl, And so put herself out, and could soon go about — Kate never recovered at all. Two boys I once knew of the same age as you, With strong limbs and with bright sunny faces ; But the one had a mind, which his father so kind Had taught him to use in all cases. One day to the river, the two boys together Went down to enjoy a good bathe, But soon a sharp cry was heard from each boy, And two gentlemen rushed in to save. With most kindly intent one gentleman meant To seize on poor Tom by the hair, But the boy, in his fright, forgot what was right, And clasped round his friend in despair. The two struggled long, and the stream being strong Very soon they would both have been drowned, So his own life to save from a watery grave Was all he could do, the man found. Many things I could tell, that show equally well (If to dwell on such things I inclined). It were best to be heedful, but also ’tis needful To cultivate Presence of Mind. If you get in a scrape with small chance of escape, Your chances are doubled, you’ll find, If you’ve always been taught to do what you ought, And have plenty of Presence of Mind. J. E. C. F. POOR WHITE’S TROUBLE. , T was the last week of the half-year at Dr. Sadler’s school. ‘Examination- week,’ the boys used to call it. But this time how was there to be an examination, since Mr. Crosby the English master, who was head and front of the whole affair, had been away six weeks nursing a sick bro¬ ther ? The boys grew to couift it a settled thing that there was to be no examination, and the idle ones became even more lax over their tasks. But one evening, just as the younger boys were going to bed, a little, boy ran into the schoolroom, his eyes bright with excitement,— ‘ It’s to come off just as usual, the examination ! ’ he cried ; ‘ Crosby's sent the questions — wrote them by his brother’s bed and Blackie is to take it.. The Doctor is going to read over the questions with him to-night after we’re in. I heard him say so. And oh ! won't some of you big fellows catch it now ? ’ The little lad got a box on the ear for his last speech from a big lad standing b3r ; but after that there was a lull, the whole school was startled by the

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No. XXXIII. CHATTERBOX. 259 news : it had made np its mind to have no examination that half-year. Then Twells, the senior boy, summoned a meeting in a class-room to consider the matter, while the younger boys trooped off to bed, much less concerned than their "elders at the unwelcome tidings.- ‘You hear what little Spriggins says,’ began Twells, ‘ and you know we’ve been taking matters a great deal too easy (with- the exception of one or two),’ and he glanced at a lad of fifteen, named "White, who stood near, with a look of half-disguised contempt, ‘ to care to be examined this half. Now, what is to be done? Are the little chaps in the lower school, who are obliged to sap, to take the prizes ? That would be a shame.’ Twells stopped, and one or two boys said, £ Hear, hear.’ He was tall, good-looking, of fair abilities, arid called captain of the school. ‘ What is to be done?’ he said again. Some one proposed, petitioning the Doctor to give . up the examination. .But that was pooh-poohed as useless. Then Fairless, a long-nosed youth, familiarly called ‘Hatty,’ from his supposed likeness to that quadruped, stepped forward. ‘ The. examination will not be till the day after to-morrow,’ he said; ‘now if one could only get to know what the questions were about, we could work up the subjects and be all right. Spriggins said the Doctor would read them aloud to Blackie to-night. You all know how Sadler reads, as if he were hailing a ship at sea ; any one with half a memory could stand on the hall mat at the foot of the stairs and bring away a tidy idea of the questions.’ ‘ Then must we all go?’ asked Miggs, a timid lad, the youngest of the big hoys. ‘ Certainly not,’ said Hatty ; ‘ if Twells agrees, I will mention how it can be managed.’ Twells laughed a little uncomfortably ; the captain had a difficulty in sanctioning eavCs-dropping, but he said, ‘ Go on, Hatty ; we’ll hear, old boy : every one has a right to his own ideas.’ And then Hatty told his plan, that lots should he drawn, and one chosen out of the six elder boys to perform the duty of listener that night. White rushed to the# front on this. 4 I object,’ he said : 4 the plan is ungentlemanly and dishonourable.’ 4 Showing the white feather !’ tittered Hatty. 4 Mr. White,’ said Twells, 4 calm yourself, if you please.’ * Of course you don’t like it, White,’ said another, the biggest sap in the school ; ‘you’ll carry off every¬ thing if this plan is not put in force.’ 4 Who dares accuse me of mean motives ? ’ per¬ sisted White, hotly ; 4 let him, let him - ’ 4 Quiet, White ! 9 said the calm Twells; ‘Briggs meant no harm. But opposition comoe oddly from you, my dear fellow : we know you need no assist¬ ance beyond your own talents, so there can be nothing * mean or ungentlemanly in your furthering a project^ which will give less clever fellows a push on. You need take no notice of the questions on your own account, if you do jnot like.’ White said no more, and the arrangements went on ; Hatty’s plan being pronounced the best brought forward. Lots were drawn. White was No. 7 in the school, and hoped to be left out. But one or two lads said | the captain ought not to be included in the lottery-; ! so White’s name was scribbled on one slip of paper. The captain drew the numbers ; Briggs the names. No. 6 was to go ; and No. G fell to White’s share. His blood was hot at the accusation of meanness. He would accept thh office, bring every question up¬ stairs if his memory wrould serve, and then never touch a book till the examination was over. That would show the boys that he really thought the plan dishonourable, and yet would clear himself in their , eyes from a desire to win the best honours. Foolish lad ! a steady refusal to join in the plan would have been the right course; but White, like many another boy, was more afraid of the sneers of his schoolfellows than of doing wrong. He seetned so willing to carry out the details, that Hatty was quite pleased. ‘You’re a stunner to work, White!’ he 1 said ; 4 but look here — go softly, take off your boots.’ 4 No, thank you ! ’ put in White, proudly. 4 Well, then, take time ; they don’t squeak, I think. Go straight down to the mat ; the door of Sadler’s room is open, for I have peeped; and just listen quietly to the questions ; and when lie is done come straight back, and we’ve our pencils ready to jot it down.’ White listened silently. When the time came lie walked straight downstairs, determined to do his mission. There stood Dr. Sadler’s door, two inches open ; and there was Dr. Sadler’s big voice sounding through the crack. 4 You’ll do your best, Blackie,’ it was saying, 4 and here are the questions. .Shall I run through them, to. give you an idea? The Mathematical paper comes first — White will floor that easily, I can se.e.’ And his sonorous voice began to read. There were two doors into Dr. Sadler’s room, and just then White heard the other one open ; it led to the servants’ department. 4 Well, Peter ? ’ said Dr. Sadler. The servant seemed to hand the Doctor a paper by the rustle. 4 A Christmas bill,’ thought White, im¬ patient to get his disagreeable task over; 4 he’ll go on reading in a minute.’ And so he did !. 4 Dear, dear ! ’ said the Doctor. 4 Listen, Blackie— what is to be* done? Poor fellow! A telegram: — 44 White’s father died suddenly this morning. Keep •the news from him, if you think Tight, till after your examination : it is important for his widowed mother he should pass well.” The telegram is from his f guardian, who placed him with me. Oh! what is i that?’ For a sound as of something falling in the hall roused the Doctor. Mr. Blackie ran out to pick up the fainting lad, for White had dropped on the mat at the sound of the fatal telegram. 4 How came he there ? poor lad ! poor lad l’ said the kindly Doctor ; 4 lie must have heard all.’ Yes, he had heard all. It was some time before he was restored to consciousness, and then he found himself surrounded not only by the Doctor and Mr. Blackie, but by five of the six conspirators upstairs, j all pale and stricken with remorse. Hatty had slunk : off to bed. Twells had told all, and had begged the ) Doctor’s pardon.

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2C0 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIII. •' I ‘ It is a severe lesson, sir,’ he said, ‘and it has fallen most heavily on. poor White, whTo did not wish I to join in the plan. Will you let me sit up with him to-night ? ’ I There was no examination, after all, at Dr. Sad- ; ler’s that half-year, but the lads did not rejoice at the decision, going home with damped spirits and the awestruck tidings of ‘ Poor White’s trouble.’ I neecT hardly say that eaves-dropping was an unknown thing in Dr. Sadler’s school after that day. TT A . DUTY. — ‘THINK O’ YER MITHER.’ A TRUE STORY. HP HE Eev. F. C. Young, in the memoir of his J- father and extracts from bis own journal, says : — ‘ The following story was told me by a gentleman whom I met in Wiltshire, and whom I have never seen since. I do not pretend to tell it in his words, I only answer for the facts as I remember them.

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‘ A widowed lady was fortunate enough to obtain for her only son, a boy at Harrow, not yet eighteen years of age, a commission without purchase. A few weeks after receiving it his regiment was ordered out to the Crimea, in 1854. Many weeks elapsed, during which the mother was in great anxiety, in consequence of never having received a line from her boy. The first intelligence she received of him was from a letter published in one of the newspapers, and written by an amateur spectator, who had witnessed

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262 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIII. the first engagement between the Kussians and the allied forces at the Alma. 4 After giving sundry details of the battle itself, he went on to describe instances of individual heroism which lie had witnessed, and among the number he mentioned the courage of a lad of eighteen, who turned out to be the widow’s son. In the pride of her heart she wrote to him in the terms of praise natural to a mother, calling him her “hero boy.” The letter she received from him in reply seems to have been both candid and modest. I cannot pretend to repeat with any degree of verbal accuracy a letter I never saw, and only heard recited second-band, but this was its purport: — 4 “Now, dear mother, that your fears about my safety arc allayed, and that you have been cheered by favourable intelligence of me, I must undeceive you as to my having any right to such an epithet as you applied to me in your letter. 144 1 must confess to you that when first I saw the Kussian guns open fire, and beheld the smoke wreath¬ ing itself upon the heights, I felt disposed to rqji away as fast as my legs could carry me. I felt I was a born coward! My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, my heart beat against my ribs like a sledge-hammer, my knees knocked together. I could not resist looking over my left shoulder to see how the land lay behind me; when suddenly I was conscious of a strong hand between my shoulder-blades, and of a kindly voice, in good broad Scotch, saying to me, 4 Come, laddie — forward, mon — forward ! Duty, aye duty !’ At that moment, had I been twitted with what must have been plain to read in my ashen face and shrinking step, 1 fear I should have run away. J3ut there was something so encouraging in the tone of the friendly words, coupled with the brave bearing of our old serjeant- • major, that I felt as if I had had a fresh backbone put into me. On I went with- redoubled courage for some little time, till, as 1 drew closer to the scene of action, and saw more of the hideous effects of shot and shell, I found myself once more looking over to the left; when again the same firm* hand was at my back, and the same kind words repeated in my cars, — 4 Eh, sir ! Come, come, laddie ; ye’ve done vera week Forward, then ! Duty’s the word — aye, duty. Come, then. I’m just proud o’ ye.’ Inspired with a fresh ambition to deserve his good opinion, and the more so because of his generosity and forbearance, I put forth all the energy and re¬ solution I could muster, until the man on my right and the other on my left were shot down by my side. This was too much for my coward heart; nature asserted itself, and I deliberately turned round 'to fly ; when both my shoulders were seized, and in an iron grasp, and these words were hissed in my ears: 4 Fie, tie, laddie! Think o’ yermither!’ Then it was that, styng with self-reproach, and wrought up to resolution by the magic power of that clear name, I remember springing forward, rushing into the very thick of the fray, and, I hope, bearing myself as a soldier should.” ’ C. S. C. THE [RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. ( Continued from. p. 255.) "OR some time the deputy remained A' f// walking round the garden. At 'last he saw Frederic comipg, already beckon¬ ing to him with his hand in the dis¬ tance. 4 Well, now what is your father’s condition?’ he asked, when he had approached a little nearer. 4 Good ! good ! ’ was the reply. 4 My father is perfectly conscious.’ 4 And haven’t yon spoken to him about the accident?’ 4 No, we dare not. It would disturb him too much if we let him hear of the death of our coachman.’ 4 Eut he need not be told of that/ 4 All the same, M. Deputy, we have determined to run no risks before the doctor comes. I told my father that you had come to inquire after his health, and were waiting for news of him in the garden. He seemed to wish to see you. "Will you follow me? ’ ‘Certainly, certainly!’ said the deputy. 4 Eut you must not remind him of the accident.’ 4 No; not till he mentions it himself. One can¬ not be sure that lie will not.’ 4 Come, then, M. Deputy, I will lead you to him.’ When they opened the door of the sick-room, a sign to be silent was made to them. At a little dis¬ tance from the bed sat Mrs. Verecken, with a nurse. The notary lay on his back, with his eyes open, and turned upwards with a 'somewhat vacant look. Frederic approached him and said, in a gentle » voice, ‘Father, here is our friend M. Masmans come to see you.’ • The" sick man at first did not seem to hear these words, but turned his head a little on one side, looked at the deputy rather inquiringly, and then, with a smile, tried to hold out his hand to him. 4 Good-day, M. Deputy,’ he murmured. 4 Ah, how ill I have been ! so long, so long ! ’ 4 Indeed, M. Notary, you have been ill, and have doubtless suffered terribly,’ said the deputy. 4 Eut, thank God! it is over now. You are going to re¬ cover: in a few days more, and you will be walking about in your garden, in the bright sunshine.’ At this comforting thought the notary smiled again ; but then a painful expression came over his face. lie put hi3 trembling hand to the left side of his head and muttered, in a quivering voice, 4 It is not over yet. I have pain there; my head is broken. I received a blow — a terrible blow ! How ? Where?’ . His family were trembling with fear at this sudden recollection of the dreadful event. The deputy was not less disturbed, but his heart beat with joyful ex¬ pectation, and he listened with-breathless attention. The sick man was silent for some time, and gazed upwards again; but it was plain by the strange brightness of his eyes,, and by the wrinkles on his forehead, that he had some confused thoughts, and was striving to gain clearness in his mind.

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No. XXXIII. CHATTERBOX. 263 Suddenly he again turned his head on one side and asked, ‘Where is Joseph, the coachman ! All turned pale at this unexpected question. But the sick man relieved them by not waiting for an answer, but added, ‘You must dismiss him.’ ‘ Dismiss him ? ’ , ‘ He must never come before my eyes again. ‘ Very well, father/ > ‘Why are you so angry with your coachman? asked the deputy, with a secret insight to what might be coming. ‘He is to blame for my illness,’, said the notary, with more clearness and force. ‘Ah, now I know ! The thunder, the hail, the express train ! ’ ‘Did your servant open the gates? asked the deputy again. ‘ Yes, he opened them/ ‘ With your consent? ’ ‘ I had forbidden him; he had been drinking. The weather was frightful - ’ ‘Your servant, then, got off to open the gates ? ’ ‘ Alas ! }rcs, notwithstanding my entreaties/ ‘ And you are quite sure that the gates were shut?’ ‘ Quite certain/ The deputy approached Frederic, and said to him in a suppressed voice, — ‘ You have heard now, have you not? Jan Yer- helst is innocent. Bet me now go and fulfil a duty I owe to humanity and justice. I leave you doubly rejoiced at the recovery of the good .M. \ erecken, and at the release of an honest man/ Frederic stood completely abashed at this unex¬ pected revelation. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only replied by a slow snake of the head. With a silent greeting the deputy left the room and went down the steps ; but Frederic ran after him, stopped him in the passage, seized his hand, drew him into a room, and said to him with tears in his eyes,^- ‘ M. Deputy, you accuse me of malice and unkind¬ ness in your heart, do you not ? Indeed . I am the chief cause of what Jan Verhelst and his poor family have suffered. I excited the people against him, I have urged that lie should be kept in strict imprisonment, I have had his post as signalman taken away from him, and yet before the accident I es¬ teemed him and desired only to do all the good I could to him and his children ! My only excuse is in my firm belief that Jan Yerhelst was guilty: but my conscience accuses me ; I am disturbed, grieved, and ashamed, and I wish that it were possible for me at any price to compensate these innocent people for the harm 1 have done them/ ‘ Don’t let it trouble you too much, Frederic,’ re¬ plied the deputy. ‘ It can soon be repaired. As soon as the magistrate hears of your father’s statement Jan Yerhelst will be set at liberty. With a little money y.on can compensate him for the injury he lias suffered, and mate him forget his trouble aud anxiety. Seek another post for him, and protect him meanwhile from all want. These people are naturally good and grateful ; they will still bless you as their benefactor/ , ‘ ITe was so happy too in his old carriage, the simple, brave man ! Can he not get his post at Bolderhout back again ? He would be grieved to lose it, and it may be a long time before w7e can find him another. You are returning hack to the town, M. Deputy ?’ ‘ Certainly I am ! ’ ‘ Immediately ? ’ . ‘ Without delay, Frederic, I shall go at^ once to the magistrate to get an order for Jan Yerhelst’s release/ Unfortunately the magistrate is at his country-house. It is some distance beyond the suburbs on the other side of the town, but I will hasten there/ ‘ Well now, M. Deputy, there is room in your car¬ riage; I will go with you. You will have the kind¬ ness to put me down at the raihvay station.. I will try and persuade the chief director of the company to give Jan Yerhelst his place again. Fie is my father’s friend, aud canno,t refuse.’ ‘ But the new signalman ?’ ‘ Oh, if I should have to support him for years till he gets another post, what wrould that be to me in comparison with the pain and disgrace which I have caused to those innocent people ? ’ ‘ That is true, Frederic ; what you say springs from a noble heart/ ‘ This is my design, M. Deputy. You must obtain • for me permission to visit the prison. I shall hasten thither, and if 1 can be the first to bring Jan Yerhelst the good news, that will make me nappy indeed. Meanwhile you can drive out to the magistrate’s and come with the order of release to the prison. If you don’t find me there, wait for me, for I wish to have a share in the releas.e of the victim of my careless error. Go now, M. Deputy, in all haste ; order your carriage to be got ready, and then come here to # fetch me. I shall then have made all necessary arrangements to be absent for a few7 hours/ Thus saying he accompanied the deputy to the gate. On his return he met the gardener, and said to him joyfully, — * * * ‘Jacob, I have something to tell you wliich will please you. You were a good friend of Jan Yerhelst, and you would not believe that he was to blame for the accident on the railway - ’ ‘ I don’t believe it yet, sir,’ said the gardener. ‘ Well, you wSre right; my father has spoken. It was Joseph, the coachman, who opened the gates. He had been drinking too much and would not listen to my father’s orders/ ‘ Hurrah 3 long live Jan Yerhelst! ’ cried the gar¬ dener, throwing up his cap toprove his joy. ‘ Be still and listen,’ said Frederic. ‘ The people of Bolderhout have done Jan Yerhelst much injury. He will come back here to-morrow. Go round the village, make his innocence knowm, so that he may be received with the honour which is due to him/ 6 Sir ! sir ! may I do something that has entered my head ?’ ‘ Yes, anything that will make Jan Yerhelst for¬ get liis misfortunes/ ‘ And in case it should cost a fewT francs, sir?’ # £ Oh, never mind that; I will give you full permis- „ sion/ ‘ Ha ! ha ! wTe will have grand doings to-morrow,’ cried the gardener. ‘ Hurrah ! hurrah ! long live Jan Yerhelst!’ And weaving his cap in the air, he ran full of joy to the village. (To be continued.)

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Did your servant open the gates? ’ asked the Notary.

Page 272

No. XXXIV. CHATTERBOX. 26o The Egg-Collector. M .u

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266 No. XXXIV. CHATTERBOX. THE EGG- COLLECTOR. , OME time ago at a farmhouse in Scotland there was an extraordinary colley dog, who not only used to tend the sheep, but he would bring the cows home to be milked, and was also useful in many other wavs. His chief peculiarity and one of his favourite occupations was to find out the nests of the hens. He would anxiously watch until they laid their eggs, and these he would gently take in his mouth and carry indoors. So careful was he in carrying them, that he was never known to break one, although he was chief egg-collector for several years. STEADY JOHN. A THOROUGHLY worthy, respectable couple; straightforward and trusty ; standing well with the World, as was their right/ Such was the opinion of the townsfolk of Barrowm'ead regarding John Langhorne (head clerk in the old-established office of Prenderby, Brandt, and Co.) and his wife. Punctual to a minute was John at the office ; people in the High Street set their clocks to the figure 9 as jus grey- black head passed their windows ; and the very office- boy swept more vigorously when the shadow of the chief clerk fell across him. ‘ Steady John,’ the younger clerks secretly dubbed him, and wondered if he had ever been young and giddy like themselves, needing to be reproved by his superiors for irregular hours and unlawfully-snatched holidays. He was very .steady now — of that they all felt sure ; and many a youngster when in a scrape con¬ soled himself b}r the thought that with years he, too, might become staid and trusty like 1 Steady John.’ Then Mrs. Langhorne, too, was a fit mate for John : large and fair, quiet and prderly ; a good, though strict mistress. Nothing in thn house that she had the control over ever hindered John from being duly in his place in the office on week-days, and in his seat in church on Sundays. People who looked at them could hardly help saying, ‘ What a respectable couple!’ _ , And then those best acquainted with them whispered that Prenderby, Brandt, and Co. would trust John Langhorne with untold gold ; he had been in the firm twenty years, and was their very right hand. Only one trouble had John and his wife, it seemed : child after child had just been born to die; no one little creature had ever lisped mother or father’s name ; five tiny graves side by side in Barrowmead Churchyard was all the nursery needed by them. Gentle Mrs. Langhorne had* wept bitter tears in her day over her dead babes, but even that sorrow was lulled now, since the last tiny funeral had wound through the snow ten winters back. The only change in the derk’s house of late years had been the arrival of Lettice Anstey, the orphan niece of Mrs. Langhorne. She had no relations save Aunt Anne, and* on the death of her last parent 'Mrs. Langhorne had told John she should like to have Lettice to live with them. The clerk’s wife was beginning to fail a little — not losing her fresh looks, but feeling twinges at times of the terrible rheumatism that was hereafter to make her winters a time of suffering to her. Lettice would see that things went right when she was laid up, thought the considerate wife. Strange to say, John objected. ‘A third would spoil their evenings,’ he said. ‘ Nay, John,’ said Mrs. Langhorne, ‘she would sit and work with me while you are busy with those papers that come every week. I’ve had dull times of late, you are so taken up with them. She’s a quiet lass, as you know, and not likely to want to gad about more than we should like. My own sister s child, too ! I don’t seem to fancy her going to nurse a sick lady, as she talks of doing, while there’s a good home like ours just at hand.’ John had frowned and fidgeted during his wife’s speech, but seemingly his objections were removed by it, for Lettjce Anstey took up her abode in the Langhornes’ house. A staid young woman, verging on thirty she was, with the prim, gentle manners of a Quakeress — very silent, but very helpful. Mrs. Langhorne soon grew to lean on her and look to her for help in everything. John rarely entered .into conversation with the new-comer, though he re¬ spected hev, and was grateful to her for her care of his wife. There was some unspoken barrier between them. He, too, had grown wonderfully silent of late, and but for the perpetual gentle murmur of Mrs. Lang- horne’s voice over her work, the evenings of the three would have been even quieter than when there were only two. One Monday morning Lettice was moving some books aside in search of a missing thimble, when she asked a question which dyed her aunt's pale cheeks with unwonted colour. 4 Why does uncle read these papers so much ? ’ As she spoke she drew from between the leaves, of- the great Bible John had been apparently studying overnightthe Mining Gazette and Railroad Times. 4 They don’t look interesting, but I suppose— per¬ haps they have to do with his work,’ said poor Mrs. * Langhorne, stammering. 4 They come nearly every morning,’ said Lettice, dusting the Bible carefully, and taking the objection¬ able paper out. 4 Uncle reads them all breakfast time, and every night, and sighs over them ; I often want to take them away and stamp on them.’ This from gentle Lettice ! Her aunt stared ; then trying,, poor thing ! to sum¬ mon dignity, said tremblingly, 6 Lettice, you forget Smrself : surely your uncle may read what papers he ms?’ But the poor woman looked sadly next morning at her niece when the postman brought a fresh packet of such papers. She herself had been made uncomfortable for some time now by the same thing which had attyacted Lettice’s attention. What could John be doing to need to study these papers so care¬ fully? Was he— could he be speculating— the grave, quiet, steady man of business ? And if so, where did the money come from ? Year by year they put by a little out of their com¬ fortable income, and those savings, as well as her own

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• No. NXXIV. CHATTERBOX. 267 small fortune, were both in Mrs. Langhorne’s keeping ; he could not use such monies without her knowledge, and he had never applied to her for them. And yet her husband’s increasing silence, his careworn looks • and troubled sleep, seemed to' tell of something wrong with him, or at least something on his mind. The crisis came all too soon. There was trouble at the office. A young clerk — a married man with a girl-wife and twin babies — had come to his work one morning with a pale t face and wild words: he had lost the evening before* the case of notes and gold he was carrying to the bank. He had spent the night searching for it, he said, but all to no purpose. Though young Ilallam was known to be in diffi¬ culties his tale would have been believed, hut for the discovery of a deficiency of an equally large sum on reference to the books. The case looked bad, Prenderby and .Brandt were away on a holiday, and the junior member of the firm felt it a painful duty to place the defaulter in safe-keeping. The poor lad sent to tell his troubles to John JLanghorne: he knew him well, and knew that, with all his faults, he was an honest man. Strange to say, J olm had not come to the office that morning ; busi¬ ness had compelled him to go up to London. ‘Could Mrs. Langhorne stand bail for John?’ poor Mrs. Ilallam asked, her pretty face stained with crying. ‘ The Rev. Mr. Soames at die Rectory would come forward, but they wanted some one else. Harry must not go to prison.’ And then the poor woman sank down, exhausted with the night’s anxiety an.d the morning’s wretchedness. Lettice held iier hand while Mrs. Langhorne tried to think what to do. She had no clue to John’s busi¬ ness, or she would have telegraphed to him at once to return ; she could only say he would be back at night, and she could almost promise then he would stand bail for Harry Ilallam, whom they had known from his childhood. Poor Lucy dried her tears, and let Lettice take her back to her children ; but every now and then a sob rose in the young matron’s throat at the thought of Harry a suspected thief— Harry in prison ! No John came home at night, "only a telegram to his wife, bidding her send to the. office to say he should be detained another day in town, and giving an address at a town office. Lettice took the. heavy tidings to Mrs. HalJam, tried to calm her grief at the thought of Harry being locked away from her all night, and having seen the poor wife in bed, with a little one on either side of her, she went back to her aunt. Mrs. Langhorne was in sad pain that evening, her old enemy had seized on her with double force: Lettice went out for fresh remedies, but her aunt would not let her sit up with her, and the girl was fain to be content with leaving her door open that her aunt might call her if she wanted anything. About six o’clock she was awaked by her name being pronounced. Lettice was with her aunt in a moment. ‘ Don’t speak, child,’ she said sharply ; 4 no, it isn’t the pain —it s worse. Get your things on : you must go to the Rectory now directly, I can’t bear it any longer.’ Lettice west back to her room, half guessing the cause of her aunt’s misery ; she came back to the bedside ten minutes later tying her bonnet, to receive her orders. £ Ask Mr. Soames to come to me now,’ said the poor woman, ‘ on business of the greatest importance. Oh, Lettice, go ! I see it in your face, and I can’t bear it; you know my poor John is in fault for the de¬ ficiency in the books, and that goes against Harry Hal lam ! ’ . Lettice brought Mr. Soames back to her aunt, and they had a long interview, which ended in the clergy¬ man seeking another with the acting member of the Prenderby firm. Strange things happened in Barrowmead that day. Harry Ilallam was in his place at the office at nine o’clock, pale and careworn, ‘but without a stain on bis character,’ said the authorities. At- noon an •idiot lad was found chuckling in a barn over a leather case and a bag of sovereigns, both untouched, and easily identified as the lost money, and at night it was whispered that in some way John Laugh orne’s name was connected with the missing sums of money in the office-books. • People refused to believe this at first, but when it was found that poor pain-racked Mrs. Langhorne, attended by Lettice, hkd gone up to London to join her husband, who would never return, to Barrowmead — so the tale ran— people were forced to believe the dreadful truth. Such a respectable man ! What could have led him into such sin? Simply the love of speculation — the fever of money-making. J ohn had no intention of robbing the firm of the sums he from time to time used to further his own plans, but a reverse of fortune had prevented his replacing them soon enough to prevent discovery. Harry HalJam, to all appearance, h£d been the un¬ fortunate victim, though poor Mrs. Langhorne had rescued him as soon as might be, by confessing to Mr. Soames her suspicion, amounting to certainty, that it was her husband who was. the guilty one. ‘ Steady J ohn ’ was a broken man from that time, those who still heard of him in his enforced absence from Barrowmead said ; but better far to have the broken, contrite heart that a tender God loves to bind up and console, than to be the successful, respected sinner of past days. The white-haired man who creeps into the city church so quietly is perhaps a happier, and certainly a better man, than ‘ Steady J ohn ’ of the Prenderby office. He has had his sins brought home to him, he has repented of them, and he has begun life again meekly and sorrowfully. The firm at Barrowmead did not prosecute their old clerk, but he hah perhaps gone through, almost as great a trial— the sight of his sick wife depriving herself of every comfort and of the fund laid by for old age to make up the mis sin money ; while Lettice works day and night to keep the little household. • John’s sad position is almost a bar to his gettino employment— a little copying, a little book-keepings is all he dare look for at present. But this is better than the old life of sin and secrecy. Lettice and he can talk together now, there is no bar between them ; the somewhat stern, but thoroughly upright woman, is now full of tenderness for the bowed old

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man. John and his wife have been glad of late that the five children in the churchyard never lived to see their father’s disgrace, and they are thankful that God has raised up this other child for them in their old age, and in their time of sore trouble. H. A. F. THE WORKMAN’S WIFE. WOW, Franky boy, ’tis time for bed, Put up those books, I pray ; And, Katy dear, those toys of yours Must all be cleared away. The clock struck six some time ago, Sounding through all the room, And ere it gives us seven, you know, Father will be at home. Bring me the brush to sweep the floor, And make the fire burn bright ; For father likes a tidy hearth^ •When he comes home at night. And, Katy, reach his old shoes out — He’s glad of them, I know ; There, set them down, and draw his chair Just to the firelight’s glow. A weary way he has to come All through the sloppy town ; All day the rain has falien fast, And still is pouring down. The ‘publics’ all are lighted up, And look so warm and bright ; But father, child, will come straight home, Though dark and cold the night. /

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lie says there is no plqcp to him So swe’et as tins his home ; So sweet, that he can never care Elsewhere for joy to roam. So let us make it neat and snug, That lie may not complain, 33 ut feel it e'er his guiding star, Through all the dark and rain. Now softly, Frank ! don’t make a noise — Baby has dropped asleep ; She’s been as good as gold all day ; I want her so to keep. Off with your boots and say your prayers, You must he ready quite To go to bed when father comes, And you have said ‘ good-night.’ II. W. in Cassell's Paper.

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w"° CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIV. THE RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND HIS FAMILY. ( Continued from pay c 203.) CHAPTER Y. (@p0 T was about eleven o’clock in the fore- n nor ^ie iron ha1’3 kc- fore its windows, were able to damp their joy. They were full of one thought: in a few minutes more they * would see their beloved father, and hang upon the neck of the son and the husband! Emboldened by having the card of admittance, which the deputy had placed in her hand, Mie-Wanna pulled the bell. The door was half opened. ‘ What may you want ?’ asked the porter, looking doubtfully at the poor family. But as soon as he had seen the card he opened the door altogether, and said, * Come in go into that room, and wait.’ They entered the apartment he pointed to : their hearts beat quickly, for they thought the porter was going to fetch the prisoner. Then they heard the sound of keys, another man opened the door. 4 Which of you is the .wife of the man named Jan Yerhelst?’ asked he. 4 1 am, sir, at your service/ answered Mie-Wanna. * I have orders to lead you to your husband ; follow me.’ * 4 Come children ! come, grandmother !’ cried Mie- Wanna : 4 we are going to father - ’ 4 Ho ! ho ! not you !’ interrupted the turnkey. 4 Only you, Yerhelst’s wife, may follow me.’ 4 And my poor children ?’ ‘They will remain in this room till you come back.’ 4 And T, his blind mother ?’ 4 My orders are strict. Stop those useless cries/ All stood amazed and disappointed. Mie-Wanna implored with clasped hands, — 4 Ah, friend, you look like a Christian man. Just think of poor Jan Yerhelst ! That lie should know that his blind mother and hi3 children, whom he loves as the light of his eyes, are* close to him, and yet he may not embrace them ! .It is enough to break his heart with grief. Look at the poor children and his old blind mother. Have mercy, God will reward you for it in Heaven ! ’ 4 Have pity ! oh, have pity ! ’ cried the grand¬ mother. But, notwithstanding all their tears and entreaties, the turnkey, who was very sparing in his words, re¬ mained cool and unmoved. He had onl}r received an order to admit the woman Yerhelst to her hus¬ band, and as no other names were mentioned he must keep to his orders. ‘Mother! djear children! don’t ‘weep so bitterly,’ said Mie-Wanna, in a .choking voice ; 4 our fate is a cruel one, but we must submit to the will of the Lord. I will go to father, and embrace for all of you, and bring you his messages of love. I must not let him wait any longer, the. poor prisoner! . Cheer ujj and be brave. Sander, take care of Bar- bele till I come back.’ # She put the child in the boy’s arms, and said, as she went out of the door,— 4 1 will follow you, sir/ Jhcy had already gone some distance along a corridor, when the turnkey said to her with pity,— ‘ So you are the wife of Jan Yerhelst, the signal¬ man who caused the death of two persons by negli¬ gence in his duty ? ’ 4 Oh, sir, it is not true. I know for certain that he shut the gates/ 4 Of course, you can’t say otherwise. I pity your fate, good woman. What are you going to do with your poor children and your blind mother ?’ 4 You think, then, that my husband will be con¬ demned ? ’ ‘Don’t doubt of it, woman. Try and reconcile yourself to the sad thought; you won’t feel it so haidly then, when you hear his sentence pro¬ nounced/ Mie-Wanna, deeply afflicted and crushed, was about to pour forth bitter complaints upon the in¬ justice of mankind, when she saw her companion put a key into a little black door. A shrill cry escaped her — half of joy, half of anguish — when, in the gloom of the cell, she saw the haggard face of her husband. She sprang forward, and fell almost unconscious on his breast. 4 You may remain together for half an hour,’ said the turnkey. ‘ I shall remain to keep watch outside the door, and will come and fetch you five minutes before twelve — such are my -orders.’" The signalman for some minutes pressed his wife silently in his « arms. Tears flowed from the eyes of both, and when at last they were able to speak they could say nothing but, — 4 Good Mie-Wanna ! beloved wife ! ’ 4 Jan ! Jan, dear !’ After they had thus in broken sentences poured out the joy of their hearts in seeing each other once more, the prisoner led his wife to the bench, sat down beside her, and took her hand in his. 4 Let us have courage, Mie- Wanna,’ he said : 4 we have only half an hour allowed us, and we have so many important things to talk about. You find me very sad. You ask me why I have got so thin in these few days. It is because I have heard no¬ thing, nothing about you and the children. Now I am comforted, and feel strong. Tell me first, I entreat you, how, have things gone on in my absence? Has mother been ill ? And the children ? Will the notary recover? Who has charge of the gates now ?’ 4 Mother and children are well/ replied Mie- Wanna, hesitatingly ; 4 does not your heart tell you, Jan, that they are close to you?’ 4 How, close to me ? what do you mean ?’ 4 They are sitting in a room near the gate of the prison, waiting, and weeping for you. Ah, poor things ! they came in the hope of being able to embrace you, and they must not see you !’

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What mny you want?’ asked the Porter

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No. XXXIV. CHATTERBOX. 271 Fresh tears flowed down their cheeks. ‘ O God ! my poor little lambs of children, what harm have they done ?’ sighed Jan Verhelst; but lie mastered his grief, and said with decision,— ‘ Mie-Wanna, let us overcome our sorrow ; let us suppress our tears. Time flies.. Come, tell me how you have fared since my absence, then I will speak to you on serious matters.’ The afflicted woman appeared to understand 'him, for she shook her head, as if trying to resist her sorrow, and replied hastily, — ‘Yesterday evening the notary was very bad. It was feared that he would not survive through the night. Grandmother has not been ill. 1 have cheered and comforted her and the children by tbe hope that you will be released. 1 have been myself in a fever of terror and despair, but I knew what I had to do as a motlief, and forced myself to be strong to comfort the others. There is a new signal¬ man appointed - ’ ‘Alas!’ sighed Jan Verhelst, ‘our dear carriage, our garden, our land, the school of our Sander, lost, lost for ever ! We were too happy, it could not last. Go on, Mie-Wanna.’ _ ‘ The new signalman is a kind-hearted man ; he wished to. let us stay in the carriage till your trial was over, but the people of BoldejJiout persecuted us so bitterly, and caused me and my innocent children so much pain, that we determined to hire a couple of rooms here in the town.’ ‘But, wife, why have the people of Bolderliout suddenly become so angry and so cruel, they 'whom f considered the best people in the world ? ’ ‘ It is M. Frederic Verecken’s fault ; from morning to night he runs about to every one, inciting them against you and against us. Ho, Jan, I never thought it before ; but M. Frederic is a bad young man, and certainly the Lord above us will punish him for the injuiy he has done us.’ ‘ Alas, Mie-Wanna ! ’ sighed the signalman, ‘ the poor young man sees his father dying. He thinks that I am the cause of bis death. Fie was formerly so good and so kind to us. Grief has caused him to do this wrong. I have great pity for him.’ ‘ Only two friends in the world have remained faithful to us in our trouble,’ continued his wife; ‘and God has sent us a generous protector to com¬ fort us. They are J acob, the notary’s gardener, and Sander’s schoolmaster. Then the deputy of the court of justice, what a kind -Hearted gentleman he is ! It was he who gave me the card to visit you. 1 shall bless him till my deathbed ; he has been to visit you in prison, too, ha£ he not ?’ Jan Verhelst did not answer; he seemed as if he was reserving his strength for some solemn final words. Fie took her hand again, and said with great earnestness, — ‘ Mie-Wanna, I am indeed afflicted and deeply cast down, but we men — however weak and miserable we may be — must bear up against cruel fate, and remain strong to the end. F)ear wife, God’s will is always right; to submit to it with resignation is all that we can do. Listen, then, calmly and attentively, to what I am going to say to you. There are no witnesses to prove my . innocence ; I shall be con¬ demned. Don’t weep, Mie-Wanna; it cannot be helped : you are a mother, think of our children.’ ‘Poor Jan!’ sobbed his wife; ‘you good, brave man ! you may have to remain in prison for years and years ! ’ ‘ Ho, only two years ! The chaplain who visits me has explained to me, that that period of confinement is the punishment of a murder through negligence. Two years will soon be gone! Were it not for the sad lot of our children, the loss of my post at Bolder- liout, and, alas l the loss of my honour, I should patiently await my sentence. Flave you already thought over, Mie- Wanna, what you are to do during the time of my imprisonment?’ ‘ I will work till the fingers are off my hands, Jan. And with God’s help - ’ ‘Work, you good angel?’ cried the signalman, with tears of admiration in his eyes. ‘ Work ? But if you were to slave till you were dead you could not earn enough to keep yourself, grandmother, and our three children. I have thought over it day and flight. Here a bold decision must be taken, howevQi* painful the necessity, however deeply it may wound your loving heart. See here, then, what jrou had better do. 1 shall again beg for the assistance of the good deputy, and the superintendent of the factory at the station will recollect that he, formerly was my best friend. Grandmother shall go to the hospital till I return.’ ‘ Oh, that is terrible, Jan ! your blind mother in a hospital ! ’ ‘ It must be borne, Mie-Wanna. But that is not the worst of all. Sander you must keep with you, but you must take Barbele to my sister at Vilvorde. She will, out of pity, keep the child for two years. You are weeping, Mie-Wanna! I well understand that your heart is torn, but it must be so. You must place Drieskcn with your old uncle, the car¬ riage-maker. Sander must become an apprentice at the great factory, so as to earn a little money as quickly as possible. Thus, without making yourself ill, and without fieing obliged to beg, you will be able to struggle against our unjust fate until I return. Come, dear wife, don’t weep so bitterly, but take courage ! ’ Mie-Wanna sobbed aloud. Her husband took her* in his arms, and tried by gentle words to soothe her. ‘Think of the trial which hangs over us,’ he whispered : ‘ else how could I consent so to wound you, whom I honour and love as the model of good¬ ness and affection? Your tears make my heart bleed!’ ‘0 Jan, Jan!’ she cried, ‘I fear lest I should lose my senses. Let me weep, let me sob, or I shall suffocate ! Must I be separated from my children ? It is like parting with a portion of my life ! Shall I not sink under it? 0 God, hast Tbou utterly forgotten us ? Is there no more pity in Heaven for miserable creatures like us?’ The door of the cell was opened, and tbe turnkey, who had been keeping watch before the little grating in it, entered. ( Concluded in our next.)

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The End of a Dogs’ Quarrel.

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274 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXV. P THE end oe DOGS’ QUAIl]ElEI,• clav, a Newfoundland dog ^hl ^ ^rWko and a mastiff had a sharp oJ?a |K quarrel over a bone. They lip were fighting on a bridge, ||UfW0 o and over they went into $ the water. The banks were so high, that they were forced to swim some dis- G& tance before they came to a landing-place. It was As very easy for the Newfound¬ land ; he was as much at home in the water as a seal. But not so poor Bruce : he struggled, and tried his best to swim, but made little headway. The New¬ foundland dog quickly reached .the land, and then turned to look at his old enemy. He saw.plainly that his strength was fast failing, and that he was likely to drown. So what did the noble fellow do but plunge in, seize him gently by the collar, and, keeping his nose above water, tow him safely into port ! It was funny to see these dogs look at each other as they shook their coats. * Their glance said as plainly as words, 4 We’ll never quarrel any more.’ AN IMPERIAL DOCTOR. Translated from tlie German. rpiHE Emperor Joseph II. of Austria was a bene- _L volent prince, and a father to his people. Wherever he could help he was willing and ready to do stf, and on that account his name is to this day not forgotten in his own country. The kingdom of Bohemia was once visited by a great dearth, and there was famine raging in many parts of the land. The Emperor sought by all the means which were at his command to relieve the misery. He ordered a large quantity of provisions to be purchased : the provision-waggons were sent along all the highways. At the Emperor’s command his officers distributed the provisions among the people. . The noble prince liked, when he could, to satisfy himself with his own eyes that his commands were* carried out. For this end he did not go with a crowd of courtiers and a brilliant retinue, but lie went quite plainly and simply ; in order that, being unknown, he might see and judge so much the better. On one of these occasions he went out on the road to Bohemia, accompanied only by a groom. He wore the simple uniform of a captain of his army, and the few to whom he was personally known dared not recognise him for fear of his displeasure. His sub- jectAook care not to act against the will of the noble and humane mince. When the Emperor reached Prague, the capital ot Bohemia, he rode into the country round about, and observed everywhere how the officers carried out lus commands. Thus he came one day to a little town which was not far from Prague. A number of wag¬ gons and carts stood before the chief magistrates house; they were heavily laden with the provisions which the Emperor had purchased and caused to be i sent hither. Bound about the waggons stood the pitiable figures of the hungry Bohemians; they had their empty sacks in their hands, and waited anxiously for the provisions to be unloaded and distributed : but no one was pfesent to see it done and to relieve the poor people. The Emperor saw from the window of the neighbouring inn all that took place. He could not understand why the distribution of the pro¬ visions was delayed : after he had looked on with pity and • impatience for some hours he walked out among the crowd, and asked an old countryman, 4 Good father, how long have you waited for the dis¬ tribution ? Is it not already a long time ?’ 4 Ah, yes ! ’ said the peasant, and he looked at the clock on the Town Hall. 4 It is now eight full hours that we have stood here and waited, tor we came here quite early because the need at home is so great.’ 4 What is .the cause, then, that the waggons are not unloaded and the provisions distributed ? ’ asked the Prince. 4 Y es, what is the cause?’ answered the old man soiTowf ully, shrugging his shoulders. 4 The Magistrate has a large party at his house, and will not be disturbed from it by us poor hungry folk. They sit there eating and drinking and making nlerry, but they do not think how we are suffering from hunger, and how hard the long waiting is to us.’ The Emperor Joseph was very angry in his heart at this. It was not only the disobedience to his commands, but it was especially the harshness to the hungry people, which filled him with anger. He hastened at once to the Magistrate’s house. A clerk met him at the threshold and asked what he wished. 4 Announce me immediately to the Magistrate,’ said the Emperor. The clerk hesitated, was silent for a while, and at last said, 4 The Magistrate will not be disturbed to-day.’ 4 1 "must speak to him at once,’ replied the Prince firmly : 4 announce me to him immediately !’ The Magistrate’s clerk looked at the strange man with surprise when he said these words ; but he led the Emperor into the office, asked him politely to sit down there, and went then to announce the stranger to his master. After a long time he came back again. His countenance showed that he was in perplexity how to deliver the uncivil message of his superior in as mild a manner as possible. 4 1 see already,’ said the Emperor, 4 thatymu bring me an answer that you do not- wish to give right out. It is probably a rude one.’ I’m heartily sorry, but - ’replied the clerk. 4 Do not be sorry on my account,’ said the Prince : 4 but rather be sorry for the poor hungry people.’ 4 Ah! I have already drawn on myself a sharp rebuke on their account,’ said the clerk. 4 It would melt a stone to see them ; they have already stood and waited there eight hours. They are hungry and tired with it, and at home the hungry wives and children are waiting anxiously for their return. In the meanwhile the Magistrate sits at table with his cmests, and makes himself comfortable without feel¬ ing the slightest sympathy in his heart. But I cannot help the poor people, though I would gladly do so. May our Lord God Himself have

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No. XXXV. CHATTERBOX. 275 mercy upon them ! I advise you, sir, if you would not make any trouble for yourself, to follow the thing no further ; for a magistrate is indeed a very powerful gentleman. At all events, if you are determined to speak to' him, do not desir'c me to announce you to him again ; I am in danger of losing my post, and together with it my scanty living, if I go in again and disturb him.’ The Emperor Joseph rose indignantly, and went out of the office. Then he ascended the staircase to the Magistrate’s dwelling : he walked into the ante¬ room, from which one could see through the wide opened folding-doors into a large brilliant saloon. Here sat some company richly dressed at a table covered with costly viands. The company were in a gay and jovial mood, although below there waited many hundreds of poor and hungry people. The Magistrate perceived the stranger in the ante¬ room: he quickly left his place at the table, and came up to him with a glowing countenance. ‘Who are you?’ With these rough words he greeted the unbidden guest. ‘As you see, a captain in the Imperial service !’ answered the Prince, quietly hut with dignity. . ‘ What do you want ? ’ continued the Magistrate in a rough voice : adding, however, somewhat more mildly, ‘ How can I serve you?’ ‘I have been in the town since this morning,’ answered the Emperor. ‘ I see the provision-waggons in the market, and the poor people standing about hungry and waiting, but no one lends a hand to distribute the food given by the Emperor. They have already waited in the market-place for eight hours, and are still waiting vainly. Therefore I would - - ’ ‘What would you do?’ interrupted the Magistrate. ‘What docs it matter to you, sir? The peasants can wait till I have time to attend to them.’ ‘ Eight hours,’ said the Emperor, ‘ is a long time for hungry people ; besides, they have a long way to go home. Wives and children are hungering at home and waiting for the corn. Consider, my dear sir, that it is not yet ground, and then the bread must he baked ! Who knows whether, in many houses, it does not depend on a day or an hour whether the starving shall not die ?’ ‘ I ask you once more, sir,’ cried the Magistrate in blustering anger, ‘ what the people are to you V The Emperor still restrained himself, difficult as it was to him ; lie wished to try to soften the man’s hard heart, and so he spoke with a gentle voice. ‘ One must be human, Mr. Magistrate, and have regard for the necessity of the poor people, break up your merry party an hour sooner, and the hungry will thank and bless you for it. Consider, it is very painful to be hungry; especially when one sees in the meanwhile others feasting in abundance!’ ‘ Keep your good precepts for yourself ! ’ cried the Magistrate, who became more and more angry. ‘ I will make no use of them. I know what 1 liave to do, and what to avoid, and I beg to be excused from your advice.’ *‘ What will happen to all the poor hungry people,’ asked the Emperor once more, ‘ who are waiting below for the provisions?’ {Concluded, in our next.) THE FLOWERS OF cc AUGUST. URING the month of Au- r yWlN gust the earth yields up rtP 1^3*0 B| J/Ulk ^iei’ treasures of golden of Im/1 .grain, and ruddy fruit for % our use and enjoyment ; it is, therefore especially a o/o time in which our hearts qK should be filled with than k- \. G> ©00 ^ fulness to God, the ‘ Giver OO of all good gifts.’ With (5® w the flowers, and not the 6 fruits of the earth, how¬ ever, we have now to deal, and for these also we should feel deeply grateful. They seem to be created to cheer and delight us by their bright colours, beau¬ tiful shapes, and sweet odours. In July we visited the cornfields, and noticed the bright blue corn-flowers springing here and there between the tall stalks of the ripening grain : many other flowers wefe there, but we passed them by unheeded, knowing that we should have time left at the beginning of the present month to give our attention to some of them, as the corn would he still untouched by the sickle. The flowers that above all others attract our notice arc the gay Poppies, ‘ That flash and glance with their scarlet sheen The bending ears of the wheat between.’ Brilliant and beautiful is the colour of the Poppy, and we cannot fail to be delighted with its appear¬ ance amid the golden grain. It is otherwise, how¬ ever, with the farmer ; lie reckons it as a harmful weed, and is vexed to behold its abundance upon his fields. The poppy, though useless and even injurious in the corn-field, is still of great service to man, for its seeds yield the drug called opium, go frequently used by the doctor to allay pain and give sleep to the suffering. There are several kinds of poppy besides the one with the scarlet robe. On the sandy beach by the sea-shore, just above high- water-mark, is to be found a beautiful yellow one, called the Horned Poppy, from a curious projecting point in the centre of its blossom. A number of these bright flowers give a very gay appearance to the desolate edge of the great ocean. Thus Agnes Strickland says : — ‘ There, bright as gems of fairy lore, Or Eastern poets dream, The Horned Poppibs gild the shore With sunny gleam.5 But to return to the fields and copses. Next to the poppies we are, perhaps) likely to be attracted by the showy Marigolds. They are in full blossom now', and, if the autumn and winter are* not very severe, will last as late as December. Their colour is bright golden, and this leads us' to remark that most of the autumnal wild-flowers are of the same tint. ‘ Cheering through the shortening day Is Autumn with her weeds of yellow: On sunny banks and pastures the Hawkweeds are now very abundant; they are of several kinds, but all resemble the common Dandelion in shape, and have similar leaves. In some the flowers arc gs large as

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Tlie Emperor looking from the window of tlie Inn. (r. -274.) a marigold, others are very small, while they vary* in tint from bright orange to pale lemon. The name of this plant is said to be derived from an old tra¬ dition that the hawk fed upon it, and gave it to her young that their sight might be keen. In tlie flower-garden much of the space is occupied during the present month by the stately Hollyhocks. Studded with blossoms of pink, yellow, and red, their tall stems tower above everything else, and have a very handsome appearance By their side arc the bright yellow Sunflowers, which seem to be trying to grow as tall as they. The beautiful Dahlias, •too, so regular in shape and rich in colour, are in full bloom. Besides these flowers there are the soft, velvety Prince’s Feathers, the sweet-scented Golden Rods, and a variety of others, so that alto¬ gether the garden of August has many charms. ° H.B.A.

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I /ff$ • OLDEN are the stalks and ears of the day-by-day ripening Corn ; >3? |Eed are the Poppies that the farmer likes not to sep his fields adorn ; All Nature now seems filled with sunshine warm and bright, And even the moon sheds down a mellower and richer light. Most of the flowers we see are tipped or rayed with gold, And the earth, like Solomon’s robes, is glorious to behold. See, the Marigold likes the sun so much she goes with him to sleep, And opens her eyes only when the dawn breaks on the eastern steep. The Hawkweeds, too, and the Dandelion, and the great Sunflower, Are blazing full of colour; and even the rain falls as a golden shower. Look at the giant Hollyhocks, and the stately Dahlias, led By the Golden Bod, like an usher, decked in sunshine, with Prince’s Leathers on the head. H. G. A.

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278 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXV. THE RAILWAY SIGNALMAN AND ^ HIS FAMILY. V (Concluded from page 271.) \( , HE half-hour is passed,’ he said. ^KOTf ~ ‘ Go me, woman, follow me 1 without delay.’ yWmp*2\ Mie-Wanna then uttered a ^ ] r* piercing cry. )[Lfj A ‘Leave him ! leave him !’ ^ 8^1C C1^GC^ like one insane. " ‘Ho, no! tear my arms y from' my body ! I care for x LyJ) nothing ! , I long for death as VjJ/ for the greatest blessing !’ The gaoler took her by the arm, and, as he was trying to lead her away, he whispered in the signalman’s car, ‘J3e reasonable, friend, and help me; nothing can be done : my orders are strict.’ • Jan Verh&st, with a suppressed sob, let his head sink down on his breast, as if utterly crushed. To employ force against his unfortunate wife ? Ah, for that he had no strength ! Mie-Wanna continued for some time to resist the turnkey ; but at last she yielded to the entreaties of her husband, became quite quiet, burst into tears, and sobbed out, ‘ Lead me away ; I am indifferent to everything.’ But then there suddenly appeared, to the amaze¬ ment of all, a gentleman at the door of the cell, and Mie-Wanna at once drew back in terror, while she exclaimed, with -horror in her eyes, ‘ Frederic ! our persecutor! our cruel tormentor !’ The young M. Verecken came in, and turning to the prisoner lie said, with deep emotion in his voice, — ‘ Verhelst, you are right to hate me ! I have done you much wrong— I know it. But grant me your forgiveness, for I am the bearer of much happiness to you— honour and freedom again !’ The signalman and his wife stared at him in amazement, but they trembled and turned pale with anxious expectation. ‘ My father will recover,’ continued Frederic. ‘ Tie 1 • s spoken and declared your innocence. Our coach¬ man had, contrary to my father’s wish, opened the gates. The deputy, too, has gone to the magistrate to obtain an order for your release. Doubt it no longer, to-day you. will leave the prison ! ’ Then did the signalman and his wife, with inex¬ pressible joy, fall into each other’s arms, whispering blessings on the name of God, Who in His great good¬ ness had had mercy upon them at the very moment when all hope seemed gone from them. ‘ Let me say a few words to you,’ said- young M. Verecken. ‘That you are restored to honour and liberty seems to you the greatest happiness. But it is not enough for me. I have acted badly towards you, in that I considered you guilty ; but now I will do all in my power to make up to you for the wrong and shame which I have caused you to suffer. Let your future lot trouble you no more. I have already been to the director of the railway, to ask that you may be restored to your post at Bolderhout. Unfor- tunatcly the director was not at home, but I shall speak to him to-day. However that may be, I will help you, support you, and protect you, till you say to me yourselves, “ We are satisfied.’’ I shall be responsible for the future of your good s6n Sender ; and should your other children need anything, I shall be ready during my whole life to pay to them the debt I owe to their brave father. A new official dwells in your watchhouse. To-day, as soon as ever you are released, I shall take you all to a good inn m the town, and there you shall remain till I can find and prepare a dwelling for you at Bolderhout.’ Jan Verhelst and Mie-Wanna were then once more clasped in each other’s arms, and whispered words of joy and gratitude. ‘Ah ! how can the lot of a man be so changed?’ said the woman. ‘One moment’ it is terrible — my heart was breaking. I was weeping for you and for our children. And now we are all as happy as angels in Heaven ! ’ . ‘ Well, now, Verhelst, do you grant mt> your for¬ giveness? ’ asked the young man. ‘But, M. Frederic, I have never blamed .you in my heart,’ answered the signalman. ‘ On the con¬ trary, I pitied you for your dreadful sorrow. My wife will bear witness to that.’ ‘ It is true, sir,’ said Mie-Wanna. ‘ I have blamed you. I was angry with you ; but I now see that I was deceived. Oh, 3-011 used formerly to be very good to us ! ’ ‘Thank you, thank you!’ said Frederic, deeply moved. ‘ Give 111c your hands, good people ; I will ever remain your friend. Your lot shall be bettered. Tell me, Jan Verhelst, what do you wish ? ’ ‘ Freedom, freedom, sir ! ’ ‘ Of course'; but I did not mean that.’ ‘ Oh, 1 should like to be restored to my post at Bolderhout, and with my wife and children to return to my garden and to my land ! ’ ‘I do not doubt but that I shall be able to fulfil your humble wish. As to your liberty, that you will soon receive, through the deputy - ’ Some confused voices were now heard in the dis¬ tant corridor. ‘ What do I hear ? ’ cried the signalman. ‘ My children ! my mother ! ’ The words had scarcely fallen from his lips when his family, rejoicing, and with their hands stretched out towards him, burst into the cell. ‘ Father ! father dear ! Free ! free ! ’ was all he he&raj while he was almost smothered by the caresses of the two boys, who, wild with joy, climbed up his arms and shoulders. In the warm, affectionate em¬ brace all joined, the blind grandmother not ex¬ cepted. The deputy, who had brought the children and their blind mother with him, now took out a paper, and said^ — ‘ Jan Verhelst, here is the order for your release. I am happy to have been able to assist in bringing to light the innocence of an honest and brave workman.’ Mie-Wanna broke away from her husband, and threw herself on her knees before the deputy. ‘ You, sir, you are our deliverer !’ she exclaimed. ‘ Oh, may God grant you a happy life and a peaceful death at an advanced age; for we all, and my

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No. XXXV. CHATTERBOX 279 children too, will pray for you every day for years and years !’ The grandmother came forward and felt about the room. With trembling voice she said, — ‘ Oh, sir, I am blind ; my eyes can see no longer. Let me feel the hand of the noble man who has aided us poor, miserable people !’ The deputy held out his hand to her : she seized it, and put it to her lips. ‘ You are free ; leave this prison now : no one ' will detain you/ said the deputy. ‘ I have nothing more to do here now, and wish you all* farewell/ ITe went out of the door as if he were in a hurry to escape from these poor people’s gratitude. ‘ Come now to the inn with me/ said Frederic ; ‘there a good meal is awaiting you, to celebrate your release.’ •All followed him. Whpn the great gate of the prison was opened before him, Jan Verlielst sprang out, surrounded by his rejoicing family. He drew in several long breaths, as if he wished to fill his breast with the sweet air of freedom ; then he raised his4 hands and eyes to Heaven, whispered a pray or, ran forward, and exclaimed, — ‘Free ! I am free ! Hurrah, hurrah ! ’ ‘ Hurrah ! hurrah ! father is free !’ repeated his children, and they ran after him with cries of joy, as, wild with delight, they threw up their caps into the CHAPTER THE LAST. Next morning seemed to be like a fair-day at Bolderhout. The villagers, in their Sunday clothes, were walking about the market-place and on the great highroad. From the window of many a house waved a flag, and the road near the gates where it crossed the railway was planted with several high poles, united to each other by festoons of leaves and flowers. On the side of the village nearest the town stood a windmill on a hill. There, on the summit, stood a policeman with a burning match in his hand, while at the foot of the hill a band of musicians had their instruments all ready to play a cheerful tune. There was one man who ran hither and thither, from one to the other, and seemed to be giving orders, as if he were the chief authority here. It was Jacob, the notary’s gardener. Now he ran up the hill and spoke in great haste to the policeman, and then he gazed across the highroad into the fields. He had been standing some time there, when he sud¬ denly cried, — ‘ Men ! friends ! hurrah ! Be prepared ! here they arc ! ’ The policeman trimmed his match, the musicians put their instruments to their lips. ( Who was expected here? A new Mayor? the Governor ? the lung ? In the distance an open coach was seen coming along, drawn by two horses. As well as they could see two men, two women, and some children, were sitting in it. , Plainly these were the persons whom they wished to receive with such rejoicings at Bolderhout; for the swarms of people began, directly they entered the village, to run up to them, and filled the air with joyful shouts. The coach approached. Then a loud cry of fear escaped from some of the villagers, for up on the mill-hill the cannon thun¬ dered three times, and the band of music began to play the merry air of ‘ Where can a man be better than among his best friends?’ Bound the coach hundreds of people had assem¬ bled, waving their hands or their hats, while the air re-6choed with the cries, — ‘Long live Jan Verlielst! Welcome! Hurrah! hurrah ! ’ Frederic Vereeken could not, with all his en¬ treaties, persuade the signalman to remain in the carriage. He had seen his friend J acob ; further on he had remarked the schoolmaster; and he was bent on thanking them for the proofs of trust in him which they had shown. His wife, his mother, and his children, also now alighted from the coach. Every one wished to shake hands with them, everybody ex¬ pressed esteem and friendship for them, and those who had shown themselves most bitter against them were the loudest in their wishes for their happiness and prosperity. The shouts, ‘ Long live Jan Ver- lielst ! long live Mie-Wanna!’ arose afresh every minute, and when their eldest son appeared his schoolfellows cried out, — ‘ Long live Sander ! long live Sander ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! ’ The signalman was so deeply affected by this honour which was shown him, and by the proofs of friendship with which his family were loaded, that he could not speak. Now he came on the road to his gates. Frederic Vereeken had brought with him into the town the happy tidings that lie was restored to his post as gate-keeper. He would, therefore, live again in his cottage, walk in his garden, and work on his strip of ground ! The can non roared again three times, when Jan Verlielst, led by Frederic and the school master, reached his carriage home. The sight of his humble dwelling deeply moved the poor signalman’s heart. The band had again began to play the air, ‘ Where can a man be better than among his best friends ? ’ and hundreds and hundreds of mouths shouted, ‘ .Hurrah ! hurrah! long live Jan Verlielst!’ The signalman was about to put his foot upon the step of the carriage, but before entering his old home he sank down almost fainting upon his knees, and cried, with his hands uplifted towards Heaven, — ‘ Thanks ! thanks for so much happiness, be to Thee, O gracious God ! ’ TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW, BO not tell me of to-morrow ; There is much to do to-day, That can never be accomplished If we throw the hours away ! Every moment has its duty ; Who the future can foretell? Defer not till to-morrow What to-day can do as well*

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280 CHATTERBOX No. XXXV. The Gaoler leading Mie-Wanna out of the cell.

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No. XXXVI. CHATTERBOX.

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282 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXYI. THE TAME CHOW. the Delaware, a few miles below Easton, resided a gentleman who had reared a crow, with whose tricks and society he used fre¬ quently to am.use himself. This crow lived long in the family, but at length disappeared ; having, as was then supposed, been shot by some gunner, or destroyed by accident. About eleven months after this, as the gentleman one morning was standing on the river- shore, a number of crows happened to pass by ; one of them left the flock, and flying directly towards the gentleman, alighted on his shoulder, and began to gabble away at a great rate, as one long -absent friend naturally enough does on. meeting another. On recovering from his surprise, the gentleman recognised his old acquaintance, and tried by several civil but sly manoeuvres to lay hold of him ; but the crow, having now had a taste of the sweets of liberty, cautiously eluded all his attempts, and sud¬ denly glancing his eye on his distant companions, mounted in the air after them, soon overtook and mingled with them, and his friend saw him no more.— Cassell's Natural History , OUR BALLOON TRIPS. HI. — FROM HOME TO china.. By George S. Ontrara. PASSING- one day in our city suburbs by a dead wall which bore a number of rainbow-hued posters, I found a group of boys and gills gathered round a flaming yellow bilk There were so many youngsters before it, that I was obliged to stand at some°distance from it and gaze over their heads. All I could see was this : — ‘And where does this wonderful balloon start from ? ’ said I, to a bright-eyed, fearless-looking boy. ‘Just yonder, sir/ said he, pointing to a field. And following his finger, I saw the swelling dome of the mpnster which flies without wings. 4 Are you all going this voyage ? ’ said I. 4 Oh, yes ! ’ cried a" chorus of voices ; 4 we heard so much of the trip to Bombay from those who went, that we do not mean to miss a trip if we know it/ 4 But do they take old people like me with them ? ’ said *L 1 Oh, yes, of course ! ’ answered my little friends. 4 Do come, and tell us all about the places we are to see. The conductor will be glad of your help/ 4 Very well : when do you start?’ 4 The gate will be opened at twelve o’clock/ shouted a score of voices. 4 Why/ said 1, 4 it only wants five minutes now V At this a general rush was made to the gate, which was opened at the hour appointed, and the car was filled in no time. It was a capital day, cool and bright. Up, up, up, we went, over the flat green Essex meadows, and out across the North Sea. 4 A dangerous sea this, boys ;. foggy and stormy, but so full of fish that it tempts the fisherman, to brave its sand-banks, and to try his luck in its deep steep-sided pits. And now, what land is that?’ . 4 Thatmustbe Norway/ said mv little companions. 4 Oh, what crowds of birds! What harbours for ships ! What a rocky coast ! What forests of trees ! What big lakes ! What desolate mountains !’ 4 Ah, my dear children, in some of those Swedish mountains wandered once the best and bravest of Sweden’s heroes, Gustavus Vasa.’ 4 Oh/ cried a chorus, 4 what a'very big lake !’ 4 No, children, that is not a lake; it .is the Baltic Sea. It is less salt than any other sea in the world, and the reason is, that such a great deal of snow falls in the countries round about it. This melts, and makes the Baltic very fresh. It freezes over in winter, and once a Russian army crossed it on the ice. They spent two nights upon rocky islands and ice, and ended their march in three days. That land over there is Einland ; the natives call it 4* the Land of Lakes,” and well it deserves the name. . . ‘There is a spot in Finland where a man can sit at midsummer and see the sun for twenty-four hours together. They have, however, to pay for this abundance of light in summer by going without the sun altogether from the end of November to the encl of January. Butin spite of snow, and darkness, and mists, and swamps, and sandy soil, kind Nature provides them with excellent timber, countless herds of cattle, and plenty of grain/ . xl So talking, we fly across ^inland, and at length a very large sheet of water shines before us. 4 The White Sea !’ cries out a boy. 4 1 did a map of that with old Brown last half. I remember 1 spelt Archangel wrong, and got a dab fop it/ 4 What a funny name ! ’ said a little girl. , 4 My dear, it was so called from a convent built in honour of Saint Michael the Archangel, and it owes its existence to the bravery of an English seaman, named Chancellor. He was trying to find a short cut to China, and sailed to the spot where the Ihvina

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No. XXXYI. CHATTERBOX. 283 runs into the White Sea. When the King of Russia found the White Sea could be navigated, he ordered Archangel to be built.’ Soon we were out of the province of Archangel and into that of Vologda an immense plain, stretch¬ ing to the Ural mountains. 4 The very rivers here, children, are frozen for six months together. After a short summer, the leaves fall in August, and the swallows fly away.’ We rode now over endless forests, full of bears and wolves, elks and gluttons. Then the flat plain began to be broken by hills and mountains, and we were now obliged to throw out sand, that the balloon might rise and cross the Ural peaks, which, where we passed over, are nearly seven thousand feet high, iron, copper, gold, and platinum, are dug out of these rugged hills. We fly a few yards above the heads of astonished travellers, who are slowly plod¬ ding their way betwreen Russia and Siberia. We hear their faint halloo, and wTe answer them again with a chorus of shrill voices ; and away, and away, and away we go, over plain, and forest, and river, till the Ural range behind us is like a blue cloud. Row we are in cold, cheerless Siberia, where many exiles pine, far away from home and its dear faces. 4 This is a great' hunting country, boys. Salmon, partridges, and grouse, which we reckon such dainties in England, and pay so dearly for, are here the common food. Many of the Siberian tribes, es¬ pecially in the north, have no settled home; they are Always wandering up and down the face of the earth. Rut they love a cup of tea as well, or better, than we do, and the fur of a blue fox is often ex¬ changed for the leaves of the tea-plant. Rut look! there shines Lake .Baikal. It is the' largest, and for many reasons the most remarkable, of all mountain lakes. It is as long as the Gulf of Venice and as big as half Scotland, and in some places it has never been fathomed. More than 170 rivers are continually pouring their waters into it, and not a tenth part of this volume is carried away by the only outlet which has yet been discovered. Cold fogs wrap the lake, even in J uly ; and ice never quite disappears. We saw here many camels, some of them almost as white as snow. One man near the lake owns 1000 camels and 4000 horses. The surface of the lake was quite still, yet we could see the ships that were on it rolling and pitching so much that the sailors could scarcely stand on the deck. They call this lake the Holy Sea. When we turned our back upon it we began to cross Mongolia. Much of it was very desolate ; if looked like a sandy, treeless waste. At length some snow-ejad peaks appeared. They were the In-shan mountains; some of them are 15,000 feet above the sea. And now, as we cross them, we look down upon China — the Flowery Land, the Celes¬ tial Country, as the home-loving Chinese delight to call their native soil. Now, Mr. Conductor, please to descend, or the Great Wall will pass unseen. Immediately we go down, until we see buildings, and trees, and a noble river, which we feel sure is the Ho-ang-ITo, or Yellow River. It is more than thirteen times as large as our Thames, and is called yellow because its waters are coloured by yellow mud. It carries with it so much mud that its mouths often, get choked up, and then, the stream overflows its banks and does great damage. One of the emperors called it 4 China's Sorrow,’ and there is a tax levied to pay for the mischief which it does. We stopped a little while to examine the Great Wall. I think the children were disappointed. They expected to sec something larger. Rut I tried to make its wonders appear by telling them it was built before our Lord was born ; that it runs 1500 miles along the northern border of China ; now climbing up mountain-ridges 5000 feet high, now running down into deep valleys ; now crossing a river on mighty stone arches ; now made twice as strong as usual, because here the Tartars will surely try and break through. Rut their labour was lost who built the. Great Wall. The true wall of a nation are the brave hearts of its children. J olm Chinaman was always a good scholar, but a poor fighter. So bully Tartar tormented him, and took away his toys. Bully Tartar, however, had not all his own way ; for a stronger bully, called Mongol, drove off bully Tar¬ tar, and got his things. Thpn Mongol grew sick with the good things he ate and drank, for he "was not used to them, and he soon bst his boldness and strength, and John Chinaman got his own again, and stuck himself right in the corner of the play¬ ground, because the door was there where his trouble¬ some neighbours got through. But, lo, a new bully came, called Manchow, not unlike Tartar and Mon¬ gol rolled into one ; and in a little time lie became cock of the school, and is cock to this day ; and there he lives in Peking, and orders everybody about, right and left. We must not set foot on the ground here, for strangers arc not allowed to go into China. We must keep out of bow-shot, and every pair of eyes must look for all that is strange. So one of our party cries out, 4 What high blue walls ! ’ another says, 4 What wide streets ! 7 a third exclaims, 4 What mean houses ! ’ for they are not more than one story high. We see triumphal arches spanning many of the streets, and in one part of the town every tile is yellow. Yellow is the king’s colour, and where we see yellow tiles there is part of the palace. At Peking there is a Tartar town and there is a Chinese town. The Tartar town is composed of three parts, the first enclosing the second, and the second enclosing the third ; something in this fashion.

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' ' . • i'li.niiTTTnffjiifir M Chinese at Dinner. Zun-zin-tcheou is the Emperor’s palace and grounds. It is two miles and a half in circumference, and is surrounded by a high wall, painted yellow. Kuan- tcheou, the ‘ Imperial Town,’ is seven miles and a half around it, and outside this is Zin-tcheou, or ‘the City of the Throne.’ South of all is the Chinese town. Things are very different, in China from things in London. Here comes a long procession of people in white. It is a wedding, of course? Ho, you are wrong : it is a funeral — what the Chinese call ‘ a white affair.’ What are those scarlet and blue birds there, which hover and toss about but never flv away ? Those are kites, made out of paper which is pecu¬ liarly tough and light. Thev say it is made from refuse silk. But who are flying the kites? Hot schoolboys, surely? Ho; they are grave, elderly gentlemen, adorned, you see, with huge spectacles: and crowds of boys are looking on at thS fun, as if they and their grandfathers had changed places. Hotice how every man has his head shaved. That accounts for the immense number of barbers. Look at that barber. Tie walks about the streets, carrying his shop with him. A pole lies on his shoulder, and from one end of it dangles a stool, with drawers be¬ neath containing his razors, &c. This is balanced by a charcoal-furnace which hangs at the other end of the pole, and above the furnace is a basin of hot water. Don’t come here, Mr. Barber ; we do not require your services. There, look at that man with a gay petticoat ! He is a soldier, and an officer to boot. See, he has a string of pretty beads round his neck ; and can that be a fan which he carries ? Surely it is ! Mark, too, how the gallant warrior climbs his horse — on the wrong side, of course. There, in that little courtyard, are six men playing with a shuttle¬ cock. How funny they look ! But before we laugh at them, let us try how long we can keep a shuttlecock flying in the air with no battledores but our boots. But come, we must peep at Hanking, and then be off home. Southward, ho ! Across the sandy flats of the Peking province. Southward, ho ! There is the Imperial Canal, which is to other canals what the Great Wall is to other w$lls — the biggest of its kind. Ten thousand grain-junks bring bread to the capital. Each junk can carry 1100 sacks of flour. This will give you some idea of the size of the junks, and of the canal that floats them. At one place the junks cross the Yellow Biver. It is a hard matter, and hazardous ; so, to make all things right, the crew burn some pieces of gilt paper before their idol -and let off a volley of crackers. There are many boats, full of passengers, drawn by parties of men, and helped on by a huge oar at the stern, which is worked backwards and forwards, like the tail of a fish, by a score of sailors. As we get nearer to Hanking we see a river still larger than the Ho-ang-Ho. It is called Yajig-tse-kiang, meaning, ‘the Son of the Sea.’ It is fifteen and a half times as large as the Thames. The course of these two great rivers is strange. They rise close to each other in the distant moun¬ tains of Thibet; then they separate like two brothers who have quarrelled, until 1000 miles of earth part them asunder. But, as they draw near to the sea — the emblem of eternity — they rapidly draw nearer

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) I A Chine&e Barber. also to each other, and almost commingle their waters. I3ut here is Nanking, once the capital, and so large that two horsemen could separate at sunrise, and ride all day near the wall, and not meet again until sun¬ set. Conductor,’ sa*d consulting my watch, how late it is ! You must please turn back at once/ . The polite man at once reversed his aerial en¬ gines, and we flew home at double-quick speed. Si¬ lence fell on our weary voyagers as we clove the air with a rapid, easy motion, and I believe Mr. Con¬ ductor and I were the only two in the party who did not awake when the car bumped on a green hill-side il in our own dear and happy land. G. S. O. *

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CHATTEEBOX. No. XNXVI. 286 AN IMPERIAL DOCTOR. ( Concluded from jpacjc 275.) master of the house would hear no further. He turned his back on the troublesome questioner, went back again to the saloon, and called out, while he turned away from him, 4 Mind your own busi¬ ness, and do not1, interfere with that of other people ! Remember that ! ’ ‘Hold!’ cried the Prince now, whose patience had like¬ wise come to an end. He opened his overcoat, and walked nearer to the Magistrate, while he pointed to the Imperial star on his breast, and said, 4 1 am the Emperor ! I will teach you what are your duties and obligations. You are deposed from your office, and will quit the Magistrate’s house to-morrow.’ After he had said this he went quickly out of the ante-room. The Magistrate had remained dumb and pale from terror and astonishment. But down¬ stairs stood the Magistrate’s clerk equally frightened, who had likewise heard all, and now also feared for himself and his place. <But the Emperor Joseph laid his hand kindly upon his shoulder, and said, t You have a pitiful heart,* as I observed from your words just now ; I herewith appoint you as magis¬ trate: Be warned by what has happened to your master, and do quickly what your office and hu¬ manity command ! Distribute the provisions at once amoirgst the waiting crowd. You know now from my own lips how I will have my subjects treated.’ The magistrate’s clerk at first could not realise the good fortune which had fallen to his lot. He kissed his benefactor’s hand, and stammered a few words of thanks and joy, then lie went quickly to the work which was commanded him. The officials, and some honest citizens of the little town helped him, and in a short time the waggons were empty and the grain distributed. In the meanwhile it had become known who the friendly officer really was, and the grateful sub¬ jects cheered their noble Prince. The company at the Magistrate’s had dispersed like chaff driven before the" wind. Whilst the corn was still being- distributed the carriages rolled off with the guests, who a short time before were so jovial. But- they | sat now inside, squeezing themselves into the corners, j that the Emperor might not see them. But lie had something better to do, and did not trouble himself about them. Early on the following day the hard¬ hearted and negligent magistrate left the dwelling in which he had made himself so comfortable. His successor removed into it, and never in his whole life forgot the lesson which he had received through the visit of the Prince. Thus did the Emperor Joseph, like a clever doctor, thoroughly cure a lazy and hard-hearted officer. It was said that the means which he employed made the man for the future industrious and kind. But yet another time the noble Prince proved him¬ self to be a clever and experienced physician. He drove one day, as he so liked to do, quite simply, through a suburb of Vienna. A poorly dressed boy walked up to the carriage, held up his little hand, and cried, weeping and begging, 4 Oh, give me a gulden, a single gulden ! pray, pray ! ’ The Emperor had often been asked for a gift, but it had never yet happened to him that the beggar had at once fixed the sum, and, moreover, such a large sum as a gulden. He looked into the pale, sad race of the bo}r, who was about nine years old, and guessed that there must be some special cause for his request. He, therefore, stopped the carriage, and asked the boy kindly, 4 What wilt thou do with so much money, child?’ 4 Ah ! ’ answered the boy crying, 4 it is a great deal of money ; but I must have a gulden, for my dear mother is sick unto death. She has sent me to fetch a physician. I have already been to two doctors, but neither of them will come unless I give him at least a gulden for going, and my dear mother is so very ill and we havenotakreutzer in the house. Ah, your honour, take pity on us ! You surely haveaguklen; give it to me that my dear, dear mother may not die ! , I have, indeed, no one else beside her in the whole world. I have never begged before, and will never beg again in my whole life ; but to¬ day I must have a gulden — pray, pray !’ The child’s words went to the heart of the humane Prince. He saw that he had here to do with no cun¬ ning and lying beggar-boy, such as are often to be found* in the streets, but that the child spoke the whole truth. ‘ What is the name of your mother, and where does she live ?’ inquired the Emperor. The boy gave the name and the street, both of which the Emperor himself wrote down. Then he gave him a gulden ; whereupon the boy kissed the Emperor’s hand gratefully, and ran away as quickly as he could. The noble Joseph, whose heart was always touched by the need of his subjects, decided at once what to do. He determined to turn back and. to assure himself of the sad condition of the sick woman. At his command the coachman drove to the street and the house which the boy had named as the dwelling of his mother. The house to which they came was situated in a narrow street, and was small and somewhat out of repair. In the lower part lived a poor shoemaker, who, directly the car¬ riage stopped at the door, came out bowing. 4 You are surely the doctor,’ said he, 4 whom little Augustus has called ? Help is, indeed, needed very much up there : illness alone is a great misfortune, but when poverty, grief, and trouble come also, then it is much heavier. We do what we can for the poor woman, but when one has seven children of one s own to feed, one cannot give away much.’ 4 1 can well believe it,’ said the Emperor, and lie kindly entered the house with the man. The stair¬ case which led up to the upper story was narrow, but it was clean. , , , Al . , The Emperor entered the little room ot the sick widow. You could soon see that the woman had once known better and happier days, but noiv the traces of want and poverty were to be seen every-

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CHATTERBOX. 287 No. XXXYI. where. The shoemaker’s wife sat by the bed of the still young but sorely stricken woman, who vainly sought to raise herself when the doctor, as she thought, entered with a friendly greeting. The Emperor begged the shoemaker and his wife to leave him alone with the invalid. They withdrew, and the Prince walked up to the bed, looked with pity at the sufferer, and inquired after her illness. . . , . The sick woman told him, with a weak voice, that she was the widow of an Imperial officer, who had died young; that she was without any means, the little pension which she received had only been able to save her from starving to death. • She had tried to earn something more for herself and her child by needlework and knitting: but she had exerted her¬ self too much and fallen ill. Added to this was the grief for her lost husband, and the gnawing anxiety For the future of her child. c It is very hard,7 with these words the invalid ended her narration, ‘ it is very hard to know that perhaps one’s end is so near, and to be obliged to leave behind so dear a child without any support, even without a rela¬ tion in the world. My trifling earnings are now quite finished, the quarter has only just begun, and the pension for it is already spent.’ With these words she laid her thin white hand on her eyes and wept bitterly. The Emperor saw from this that the poor woman’s illness lay more in her mind than in her body, and comforted her with friendly words. Then he ' asked for an inkstand and paper in order to write a pre¬ scription. ‘ Ah ! ’ said the invalid, £ we have not these ; but/ she .said, c up there in the cupboard lies Augustus’ copy-book and inkstand. Excuse me, sir, but I must ask you to get them down yourself.’ The Emperor went to the place, and took down the copy-book and inkstand. He found a clean page in the book, upon which, as the sick woman supposed, be wrote his prescription. Then he recommended to her as much quiet and rest as possible, and went away with a kindly greeting, promising at the same time to come again soon. Downstairs he again entered the shoemaker’s room, thanked the man kindly for the care which he and his wife had shown to the poor sick woman, and begged him to accompany him for a little while, as he had sent away the carriage and wished to continue his way on foot. Going along he made still further inquiries about the 'widow and her son, and was rejoiced to hear nothing but good of them. At last, with 'a handsome present, he dis¬ missed the shoemaker, who had never come across . such a doctor before, and who could hardly get over his astonishment. While this happened, Augustus came home with a physician. The invalid said, in surprise, that a doctor had already been with her, and had written her out a prescription. 4 "Where is it ? 7 cried the physician quickly, and he hastened to the table, to which the woman pointed. But he had hardly seen the page when he started back, and said, 4 Indeed, my good woman, I am not such a physician as that, and with the best of wills I could never write such a prescription ; but I believe that this prescription will help you more than any that I could write for you.’ 4 How so ?’ inquired the woman, startled. 4 1 will tell you,’ continued the physician : 4 the man who was with you was the Emperor Joseph himself. Here is written a prescription for fifty ducats, which you can receive from the Court Treasury on this order of the Emperor’s.’ 4 Ah!’ cried out little Augustus; 4 had not the man a grey cloak on, and did not he look very kind ? ’ 4 Quite right,’ said the mother. 4 Yes, yes! that is certainly he!* said the boy. 4 He gave me a gulden, so that I might be able, to call a physician, and he asked me for my name and address.’ Mingled amazement and joy filled the heart of the sick woman. The physician prescribed something soothing for her and then went away. He judged rightly, that joy would do much more good than any other medicine ; and so it was, the woma'n was in a short time restored to health and made quite' happy. After a few days the Emperor's carriage stopped again before the house. Eut now the shoemaker bowed still more deeply and respectfully than at the first time. The Prince went up the stairs to the widow, who was now qffite restored to health. She thanked him more gratefully for the kindness which lie had shown to her, but the benevolent Prince would not hear much of that, saying, 4 Never mind that ! He who sits upon a throne, to whom it is so easy to do good, makes himself answerable before God if he do not try, with all his power, to relieve the misery of his poor brothers and sisters.’ In order to make the widow’s joy full, he declared to her further that he had settled a pension on her, and that he should also take upon himself the entire cost of a fit education for her Augustus. Their happiness was now complete, and the noble Emperor’s name was blessed again and again by the happy mother and her child. But he avoided the thanks and blessings as quickly as he could, and departed. The Imperial carriage had hardly rolled away when the shoemaker and his wife, with beaming counten¬ ances, rushed upstairs to the widow’s room. The man cried joyfully, 4 Pejoice with me! the Emperor J oseph has made me a happy man ! ’ And now he told how the Emperor would educate two of his sons at his own expense, and besides which had presented him with a sum of money to enable him to buy a stock of leather, and thereby increase his business. Now all mending and cobbling should cease and he will become a regular shoemaker, and he hopes before long, to be ranked among the court tradesmen. The happy inhabitants of the house blessed the good Emperor Joseph with thankful hearts. So had he been equally succcessful in curing a hard-hearted, lazy magistrate, and a poor sick woman. God grant that such doctors may neVer be wanting on the throne and in the palace, but may they increase and multiply to the prosperity and well-being of their country and people ! C. A. B,

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No. XXXVI.

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No. XXXVII. CHATTERBOX. 289 Who is lonely, mother ? You mean Sydney;’

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290 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVII. LITTLE SYD. CHAPTER I. ITTLE SYD was a small, pale lad of fifteen, with a narrow chest, and a face out of which the bright, healthy ruddiness of boyhood had faded twelve months ago. And though his friends might hope for the best, he was never likely to be much stronger, or healthier, or handsomer ; so that, I suppose, he ought not to be my hero. I don’t know that he is exactly; but, after all, you who read will choose your hero, so it doesn’t much matter which may be mine. He had not always been pale and narrow-chested. Twelve months ago, his rosy face and daring hand were to be seen in the very thickest of schoolboy fun, and perhaps mis- cliief; and one day, walking along thq top of the high school-wall, he lost his balance and toppled over into the road. Somebody passing picked him up, and cried out that he wras dead, for he never stirred or even groaned ; but he was not dead. The doctors said that he might live out the natural term of man’s life, but never henceforth to be as he had been before. In that one moment of his fall he had, as it were, dropped out of the enjoyment of his happy strength, and energy, and spirit, into a changed world, new to him, — to be painfully studied and made the best of ; to be lived in with the consciousness that, in one way or other, it must be the right world for him. Little Syd did not think this then. Boys of fifteen are not given to be readily resigned under mis¬ fortune. They are more apt to fight against a hard sentence than to argue themselves into calm accept¬ ance ; and Sydney Kirke was very much like other lads of his age. Moreover, he had no mother ; and, though his father certainly came to see him after the accident, yet this latter was a man choke-full of business cares, and seemed rather vexed at the thought that his son would never be good for much than concerned for his suffering. So, as an invalid would only have been in the way in the business-man’s house, Syd was left at school all the year round; and dreary work he found it. This evening, however, when we see him first, he was about to hear that another blow had fallen upon his maimed life. A younger boy in the school, to whom poor Syd had been a protector in the old days of his strength, came up to him, as he sat by himself at one of the windows, watching his schoolfellows m the yard outside. ‘ Syd,’ said this boy, awkwardly, ‘ I've been m to the Doctor.’ ‘Well?’ answered Syd, not turning from the window. ‘ Oh, why— well, he sent me to you. Still Sydney, not quite taking in the strangeness of the lad’s manner, went on watching the fun out¬ side, and thinking not so much of the Present as of the old days when he would have been the merriest 'there. , . . ‘ I say, old fellow,’ said the younger boy suddenly, ‘was your father good to you? "Vi ere you fond of him? Was he - no, I don’t mean that, either. But, look here, Kirke ; most of the fellows have sis¬ ters, or cousins, or uncles, and that sort of thing, coming after them, and you haven't; and you stop at school vacation time and all. It seems queer, you know.’ By this time Syd had turned his face from the window, and something which he did not quite understand made his breath come a little quicker. ‘ I have no uncle,’ he said. ‘ I have an aunt and cousins, but I don’t know much about them. What were you sent to me for, Freddy, and what made you ask like that about my father ? Is he dead ?’ ‘ Yes,’ blurted out Freddy Bek. The abrupt ques¬ tion, was such a relief to him that he positively rubbed his hands ; and then, remembering, he pulled himself up and went a bit closer to Syd. ‘ You won’t think I’m not sorry, Kirke ? I am. But the Doctor thought perhaps you’d like me to tell you better than him ; and I should think so, too. it’s very bad— eh, old fellow ? ’ Syd did not answer. Freddy Belt, looking at the pale face, which had grown a little paler, and seeing dimly, in his boyish way, that the expression of it ■was more awe and perplexity than sorrow, thought it would be as well perhaps to let Syd alone ; and so he went away quietly to tell the other boys that little Syd’s father was dead, and he must have been a queer sort of father, for Kirke hardly seemed cut up a bit. There was more for Sydney to hear, since, just before his death, Mr. Kirke’s house had failed, and he himself had knowm that he was a ruined man, even while every creditor was paid to the very last farthing. But Syd did not hear this now. He sat still at the window, to all appearance looking put, but seeing nothing. His father had never shown him much affection ; but Syd was not thinking of that. He was thinking only of the dead now, — of the face with the iron-grey hair hanging rather long about it, which lie was never to see again ; of the lips which were never to speak to him any more ; and, also, he was thinking a little of the times in his own life when he had, in act, or word, or thought, done that wrong which the dead cannot come back to forgive. It all seemed very wonderful, and awful, and mys¬ terious, that utter passing away of the brain, lately so busy, from the cares with winch it had been occupied ; that spot amongst men suddenly left vacant for a, moment, and as quickly filled up with the tide of human life, which rolls on incessantly, and cannot wait to look after the vanished. Syd, gazing out into the falling dusk, which he yet did not see, felt that there was a strange pain at Ins heart, and chat his eyes were full. But he never thought, in these first moments, of speculating upon his own Future, or asking what in his helplessness was to become of him. CHAPTER II. ‘ I hate an aunt and cousins,’ poor Syd had said, ‘ but I know nothing about them.’ And he did know nothing about them. Gradually getting accustomed to the dimness that had fallen upon him, lie saw that he was alone in the world.

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No. XXXVII. CHATTERBOX. 291 He saw it with a little throb of dismay, because he knew that he was also helpless, — at least he con¬ sidered so ; and he was conscious of a dull wonder as to what his master would do, or whether anybody would do anything at all about him ; for, of course, he could not stay on at the school. Pie thought that, by-and-bye, he would ask what was to become of him, but, somehow, his courage always failed, lie could not guess that the schoolmaster was already in correspondence with the aunt about whom Syd knew nothing, and that other minds besides his own were busy over his Future. Mrs. Kirke sat in her small drawing-room one evening, with her writing materials before her, but not making any use of them. There was a letter lying open on the table, which she had read of course already ; but, looking from the timepiece to the door with a sigh of impatience, she took it up and read it again ; and, when she had finished, she said softly, ‘ Poor lad ! poor, lonely lad ! ’ A girl of about nineteen looked up from her work and asked, ‘ Who is lonely, mother ? Oh, I had for¬ gotten for the moment: you mean Sydney.’ ‘ Yes, my dear ; but I cannot forget. Aud never even to know that he was a cripple ! ’ ‘ That was not your fault/ said the girl promptly. 4 You know that, since fathers death, we have been too poor for my uncle to notice — not fine enough for him. The odd part of it is, that, with all his grandeur, he should leave his son penniless/ Mrs. Kirke did not answer this : she only looked at the clock again impatiently, and drew the writing- case nearer to her. 4 1 wish your brother would come. It’s a week now since I had this letter, and something should be done. It looks as if the poor lad were utterly de¬ serted; and I can’t act without Wilton, you know, Margaret/ The daughter replied calmly, 4 No, of course not/ Soon there was a ring at the door-bell, a short, quick step in the hall, and Syd’s cousin, Wilton Kirke, came in. He was good-looking enough for a hero, well built and tall, having about him already the air of a man of the world, though he was scarcely past his twenty-fifth year. When he walked up to his mother and kissed her, she was too full of her own thoughts to see that something had disturbed him ; but Margaret was quicker. ‘Have some tea, Will/ she said. ‘Don’t talk, now ; you look tired.’ ‘Iam tired/ answered Wilton: ‘dead beat. No fellow of my age has a harder circuit than mine. I like to call it a circuit: it sounds legal — like what might have been. But I must give Nowell Brothers a hint to increase the pay/ ‘Oh, Will!’ ‘He doesn’t mean it, mother/ broke in Margaret. 4 It’s only that he is tired, that’s all/ ‘But I do mean it/ said Wilton, stubbornly; ‘and tired isn’t all, Mag, though its enough. I have heard about this/ said the young man, putting his hand upon the open letter ; ‘ and I don’t see exactly what’s to be done. They can’t come upon us after all my uncle’s neglect and contempt, and now the injury of this failure.’ ‘Injury, Will!’ ‘ It is an injury to any young fellow/ said Will, ‘ to have his name mixed up with an insolvent house/ ‘ But you are not mixed up with it, Will ; and be¬ sides, all debts were paid/ Wilton’s face relaxed a little. ‘ That’s a redeeming point. Yes ; everybody is talking about how honourably he behaved, as if a gentleman and— a Christian wouldn’t pay his debts !’ said Wilton, his lip curling. Mrs. Kirke had kept silence with difficulty. She knew that she was poor ; that the dead man had, as it were, ignored their very existence after her hus¬ band’s death; that he might have helped Wilton, and did not ; and it was hard for her to speak out what was in her thoughts to his nephew. ‘Will/ she said, after a pause, ‘we must have Sydney here.’ ‘ To be a burden upon you/ he retorted quickly. ‘ But, Will, he is an orphan, and almost a cripple, if not quite.’ ‘ So much the worse, mother/ But his tone was not hard any longer. He was npt hard-hearted ; but he was a young man, at the outset of a career which did not seem to him very brilliant, though, but for his father’s sake, Nowell Brothers, for whom he travelled, might not have trusted so young and untried a man as they trusted him. Wilton Kirke, however, knew that he simply main¬ tained himself, and spent his money freely ; that he did not help his mother to live, and could not help her with a new expense. ‘You see/ he continued uneasily, ‘ a commercial must do things which an ordinary clerk need not do. He must — in fact, he can’t help spending money. If he goes about pinching and being niggardly, why of course men would say the firm couldn’t afford to pay him, and that wouldn’t do. As to the lad, however, we must take some notice, I suppose. He might be apprenticed - ’ ‘Will!’ Wilton muttered something about a ‘ careless young dog/ and the accident being his own fault, and then said aloud, ‘ If I could help it would be different, but, unless my salary be raised, I can’t.’ ‘Here’s your tea/ said his sister, handing it to him. ‘ Sit down and drink it, Will/ But he would not. He took it standing; and then lie put the cup down, and looked into his mother’s face. ‘I don’t want you to help, Will, at present/ said his mother; ‘Margaret has got some pupils, you know/ This was a most unfortunate speech. Will did know ; and the knowledge, with his inner concious- ness of his own extravagance, irritated him so much, that he used to try to shut his eyes to it. There is no telling what he might have said in his annoyauce ; but Margaret getting up, put her hand on his mouth. ‘ Hush, Wifi ; if I have pupils it’s for my own pleasure, and it’s nothing new, and has nothing what¬ ever to do with Sydney. 1 don’t see why girls should lead an idle life any more than men. I’ll tell you what it is, Will, Sydney is coming here for the pre¬ sent, and you are going over to fetch him/ Wilton put away his sister’s hand, looked at her, and broke into a laugh. ‘Ami?’

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292 No. XXXVII. CHATTERBOX. It was all he said ; but Margaret went away with¬ out answering, and brought him a railway time-table. This time Wilton did not laugh. He took it from her, and said rather doggedly, ‘You take it upon yourselves, mind ; it isn’t my doing.’ Thus it happened that one fine evening, just when poor Syd had been thinking that he was like a man cast adrift upon a wide sea that had no mercy, this cousin, whom he had never seen, held forth a hand to take him out of the desolate, waves. ‘ You ought to know me,’ said Wilton, gazing with a compassion upon the lad’s wan face, ‘but I sup¬ pose you don’t ; of course you don’t. I am Wil¬ ton Kirke ; and I am come to take you home to my mother, who will be your mother, too, you know,’ he added, with a touch of kindness. ‘ How soon can you be ready ?’ {To be continued.) THE HIND WOED. |ELL, he’s the first gentleman that hasn’t told me to “be off about my business,”’ said poor Dick Thompson, as he gazed down the street after the young man who had spoken kindly to him, and given him a halfpenny. It was, indeed, a new thing for the boy to get a smooth or pitying word. Some bought his matches and cigar-lights, many took no heed, many more bade him ‘ be off,’ as he had said ; and so it was that Horace Wynters pleasant face and smile made an impression on Dick which lasted all that day. Somehow, Horace remembered him, too; there were dirty, ragged boys enough about the street certainly, so it was strange that one of their faces should remain in the young man’s mind all through the day; and even at night when he was at home, and sitting at the cheerful tea-table with his mother and sisters, he couldn’t help thinking of Dick. ‘ Horace, you’re quite moody to-night,’ said Ada, his youngest sister. ‘ Do tell us something ; what you have done, or what you have seen, or what you have heard. Oh, dear ! I thought we should never want news when we had a brother who was a “ City man.”’ Horace smiled. ‘Well, Ada, the Bank is up to - ;’ but the merry girl put her fingers in her ears, and shook her head, crying, ‘Something pleasant, Horace; not that stuff we know nothing about. Haven’t you seen any one, or heard anything?’ The young man looked a little more serious. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘do you know a boy’s face has haunted me all day ? I can’t forget him, and I don’t know why. There’s plenty of them about, poor little beggars! But this lad had such a look of care in his face, and he seemed so surprised to get anything given him, for I didn’t want to buy of him. I’m sure he wTould be precious glad of some old clothes, if you could rout him out a few of mine.’ ‘ Yours would be no good, dear, unless he has a mother to alter them and make them up. I think I have an old suit of Leo’s, which were too small when he went back to school.’ ‘I wish you’d give them to this poor little chap, then, mother. Ada and Emily might take them to

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The poor lad had such a look of care in his face.’

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294 CHATTERBOX. No. XXNVIL him ; it would be only a walk for them, for he seems to stand at the corner of the road next the railway station/ Mrs. Wynter glanced at the girls, whose faces certainly did not show approval of their brother’s plan. Emily frowned and said nothing; Ada shook her head, and declared she was not going to carry parcels of old clothes to dirty street-boys. 4 Never mind. I can give them to him, or tell him to come here, mother. I thought maybe the girls could find out more about him, and perhaps go and see his home, and whether his tale is true.’ ‘ Then you asked him some questions ? ’ said Mrs. Wynter. ‘Yes. I’ve passed him scores of times without noticing him ; but as I tell you, this time somethiDg seemed to force me to think of him. He says they are well-nigh starved at home ; his parents are dead, and he and three younger ones get a living as best they can.’ ‘ It sounds very unlikely,’ said Mrs. Wynter. ‘ But if you send him up here, Horace, I would give him the clothes, and try and find out more.’ And so the matter ended, and they talked of other things. Not very far from that comfortable house, Dick Thompson, too, was at home; but, oh, such a place! In one of the dirtiest streets, and the dingiest, darkest house amongst them all, four children were huddled together in the underground kitchen, no better than a cellar; one was Dick, and the others were Nora and Nelly, and little Harry who was only six years old. Only a few weeks before their father had died. Mother had been gone since Harry was a baby, and then Nora had taken care of him as best she could until he grew older, and she was big enough to carry oranges to sell, or water- cresses, or anything that was in season. That was how they were living; the people of the house let them have the kitchen for a trifling sum, and Dick in his way, and Nora in hers, were trying to provide for themselves and Nelly and Harry. It was terrible work! poor and miserable they had always been, for the father had squandered most of his earnings in drink, and when he died people said they were better without him ; but every sixpence was a help, and now that they were quite alone the children were almost in despair of being.able to keep together and escape the workhouse— which was their great dread. That very evening Dick was telling the others ot his ‘ gentleman’ who had such a pleasant voice and smile. . . ‘But did he give you anything, Dick? asked the sharp Nora. ‘ Don’t I tell you he gave me a kind word, and that seemed to help me on all day ? And more than that, there was a look on his face which made me feel as if, some way or other, that gentleman wouldn t forget me. I think he’ll help me to get on a bit.’ Though Dick seemed to take great comfort in the fancy, it was none at all to the others, who cried themselves wearily to sleep, so cold and hungry. • But next night, Dick burst into the damp kitchen radiant with delight, a decent suit of clothes under his arm, and a basket of food in his hand. ? ‘ I told you some luck would come of him ! It s my gentleman as has given me the clothes, and I went to his house, and the lady asked me a lot of ques¬ tions, and filled this basket with tilings for our supper. And she’s coming to see you to-morrow, so you’d best not go out with your oranges, Nora, but clean up the place a bit, and wash your own face, and Nelly’s and Harry’s, before she gets here.’ If an angel from heaven had brought them good news, the wretched children could scarcely have been more surprised ; but when it all came true and Mrs. Wynter walked into their kitchen, and talked to them so kindly, it seemed the strangest piece of good for¬ tune which had happened to them. % Before very long Dick Thompson is gone from his old place in the street, and is a servant-boy in Horace Wynter ’s house, while Nora is being trained for service and the younger children are placed in schools, and a new life has dawned for all of them. Years after, when Dick had grown into a man, and was asked any questions about his earlier days, he would say, ‘ A kind look and word was the beginning of all my good fortune, and I got them from my master. God bless him ! ’ MY FIRST PLACE. URSE, nurse, do tell us a tale !’ said the little Harrisons one winter after¬ noon, as they clustered round the fire roasting chestnuts in the twi¬ light. ‘ Oh, you know all my tales,’ said nurse. ‘If I begin to tell you about the little girls where I lived before, you say you are sick of hearing of them.’ ‘ Yes, we are quite,’ said Hilda. ‘ They were all such wonderfully good children, so much better than we are, that it’s not pleasant.’ ‘ Do think of something fresh, nurse. You must know something that happened when you were little which we haven’t heard before,’ cried Madeleine. ‘Well, I don’t think I ever told . you of my first place— how I got it, and why I left it.’ ‘No, that you never have, nurse!’ cried Hilda, Maddy, and Ernestine all together ; and so, without any more pressing, nurse began : — ‘Well, I was a tall, strapping girl in those days: just fourteen years old, but looking sixteen, as my poor mother used to say.’ ‘ Oh, don’t tell us what your mother used to say ! pray don’t ! ’ broke in Ernestine ; at which the other children bade her ‘ hush, and not be rude.’ ‘ As I was going to say,’ nurse went on, ‘ I was just fourteen when our squire’s lady came to call on mother one day, and I was busy sewing. Dear, dear ! if I was but to shut my eyes I could fancy I see it now : our pretty cottage, ami the flowers peeping in at the window, and the wind blowing the sprays of jessamine against the panes, and Mrs. Courtney sitting there with her pleasant face! Poor dear lady, she’s gone long ago !’ Maddy looked in despair at the others.. JNurse was getting prosy, as she always was at starting.

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No. XXXVII. CHATTERBOX. 295 ‘ “ Why, what a big girl Emma’s growing, Mrs. Green !” she said to mother : “ it is time she went to service.’’ ‘ My heart gave a sort of jump at that, for I didn’t want to go away and Gave mother; but it jumped worse when mother said she should be very glad to get me a decent place in some gentleman’s family, and asked Mrs. Courtney to recommend me. The squire’s lady turned to me then. *‘ Are you fond of sewing, Emma ?” ‘ I blushea a little, because I thought of all the undarned stockings mother had been scolding about, and said, “ Pretty well.” ‘ Then Mrs. Courtney asked what situation I should like best, and when I replied that “ I didn’t know,” she laughed. 1 “ Nonsense, Emma ! you must know whether you like cooking, or house-work, or taking care of children best.” 4 So then I said I wasn’t fond of cooking or cleaning at all, but I loved little children dearly. 4 “ Then, of course, you want to be a nurse,” said Mrs. Courtne}'. “ Put you are young, and need training first. Now suppose I took you into my nursery, would you be a good girl and obey nurse, even if she spoke crossly, and be very kind to my little children?” ‘ If I looked as I felt, I must indeed have seemed delighted: that was something like service, to live so near mother, and in such a beautiful place as the Grange, with so kind a mistress, and those pretty little boys and girls to see to ! Mother was as pleased as could be, and so Mrs. Courtney said she would give me a trial, because the Squire thought so well of father and I had a good character at the school, and it was settled that in a fortnight from that time I should go to her house and see how I got on. ; What sewing, and shaping, and turning, and twisting there was before all my clothes were "ready ! And what lectures mother did give me about my conduct to be. sure, especially about truthfulness ! “There’s nothing more important in any one who has to do with children,” she said : and I felt quite indignant, for I had always had a character for being particularly straightforward. ‘ At last the time came, and though I wanted to go very much, I felt rather timid when it came to the day : and as I stood at the door of the Grange I felt as if 1 was ready to sink on the steps, and I could scarcely speak to the servant who let me in. 4 However, I soon settled down, and was very happy on the whole ; certainly nurse scolded sharply some¬ times ; and though the children were ‘ very pretty,’ they had their tempers like the rest of us ; and some¬ times I grew tired, and wished myself at home with mother again. However, I stayed on six months, and I might have stayed six years and got to be head- nurse at last if it had not been for my own fault — the very fault, too, of which I had been warned b\r my mother. ‘ One day the baby was asleep, and nurse went down to the drawing-room to speak to Mrs. Court- ney about some work, and I was left alone with the children. It was a hot summer’s day, and I pushed the window wide open to let in all the air it could. Now I hfid been ordered never to leave the window like that, not so much as to cross the other side of the room, for though there were bars nurse was always afraid of an accident ; but after a bit I forgot, and happening to want something from the night- nursery I went for it, bidding the little ones go on with their play on the floor and not stir. 4 1 only meant to be a minute ; but I suppose I must have been four or five, for when I came back nurse was standing in the doorway, looking terrified ; and well she might, for Master Gerald was out of the window, leaning over the bars, shouting and calling to the gardener below. I often wonder at nurse calling him in so gently, as if she wasn’t one bit afraid ; but when she had him safe she turned to me. ‘ “ Emma, how dare you throw up the window like that and go out of the room ? the child might have been killed if he had overbalanced himself ! ” ‘ In a moment the untruthful angry answer came, “ I didn’t throw up the window. I left it just as it was when you were here ; and I was obliged to go to fetch some more work.” 4 44 It’s no use telling a lie about it, Emma,” said nurse. “ You know I never have the window thrown up like that.” ‘ 44 Then Master Gerald did it,” I answered. “‘A child five years old ! It is false, Emma ! and if you can’t speak the truth you’re no good here.” And away went nurse to Mrs. Courtney. 4 1 was sorry enough, then, for what I had done ; but not sorry in a right way : it was an angry feeling of vexation at having lowered myself, not shame and grief for offending the good God. But when my mis¬ tress had me downstairs and talked gently and kindly to me — though I stuck to my falsehood at first— my pride gave way after a bit, and crying bitterly I confessed what I had done. I thought it very hard then (but I learned long ago to see the right of it) when Mrs. Courtney sent me home that very evening. 4 44 If I did what I wished, Emma, I should forgive you at once; but as you persisted in denying your untruth, I am sure it is right you should suffer for it ; and perhaps a little severity now will prevent you ever falling in the same way again.” 4 The children cried when I said good-bye to them, and I cried, too ; but not as I did when I turned out of the gate and walked down the lane which led from the Giange home. Poor mother ! it was a bitter tiouble for her.; but after a while, when she saw me trying to do right, she quite forgave me, and so did the o quire’s lady, and got me into another place very soon, where, I can tell you, I took good care, with God s help, to speak the truth always. And now I’m thankful that I was found out and punished for that first, untruth, for I hope it has helped me to keep straightforward and honest through life.’ ‘And is that all?’ asked the little girls. ‘ then, you were untruthful, nurse, though you didn’t like your mother warning you of it ! ’ k iSo, Miss Hilda. I had always, up to that time been an honest-speaking girl. I was proud, you see, and God was good enough to let me fall into that sin and shame to humble me, and show me that I didn’t know— neither do any of us know— how weak I could be in the hour of temptation.’

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No. XXXV1IJ. CHATTERBOX. The Sick Monkey. By Harrison Weir.

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298 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVIII. A GLIMPSE OF MONKEY LIFE IN INDIA. HE following story is told by a lady residing in India, who vouches for the truth of it : — It happened that one morning a little sick and wounded black¬ faced bah}- -monkey was brought to our house, where it was taken such good care of, not only by our servants, but by another monkey which we had (not of the same species), that it soon got quite well, and became a great pet. The old one was called Moonie, and the other Fanny. The former being a rather fierce-looking animal was always chained to a pole, on the top of which was her place of residence. The chain was round her waist, having a large ring attached to it, so as to enable her to run up and down. She and our young invalid monkey were generally great friends, though I have often seen Moonie box poor little Fanny’s ears when she tried to touch any of the plantain or rice which she intended for herself. One day in the hot weather, when everything was still and quiet (about eight months after Fanny had been brought to our house), a frightful screaming of monkeys and yelling of servants disturbed us. On looking to see what it was all about, I saw two huge black-faced monkeys having a fight with Moonie, who had in her fury broken her chain and chased the visitors away. This was soon over, and we were very glad to see pretty little Fanny perched upon her favourite branch. She was always loose, running about, and amusing every one with her funny ways. This happy state did not last long, for two days afterwards there were the same frightful screamings — only ten times worse than before. This time seventeen large black-faced monkeys came galloping up the avenue, with their long tails erect, and in spite of poor Moonie’s efforts they carried off dear little Fanny in triumph to her native tree, which was two miles at least from our house. It shows us the instinct of these monkeys, when we remember that it was eight months since little Fanny had been wounded and brought away, and that their trees were so far off ; that two monkeys first came to fetch her, but afterwards an addition of fifteen, all immensely large fellows, their tails certainly a couple of yards long, and some of them in height equal to a man. WORDS IN CHATTERBOX. The following is a further List of Words to be found in Chatterbox , in addition to those given in No. III. p. 23. a borax caret each roe text abet boxer carob extort rote thorax abettor brace cater hoax Tabor throb acre brack coax oracle tat torch actor bract cobra react tea trace arc breach cottar retch teach tret arch broach crate roc teat L. C. B, THE LADY ARTIST. CHAPTER I. \ HOUGH Alice Morgan was the only child of her parents, and all the world said that she was sure to be spoilt, Mrs. Morgan knew better than to let her fondness for her daughter interfere with her training. Alice was gentle and amiable; but she had one sad fault, and that fault was idleness. She was idle at lessons, idle at work, and idle even at play. ‘ Mother dear,’ she used to say sometimes, ‘ I wish I might sit here at your feet while you tell me some stories, instead of going out to play in the garden.’ And then, perhaps, her mother would answer, — ‘ Well, so you shall to-day, if you like. Just fetch your needlework while I think of a story.’ ‘Oh! never mind my needlework,’ Alice would answer; ‘I like best to sit still and listen.’ When Alice was ten years old her parents arranged for another little girl to be taken into the house to share her education, and a resident governess was engaged. At first, x\lice did not much like the thought of a companion ; she felt as if Mary Denton would be one too many : but she soon found out her mistake, and the two little girls became very good friends. One sunny morning, when all nature was astir with the hum of bees and the chirping of song-birds, Mary sighed, ‘ O Alice ! I wish I could draw like you.’ ‘I’m sure you needn't,’ Alice replied : ‘ it’s no end of trouble to have what Miss Martin calls “ a gift.” ’ ‘ Why?’ asked Mary. ‘ Because you’re obliged to woik ever so hard to make the most of it.’ ‘ I shouldn’t mind working if I had the gift : and I know what I would do. I’d learn to sketch from nature ; and then, on beautiful days like this, I’d go out into the country, and make sketches of ruins and churches.’ ‘ I should like to do that, too,’ answered Alice. ‘Then you had better try hard to get on,’ said Mary ; ‘ and ask Miss Martin to teach me drawing, too.’ The little gill’s request was granted. She was by no means the quick pupil that Alice was, but far more industrious ; and so, by degrees, she learnt the use of her pencil. ‘ I don’t know if you wish your little girl to con¬ tinue the study of drawing,’ said the governess, one day, to Mrs. Morgan. ‘Why do you ask me? ’ said the lady. ‘How can there be any doubt when Alice has such a decided talent ? ’ ‘ She has the talent, certainly,’ said the governess ; ‘but she is always asking to be let off. She has no love for the art.’ ‘ I don’t suppose she dislikes it more than she dis¬ likes anything that gives her trouble. It grieves

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No. XXXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 299 me to see her so idle,’ said the mother, as she went away. 4 So my little girl wishes to be excused her drawing- lessons?7 said Mr. Morgan, the same evening. # 4 Yes, father, that I do,’ said the child ; 4 it is such a trouble. I am always getting scolded for making my trees coarse, or hurrying over my figures.’ . ‘Then you really think that you would like to throw away a gift which, the good God has given you instead of improving it to His glory ? Alice hung her head. ‘You know,’ continued her father, ‘you have the gift, whether you like to own it or not. It is no honour to you that you have it, because God be¬ stowed it. But it will be an honour to you if you make the most of it ; and a shame if you neglect it. Who knows but what it may come in very usefully some day ? Many artists have been thankful enough to earn a livelihood by the pencil and the brush.’ ‘O father! how can you talk like that?’ cried Alice, looking up in surprise. 4 We shall never be so poor as that.’ 4 1 hope not,’ replied Mr. Morgan ; ‘ but it would be a good thing to know that in case of need our little Alice could support herself.’ Fancying that he saw a tear rise in the child’s eye, he added, 4 1 haven’t frightened you, Alice, have I? We’ve no need to expect any misfortune: but I should like my little girl, even without regard to the future, to improve the talent which has been intrusted to her to the best of her power. And now, I wonder if we shall hear any more about her wish to give it up ? 7 ‘ Ho ! no ! I don’t think you will,’ said Alice. ‘ I’ll try very hard to get fond of drawing and be a good artist ; that I will.’ 4 You may be an amateur artist, if you like,’ said her father : k you know what that means ? ’ Alice was not at all sure that she knew, so he explained that it is one who takes up the art for the mere love of it, and not to earn money. CHAPTER, II. Eight years had come and gone ; but not without leaving traces of sorrow and trouble in the Moigan family. Mary Denton had returned home ; Miss Martin had accepted another situation ; and Alice and her. mother were left alone to a life of struggle and anxiety. p Only a few months before, Mr. Morgan had died after a long illness ; his end having been hastened by the failure of a scheme in which the greater part of his capital was invested, and this had reduced him almost to poverty ; and his greatest distress was the feeling that he should leave his widow and her daugh¬ ter a very scanty provision. One day Alice found her mother in tears after she had received a visit from her brother-in-law, who was one ot‘ the executors? Going up to her, and laying a hand caressingly on her shoulder, she asked what was the matter. ‘ Only that my worst fears are confirmed,’ an¬ swered the widow ; 4 and we are terribly straitened.’ Her mother’s sorrow quite overcame the poor girl, who could answer nothing ; but kissing her gently went away to her own room, and there sat down and thought. ‘ Poor dear child ! ’ muttered Mrs. Morgan, ‘ I suppose she cannot understand our position, for she does not seem to feel it. Well ! perhaps it is best so. Why should her young heart be wrung with such a trouble as this ? ’ 4 Uncle, may I have a little talk with you before you leave?’ asked Alice, a few days afterwards, as she met Uncle Alfred on the stairs. ‘ Certainly,’ said he. ‘I’ll come out into the gar¬ den with you now, if you like.’ ‘I’ve been thinking, uncle,’ she began, ‘that 1 might save my mother a great deal of anxiety if I set myself to some occupation which would add to our income.’ ‘ And what do you propose doing, my dear ? ’ he asked, kindly. ‘ If you were to go out as a governess your mother would be left alone, and I don’t think that would do.’ 4 1 didn’t mean .that,’ said iUice, rather timidly. ‘ I thought I could do some work at home.’ Mr. Morgan looked puzzled, till she continued, — 4 Perhaps I could do something with my pencil.’ 4 Oh, indeed ! Y"ou have a taste for that sort of thing, have you ? ’ 4 They used to say that I had a taste for drawing,’ answered Alice ; 4 and my parents took great pains to have me well taught. 1 should be so glad now to repay all their care.’ The kind uncle’s sympathy was aroused for the niece who spoke so modestly of her own merits, and he asked if she had any specimens of her drawing to show him. 4 If you will come with me you shall see some,’ she replied. He followed her into the parlour, and when she opened a large portfolio and displayed her collection, 4 Mv dear niece,’ said he, 4 these water-colours arc really very good. If you like, I will see a Lon¬ don picture-dealer, who will probably be glad to take some of your drawings off your hands.’ 4 Oh; thank you, uncle ! I am so much obliged.’ In a few days the uncle brought the news that a dealer had agreed to buy the water-colours, and Alice took to her brush to paint more for him. The parlour was given up to her for a studio, and Alice soon had full employment. 4 Mother dear,’ said Alice, one da)", 4 1 can never be thankful enough to you and my dearest father for having corrected my idleness when I was a child.’ 4 You may well rejoice, . my dear,’ replied her mother. 4 If you had been indulged in the idleness that you loved, you would not 'be the artist that you are.’ / I have never forgotten a conversation that I had with father when I was only eleven years old,’ added the girl. 4 It gave me an encouragement to improve myself that has never failed me.’ 4 Well, I must say that your industry and perse¬ verance are very praiseworthy,’ said hnr mother, 4 considering that they are qualities the very op¬ posite of your natural disposition. But look, here is a letter.’ Alice opened the envelope, and when she had read

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the contents she exclaimed in a voice bright with the joy of success, ‘ My landscape is accepted, and will appear in the summer exhibition ! ’ 1 Never wearying, the young artist toiled on year after year, happy in her art and in finding that through her exertions she was able to maintain her dear mother and herself in a comfortable, home. E. L. - •*>*♦** - OLD WALNUT-TREE AT ME NT MORE. THE beautiful park at Mentmore, the seat of the late Baron Meyer de Rothschild, is finely situated on a rising slope of the Vale of Aylesbury, in Buckinghamshire, backed by the Chilton Hills. The park has in it some remarkably fine timber, which Sir Joseph Paxton, some twenty-five years since, made good use of in forming the grounds ; the result being a wooded and apparently old park, with

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WSmmk many ancient trees mixed with tlie new plantings. One among these old monarchs of the past is seen in our picture. We do not know its exact age, but its size is enormous; and its arms and limbs are obliged to have props and crutches to support it. One old servant of the family recollected the tree fifty years since : it was then a very old tree. Under its shady shelter the school-children of the pretty village of Mentmore frequently enjoy the hospitality of the noble family of the park. The walnut-tree is a native of Persia : it forms a large and lofty tree, with strong, spreading, hang¬ ing branches. Scamorzzi, a celebrated Italian archi¬ tect, who died in 1016, mentions having seen at St. Nicholas, in Lorraine, a single plank of the wood of this tree twenty-five feet wide, upon which the Emperor Frederick 111., had given a sumptuous feast. There is a remarkable specimen of this tree at Kinross House, Kinross-shire, which measured nine

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302 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVIII. feet six inches in girth in September, 1796, and is supposed to have been planted in 1684. Sir T. D. Lauder says it is probably the oldest walnut-tree in Scotland. It is now decaying : whether from age or accident, is uncertain. The walnut wood is much used by cabinet-makers for ornamental furniture. LITTLE SYD. (Continued from page 292). CHAPTER III. ULTON KIEKE took his young cousin home, and was good to him after an indifferent sort of fashion on the journey. Eut he had his own affairs to think about, and, to say the truth, they did not yield altogether pleasant thoughts, so that by degrees he forgot all about his companion. Travelling came natural to Wilton ; it was part of his daily life, and to get into a railway carriage lately was to lose himself in retrospect and anxiety which had nothing to do with his journey. ‘ If I had but begun before ! ’ thought the young man, going back to his troubles, and his always out- at-elbows sort of condition. ‘Eut what’s the use now ? If I had saved from the beginning I might have helped, as I suppose I ought ; but the little I could scrape now out of my salary — that’s a shame, by the way — wouldn’t be worth talking about. If I were even straight with the world ; but I’ve got behind, and a mail who once docs that has no chance — something is always plucking at his sleeve.’ From this he roused up suddenly to the conscious¬ ness that the silent, pale lad in the opposite corner, was watching him with a strange look of intelli¬ gence. ‘Oh, bother!’ muttered Wilton : and then he was sorry, and said something about the slow train, and the stupid officials, who were always letting the trains get behind time. Syd, just hearing him, let his eyes fall, but said nothing; and Wilton, in spite of himself, was tempted to repeat the exclamation. ‘ Is he going to be a spy upon me, I wonder ? ’ he thought. * ‘That would be rather too good, to be watched and bothered by a young chap that is to cost me — I mean, to cost us all so much. I almost wish I had stuck out against it.’ Eut he knew that he did not wish this in reality. He only felt that the lad was a mistake somehow, and ought not to have come into the world, at any rate to be a burden upon relations who had nothing to spare. There came a time when Wilton remem¬ bered this with a shame and humiliation that he would hardly have thought possible now. He did not say any more to Syd, however, until they had reached their journey’s end, and then Wilton, with his hand on the door-bell, turned and looked at his companion. He did not know why he did this4 nor yet exactly why he paused before ringing the bell. If Sydney had said anything, even as much as that he knew he was a trouble, and was sorry, Will would probably have been only impatient, and echoed the speech internally. Eut it was the fact that lie stood there looking all his sorrowful consciousness of the fact, and yet keeping it to himself, that touched the hasty traveller. It was a self-control of which he himself would never have been capable. ‘Cheer up, lad,’ said Wilton. ‘You are at home now, you know.’ And then he took the boy in, to be petted and made much of the whole evening ; as if, thought Wil¬ ton, he were some young hero coming home with honours, instead of being — what he is. And as be thought this, it occurred to him to look at the boy, with his quiet self-possession and air of repressed power, and to ask himself what he meant — what Syd was, in fact. ‘ For the life of me, I can’t make him out,’ said the young man, with a new fit of peevishness ; for Syd had turned and met his eye, just as if he had been conscious that it was upon him. Later in the evening he went up to his sister, as she was putting a wav her work for the night. ‘ Well,’ said Wilton, ‘ I have done as y ou bid me, and brought him home. Am I a good boy?’ ‘ Are you going to be a good boy, Will ? ’ Margaret said this with a meaning, and her bro¬ ther knew it and made a grimace. ‘Am I going to save my money and put it into a missionary-box, you mean ? No, Mag, I’m not. I'll be as good as I can ; but I’ve told you before, you know nothing about it. You haven’t answered me about this young — hopeful.’ ‘ You have brought him, to be sure, Will, but you are prejudiced and sulky — annoyed that he should be here. Why ? I promise you that he shall cost you nothing.’ There came up a red spot into Wilton’s cheek as he remembered a thought that had occurred to him in the train. These two, his mother and sister, would have to spare money for Syd. If Syd had not come upon them, might the}r not have spared it for him, Wilton? He had choked back the thought then, and he did so now ; but still it had been there, and it did not lighten the weight of Syd’s presence, or reconcile him to it. ‘ Cost me nothing ! ’ he replied to his sister’s speech. ‘ Do you think money is my god, Mag ?’ ‘I hope not. No, Will; forgive me; I know it is not. Eut - ’ ‘ Eut nothing. You mustn’t preach to me to-night. As for cost, take care the boy doesn’t cost you more than you bargain for.’ ‘ What do you mean, Will?’ ‘Only that he might have a sly sort of cunning and cleverness about him,’ said Wilton bitterly, ‘ and may possibly be able to tell what you and my mother arc made of, and act accordingly. Now, good-bye. I shall be off early in the morning.’ ‘ Good-night,’ said Margaret. ‘Eut you know very well that I shall be down to give you your breakfast. What time, Will ? ’ He told her, went to the door, hesitated, and turned half-way back, with an inconsistency he could not account for. ‘Don’t take any notice of what I said, Mag.

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No. XXXVIII. After all, the poor little chap is half a cripple, and alone in the world. I’m a brute. I believe. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.’ Margaret .just looked after her brother as he went muttering away to bed, and thought that perhaps she knew, if he did not. Crossing the room to wind up the time-piece, she found, lying beside it, a neck¬ tie and pin, which Mrs. Kirke had taken from Syd when he came in. Margaret noticed that there was a crest on the pin, and, as by instinct, her hand closed over it at the thought of what Wilton would have said. 4 A bit of my uncle’s pride,’ she thought. 4 1 wonder if we have any right to a crest ? But, after all, what matter? Aud what will be the end of it all? Boor Will ! ’ CHAPTER IV. Wilton went away; and Syd, strange at first, shook down into his place as the days passed by, and grew to be a sort of cipher in the orderly little sub¬ urban house ; that is, his presence there became a thing of course : he was in nobody’s way ; lie gave no noisy, rackety evidence of his existence, as, per¬ haps, Mrs. Kirke might have half feared he would do. He had odd, silent, meditative habits, which might have puzzled the mother and daughter if they had been taking notice of him, but they were not. Mrs. Kirke was not an observant woman, and Mar¬ garet was busy with her pupils. It wras enough that Syd was content ; and then, to be sure, lie could not be like other boys. He had his own books from the school, and, in addition, he was permitted to search as he chose amongst those that had belonged to his uncle. At first, when Margaret found that books were all he wanted, she tided to help him in his search and save him the climbing up to the high shelves on which the long-disused volumes lay. But Sydney put her on one side quietly. He was small, certainly, and not over-strong, he said; but he supposed lie should never be anything but ‘little Syd’ all his life, and he must wait upon himself ; as far as it was pos¬ sible to avoid it, there must be no extra trouble to any one on bis account. Whatever his studies were, lie kept them to him¬ self. He chose the most out-of-the-way corner in the sitting-room, and fixed himself there — so quiet, that sometimes Mrs. Kirke would forget all about him, aud wake up with a start at some sign of his presence. 4 What’s it all about, Syd ? ’ Margaret said to him one evening, finding him following her with his eyes as she moved about the room. 4 What do you find to make you so full of thought from morning to night?’ Syd replied, quite gravely: 4 Many things. You’ve had a long day, Margaret, with those children, and yet you’re as fresh as ever to put things neat. The room never looks exactly right when you are not here.’ ‘Doesn’t jt? But it ought to, Syd. Nobody dis¬ turbs anything. I’m sure you don’t.’ 4 1 try not. But that isn’t all I have to think of, Margaret. What do you teach your pupils ? ’ 303 It was her turn now to say ‘many things,’ but, instead, she went over and looked at his book. 4 I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Syd, ’ she said, shaking her head. 4 1 don’t know anything about Latin ; I wish I did.’ The boy shut it up with a bang. 4 Help me ! No; it should be the other way. Will you tell me what my cousin is — Wilton? ’ 4 A commercial traveller.’ 4 Is he always away ?’ 4 Not always,’ said Margaret, with a slight shade on her face." 4 We expected him home last week, just for Sunday. Perhaps he will come next.’ 4 1 hope so.’ Sydney said this with a quickness and decision that struck Margaret as unlike his usual manner. Did he guess at the way in which Wilton was dis¬ posed to regard his presence there? If he did, the speech was still rather an odd one ; but he was an odd boy. A thought crossed her that she would speak to Wilton again about him when lie did come home. Meanwhile, Wilton, going about bis business, and, to say the truth, liis pleasure, remembered his young cousin from time to time with a feeling that was half annoyance, half attraction. He was ashamed, for one tiling, of liis speech about the sly cunning. There was no such tiling about the lad. In liis (Wilton’s) place, what would Syd have been ? The young man, sitting over his wine one evening, amongst others as merry as he was himself, could not help wandering off into speculations about this, and losing the spirit of the fun that went on around him. Tie was not satisfied with himself. They were expecting him at home ; but so they had been many times before,— so they had been last Satur¬ day ; and when he thought of that, he put up liis hand to hide the cloud that gathered down over his face. What would they say — those good, quiet people, who thought so much of him — if they could have known, while they watched for him, how ho was spending that same last Saturday night? They thought him so good, liis mother especially ; they had such trust in him, such hopes for him. And all might have been so different ! He raised liis head and looked round. He was not in had company exactly. His dinner companions were all respect¬ able, as the term is; some of them he knew, and some he did not know. They were what are called free-livers, and he knew and acknowledged to him¬ self that it was not good for him to he there amongst them. He acknowledged, with a passing self-pity, that he was not strong to resist, as others were, and that, where others stood firm, he, led away by im¬ pulse, would probably fall. All at once the young man stood up and pushed back his chair. No one noticed him. Perhaps he was a little disappointed at that; but then he re¬ flected that, if they had noticed and made any effort to detain him, he would most likely have yielded. {To lc continued.) CHATTERBOX.

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* “ Everybody’s in luck but me,” said Wilton, as be flung down the letter.’ K Li

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306 No. XXXIX. CHATTERB OX. LITTLE SYD. (Continued Jroni page 303.) T took him ten minutes to reach the station and catch the train, about which he had been deliberating. He did not quite know, as ho watched the hedges whirling past him, whether he was glad or sorry. There would be fine fun amongst the party he had left, and somehow, lately, Sunday at home had grown „ , , . . to be a dull day to him. But, after all, he had done right, and there was little Syd to study. lie caught himselt falling back upon this with a certain half-irritated amusement. What was theie about the lad that haunted him so, and would not let him rest? He tried to shake it off; but, for all that, tnc first question ho asked when he got home was about Syd. He asked it, to be sure, with an assumed tone of carelessness : and when his sister replied that Syd had not been well, lie grumbled out, ‘Of course not! never will be, probably.’ c Tic sticks to his books too much,’ put in Mrs. lurke. ‘I’m sure it’s bad for him.’ Wilton raised his eyebrows, with a laugh. ‘ Hooks ! ’ he repeated. 4 That wasn't his character at school, anyhow.’ . And then Margaret thought of her proposed cau¬ tion, but she did not give it. Her brother was not in a very even temper. Perhaps he was already be¬ ginning to contrast the tameness. of this small home- circle with what he called ‘life,’ and to he vexed at having for once done right. It was late, however, and lie waited till the others had gone to bod before speaking to Syd. ‘ They go so precious early here,’ he said, standing on the rug and looking curiously at the lad. ‘Stop a minute or two. I want to know how it is. The fellows told me down at the school that you shirked your lessons, and all that sort of thing.’ ‘They told the truth,’ replied Syd, boldly. ‘So I did.’ ‘ What’s all this about books, then?’ Even while he asked the question, Wilton was struck by a cer¬ tain alteration in his cousin’s appearance. Syd had bent forward to speak, with his chin supported on his hands, and they were whiter and thinner, Wilton, thought. ‘ Oh, of course,’ he said to himself, scornfully, 4 he’s going to be like the pious boys in story-books, and die off/ The next moment a strange impulse of tender¬ ness seized him towards the forlorn lad, whose life lay so burdened before him, and who looked out upon it with a front so dauntless and calm. # Syd, looking at his cousin, felt the hands under his chin tremble a little, but lie spoke, slowly and resolutely, — ‘I’ll tell you what it is all about, Wilton. You can help me, and there’s no one else, that I know of, to ask.’ ‘ Or you wouldn’t apply to me, I suppose,’ mut¬ tered Wilton. ‘ I did not like my lessons,’ went on the lad, not noticing. 1 I’m not sure that I do now. But I have thought about it and it seems to me that learning is v rY thm3 tllel:e’s an.T hope in for me. For you its different, he added, looking, without a particle of envy m his admiration, at the strong, handsome young fellow beside him. ‘But, Wilton, you must 1 !lavc Sot t0 t]° something for a living ’ Why you foolish fellow!’ began Wilton, Saif vexed, halt amused, ‘ aren’t they good to vou here’ V\ hat more do you want ? You are at home by this time, surely! < ‘ For always?’ said the lad, with an arch gleam in his eye. Would wow like it? Ho, Pm- not alto¬ gether foolish. They are too good to me. Put if I am young, and— and not quite like other people I can do something. Since I tumbled off that wall I haven t shirked my lessons; and I know enough .Latin to teach small hoys. I ivill know more. But meantime, some of Margaret’s pupils will bo glad to learn ; that will be a beginning. What I want you to do tor me is to find out how young they take ushers in schools, and whether I should have a chance. If not, why I must hit upon something else. I don’t think,' said Syd, with a smile, 4 that any fellow is put into the world with his wils about, him, and no chance to make the best of them. Do you ?’ Wilton turned his face away, and muttered some¬ thing— he hardly knew what ; but he was very un¬ comfortable. Then, as the boy said no more, hut only waited with his usual patience, he said hurriedlv, ‘ I m tired, Syd, and so are you ; better go to bed now. A\ ilton did not move when the bo}’ was gone. He, stood for some time with his hack to the fire, thinking. Once or twice he stamped his foot on the rug im¬ patiently, as though his thoughts worried him ; and when the clock struck he turned and lighted his candle with difficulty at the half-burn t-out fire., went out into the hall, and found Syd lying at the foot of the stairs in a dead faint. When Wilton picked him up, he thought for one moment that the bov was dead. Only for a moment, though. He carried him back into the room, and put his hand on the bell, but checked himself. He could do all that was necessary, and he rather liked the idea. Thus, when Syd’s eyes unclosed, Wilton was kneeling with one arm round him, and a look in his face that made the boy lay his head closer to his cousin’s shoulder. 'Better, old fellow? That’s right! Come, we must change all this.’ 4 I’m very sorry,’ said poor Syd, wistfully. Then Y\ ilton did a very odd thing. It seemed as if, for good or ill, impulse governed him. lie bent down over, the boy, who had been a few minutes since a nuisance and a trouble, and kissed him. 4 Has the lad made a woman of me, after all?’ he said to himself afterwards. chapter v- The winter passed, and the spring. Wilton came and went; was gloomy sometimes, and bitter— some¬ times genial and pleasant; but always there was about him a restless element of self-discontent, and a strange waywardness in his behaviour towards his cousin. Sycl got a letter one morning, which he read

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No. XXXIX. CHATTERBOX. 307 over twice, and then there came up a little unusual colour into his checks, and he passed it over the table to Wilton. Perhaps the oddest part of the inter¬ course between these two was the boy’s perfect fear¬ lessness. However Wilton might treat him, and whatever mood be might be in, Syd was never afraid of him ; and so now, having read this letter, which excited him rather, he passed it across, without a word, to where Wilton sat, somewhat moodily, drinking liis coffee. There came no llnsh to Wilton's cheek ; it was,, in fact, somewhat paler than usual, and the expression of it might almost have been called one of annoyance as lie read and flung down the letter. 4 Everybody’s in luck but me,’ he said, getting up. 4 Mother, sec here ! 44 The friends — I suppose that means creditors— of the late Sydney Kirke, Esq., with a hearty appreciation of the just and honourable way in which he impoverished himself to meet all claims upon him, venture to beg his son's acceptance of the enclosed cheque, as a small testimony of their respect for his memory.” There — it’s for two hun¬ dred pounds,’ finished Wilton ; and he went away, without looking at his cousin. Syd, a little disappointed, perhaps, just at first, withdrew to his corner and his books, and he worked hard all day, thinking, as evening came, with a cer¬ tain soreness about his heart, that Wilton was miles away by this time, and that he had never said good¬ bye. And just as he thought this the door opened, and Wilton himself came in and walked up to him. 4 Shake hands, Syd. Do you think I’m a regular bear, out and out?5 ‘No,’ said the boy, quietly. 4 1 don’t care what you sayp Will; I know you like me.’ Walton laughed. 4 You’re a clever little chap. What do you think there is in that girlish face of yours for anybody to take a fancy to, eh V’ 4 Is if, girlish, • Will? I’m sorry for that. Never mind ! it may be none the worse; and I may do a man’s work for all that.’ ‘Possibly. Now. for my news. Here, mother of mine — Mag — Nowell Brothers have come to their senses, and mv salary is just half as much again for the future. I’m a man of means now. That is, he added, drawing up with some sudden, painful recol¬ lection, 4 1 shall be.’ Mi-s. Kirke looked up with a quick, apprehensive questioning. Much as she trusted and believed in her son, there had come to her gradually a sort of half-consciousness that there were spots ' in his life which would hardly bear even the light of her all- excusing eyes upon them, and site shrank from these. 4 1 am glad/ she said. 4 But, oh ! Will, I do hope - ’ k Yes, yes, I know,’ broke in Will impatiently. ‘Good news, isn’t it, Syd? No— no books to-night, old fellow. It’s the last holiday I shall have for a long while, and Mag is going to the piano. Some¬ thing soft and soothing, Mag. Syd and I want an accompaniment for chatter, that's all. Let’s have the couch in the window.’ For Syd was not strong yet — not, indeed, so strong as he had been, and the hot weather tried him"5. Margaret, when she rose up by-and-bye from her music, sawr that they sat there with the blind drawn up, and the moonlight coming in. Wilton’s one arm was thrown over the boy’s shoulder, and he was saying, ‘Never mind; I shall save out of this big salary of mine, and we’ll go off down to Torquay, or some of those fine places, for the winter, and get you as strong as a young hunter. Time enough then to talk about being an usher. What ! finished, Mag ? ’ 4 Yes, it’s time ; for you at least, Will, if you have to start when you told me you should.’ 4Ah! and ‘I don’t know when I shall be back. Good-night, Syd. Take care of him, Mag.’ . Margaret looked at him with a half-smile. Syd felt the big, strong hand clasp his feeble fingers, and then Wilton was gone. Syd remem¬ bered it in the days that were coming ; never forgot it, — never forgot that other night, when Will, picking him up in his fainting fit, had suddenly bent down and kissed him. 4 1 couldn’t be so fond of him if he didn’t care for me.’ argued Syd. ‘If there’s ever anything I can do for him, that’s all ! But I don’t see how there can he.’ CHAPTER vi. 4 If I had only gone straight from the first ! ’ Wilton Kirke said this to himself in the intervals of his business, as he went about from place to place with bis samples, taking orders and making inquiries concerning new or unknown firms. If he had only gone straight from the first! I wonder how many of us, looking back upon the years all dark with sorrowful failure, have said that same thing. But Wilton did not look back ; that is, he did not look patiently and honestly upon his career, step by step ; lie only skipped over it as a whole to the starting-point, which, it seemed to him, was the one mistake, and which he wanted back again, but never could have. And he was so hampered, it seemed impossible to get straight, or keep straight now. Even this in¬ crease of salary in his present condition would do him little good. He thought of his speech about saving up and taking Syd clown to Torquay, and he laughed aloud, though he was alone. And then, somehow, the window at home, the lad’s couch, and the moonlight shining in upon his face, came before him, and he put his hand over his eyes to keep it there. It seemed as if he had a sort of double life. At home he could be at peace, could feel that it was yet possible to get back out of his difficulties and start afresh. And for all this, he said to himself that there he was a cheat. What did they know of the wild doings that spotted his restless life away from them ? VVhat did his mother know, who was so tender of him, who even pitied him sometimes be¬ cause of his lonely Sundays, and the homelessness of going always to strange churches ? Remembering all this, Wilton felt his cheek burn, and the angry pride come into his heart. Why should he hang back, and shrink from telling her that it was no longer a necessity of his life to go to church ? He was no boy now, to be chidden and governed. He was a man, with his way to make in the world; old enough to judge for himself, and to bear bis own burden. Ah, that was it ! Could he bear it ? There

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308 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX. were times when it grew very hard to him. When lie left home this last time he had been in good spirits — resolute that, with his bettered prospects, there should come a changed life ; but then this was made entirely and altogether in his own strength, and was never likely to bear much fruit. I-Ie had got to know a certain set of young fellows in the towns he was in the habit of visiting, and they were what is termed a ‘fast set!’ They welcomed him with that frank jollity which took his impulsive nature by storm, and scattered to the winds all those resolutions of his sober moments. What was the use of it all ? A man must live, and at Borne he must do as Borne does. He couldn’t set himself up as a pattern and a judge. He had seen enough of that. And so he fell back into the old ways, and was like the others. ( He joined driving-parties and boating-parties on Sundays, and smiled grimly as the bells of those strange churches, about which his mother pitied him, rang in his ears. And yet he was not hardened, and he had less enjoyment than ever in his outbreak. Pulling down the river at Mudford one Sunday, one of his companions began talking about a horse that had won a cup in the spring races. The thing was nothing in itself, but it brought to Will’s mind a cer¬ tain business transaction of his, hurriedly completed, that he might be in time to see this same horse run. Why should it trouble him now ? It was sure to be all right. He, Wilton Kirke, was not in the habit of mistaking his men. But, nevertheless, his heart grew heavy at the recollection : and once more there came upon him a desperate longing for home and rest. When he got back to the hotel, he went up to his room and began walking about, trying to recover himself, and light off what he called the womanish nervousness that had come over him. I could have sworn that I saw Syd s face looking up at me from the ripples,’ he said to himself. 6 It seemed as if the stroke of my oar were beating him down. ... Is he all right, I wonder? They say . But there are all those fellows waiting. I must steady myself for to-dav, anyhow, and put my nerves right.’ How he put them right it is as well not to inquire. It is enough that amongst all those who were dining at his expense he was the gayest ; that when he rose to accompany them— somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t seem to matter where, he was in no fit state to be in the street. Wilton had a veiy vague idea of what happened on that wretched evening. He had certain dim recollections of a quarrel, the beginning or end of which he knew nothing about. But standing out clear above these confused ideas, which might have belonged to an ugly dream, he remembered the moment when he found himself in the grasp of a policeman and threatened with the lock-up. The shock partially sobered him. For a moment, indeed, as the disgrace, the publicity, and, worse than all, the consequences, flashed across" him, all the blood seemed to go to his heart and leave him powerless ; but the next he was saying to the policeman calmly and steadily, ‘ 1 had no part in this row, whatever it may have been. You know me, I think— Mr. Kirke. I am going back now to my hotel.’ ( Concluded in our next.)

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^□)LACE in the centre the glorious Passion Flower, Whose winding stems interlace trellis and bower, As beautiful as fragile, in which the devotee Emblems of sacred things and holy symbols can see. Child of the sunny South ! And by the side of it Set the pure white Convolvulus, making a contrast fit. This too is a trailer, and over the hedges, near and far, It spreads its silvery blossoms, shaped like the trump of war. And above set some sprigs of the purple, fragrant Heath, On which many a Scot has striven and slept in death. Then take the prickly Furze, or Gorse, or Golden Whin, That, as people say, is always in blossom as the fashion of love is in, H. G. A.

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310 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX. THE FLOWERS OF SEPTEMBER. JABMLY and brightly shines the September sun, but bis beams are no longer scorching, aud as the days shorten we notice a chilliness in the morning and evening air, that tells us too truly that autumn is with us, and we are fast moving towards cold and cheerless winter. We have still, however, much bright and cheer¬ ful weather in store for us during this month and the next, in which to enjoy our country rambles before the thick fogs and drizzling rains of November keep us within our homes. Let us then avail ourselves of some of the truly delightful days of this season to glance around on the beautiful landscape, and notice the still nu¬ merous flowers that remain to beautify and brighten the earth. The graceful Convolvulus calls forth our admira¬ tion. As soon as we quit the town and reach the dusty country road, in every hedge we behold its delicate, white, trumpet-shaped blossoms, with its long trailing stems and bright green leaves. This beautiful climbing plant has been in bloom ever since the early days of summer, but we notice it more particu¬ larly now that our floral treasures are every day di¬ minishing in number. The country people call it the Old Man’s Nightcap, or the Great Withy wind, while the botanist knows it as the Great Hooded Bindweed. Unlike the pretty pink Field Bindweed, that was so familiar an object in the cornfield and upon the wayside-bank during June and July, this flower does not close in gloomy and wet weather, or at the approach of night. If we wend our way to the broad, open heath, where, through the clear September air, we may look miles and miles away to the distant hills, we shall find a scene of wonderful beauty outspread before us. The bright golden Furze and the purple Heather are in ail their glory, each making the other appear brighter and more beautiful by the rich contrast of its colour. The furze-bushes are generally about three or four feet high, but in sheltered spots they sometimes grow to the height of fourteen or even sixteen feet*. Their blossoms, though more thick and abundant during summer and autumn, may be seen at almost every season of the year ; hence the old proverb, that 4 Love goes out of fashion when the Furze is out of blossom.’ Beautifully do these bright yellow blossoms stand out against the dark prickly stems. The great naturalist Linn teus is said to have fallen on his knees and thanked God for their loveliness when he first beheld them in their glory upon an English common. Beneath and around the furze-bushes spreads, like a rich carpet, the purple Heather, the flower praised and beloved above almost every other by the poets of Scotland. It is indeed in the northern parts of Great Britain alone that the heather arrives at full perfection, so that vast tracts of land glow with a rich colour that may be seen miles away. The blossoms of the heather arc shaped like tiny bells, rather narrow at the mouth, and grow in drooping clusters upon stems six or eight inches high. . Bestowing, according to our usual custom in pre¬ vious months, a brief glance at the garden, we find the Dahlia, the Golden Rod, the Prince’s Feather, and almost all the flowers of August, still in bloom. A plant, however, that is twining over the rustic ver¬ andah, and studding the green foliage with large star-shaped blossoms, especially charms us by ns beauty and fragrance: this is the Passion Flower, so named by the Spaniards when they first discovered it in America. To their imaginations the different parts of the blossom appeared to figure the number of the Apostles, the rays of glory, the hammer, and the nails, thereby calling to their remembrance our Saviour’s passion. These flowers are as frail as they are beautiful ; for one day only do they deck tketrel- lised bower, the next they may be seen hanging brown and withered on their stems. IT. B. A. THE WATCH AND THE TURKEY. a certain learned judge in Mexico, some time since, walked one morning into Court, he thought he would see whether he was in time for business : and feeling for his repeater, lie found it was not in his pocket. ‘ As usual,’ said he to a friend who was with him, as he passed through the crowd near the door : 4 as usual, I have left my watch at home under my pillow ! ’ He went on the bench, and thought no more of it. The Court adjourned, and he returned home. As soon as he was quietly seated in his parlour he bethought him of his watch, and turning to his wife lie asked her to send for it to their chamber. 4 But, my dear judge,’ said she, 4 1 sent it to you three hours ago ! ’ 4 Sent it to me, my dear P Certainly not !’ c Certainly, ’ replied the lady ; 4 and by the person you sent for it!’ 4 The person I sent for it ! ’ echoed the judge. ‘Precisely, my dear ; the very person you sent for it ! You had not left home more than an hour, when a well-dressed man knocked at the door and asked to see me. He brought one of the very finest turkeys I ever saw ; and said that on your way to Court you met an Indian with a number of fowls, and having bought this one quite a bargain, you had given him a couple of reals to bring it home ; with the request that I would have it killed, picked, and put to cool, as you intended to invite your brother- judges to dine with you to-morrow. And 44 Oh ! by the way, Senorita, said he, 44 his excellency the judge requested me to ask you to give yourself the 'trouble to go to your chamber and take his watch from under the pillow, where he savs he left it as usual this morning, and send it to him b}r me.” Aud of course I did so.’

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Eo. XXXIX. CHATTERBOX. m £ You did?’ said the judge £ Certainly,’ said the lady. W ell, replied his honour ; £ all I can say to you, mv dear, is, that you are as great a goose as the bird is a turkey. ± ou’vc been robbed, madam. The man ,was a thief ; I never sent for my watch. You’ve been imposed on, and the watch is lost for ever ! ’ The trick was a cunning one ; and after a laugh, ana the restoration of the judge's good humour by a good dinner, it wap resolved actually to have the tur¬ key tor to-morrow's dinner, and to have his honour’s brothers of the bench to enjoy so dear a morsel. Accordingly, after the adjournment of Court next day , they all repaired to his dwelling, with appetites sharpened by the expectation of a rare repast, scarcely had they entered and exchanged the or¬ dinary salutations, when the lady broke forth with congratulations to his honour upon the recovery of his stolen watch. J ‘How happy am I,’ exclaimed she, ‘that the villain was apprehended ! ’ , apprehended ! ’ said the judge with surprise. . , cs ’ a?.f doubtless convicted, too, by this time,’ said tiie wite. MOISEY AID CHILD. i’ , .t e audacity to steal your honour’s watch “ fK*" 5 that the evidence was nearly 1 erket to convict him, and all that was required to ■Z'otJ rAhe tl!vkcy’ ^Woh must beTouglit nnl,°r ’ a‘ld for that hc had been sent witlt a f-oitei by your express orders/ £ And you gave it to him ?’ r -9* caurse d dld ! Who could have doubted him, or i esisted the orders of a judge V ’ , ‘ Watch— and turkey— both gone ! Pray, madam wuai, are we to do for a dinner?’ " ‘ 5 Lut the lady had taken care of her guests not- ho b tl.'/kF hei' r¥WitP and tho Pa^y enjoyed as it Waif' dinner. — Mayer's ‘Alice ■WOLFE AT CULLODEH. TN Ids history of the Civil war, Mr. Chambers | JL mentions that Cumberland, accompanied by L Yujtc> ™de the field of Culloden. At the piace where the wounded lay more than usual!v fVko,anmUtilated ¥ishh¥™ ^odhfmsel ip£ fiiil\ Oil one arm and gave the Duke a smile of scorn and defiance. ‘Wolfe,’ cried his Highness ‘ shoot us so^nfSy-®0^/1'®1 who. dares to look at is so nio oJ e n tly. My commission is at the dis- WV>l° 'kT7r E°yaI -blighncss,’ replied the“ e. tie J’ oJie; but I cannot consent to become an e°xec - anclSea/' r°m CasseUs ‘ Battles on Land TX the year 1818 a vessel that sailed between A Whitehaven and Kingston, Jamaica, started on her homeward voyage, and among other pas- ZSlir»Z afeuthe ,mothcr of an infant only a few weeks old. > W hen the weather permitted the mo¬ ther took exercise on deck, sometimes with the infant sleep1* armS’ JUt oftener when ifc liad been hushed to afternoou the captain saw a distant IrA.A 1 d,11scover J attracted the attention of all on boaid, and the captain politely offered his glass to the lady alluded to, that she might obtain a clearer view of the distant ship. At this moment she had the baby in her arms, but she wrapped her shawl about it and placed it on the sofa on which she had bW^lWg* X ie paIjtain heiped her to steady the a f hb scarceI7 iad she applied her eye to it than ^he helmsman cried out anxiously, — SSee what that mischievous monkey has done !’ The mother s feelings may be imagined when, on turning round, she saw that a large, strong and active monkey, which was on board the vessel,’ had grasped the intant firmly with one arm and with' Sfent 'on?/ r^/^bii-S the shrouds, evidently One loTvvof Ung t le/e,T top of the mainmast, r “f * enough for the terrified mother, and that look had well-nigh been her last. Though she atteniptecl to speak, the words died away on her lips, and had it not been for the prompt assistance of those around she would have fallen on the deck- corpse.8 1 t0 a11 appearance a The captain was at his wit’s end. It is true the sailors could climb as well as the monkey, hut’aiiv attempts to capture it were dangerous, for the mo¬ ment they put a toot on the shrouds the cantain feared that it would drop tho child and escape by leaping from one mast to another. 1 ** . In the meantime the infant was heard to cry and though many supposed from this that it was Pam’ ‘ben- tears on this point were speedilv re l eved when they saw the monkey imitatLo ex¬ actly the motions of a nurse, by dandling, sootBiuV sss/' o,,iku"d ™ —soS's'g f. j,; se¥bcimve80Thc°md'CCl °Vei'y to cQ«eeal I,im- seu Delovv. I ho order was promptly obeved and he now took a seat where lie could see without beino- that’tho cn^3 mtenfe relief *he monkey, on finding „ A10 coast was c ear, cautiously descended from lie masthead, and placed the infant on the sofa from which it was taken, cold, fretful, and perhap ° frHi?’ ened but in every other respect free from injury.0 Plie captam had now a most grateful tail- tn perform, and tlic babe was restored to its /oil ‘ 'P&ioo -

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312 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX. k

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No. XL. CHATTERBOX. 313 Magpie and Knife. s s

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314 CHATTERBOX. No. XL. MAGPIE AND KNIFE. >/<OME years ago I had a magpie, a most ^ amusing and comical bird, full of all sorts of tricks. He would watch the servant clean the knives, sitting near the knife-box, then suddenly jump down, peck her heels, then on to the knife- box again. After awhile tlm knives were found to be less and less in num¬ ber. At last 1 watched Master Mag, when I saw him seize one of the knives, and walk away with it. Down the garden lie went, sometimes halting for a rest and a look at himself in the shining steel, then on and on he hopped, until he came to an old shed near a lilac-tree ; stealthily lie went behind, and laid the knife in a space where the wood was decayed in the . shed. 1 followed him to his store, and found six knives, besides a pair of scissors, a thimble, a reel of cotton, and other things hidden there. H. W . SOME IDLE WOHDS. A STORY OP TILLAGE GOSSIP. By tlic Author of ‘ Earth’s Many Voices/ TEMPY ! Tempy ! Come along, Tempy ! ’ .I In came a shy-looking little girl of some seven years of age, edging in at the doorway with a half- frightened face, as if she were entering a room full of strangers. m , 4 There’s the dust-pan for you, Tempy ; that s wliat you’ve got this morning : go along and sit down. Tempy did as she was bidden, and sat down on a wooden stool as near to the fire as she could, and took the dust-pan on to her knee. Then she plunged her hand into the dust which it contained and bent over it busily. 4 Oh, look at her hair i M ho did it up so fine tor you — eh, Tempy? You never did it up for yourself . you never did !’ ' “ 4 And who tied your pinny, Tempy, and made you so smart altogether?7 . . 1 Then there was a general laugh, and lempy looked up from her dust-pan, not as if she exactly undei- stood the point of the fun, but feeling that somehow she was amusing everybody. 4 Have you brought your luncheon, Tempy !— Ao, that you haven’t ! 7 The tall, bustling, good-tempered- lookin°* young woman who said this was reaching out her hand as she spoke to receive from another child a great slice of thickly buttered bread, which she laid by among the cups and saucers, on a shelf where several other ‘slices had already been placed m safety. < i’ll o-ive you some of mine,’ whispered the child who had just entered ; and the other looked up at the slice which lav across two tea-cups, as it she were considering whether it were large enough to allow of such a division being profitable to eithei P£lThe allusions to Tempy’s fine hair-dressing and smart appearance could only have been made in pleasantry : for the hair, though it had been brushed, was parted by a zigzag pathway, which ended some- where over the left eye, and sprang from a thicket far back to the right, where a quantity of brown hair was netted in anyhow, pushed back from face and temples anywhere to get it out of the way. The pinafore, which had also attracted* attention, merely had Tempy’s two arms thrust through its two arm¬ holes ; and, far from being tied at all, hung loosely on her, with one corner turned forward over her shoulder. Eut she had a sweet, gentle little face, and as her eyes followed the slice of luncheon bread you saw how pretty they were, and what a soft, half- sad look there was in them. She was beautifully clean, though just then so disorderly in her appear¬ ance ; it seemed quite a pity to condemn such clean little Lands to grope in the dust-pan. They groped, however, to some purpose ; for presently she handed up to the young- woman already mentioned a quantity of long brass pins which she had gathered out of the dust, and arranged into a careful sheaf with all the heads together. 4 Sure that’s all ? Well, now go along and fetch your pillows, and see if you can’t get your 44 down” done to-day like a good girl, and not have the dust¬ pan to sort to-morrow.7 Then off went Tempy, and returned with her hands washed clean again under the pump, and her lace- pillow in her arms. 4 She don’t want to find her 44 down,” because she don’t care to go home,’ whispered one of the elder girls to another who sat next her. 4 Hush!’ said Dolly; 4 1 won’t have talking;7 and then there was silence. Perhaps I may hitherto have been speaking enig¬ mas to some readers, for not every one lives in a lace-making district, or has by an}r chance become acquainted1 with the mysteries of the work. Very many may not have been inside a village lace-school, such as the one in which little Tempy was a scholar, so I must stop to explain one or two things. Widow Grey kept this school, with her daughter Dorothy, commonly called Dolly. Dolly was a great favourite with all the children of the village. She had a pleasant face, and a pleasant manner, and a pleasant temper, all of which commended her to children, as you may imagine. She was very strict with her young scholars; ‘For what’s the kindness iu spoiling them?7 she would say; and she showed no more favour to one than to another, 4 for that,’ she said, 4 would be unfair.7 Careless work was punished, and so was idleness ; but no one under punishment ever said that Dolly was unkind. Little Tempy never said so when she was set to find the swept-up pins in the dust-pan with her clean fingers — a task she hated with all her gentle little hearty At eight o’clock every morning at that time of the year Dolly had all things in order for her scholars, {She had got the room swept and dusted and made ready, the dust-pan waiting on the wooden stool for any defaulter; and soon after eight, or whatever the appointed hour might be, the scholars would arrive one by one, bringing with them each a slice of bread or hard pudding for the ten-o’clock luncheon. Dolly was hard upon a face not well washed, or a dirty pinafore, and always exacted a proper morning salu- tation ‘ Where’s your manners? Go along out, aud come in again saying “ Good morning. And

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No. XL. CHATTERBOX. 315 the offender would retreat and return with the cere¬ mony, and then hand over her luncheon into Dolly's care and take her seat. The pillow on which the lace was made was of straw, quite hard and firm, and covered with a stout cotton covering ; over which was again a covering of any kind, according to the means or taste of the owner. Across the pillow, more than half way, was stretched a strip of parchment, with a pattern pricked upon it, and you travelled across the pillow, putting a pin into every hole, and working threads round these pins, the thread being wound upon slender wooden winders called bobbins. That is how the lace was made. 1 am afraid it is not a much clearer description than the Irishman’s directions for making a gun, — c Take a hole and pour iron round it but it may be enough to suffice for all the needs of this story. Once across the pillow was called a 4 down,’ and a ‘down’ was the day’s task of every scholar who could work quickly enough. When her ‘ down’ was finished the scholar went home, even though time was not up ; if she had not finished by the end of school-time, she was either kept back or punished in some other wa}r. Each scholar paid threepence a-week for this schooling, and gave up her first year’s lace to her mistress; so that if the mistress had not been as honest as Dolly really was in keeping her pupils to their work, she would have kept them to it for her own sake. I speak of Dolly as mistress, for she was so in truth. Tier mother sat amongst the workers during great part of the time, but all the management was Dolly’s, and so was most of the teaching ; and it was always now called Dolly’s school. It was quite a pretty sight on summer days to see all the young workers, neat and tidy, sitting in front of Widow Grey’s cottage, with her in the midst of them, and Dolly moving about now and then to examine progress ; and as you stood by the garden- gate you could hear the ‘ click, click,’ of the bobbins moving merrily. You might stand there and watch without greatly disturbing the scholars, one of the laws of the school being, that to look up from work at any passer-by was a punishable crime. If any one transgressed this law, Mrs. Grey’s hand was pretty sure to administer a sharp tap on the back of the head, which sent the offender’s nose down upon the pins ; a second tap most likely following should the offence be increased by crying. This morning, however, Dolly was maintaining discipline indoors, as you know, for it was a cold March morning. ‘ Oh ! isn’t she a figure of fun? ’ said the elder girl, again, as Tempy returned with her pillow, her hair gathered up in that disorderly fashion and her pina¬ fore hanging untied. ‘ TIush ! ’ said Dolly ; and she took the child by the. hand and led her to a papered door in the wall, as if she were going to put her into a cupboard. ‘ Come upstairs with me ; I can’t have you go like that,’ she said. Just then in walked a neighbour with her lace- pillow ; it was lonely to sit and work at home when her husband had gone out, and she came in for com¬ pany, as neighbours did sometimes. ‘ Where’s Dolly ? Isn’t she keeping school this morning ? ’ she asked. ‘ Gone to tidy up Tempy Eoberts ; she don’t look as if there were a creature to look after her.’ ‘ And she hasn’t brought a bit of lunch with her.’ ‘ And she has not done her down this three days, just so that she mayn’t have to go home, poor little thing ! ’ So spoke some of the elder girls ; saying it eagerly and hurriedly, so as to get their say said before Dolly should appear with her ‘ ITush ! ’ The new-comer tossed her head and said, ‘ I never ! ’ and then took a seat and began her work. Then Dolly came back with her little scholar, who betook herself to her place more shyly than before, feeling now that she was something to look at, having been ‘ tidied up,’ as the others expressed it, by Dolly’s expert hand. ‘Now, then, to reading,’ said Dolly; and she handed a book to the oldest girl, who read to the first full stop and passed it on to the next ; and so it went round and round, some reading, some spelling, until such time as Dolly thought it was time to stop, and then all worked in silence again. ( To be continued.) WITHOUT CHLOROFORM. TYUHING the long siege of the strong fortress of JL/ Metz, many a Frenchman marched out of the city strong and merry to the outposts in the morning and came back in the evening wounded, or remained lying dead on the cold ground. Thus, after the bloody battle of Ladonchamps, together with many other brothers in suffering, a chasseur of the guard returned ; he did not go to the barracks, but to the hospital, with his gun over his shoulder and his right hand in a blood-stained hand¬ kerchief — a Prussian bullet had shattered it. The head-surgeon said to him, ‘ Well, my friend, a little operation will be necessary here ; the bones of the little finger must come away.’ ‘ That is what I have come for, sir,’ was the reply. ‘ Will you be made insensible ? ’ ‘ Yes ; certainly, indeed. I have been suffering out there all night, and I am so worn out that I could scarcely stand the operation otherwise.’ ‘Do you consider being made insensible so very important ? ’ ‘ That’s a strange question, indeed ! Is the stuff, then, that you use for that purpose suddenly become so very scarce ? ’ ‘ Alas, yes ! we have hardly any chloroform left.’ Now our chasseur was silent for some time, and seemed to be thinking ; then he said — ‘ If that’s the case, keep it for those who have to lose arms and legs ; but be quick with me, good surgeon ! ’ Then he stretched out his hand, clenched his teeth meanwhile in his blood-stained handkerchief, and allowed the operation to be performed without utter¬ ing the least cry of pain. ‘ Well, it is over now%’ said the surgeon. ‘ It caused you very great pain, did it not ? ’ ‘ I should think so, indeed ; but it’s done now, and without the chloroform. Among us soldiers, we must help one another as well a3 wre can.’ J. F. 0.

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Stop ! ” cried the bird-seller, amazed, “ They’re all escaping fast!”’

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LIBERTY. COMFOSED EXPRESSLY FOR ‘ CHATTERBOX.’ —0 & * 9 -X— k peace restor’d, re-turn’ d again Brimful of mer-ri -ment, Now peace restor’d, return’d again, Brim- m A It i 4rF1-+g- i n tJ - ful of mer -ad -ment. 0 ©E zS*z EE £ H - h- Copyright . t BRITISH tar, who long had been In foreign prison pent, Now, peace restored, returned again, Brimful of merriment. A man had got some birds for sale Where Jack was passing by, Who glanced at the poor fluttering things With pitying angry eye. Jack paused amid the gaping throng Before the seller’s stall : — ‘Now, hark ye, friend, just name your price For birds, and cage, and all.’ The price was named, the sum was paid. The sailor seized the prize, And, gaily opening wide the door, Out a young linnet flies. ‘ Stop ! ’ cried the bird-seller, amazed, ‘ They’re all escaping fast.’ ‘ That’s right,’ said Jack, and held the door Till all were gone at last. * -Ha(l you,’ said J ack, ‘ been doomed like me, In prison long to lie, You’d better understand, my friend, The sweets of Liberty.’ Songs and Hymns for the Little Ones.

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318 CHATTERBOX. No. XL. THE TWO MULES AND THE ROBBERS. ^pWO mules were travelling of old, Jt Both laden — one with bags of gold ; The other carrying sacks of grain. The former, of his burden vain, Pranced onward with a haughty tread, And rang his bell with tossing head ; The other followed more sedate, With downcast head and modest gait. Thus as they journeyed on their way, Three^robbers, who in ambush lay Within a neighbouring wood, leapt out, With aspect tierce and threatening shout, And in a short unequal fight Put both the muleteers to flight; Then bore the money-bags away, Leaving the Mule, slashed in the fray, His miserable plight to mourn. Then he that carried sacks of corn, Still safe remaining with his load, Said : 4 Truly, the contempt they showed For me, I count as so much gain, Since nought I lose, nor suffer pain.’ The poor man has no need to quail At dangers, which the rich assail W. R. E. intrusion, and, when that failed, he said outright that he had much to think of, and would rather be alone. 4 Well, I can’t say you’re good company/ was the retort ; and then, stopping at the door, the visitor added, 4 By the way, you haven’t any dealings with Party and Co., the flash shop in High Street, you know — all plate-glass and gingerbread ? ’ Wilton turned his head quickly. 4 Why?’ 4 Only they’ve come to grief — smashed and dis¬ appeared. It turns out they were a regular swindle. But, of course, your people would know they were shaky. Well, ta-ta : see you again some day.’ Wilton almost held his breath till the door was shut. The room spun round with him, and his head throbbed. Out of that careless scrap of conversation sprang one word, aud met him everywhere he turned his eyes — ruin ! He had dealings with the shop all plate-glass and gingerbread — large dealings ! And the worst of it was, that he had no business to have had dealings there. The loss would be his, Wilton Ivirke’s, who had not a sovereign to spare — scarcely, indeed, one to call his own, for he was in debt. He remembered all about it now. When any new retail houses sprung up, it was his business to inquire into their character and fiud out, before taking any orders, whether they were perfectly safe. In this instance he had not done so. It was, in fact, a case of wilful neglect. He had been in a hurry to get away — not for business, but because it was race-time. More than that ; he remembered that when he booked that order he had not been quite sober. He was sober enough now. At the first glance, -it seemed that there was just one chance for him — the bill might have been paid. But when he thought about it, lie scorned himself for the pitiable weakness of admitting such a hope. . He knew better. Nowell Brothers trusted him implicitly, and he had forfeited the trust. If, indeed, r after taking all the precautions lie could, and making all proper inquiries, the new firm had broken down, it might have been different. But Wilton was honest altogether, and lie knew that he had made no in¬ quiries and taken no precautions; lie had booked the order in careless haste, and when his head was not clear. If Nowell Brothers came to hear of this — and he could tell no lie about it— where was their trust in him? He knew them well , enough to see before him dismissal, a broken character — ruin ! If he could have taken up the bill at once, making it good out of his own purse, the whole aspect of affairs would have been changed. But, as I have said, he had nothing, and he was in debt. I don’t know what wild schemes passed through his. head that morning, as he walked from window to window of the commercial room, and knew that he ought to get away by the next train, but yet not able to summon courage for the start. As for the plate-glass shop, it turned out to be a swindle from beginning to end. There would be no passing the Bankruptcy Court to give it publicity, that was one thing. It might even, from that remote little town, never reach the ears of Nowell Brothers at all; but what of that? I he default was a fact all the same, and must be ac¬ counted for. • LITTLE SYD. {Concluded from paye 308.) ,L^pV AA4teji!lLTON was offered supper at the ; hotel, which he refused, and went . to bed. In the morning came \\gPVJ recollection, remorse — and worse. * If it had been the first time ! But it was not. Such doings as these W were not of unfrequent occurrence, o i He had hidden them away in the depths of- his memory ; and he * ‘ ' knew that of late they had been more easily fallen into, and re¬ pented of less bitterly. It was not that W il ton liked drinking for its own sake. He did not. But lie liked company, and he liked to do as others did ; and it was his common excuse to say that his way of life tempted him. In his own secret heart, he knew well enough that the excuse was false and hollow ; but still we do like, even to ourselves, to Hoss over the weaknesses and deformities that are hideous in the strong light of truth. Ihis morn- Tii or however, it seemed to Wilton that the worst trial he had ever known fell upon him, suddenly and over¬ whelmingly. One of his friends, more seasoned to | dissipation than himself, came in to see him, and talk | over the unlucky affair of last night. 4 It was vour good wine, old boy, said this man, * and your free hand, lint you look seedy, eh ? Wilton, writhing on his pillow, with Ins head aching and his heart miserable, felt a strong disgust for Ms visitor. He tried, by short answers and scanty courtesy, to rid himself of the unwelcome

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No. XL. CHATTERBOX. 319 One thought there was which made him start, and tremble, and hate himself; but yet it came: ‘If it had not been for Syd, his mother might have helped him.’ ‘Poor little Syd !’ lie said, going back to the lad, who had somehow got into his heart, and as he called it, made a woman of him. ‘ Poor little chap ! what will he think when lie knows ? Put he mustn’t know/ And* then lie remembered that it would be im¬ possible to keep it from him. What would lie think? It was mojre terrible almost to fall before this pale- faced boy, whose passions seemed to be gathered up in some wonderful way under his own control, than before Nowell Prothcr3 themselves. Pie groaned aloud at the thought that it was all over. Perhaps he had never known before how precious the boy’s belief in him had been. It is true that lately, wherc- cver he. went, Syd's face had haunted him reproach¬ fully: almost, at times, it had drawn him away, with its silent wistfulness of repressed power, out "of his reckless down-hill course into some feeble effort after a different life, — almost, but not quite. No : they could not help him at home : but, any¬ how, he must tell them. It would be about the hardest hour’s work he ever did, but it must be done. He could not leave such news as this for his own lips to tell ; he would write to his sister. And when he had written the letter great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and his face, as he saw it for a moment in the glass, was white and haggard, like the face of one who has passed through semj terrible illness. C HAT TER VII. Syd knew. Not all, indeed; not exactly what it was that troubled his cousin Margaret; but he knew, that something did, and he knew how long it was since Wilton had been at home. Pie saw her busy over calculations — rows of figures and notes on scraps of paper : he saw how she would suddenly stop in these reckonings, and let her pencil drop, and her head sink down wearily on her hand. Syd stole up to her one evening, and touched that listless hand softly. ‘ If I were a girl,’ he said, * I should cry to see you. As it is, I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking; and I know there’s something wrong about Will. So tell me what it is, Margaret/ She turned, hopelessly enough, to put him off, and bid him go. back to his books. Put, whether there was something in Syd’s quiet face that gave her for a moment a sort of confidence in him, or whether she was tired out and at her wits’ end, her purpose changed as she looked at him. She took out poor Wilton’s miserable letter and put it into his hands. / You can’t help us,’ she said. ‘ But Will is your friend, Syd. Eemember, when you read this, "that he is fond of you/ Syd made no answer, but his lips curled with a sort of smile. It wasn't very likely lie would forget that. He read the letter, and then went and coiled himself up in his chair in the corner. He was very quiet— quieter even than usual, Margaret thought, - - - - impatiently. But, after all, what good would talking do ? And he was but a lad ; lie knew nothing about such matters. If he had been older, indeed, and more like other people - She got up and went away, glad to remember that; there was, at any rate, plenty for her to do which must not be neglected. When she came back Syd had got his writing materials, and was seated at the table in her place. ‘ You made a mistake, Margaret,’ said the boy, his face lighting up. 4 1 can help ; that is exactly "what I can do. I am writing to Will. You seem to for¬ get, all of you,’ added Syd, a little excited and in- ' jured, 4 that I have money, and - ’ 4 Syd ! it was to take you to Torquay/ 4 It is not , then. Do you think I don’t know better > what I owe you all, Margaret ? Do you think any¬ thing could make me so happy as to be able to help Will ? There — I can’t talk about it. You say I’m only a boy. Well, you are only a girl, and you don’t understand. I would give my right hand for Will, that’s all.’ But Syd was never to know the passion of pain and self-reproach his letter caused. Will read it, alone, in the small parlour of an inn which he would have scorned some weeks ago. He was already beginning to lay the scourge upon the habits which had brought his trouble ; already lopping off from his daily life the indulgences which" had grown to be almost necessary to him. They were not to be so any longer.. Nevertheless, he did this in a kind of despair: his case was hopeless, and it did not seem to matter much what he did. Out of this utter wretchedness he was roused by Syd’s outburst of eager happiness in the hope of being some use to Wilton, who had been so good to him. 4 Good V Poor Will repeated the word aloud, covered his haggard face, and remembered — all. Was this boy, towards whom, in his first selfish thoughts, he had been actually cruel, and whose very existence lie had, as it were, resented, to be the means of saving him ? Could he take Syd’s money ? Could he so far trust his new resolution, and the glimmer of hope that had come with the lad’s generous letter ? In a year, he thought, by hard pinching, it might be paid back, and he should be saved. If it had only been his own misery, he might have refused ; but there was his mother, and Syd himself, and Margaret. He wanted to do what was right, at any cost to himself ; but then, in sacrificing himself, should he not bring sorrow upon all those who loved him ? He had to argue the question out for himself, however, and, after that, to fight his own battle. 1 think we will put a veil over that. ITe had to begin afresh to seek help where help is surely to be found ; he had to.be tormented by the clinging of those old habits, which he knew must be cut off ; lie had to be often downcast, tried, and tempted— terribly ! and * these things may be easy to write about, but hard to endure. We can go down-hill easiljr enough, but we can only get back again step by step, wearily. But there is grace and strength that is given to the self- distrusting penitent; and in that strength Wilton !. Kirke at length won the victory, and little Syd’s sacrifice was not made in vain.

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320 CHATTERBOX. No. XL. * “ Tell me what it is,” said Syd.

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No. XLI. CHATTERBOX. 321 ‘ Squib ’ and the Feather.

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322 CHATTERBOX. No XLI. 6 CQUIB ’ AND THE FEATHER. dog Squib is a black-and-tan terrier, 3;^ \ with a smooth, glossy coat.- W ithin tfw- \ a s^10rt wa^ °* our bouse there is 'M, \(Mfr a large mill-pond, with an island 'm ^ie mbldle, and here and there a very deep hole, in which the water is so clear that one can see C* H the springs of water bubbling Ay.X - up from the bottom and sides, and \/l\ stirring up its chalky bed, giving •j®* the appearance of little clouds of ? smoke issuing from craters, so that we have named them 4 the yolcanoes., On this pond there are a number of swans and small water-fowl. It is the custom of swans to plume themselves ; and this pluming brings a good many of their beautiful feathers to the edge of the water. Having often tried to get some of these, I one day thought of asking Squib by signs, as well as words, to get one out for me, and this he did again and again successfully. I am sorry to say upon one occasion I slyly pushed him in just as lie was getting the feather. He did not forget this piece of treachery, as I afterwards found out ; for some months after, when I asked him to get a feather out, he refused, and stood barking at the feather, and no persuasions could get him near the water. I walked on thinking I must give up my feather, but presently I heard a pattering of feet, and looking round I saw Squib with the feather in his mouth : he had waited until I was at a safe distance, not wishing to run the risk of another wetting. I think this little story gives- an instance of the powers of memory and reasoning which dogs possess, but, best of all, it is an example of returning good for evil, such as we do not always* meet with in mankind. Winifred. Presently, out came Dolly from her mother’s cot¬ tage close by, her sleeves turned up above her elbows and a coarse apron tied round her, and with a good- natured word or two for any children in her way she passed down the street towards the church. She had not seen Tempv standing apart, or most likely she would have hidden her go and play with the others ; but Tempy saw her, and turned and watched her, and in a little while trotted off in the same direction. Dolly was, she knew, going* to sweep and dust the church. She would go and see her do it. She liked to be near Dolly, and she had often gone down with her on Saturdays before now. So Tempy trotted off to the church and went in,, and presently crept up the aisle nearer and nearer to* where Dolly was already busy rolling back the matting. Then Dolly turned and saw her, and told her she might sit in yonder seat and mind the brooms and the dusters for her : which, considering the brooms and dusters never cried like that fat baby- boy at the window, and seemed to have no wish to stray like the pigs and fowls, was easy work, even for such a little thing as Tempy. There was some one else busy in the church besides Dolly ; but Tempy did not care about watch¬ ing her. It was that same neighbour-woman who had brought her pillow into the school on that morn¬ ing on which Tempy had made her disorderly ap¬ pearance, and had to be taken upstairs to be made tidy : the same woman who had tossed her head and said, 4 1 never ! ’ when the girls told her about it all. This woman kept talking to Dolly from the farther end of the church, much as if she were calling from her own washing-tub in her own yard to a washing- tub a few doors off. Dolly did not answer much, and when she answered she spoke in a much lower tone ; but the other went on unceasingly. In the midst of her talking another woman came in : looked up and down the church, and at last said, 4 Can you tell me where Temperance is ? They said she was here/ 4 So she is. There she is behind the pulpit. She don’t see you, she’s looking the other way.’ Tempy had turned from watching Dolly to amuse herself with what she called the picture-windows ; and was just then gazing at one in particular. It was one which had always kept her quiet when first she came to church, and was too little to say 4 Our Father,’ and much too little to listen to the sermon. She could not remember that time, but Dolly told her that so it had begn, and Dolly had known her all her life : and even now, when* she was older and could say 4 Our Father,’ and could sing a little, she liked to look at it in the sermon time! It was the Good Shepherd window; Tempy thought the Good Shepherd’s crimson robe so beautiful, and His face so beautiful*; the lamb*, too, in His arms looked so comfortable, and seemed to be sleeping, as if it were tired and very glad to be carried. She was never weary of looking at that picture-window, more beautiful by far than anything she had ever seen in Mrs. Grey’s big Eible. She was startled out of her quiet pleasure by feel¬ ing herself shaken rather sharply by the arm. SOME IDLE WORDS. ( Continued from p. 310.) CHAPTER II. T was Saturday morning. The ;~rS'$£ village street, so quiet during five (W 1 u out of the six working-days of the . ® week, was noisy now with children. 1 j5y3 There were knots of boys spinning y ) K \/$\ their peg-tops here and there, there v Jlml l were boys and girls running races ’ hi front of the closed school-house, and there was a fat baby-boy at a window opposite crowing at them ** and beating at the rattling glass. There were no bobbins clicking to-day ; all the women seemed to be busy cleaning up for Sunday. Sundry pigs and fowls, which on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, had roamed un¬ molested beyond their lawful boundaries, led a hard life this morning, being hunted in all directions, up street, down street, anywhere, with a great confusion of cries from themselves and their pursuers. Neither joining in the games nor indifferent to them stood our friend Tempy; shyly apart from the other children a little way, but plainly enjoying it all in her own fashion— which was simply to look on.

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No. XLI. CHATTERBOX. 323 1 Didn't you hear me call you ? Could I call you at the top of my voice in church? Come!’ And she was quickly dislodged from her place beside the brooms and dusters, and made to understand that she must follow the person who had sought her. The woman sweeping at the farther end of the church paused in her work, with her hands on the top of her broom-handle, and watched the two : watched the clouded face of the woman and the piteous look of the child. Dolly stopped and watched them also, and she stepped forward as if to speak ; but Mrs. Roberts passed her without any notice. 4 Mayn’t I stay along with you, Dolly ? ’ whispered Tempy, clutching at Dolly’s gown. ;JNot if your mother wants you, — another time, perhaps,’ answered Dolly kindly: and at the same moment Mrs. Roberts turned and looked angrily at them, took the child by the hand and hurried her out of the church. 4 1 never ! ’ said the woman at the farther end. ‘"What would poor ’Lisabeth have said to see the poor little dear pulled about like that ? ’ Doily did not answer; much the same thoughts were in her own mind. As for Tempy she trotted on silently,, dragged along a little too quickly maybe for her little feet, and looking unhappy ; most children would have had a tear for such an occasion, but with Tempy it was .not so, she only looked unhappy. The children play¬ ing in front of the school-house paused to pity and to wonder. 4 1 would not like her new mother, would you? Don’t she look cross?’ said one. . 4 What’s she going to do with Tempy?’ said another. 4 She won’t let her come to lace-school now, nor anything. 1 wouldn’t be Tempy.’ And I would not willingly have been Tempy, nor would you, reader ; for she was very unhappy : nor would I have been the 4 new mother ’ either, for she was unhappy also. The child was the pet of the village ; petted — not only because she was a gentle, pretty little thing, but furthermore because she was so much to be pitied ; for her mother, who had also been a great favourite and Dolly’s chief friend, died when Tempy was hardly a year old. The little girl was then placed in the care of Mrs. Grey, and had remained with her nearly ever since, that is to say, nearly up to the time at which our story opens ; at which time, you know, she was somewhere about seven years old ; when her father married again, and Mrs. Grey and Dolly had to give up their little charge. The 4 new mother,’ as the village children called her, came from a place some miles distant, and was quite a stranger amongst them. Of course all the village had its cars and eyes wide open to see how the new mother would behave. Every one was eager for an insight into her ways and her household, since she was not one of them¬ selves ; and every one tried to make acquaintance with her, and to find excuse for dropping in for a chat : but she did not appear in the least desirous of making friends; she was very civil, and that was all; so it was decided that she ‘thought herself a deal too good for her neighbours,’ which did not incline them in her fa /our. They could not make up their mind as to how she treated little Tempy ; she seemed tidy and respectable herself, and she kept the child neat and tidy at pre¬ sent: ‘but that might be only for show, you know,’ said the gossips one to another. ‘Or it may be because she likes tidiness ; it has nothing to do with being kind or unkind: at all events, it can’t be like her own mother — oh, no!’ And so by little and little, by guesses and doubts, a general feeling grew up that the new mother was not overkind to Tempy. From the child herself nothing could be learnt, she was too quiet to say anything without being ques¬ tioned ; and if you questioned her you would get nothing much beyond a mere yes or no. It never struck peoplq that there might be nothing to complain of when they shook their heads so knowingly and so dolefully, and said 4 She won’t complain, poor little dear ! ’ ' . Mrs. Grey and her daughter were, however, as I must tell you, exceptions in this, as in all other mat¬ ters of gossip. They had the rare power of keeping their tongues silent, and of abstaining from any share in gossip or mischief-making at all times. 4 Dear me, I don’t know ! I’ve nought to do with other people’s affairs,’ Dolly would say when ap¬ pealed to, and so elie contrived to keep out of quarrels. On that morning on which Tempy came to school with her hair and her dress in such disorder, and no luncheon in her hand, the scholars were quick to explain it as their own mothers would have explained it: they set it down at once to her having no one to care for her, and being, as they said, 4 too little to do anything much for herself; and the story you may be sure was repeated in many homes that same day. 4 Why ever did you come out like this?’ Dollv had said upstairs, during the tidying process. ‘Didn’t your mother see you?’ ‘Yes.’ 4 Didn’t she say you weren’t fij: to be seen?’ 4 Yes/ ‘You didn’t give her time to set you straight — that’s what it was, I* expect; but you mustn’t do that again, and you mustn’t come away without your luncheon another time: do youjiear?’ 4 Yes,’ and that was all. At home, something like this had happened before Tempy started for school. 4 What’s the use of my teaching you to be tidy if ou don’t mind what I say? You can do your hair etter than that now. Go and do it nice before you go to school, and let me see.’ , Upon which Tempy had made some vain efforts to make a straight path in her hair, instead of a crooked one, with a little worse result than before, and came to present herself to her stepmother for approval ; but she had taken so long over her toilet that Mrs. Roberts was by that time down the garden feeding the pig, and ever so many children had gone by to school, so Tempy thought herself free to go ; never heeding the slice of bread which lay on the table for her, and which Mrs. Roberts perceiving on her return had put into the cupboard, saying, 4 If she doesn’t take it, let her go without it ; ’ and that was all that happened in this quarter either. {To be continued,)

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THE DEVIL FISH. vKOM time to time I have had the pleasure of giving the readers of Chat¬ terbox some short accounts of a few of the inhabitants of the sea; the objects which I have hitherto selected have mostly been of a pleasing nature, and remarkable for beauty of form and colour. Dut now I must call the attention of my young friends to a submarine creature, so hideous in shape, so murderous and bloodthirsty in disposition, and altogether so ter¬ rible and repulsive, that it has received the dreadful name of ‘ the Devil Fish.’ This monster lives amongst the rocks beneath the waves in a hole or cave, where it watches quietly for its prey: it possesses eight long arms or tentacles, joined together at the base by a sort of web: on the inner surface of each arm is a double* row of suckers (numbering about 240), and very terrible in¬ struments of torture these arms and suckers are. The head of the Devil Fish is covered with rough protuberances, and the eyes are large and prominent, and ornamented with three spikes. In a book called the Toilers of the Sea there is an interesting description of this marine monster, from which I will give a few extracts : — ‘ If terror were the object of its creation, nothing could be imagined more perfect than the Devil Fish. This frightful apparition is of a greyish colour : its outline is ragged, resembling an umbrella closed, and without handle. This irregular mass advances slowly — suddenly it opens, and eight radii issue abruptly from around a face with two eyes ; it springs upon its prey ; it winds itself around the sufferer, covering and entangling him in its longfolds: it adheres closely, and cannot be torn away. YVhen in ambush it grows smaller, and condenses itself ; at such times it looks like a mere ripple in the water . . . The Devil Fish not only swims, but walks : it crawls upon the bed of the sea, making use of its eight feelers. It has no blood, no bones, no flesh : it is soft and flabby : a skin with nothing inside : its tentacles may be turned inside out like the fingers of a glove. To the bather no horror can equal the sudden apparition of the Devil Fish. It is with the suck¬ ing apparatus that it attacks ; it is not a clawing or a biting, but a sucking of the life-blood away . . °. He draws you to him, and into himself, and while bowed down powerless you feel yourself gradually emptied into the horrible pouch, which is the monster himself.’ The Octopus, or Devil Fish, grows to a great size ; a specimen has lately been captured, the body of which is said to have been sixty feet in length ! It was caught by two fishermen in Conception Day, and an illustration of one of its huge tentacles, thirty-five feet in length, was given in The Field of Dec. 13th, 1873. The sketch I give of the Devil Fish is copied from a drawing by Verany, a French naturalist, who has paid great attention to the family of Cuttle Fish. A. C. Wheeley. THE ENGINE-DRIVER. AXWARD flies the rushing train, Now in sunshine, now in rain ; — Now through pleasant banks we ride, Now o’er fenland stretching wide. Now it is a forest nook, Now a village by a brook, Now a tunnel, black as night, Shutting all things from the sight.

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The Engine-Driver.

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326 CHATTERBOX. No. XLT. * Now through meadows green we sweep, Now below a wooded steep, Now by smoky hives of men, Now through quiet fields again. % Still the fiery steeds obey, Still we rattle on our way ; Now beneath the placid moon Silvering the woods of June ; Now beneath a wilder sk}r, Where the moon rides fast and high ; Now through snow-flakes on the blast, To the lights of home at last. Who is he that drives the train, In the sunshine and the rain ; Weather-beaten, bluff and strong, Hero worthy of a song ? Who more earnest, brave and true, In the work he has to do ? First in danger, first in blame, No man earns a nobler name. Heath and havoc may be wrought. By the wandering of a thought; By a signal wrongly read, Blood may be upon his head. As we travel, here and there, Softly let us breathe a prayer, — 4 Keep, 0 Lord, his hand and eye, And be with us as we fly !’ G. S. 0. somewhat overdone with vegetation: but as the owners and occupiers of the Hall were never heard to find fault with it on this account, I do not know why you or I should. When I speak .of the vege¬ tation, you must understand that the Hall itself i stood quite clear of anything of the kind. You would, of course, fancy that it was covered with ivy, hut it was not: not a leaf of ivy .ever grew upon it. Or von might fancy that a mountain-ash had just found earth enough in a crack of an old wali to deposit its root: but there was nothing of this kind cither : even mos3 seemed unwilling to grow upon the old house. Some dark marks upon the walls were said by curious visitors, who had studied botany very closely, to be of a vegetable character ; hut how they proved it, or whether they ever proved it at all, is more than I can say. You want to know who lived in the old house. That is very natural, and I can easily satisfy your curiosity. At the time of my story no one lived in it. It was quite deserted, though no one knew exactly why. There was no story about ghosts, and indeed there was nothing that could he well made into a haunted chamber by the most excited imagin¬ ation. It was not unwholesome ; I told you that the owners and occupiers, when there were any, had never complained of damp : so it could not be that; nor was it the stylo of architecture that was objectionable, for there were a great many modern houses in the neighbourhood, which looked as if they had been copied by some ingenious archi¬ tect from Hugglethorpe Hall, and which contained comfortable, well-to-do inhabitants. No! it has often puzzled me, when I have speculated upon the pro¬ bable reason of the desertion of the old Hall. To be sure there was no hoard put up to say that it was to let, and so, perhaps, a great many people might think that it was occupied: but upon reflection, I think this could scarcely be the reason ; there was a desolate look about the old house, a stillness, a want of movement (so to speak), which must have proclaimed that the building was empty, and must have led any one, who wanted such a thing, to believe that the house and premises might be had unfurnished at a remarkably low price. I have told you that a number of modern houses in the neighbourhood seemed as if they had been copied from the old Hall. And this suggests to me that I ought to tell you something about the style in which Hugglethorpe Hall was built. He must have been an original architect who designed it. Gothic? — No. Tudor? — No. Renaissance? — No. It is of no use for you to go on guessing, because the stylo was so peculiar that I am quite sure there is no* name that properly describes it. The entrance was large as compared with the house, and the chief strength of the architect had apparently been thrown into the entrance-hall : it was certainly very fine, and it was ingeniously managed, that every chamber in the house could be reached immediately from this hall; so that you had no staircases, no back-entrances, no narrow passages, and none of the complications usual in old houses. When you had seen the entrance-hall you might be said to have seen everything. It might be thought by some that, it was too dark, and certainly, if I had been obliged THE OLD HOUSE. [In a literary club of young persons, ‘ The Old House* was giveh as the subject of a story. The 7^ following is the contribution of one of the members.] AM going to tell you a story about a 1 1 u/ y an old bouse. Very old was this old 1 ' \ h°llse : not veiT roomy : nofc very % <j-a) ruinous, the' roof still sound and /gd ^ weather-proof : not very stout walls, \ certainly, not nearly so thick as you ^PiVj) may And in many ancient castles, or in the Tower of London: rather dirty, as you might expect; for there were not many housemaids to keep it clean: still, it seemed as though it might stand for sometime to come, barring accidents, such as fire, tempest, and the like. I never thought its name had at all a pleasant sound ; and if the wisdom of our ancestors had not been to a certain extent involved in the matter, I should have protested against the name, as barbarous and difficult to pronounce distinctly. 4 Hugglethorpe Hall,’ that was the name of the old house. The people who lived near it seldom pronounced . it, which is not veiy surprising : only think of saying 4 Hugglethorpe Ilall ’ twenty times over ! what a job you would find it ! But the situation of Hugglethorpe Hall was much prettier than its name. It stood in a richly-wooded country : hills all round it, and a blight stream run¬ ning just below it. If the situation had a fault, it was that it might be regarded as a trifle damp,

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No. XLI. CHATTERBOX. 327 to live in the house, I should have complained of the way in which the interior twisted about, giving you a turn here and a corner there, and becoming darker and narrower the further you went into it. .But then I am told that the architect had good reasons for the construction ; and as so many modern houses have been built after the.sa;n'e fashion, I suppose that it must have been found practically convenient. Whatever might be thought by any one, however, upon this point, there can be no difference of opinion as to the beauty and ingenuity of the roof: it was ■ in a certain way groined, but you never saw such groining in any ordinary building; the roof of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge, would be nothing as compared with it. It seemed to be all in one piece, and looked like enamel upon stone. This enamel, or what¬ ever it was, had worn wonderfully well, and some of the original colouring of the walls and roof could be plainly seen when the sun shone brightly on the old house. • But you will think that I shall never get on with my story, so I must be content with the picture I have given you of the old house, and must make haste to tell you what happened to it. It was a lovely afternoon in spring. The winter had been very severe ; the snow had come down day after day in a manner not remembered by the oldest inhabitant; the robin redbreasts died by tens and hundreds, notwithstanding all the bread-crumbs which good little boys and girls gave them after breakfast. Hugglethorpe Hall was, as I may say, literally buried in snow many times in the course of that terrible winter. It was, perhaps, well that nobody lived it, as any one who did so would scarcely have been able to endure the cold. It seemed as if spring never would come: but it did come at last. The crocuses and wild hyacinths were amongst the first signs that nature had not been frozen to death ; then the birds began to chirp and to build their nests ; the rooks cawed, and the sparrows twittered, and the robin redbreasts which had sur¬ vived looked as pretty and saucy as if nothing particular had happened : and, in fact, spring had returned with all that gentleness, and sweetness, and fulness of delight, of which we read so much in Thomson’s Seasons, and of which, unfortunately, we see so little in plain prose experience. But, as I said, it was a lovely afternoon in spring. The old Hall looked bright and comfortable, and perhaps all the cleaner and better for the tremendous white-washing which it had undergone. People began to move about freely, and to enjoy themselves after the long winter, and to say to one another, ‘Well, spring is come at last!’ On the lovely afternoon in question a traveller was seen walking slowly, or I might almost say crawling, along the road which led to Hugglethorpe Hall. He was a queer little creature, if ever there was one. He was even worse than queer; he was positively disagreeable in his appearance. He was thickly set, but not bony; on the other hand, he might be described as flabby, fleshy, almost glutinous. He scarcely possessed a neck, but seemed, as it were, all in a lump. Then he had such queer, long ears, which he seemed to shoot out from his head, and which he had the power of tucking up quite closely if he felt disposed to do so. I cannot con¬ ceive any more unpleasant companion in a third- class railway carriage. His coat reached down to his feet, ancl was of a grey colour, spotted with yellow and white ; you could see no other dress except this overall coat. I am speaking now of his external appearance, and perhaps we ought not to condemn him for that ; but 1 suspect he was as queer in character as he was in look; — what you would describe as a slimy, slippery fellow. He seemed to be quite a stranger; he had evi¬ dently travelled a considerable distance : he dragged himself along as if he was weary, and seemed to take little interest in anything that he saw. At length he came to the old Hall, and there he stopped : he deposited himself upon a heap of stones just opposite, and for the first time appeared to take an interest in the scene in the midst of which he found himself. Hugglethorpe Hall ! to be let un¬ furnished ? Is it possible that it is at length to find a tenant ? and if it is to be tenanted, cannot some more respectable party than this be found to occupy it? The traveller left his resting-place upon the heap of stones, moved slowly across the road, and all the while gazed at the old house with intense interest. He seemed to think that it would suit him, but he wandered about as though he scarcely knew whether to go to the front-door or the back-door, or — no — there was no back-door, so there could be no difficulty about that;, it must be the front¬ door, or not at all. So, accordingly, the queer little traveller presented himself at the front-door; no occasion to knock or ring the bell, for the entrance- hall was wide open. 1 have told you all about the entrance-hall, so you will easily understand the effect produced upon the eyes and mind of the queer visitor in the long coat. He looked in. ‘ A fine place,’ he said to himself : ‘ it would have been . exactly the place for me, if I had not accustomed myself to such a vagabond life: a cousin of mine once lived in just such a house, and said it fitted him to a T.’ ‘It’s a cobwebby sort of a place,’ continued the traveller, musing with himself. ‘ I think I will just ufalk in, and see whether it is really empty.’ So in he went, and finding there was no one there and nothing to eat, he determined to go out again ; when — oh, dear! what can the matter be? Going out again is no such easy thing ; what is it so heavy upon the traveller’s back as he goes? Something follows him ! Why, it is the house itself! As lie moves the house moves : it fits him like a new coat. Don’t struggle! it’s all of no use ! you can’t get free from the old house ! You will remember, reader, the stream that flowed just below Hugglethorpe Hall : what is to prevent the traveller and the old house from rolling into it together? Take care, my little fellow, with that house on your back you and Hugglethorpe Hall are likely to go on a voyage of discovery. A shout from the old garden-walk, and two child¬ ren are watching, with delighted curiosity, a slug struggling in an old empty snail-shell, in which it is floating. down upon the stream. F. W. G.

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CHATTERBOX No. XLI. 323 The Old House.

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No. XLII. CHATTERBOX. Kobin on the Apples. u o

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330 CHATTERBOX. N0. XLIT. ROBIN ON THE APPLES. SLY Robin-redbreast ! 0 fie, robbing Robin ! I hardly can ]ook at you there without sobbing. When the dark blast is howling, and harder and harder The cold earth is frozen, and lean grows your larder, You hop to my window, and beg for your dinner, And never in vain — the thaw finds you no thinner. Rut — how do you answer your kind benefactor? Say, how do you pay him, you sly little actor ? There you dine at your ease on my red-breasted apple, With an innocent leer; like a thief in a chapel ; So, in winter I feed you, beguiled by your graces, And in summer you rob me, you bird of two faces ! 0 fie on such treason ! you know it, you varlet ! And that’s why your bosom is crimson and scarlet. Rut still, I forgive you ; when Cuckoos are mute, And dainty Miss Nightingale pockets her lute, And Swallows arc packing up anxious to fly, Like the friends that forsake us when trouble is nigh, When on the drear river the yellow leaves float, Friend born for adversity, blithe is thy note ! For your sweet* autumn ditties your poaching I pardon, As long as you carol you’re free of my garden ; To you, as to me, every apple belongs, I find vou the feast and you pay me with songs. * - G. S. 0. * ‘ Many songsters of tlie autumn seem to he the cock Redbreast of that year ; notwithstanding the prejudices in their favour, they do much mischief in gardens to the summer fruits.’ — White’s Sclbornc, p. 188. too, and none the worse, perhaps, for having ‘a mind of her own.’ There was no sign of poverty about her house, her children, her husband, or her¬ self. This was mainly owing to her good manage¬ ment, for her husband’s earnings were not large. # One afternoon, Tom, instead of returning home direct from school, as he should have done, turned into the blacksmith’s forge. There was no one there except the apprentice, and he, in the absence of his master and the journeymen, was puffing away at a dirty pipe, loaded with strong tobacco. A very little persuasion led Tom to follow the example. A pipe was found and filled ; and presently the boy, already half stupefied, was on his way to his cottage-home. Just as he was entering the door his mother caught sight of him, and, quick as thought, pounced upon the culprit as I have described. _ Tom, however, did not feel disposed to part with his pipe so easily. 4 Why mayn’t I smoke, mother, as well as - ? 9 Tom’s words were cut short by another hearty shake, and, ‘ I’ll soon let you know why,’ from his mother. 6 Give me the nasty pipe, I say ! ’ £ Don’t shake me so, mother,’ cried Tom, woefully ; and then he added, ‘ Father smokes tobacco, and you don’t say “ nasty pipe ” to him.’ e Your father does as he likes ; and when you are a man, and have a house of your own, and earn your own wages, you may smoke too, if you see fit, — I shan’t try to hinder you, anyhow : but you are not going to spend my money on the nasty stuff, nor yet poison my house with your smoke, you silly boy ! So give up the pipe at once, or it will be the worse for your ears,* I reckon.’ There was a spectator of this scene of whom neither Mrs. Larkins nor Tom were at the time aware, so eager was the one in her attack and the other in his defence. This spectator was none other than Larkins himself,, who had come home from work a little earlier than usual, and was entering the cottage with a pipe in his mouth, when he was stopped on the door-sill with what he saw and heard. Half amused and half troubled, the carpenter sud¬ denly laid his hands on Tom’s shoulder, snatched his pipe from his unwilling hand, and threw it out on the road with such force that it was broken into a dozen pieces. ‘Don’t let me catch you doing that again, Tom,’ said he, sternly. And then he added, more softly, ‘You’re a chip of the old block, Tom, I suppose ; but, anyway, it will be time enough for you to learn to smoke when you have got a house of your own to smoke in, as your mother sa3rs, and money to spend on the “ nasty stuff,” as your mother calls it.’ Tom yielded to his fate, and presently sat down to supper. Rtit it was little that he could eat. His pale face told what was the matter, and he was sent off to bed. Larkins did not enjoy his pipe so much as usual that night after supper. As he sat on one side of the fireplace he felt that his wife’s eyes were sometimes turned upon him with some meaning ; and also that there were tears ready to start from them. At last he spoke, — ‘ You were making short work with Tom just now, Nancy.’ ‘A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.’ /~10ME, give it to me this minute, sir ! ’ said Mrs. Larkins, as she seized hold of her son Tom by the collar; and gave him a hearty shake with one hand, while she reached out the other towards a short, dirty-looking pipe which she had caught him in the very act of smoking. Tom was about twelve years old, and a big boy of his age. In general, his mother had nothing to complain of respecting him. He went to the Na¬ tional School, and was well spoken of by the master for. his attention and industry. His worst fault was, that he was a bit obstinate and self-willed. He had arrived at an age when he began to think himself more than a child — almost a man, in fact — and that he had a light to do what he liked, and to copy from all the young men around his home. He was ' partly taught this by keeping company with the ap¬ prentice at the village forge, where Tom spent too much of his out-of-school time. For, to tell the truth, the blacksmith’s apprentice was not the best teacher or companion that could have been found for Tom. As to Tom’s father, he was a hard-working carpenter, and was absent all day long at his shop, two miles away. So the management of Tom, as well as of the younger children, was pretty much left to the mother. _ ^ * Mrs. Larkins was a capital housewife, as vou could teh with a half-glance at her living-room. The place was always clean and tidy ; and so, indeed, was Mrs. Larkins herself. She was a good wife and mother

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No. XLI1. CHATTERBOX. 331 4 I should think so ! A little rebel ! He to smolce tobacco, indeed ! I’ll smoke him, if lie does ! 1 4 Why, Nancy, you never complain of my doing it. You don’t say ‘'nasty stuff” when I smoke.’ * ‘ No, I don’t say it,’ said his wife. ‘Maybe you think it, though,’ said the husband. There was a long silence ; till, presently, Larkins spoke again, very slowly, — 4 If Tom takes to smoking — and then to drinking — and then to regular public-housing — and then to - ’ Here Larkins stopped short. 4 Well, and what then, John?’ said Mrs. Larkins, with another of her meaning looks. 4 Then, I suppose he’ll say that I taught him the first lesson, at any rate; and that he's a chip of the old block.’ 4 1 dare sa}r lie will, John. It is what you your¬ self said of him just now. “You’re a chip of the old block,” said you. But what then? Why shouldn’t Tom say it?’ asked Nancy, again. 4 There ! ’ said Larkins, dashing his pipe on the hearth : ‘that’s my last pipe for a while. Tom shan’t have to lay that to me, anyhow.’ — The Cottcujer. 4 BLRD-STABVING.’ (The Berkshire term for ‘ Bird-kucpimj.’) SOTWAS Autumn, and the ripening grain X Hung heavy on the bonding stems ; Bright berries made the hedgerows gay, And shone among the leaves like gems. The cottage gardens told the tale Of spring and summer passed away*; Blossoms lay dead, and in their place Hung the brown nuts and apples gay. And of those gardens there was one, Which told of changes far more sad — Of want of care, where care had been ; Of sorrow, where once all was glad. Along the pathway hand-in-hand Toddled a smiling fair-haired pair: They called for 4 Daddy,’ but in vain, No voice save theirs ran£ through the air. Lather was sick and far away, And mother’s face was full of care; There were so many little ones — A burden sad alone to bear. Y\ here could she turn for daily food, Now that 4 her nian’ had wages none, And Tom was only ten years old, Add was their first, their eldest sor. ? That morn she’d been to Farmer White, To tell him of her trouble sore : He listened, gave some trifling aid. 4 Was sorry, but could do no more.’ Then added, 4 Stop a bit — let’s see — We’ve just begun to cut the corn ; "W e want a lad the birds to starve — Send Tom to me to-morrow morn.’ When Tom came whistling home from school His mother told him of the plan, How he should go and starve the birds, And be a useful little man. j 4 You know, dear boy, ’tis now six wdeks Since the sad day of father’s fall, And we’re so poor, I hardly know, Sometimes, how I can feed you all. So Farmer says that you may go And starve the birds among the wheat ; The pay is bad, but it will bring A bit of bread for us to eat.’ Meanwhile Tom listened, whistling soft, With downcast eyes and cheeks of red : 4 Could it be true they were so poor ? And was there lack of daily bread? Must he go out, and starve the birds — He , the best bov in all the school? Why, Jimmy Build did work like that, And he was counted half a fool. I’d not have minded something great,’ He muttered with an angry pout*; ‘But fancy setting such as me To frighten birds with scream and shout! Why, I’m the top of all the school, Can read and write, do sums and sing; Just fancy how the boys will grin To see me doing such a thing! ’ The morrow came, he took his place, Shouted and swung his rattle round, Till when the day waxed hot and long He stretched himself upon the ground. Some time he gazed upon the sky, Where floated clouds so soft and round; But clouds and sky soon distant grew, And little Tom slept fast and sound. And then the birds most busy grew, Chirruped, and pecked, and hopped about ; They took their fill from ground and sheaf, All undisturbed by cry or shout. They said among themselves, I think, When they spied out where Tommy lay, 4 We much prefer this kind of thing To when Jim Budd kept us away. Why, when Jim came we’d not a chance So much as once our crops to till ; While here to-day we’ve fed like kings, While Tommy lies and sleeps so still ! ’ How long he slept Tom never knew. At last he woke up in a fright, And found that, standing by his side, Were Jimmy Budd and Farmer White. And Farmer White was very cross, And bade him 4 not lie snoring there. Was that the way he did his work ? If so — he’d better have a care ; As farmers only took sharp lads ( Like Jimmy here, hot dolts like him.’ So Tom slunk off to work again, And felt his eyes with tears grow dim. ’Twas so vexatious to be found Lying asleep by that boy Jim — He, who could neither read or write, Nor even say by heart a hymn !

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But mother, when that night she came And sat beside his little bed, To hear how he had passed the day, Stroked his brown hair, and gently said, 4 Ah, Tommy! we must never set About a task, however small, With thoughts of pride; for if we do, Our pride will surely have a fall.’

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THE KING AIM'D HIS OLD SCHOOLMASTER. AFTER having studied at the College of Pan, his native town, and passed brilliant examinations, Bernadotte became a great captain under Napoleon, then an able minister, and finally he ascended the throne of Sweden, under the name of Charles John. One day, coming out of his palace to review his troops, he observed an old man pushing his way through the crowd which surrounded him, and

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334 CHATTERBOX. No. XLII. come and throw himself at his feet, evidently much affected, and not able to pronounce a word, but with his eyes filled with tears, and holding in his hand, which lie waved in the air, a little silver medal sus¬ pended to a faded ribbon. King Charles John fixed for some time his eyes upon the medal : it was the first he had won at the primarily school of his native town. He recognised it, and his heart beat. He raised up the old man who was showing it to him from tlie ground : lie was his first schoolmaster. Much moved, lie embraced and conducted him to his palace, and only allowed him to leave some weeks after, to return to live under the sky of France, and with promise of a pension which liis grateful royal scholar had secured to him. E. II. C. SOME IDLE WOKDS. (Continued from page 323.) OME few days after this Mrs. Koberts went to take a bundle of clothes to the mangle, and the owner of the mangle, a great talker and very anxious to get into the good graces of every new-comer, and specially anxious to make acquaintance with this ncw-coiner about whom every one was so curious, began a talk.* First, she hoped that Mrs. Koberts was well : and then she hoped that she would never have the rheumatics she herself had ; and then she did hope that she would be happy and get more thanks than stepmothers generally did get — more than she had got, herself, in her time. 4 Ah ! I know how to feel for you, Mrs. Kohcrfs ; and I do say it is a shame to say a word against you, specially when you haven’t had time to" be either kind or unkind yet. But it’s the way of the world, Mrs. Koberts, and I'm sorry for you ; that’s all I can sav.’ This was enough for Mrs. Koberts to go home and think upon. People spoke against her, then, and what for ? She could not see what they had to say against her, and she felt angry. Next, she began to feel a desire to know what any one could have found to say, and after thinking and thinking, and tormenting herself for a day or two, she contrived to want some more mangling done very soon. 4 It’s a rare place for gossip, I warn ye,’ Koberts had said to her at the beginning ; ‘ it takes a still tongue here to keep the peace, as ye’ll find.’ And Mrs. Koberts, who rather prided herself upon her still tongue, said she had no doubt it did. So now, as she carried her bundle to the mangle again, she had no intention to break the peace by the use of her tongue. All she meant to do was to listen to a neighbour's tongue which was given to move more freely than her own. It was not long before that ready tongue gave her her wish. It began as before with the most anxious inquiries as to health and happiness, and presently went on to say how deeply she felt for all stepmothers, and for this one in particular : and how valiantly she took her part whenever a word was said against her. ‘lor 1 will say they ought not to sav one word .when they can’t know the rights of it all : and what does it matter what a child says? She wouldn’t say a word if they didn’t encourage her.’ ‘ If who. did not encourage her ?’ A knowing jerk of the head to one side was the answer; and t lie only meaning it was possible to put upon it was, that the ill-natured people dwelt in one of the rows of cottages which stood in the direction thus hinted. That was it, was it? At this very minute Tempy was in one of. those very cottages learning her lace¬ making, listening no doubt to poisonous words, and, encouraged bv them, was complaining of every little thing in which she had been crossed or corrected. 1 1 say this, Mrs. Koberts,’ continued the talker, ‘I • say this: I’d keep my eyes open if 1 were you. I’ve heard a deal more than I’ve told you ; but, as I’m not one to make mischief, I’m not going to tell you any more. And as to starving, why, it is not that that makes the child no fatter : she always was a pale-faced little creature. But people are so wicked with their tongues!’ Mrs. Koberts remarked that it did not matter what people said, and walked off, angry enough as you may imagine. T\ hat did it ail mean? There should be an end of all this talc-bearing — she made up her mind to 'that: she would not have Temperance encouraged to speak against her — ungrateful child ! neither would she have those people teaching her to rebel and to hate her, as of course they would. She made up her mind : and how, in consequence, she took her from school, you have guessed, from what the children said, as she passed them at play : how she fetched her away from Holly in the church you also know : how she kept her under strict discipline thence¬ forth you may, perhaps, gather as the story goes on. To go back now, however, to that matter just alluded to — how she fetched the- child out of the church. Tempy was hurried home by her step¬ mother, who never spoke a word all the way ; but when she got within her own door, and closed it behind her, she stood still and looked down angrily upon the child. 4 Temperance, I’ve never beat you yet : but mind, I’ll beat you next time you don’t mind me. I won’t have you run after Dorothy Grey any more : I won’t have you carrying tales to her, tales that weren’t true : you’re a wicked, naughty, ungrateful child ! there ! Now take and sit to your pillow, and never you stir till I bid you.’ Then Tempy cried at last. It was hard on a Saturday morning, when all the other children were free, to be shut up like a bird in a cage. She could hear them shouting and laughing quite cdose by: she would not have joined their play, but she would like to be free like them. It was hard not to be allowed to sit in the quiet church, where she was doing no harm to anybody, and look at the picture- windows, and mind the brooms and the dusters for Dolly. It was dreadful to be told that she must not run after Dolly — that was worst of all.

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No. XLII. CHATTERBOX. 335 It is not to be imagined that any pf this arguing or reasoning passed through the child’s mind : she only felt dreary and lonely and in disgrace, without clearly understanding why, and that made her lay her head down upon her lace-pillow sobbing. ‘Come, come, I won’t have that! you’re a naughty girl, you know you are ; and it’s no more than I ought to do, and you’ll leave off crying this moment-.’ Then Tempy lifted her head and left off crying from sheer fear ; and her poor little fingers began to fumble at the bobbins. Did not that seem a cruel stepmother ? And yet, if you could have looked into her heart, you would have found that it was aching with a bitter pain, such as, after all, a heart with no kindness in it could never feel. She had come to her home meaning to be good to the motherless little child, and she had begun by being good ; but she had been doubted and spoken against; and the child had been encouraged to make her out harsh, and cruel, and neglectful. ‘ Of course I see how it is,’ she would say to her¬ self : ‘they want to get her back again, and be paid for keeping her’ — ‘they,’ meaning Dolly and her mother, whom you and I, reader, know to be innocent. By-and-bye Roberts came home to his dinner, and sought, first thing, for his little girl. ‘ What ! working on Saturday, when all other girls and boys are at play? No, this won’t do. What’s it for, little woman ? Come and tell father,’ and he took her on to his knee. ‘ It’s because she says I’m naughty,’ whispered Tempy casting at the same time such an anxious look towards the outer room, where Mrs. Roberts was busy with her cookery, that the father could but remark it, and the look went to his heart. ‘Be a good girl the rest of the day, then, and I’ll play thee no end of pretty music when I come home to-night,’ he said ; and then the wife came in and they ate their meal silently. When her father came home in the evening, how¬ ever, Tempy had to content herself with listening to the pretty music from her bed, with a closed door between them, because she had been so naughty in the morning. When Tempy found sentence of bed being exe¬ cuted upon her, she made bold to plead for one favour, — ‘ May I come down and say my hymn to father when he comes home ? ’ ‘No, you mayn’t.’ ‘ Will father come up to me and hear me say it ? ’ ‘No, he won’t.’ Then she shrank down under the bed-clothes that she might not see tliat face ahy more ; and she won¬ dered how ever she was to go to sleep without having had either her father or Dolly to say her hymn to. She tried to say it down there in the dark : — 1 Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look upon a little child.’ She said it over again and again, ‘ Look upon a little child ;’ but it seemed so strange not to be stand¬ ing up by father’s knee to say it : and then she thought of Dolly, and she cried for Dolly until she heard the music, and she stopped then to listen, and so fell asleep. The father, when he looked at her the last thing, saw that there had been some tears, and he wondered what his little Tempy could have done to be made so unhappy. CHAPTER III.. The next day, when Tempy awoke, there wa3 music yet sounding. It was the church-bell, telling every one that it was eight o’clock and Sunday morning. There were clean clothes and her Sunday frock lying on the chair by the side of her bed. ‘ This is what is called neglecting the child !’ Mrs. Roberts had said to herself as she placed them there. The Sunday sunshine always seemed to Tempy brighter than the sunshine of any other day of the week, and now its beautiful light and its warmth came streaming in at her window. The troubles of Saturday had fled out of her memory in her sleep ; she was only thinking she was glad it was Sunday. Sunday was happy: it was always happy . when she lived with Dolly. It meant many pleasant things, and now it meant going to school with the other chil¬ dren — that was still permitted : it also meant going to church and seeing the beautiful picture-windows. Father would be home all day, too ; they would have the Sunday-dinner ; she would wear her Sunday- frock. All these things went to make up the plea¬ sure of the day with her. And we need not scorn any one of them, poor little thing ! {To be continued .) A NOVEL BOOT-JACK. AN officer, on his return to England from India, related the following anecdote : — ‘ Major Rogers had been out shooting, and had discharged all his guns, when an elephant made a charge at him from the skirts of the jungle. There was no help for it except to run, and for 400 yards the major kept just a-head, feeling at every step as if the animal’s trunk was trying to twist itself about his loins. A turn round a tree gave him a momentary advantage, which he made the most of by springing up into its branches — he was as nimble as a cat, and as strong as a lion. One foot higher, and he would have been out of the elephant’s reach; but before he' had time to draw up his legs the elephant had got him firmly clenched in the toils of his proboscis. Still Rogers pulled against him, thinking it better to have his leg wrenched from the socket than to fall back bodily into the animal’s power. The struggle, however, did not last long ; for, to the delight of the pursued and the chagrin of the pursuer, the Wellington boot which the former wore slipped off, released the leg, and saved the life of poor Rogers. The dilemma, however, did not end here ; for the elephant, finding himself balked of his prey, after destroying the boot, took up his quarters beneath the branches, and kept his anticipated victim in the tree for twenty-four hours, when the country postman happened to pass by. Rogers gave him notice of his position, and soon help came, and the elephant was frightened away by tomtoms and yelling. Had this occurred in a deserted part of the jungle, the officer must have been starved to death in the tree.’

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336 CHATTERBOX. No. XLII A Novel Boot-jack.

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X X

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338 CHATTERBOX. *No. XLIII. TIMOTHY. —0— ^BTWnB^ MO THY was our pet hedge- ^ ^w/M hog. I bought him in Lead- K 1/ IjjA enhall Market, brought him •4 Gr\\3 @C\S) home, and put him into the j /■* \^p back-garden, which is walled jf| W in. There, to that extent, he J A * had his liberty, and many and * many a time did I watch him 7 >A ' from my study window walk- ^ 4W A ) A ing about in the twilight among the grass, searching for worms and other insects. And very useful was he to the plants by so doing. When the dry weather came food got more scarce ; then Timothy was ied with bread and milk from the back-kitchen window, which is on a level with the stone. Soon he came to know that when he was hungry there was the supply, and often he would come and scratch at the glass or at the back-door for his supper, and after getting it walk off to the garden- beds, to make himself useful. Few people know of the great use of a hedgehog in a garden, or they would be more generally kept. Our Timothy, poor fellow! however, in spite of all liis good qualities, came to a bad end. A strange dog coming one day saw him walking about in search of his accus¬ tomed food, and pounced on him and bit him ; still I had hopes of his recovery, but in a few days he died, ,and all of us were sorry. We have felt inclined to have another to fill his place, for there seem to be more snails and slugs than ever; and when we see them on the plants we regret the loss of our poor Timothy. ’ TI. W . she could hear her father’s voice in the prayers or in the singing now and then louder than the others, just as sometimes children awake in the dark are afraid unless they find that they are not all alone. Sometimes she stole a glance at her favourite picture- window. The Good Shepherd looked .so kind and so beautiful, and the lamb in His arms looked so comfortable. Somehow she felt quite comfortable herself when she looked at it ; Dolly had told her so many beautiful things about it ; but then she looked from her window to her stepmother and saw she was watching her; perhaps she guessed that she was thinking of Dolly, which was very naughty, so she dared not look any more. Do you pity little Tempy ? There was also some one else to be pitied, and that was Mrs. Roberts/ as she sat in her place amongst her neighbours, and said in her own mind that every one was thinking her a cruel stepmother. So when they all came out of church she avoided exchanging a look or a word with any one, and walked home as quickly #as she could. ‘She don’t seem to think any one good enough to be spoken to/ said the people to each other. Roberts, being clerk, was, as usual, long behind the others in leaving the church, having sundry duties to perform; and when he came out of the churchyard all the congregation had left, and there were only one or two loungers — men who idled away their Sunday in knots about the village— talking outside the gate, with their hands in their pockets. ‘ I say, Roberts/ said one, ‘ what’s amiss down with you, there ? ’ nodding towards Roberts’s cottage, which was a little way off. * Nothing amiss that I know of/ answered Roberts; 4 leastwise there was nothing amiss when I came out this morning.’ ‘ Told you it wasn’t true/ remarked another of the men, lazily kicking a, loose stone in the path. ‘ Told you he knew nought about it,’ said another, speaking more warmly ; ‘ told you he would not let , his child be served so if he knew it.’ ‘ What’s that ? ’ asked Roberts, who had an idea as to what was meant; ‘what’s that you’re saying? — what’s happened to Tempy ?’ t ‘Well, I’ll tell you what’s happened to her/ said the last speaker, who seemed to take a more lively interest in the matter, or rather a more friendly one, than the .others : ‘ I’ll tell you what it is. All the ' vilWgc has it that the new missus isn’t so kind to Tempy by a good bit as she ought to be. I believe * mother thinks so, though she won’t say it ; and so docs Dolly/ Roberts stood still and thoughtful for a moment. What was it about the work on Saturday morning, and the banishment to bed on Saturday night? And did not little Tempy seem to be growing quieter than ever? But he kept his thoughts to himself. ‘Women will talk,’ he said presently, ‘and they’re always making a fuss : and maybe if my missus has fallen out with any of them here, why there’s no saying.’ And there it ended, for he walked away homeward. ‘Doesn’t believe it, you see,’ remarked one or the men as he left them. ‘ Oh, but he does ; he won’t let it drop, see if he SOME IDLE WORDS. (Continued from page 335.) TT7HEN Tempy became quite awake she began to VV think how was it she was not up and dressed, and down in the church to sec father ring the bell. It •was only on rainy mornings that she did not go, because she must not make her boots muddy before church time. She peeped out of her window ; there was the road as dry and as clean as possible : that was tiresome, but it could not be helped. Then Mrs. Roberts came in, and all about the night before- came back to her mind, and she wont ‘downstairs fully understanding that she did not deserve her Sunday frock or her good breakfast, being a very naughty child ; and in school she wondered at any one speaking to her, she was so nati gh tv. And as she walked to church with the other children the bells seemed to say nothing but ‘ Naughty girl ! naughty girl ! ’ oyer and over again. In church she saw Dolly — dear, bright-faced Dolly walk up the aisle and take her seat ; but she scarcely dared look at her. She might get sent to bed, you know, for looking at Dolly. She sat as quiet as a mouse. She knelt when the others knelt, and she stood up when the others stood up ; she sajd Our Father ’ when the others said it : but, somehow, she dM the time felt frightened, and was glad whenever

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No. XLIII. CHATTERBOX. 339 does,’ said the one who had spoken most. 4 Dolly would be glad if she knew I’d spoken, and so would mother.’ Nevertheless, he never told them. CHAPTER IV. We must return now to the spot from whence our story started, namely, the lace-school, and early in the morning. The room was tidied up as usual, hut the customary school-keeping seemed to be sus¬ pended. Holly .seemed to be scholar and teacher too, now. She sat all alone at her pillow, and she bent down very intently over it, tossing her bobbins even more rapidly than usual ; which was always, with Jier, a sign that her thoughts were very busy. Her thoughts ran soippwhat thus: — That it was* a bad thing to have the fever in the village ; there was no knowing where it would end : it would go all through the place, that was certain. Yes, it was a bad thing ! 4 You there, Dolly?’ A man's voice at the door made her ^aise her head, and she saw Roberts stand¬ ing outside. She saw, also, a look on his face which made her push away her pillow and exclaim, ‘You’ve not come to tell us she’s got it? ’ ‘She has, though,’ answered Roberts, sadly; and lie strode slowly .across the stone iloor with his great heavy boots, and came and leaned against the door¬ way of the inner room, where Dolly was sitting. Dolly did not know what to $ay. The thought uppermost in her mind was that she would like to go and see the child, and that she hoped it would be taken care of ; but that she did not like to say. ‘ It’s a bad thing,’ she said at last, ‘ because she is not a strong child.’ ‘ That’s it ! ’ answered Roberts : ‘ that’s it ! That’s what I say to my missus ; but she says I’m always in a worrit if Tempy’s linger aches.’ ‘And no wonder,’ remarked Dolly; after which she got up and beat the lire about, and took the kettle off and set it on again, and did a ‘good mafty other things by way of keeping her tongue quiet. When she had succeeded as far as she wdsjied, that is to say, when she had overcome the wish to say some¬ thing angry about Roberts’s ‘missus,’ she sat down again. * « ‘I wish you were not on such unfriendly terms, you and she,’ said Roberts, presently: evidently driving at something which he wanted to sav, but could 'scarcely venture upon. ‘ I wish we weren’t, Mr. Roberts : but whose fault is it ?’ ‘ Isn't it six of one and half a dozen of the other?’ answered Roberts. ‘ No, it isn’t, that I’m sure of ; but it’s no use ar¬ guing,’ added Dolly, ‘ it will do no good.’ ‘Don’tsay that; seems to me as if it might do good if yefu were so disposed, Dolly.’ *1 don’t see how,’ returned Dolly, impatiently; drawing her work to her- again, and setting the bobbins flying faster than ever. ‘ Couldn’t you ask her to let bygones be bygones?’ suggested her friend. ‘I don’t know what you mean by bygones,’ the girl answered ; ‘I’ve done nought to offend her in word or deed. I’m quite clear about that.’ ‘ Well, hut there must he something at the bottom of it all, and I do say that you women are won¬ derful touchy with onc’another, and give offence and take offence quicker than there]s any need to do.’ , ‘ Well, it’s no use talking,’ said Dolly, 4 1 can t go in that way, though I’d walk a hundred miles to see Tcmpy ; and there’s an end of it.’ ‘Poor little lass!’ said Roberts, turning to go; ‘ it’s to be hoped she’ll get through. I thought you might have done it for her sake : you that were so fond of her and she of you.' And then she heard his heavy tread upon the stones as he walked away faearilv. (i Concluded in our next.) 1 A MAN OVERBOARD!’ the Azores we were overtaken by a series of severe squalls. We were preparing ourselves for the coming storm, when a man, who was coming dowji from the last reef, slipped as he stepped on the bulwarks, and went over backwards into the waves. In a moment, that most terrible of all cries at sea, ‘A man over¬ board ! a. man overboard !’ flow like lightning over the ’ship. I sprung upon the quarter-deck just as the poor fellow passed, with his ‘fearful human face/ riding the top of a billow. In an Instant all was commotion; spar after spar was cast over for him to , sustain himself on, till the ship could be put about and the boat lowered. The first mate, a bold fellow, leaped into the boat that hung at the side of the quarter-deck, and, in a voice so sharp and stern that 1 seem to hear it yet, shouted, ‘ In, men ! in, men ! ’ Rut the poor sailors hung back— the sea was too wild. The second mate, sprang to the side of the first, and the men, ashamed to leave both their officers alone, followed. ‘Cut away the lashings!’ exclaimed the mate. The knife glanced around the ropes, the boat fell to the water, rose on a huge wave far over the deck, and drifted rapidly astern. The brave man stood erect, the helm in his hand, his flashing eye em¬ bracing the whole peril in -a single glance, and his hand bringing the head of the gallant little boat on each high sea that otherwise would have swamped her. I watched them till nearly half a mile astern, when they lav-to, to look for the lost sailor. Just then I turned my eyes to the -horizon, and saw a squall, blacker and heavier than amr we had before encountered, rushing down upon us, arid if it struck •the boat there was no hope of its escape. The captain also saw it, and was terribly excited. Tie called for a flag, and springing irito the shrouds, waved jt for their return. The gallant fellows obeyed the signal, and pulled for the ship. But it was slow work, for the head of the boat had to he laid on to almost every wave. The captain knew that a few minutes more would decide the fate o his officers and crew. He called for his trumpet, and shouted out over the • roar of the- blast and waves, ‘ Pull away, my brave

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Off the Azores. men ! the squall is coming — give way, hearties V and the bold fellows did ‘ give way ’ with a will. I could see their ashen oars quiver as they rose from the water, while the boat sprang to their strokes down the billows like a panther on the leap. On she came, and on came the blast. It was the wildest struggle I ever gazed on ; but the gallant little boat con¬ quered. Oh! how my heart leaped when she at length shot round the stern, and, rising oil a wave far above our lee-quarter, shook the water from her drenched head, as if in 'delight todind her shelter again. The chains were fastened, and I never pulled witli such right good will at a rope as the one which brought that boat up the vessel’s side. I could have hugged the brave fellows in grateful joy, as they stepped on the deck and helped out of the boat their comrade whom they had saved at the lisk of their lives, and by such desperate labour.

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OUR BALLOON TRIPS.’ IV. — FROM HOME TO PERU. By George S. Outram. OYS and girls, would you like to*see Peru? There is to be a balloon- trip by the Azores to South America, and if you would like to go I will ask the conductor to take you.’ 4 Go ! ’ cried fifty voices ; 4 why, of course we should like to go ! ’ 4 Very well, then, here is a ticket for each of you ; so lose no time, for the balloon is heaving and tug- .ging as if it would wait n© longer/ My little friends needed no second orders ; they were soon seated in the car, and, all being ready, we rose steadily upward, amid the shouts of be¬ holders and the waving of flags. When we had VARIABL beneath us. I pointed out how this ocean 4 spreads from pole to pole/ how it is the busiest sea of all, the great commercial highway of the world. I ' showed my little friends now 'the All-wise Creator has made it almost empty of islands. He has placed a band of 1400 miles in width on each side of the middle ocean, along which the gentle trade- winds blow almost continually, carrying ships to and fro. The Spaniards call this part of the ocean 4 il [ Golfo de las Damas ,’ that is, 4 t^e Ladies’ Sea ; ’ and it has been said that it is less dangerous to pass from the Canaries to America in an open boat than it is to cross one of the small lakes of Switzerland. Where we now are, children, is the region of variable winds, and between the two trade-wind bands there is a region of calms, about 700 miles wide, where ships would never move at al^if it were not for a squall which daily agitates the water. To make it clearer/ I drew a plan on a large piece of paper thus : — WINDS. Equator, TRADE WINDS. REGION OF CALMS. REGION OF CALMS. • 5- TRADE WINDS. Equator. VARIABLE reached a proper height the balloon took a south¬ westerly course ; we flew across the romantic hills of Dartmoor, and over the Land’s End, and were soon out’ at sea, with the waves of the broad Atlantic WINDS. But my lecture is now broken in upon by a boy, who cries out, 4 What can that thing be, just like a sugar-loaf?’ 4 That sugar-loaf, my lad, is Pico, one of the Azores. There are several other islands

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342 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIII. there. All of them were thrown np one clay from the bottom of the sea, by the fires which burn beneath. A gentleman who spent a winter there says: “It must have been a glorious sight to have seen the creation of these islands, when the red-hot cone of Pico first flamed up into the sky through the midst of the Atlantic like a blazing beacon, and the rocks of Fayal and St. George la}' hissing on the waves, like vast floods of molten iron.’7’ Age after age these islands existed unknown by man— their only dwellers being birds, •chiefly hawks, frQin whom the name Azores is taken. They are dangerous to seamen,’ because a vessel may be driven by night, or in thick weather, actually on the rocks, sfo suddenly do they rise from their ocean-bed. We flew over Pico, which looked like a heap of cinders : the sand of the shore was black ; the walls of the vineyards were black; the villages were black. Gaily-dressed women showed brightly against the black houses, like a rainbow on a cloud. Put vines seem to love -the black earth and stones. They cover the sides of the mountain. We looked at Fayal, another island, and thought how pretty a picture it made — white towns, each with its church, green lields, orange-gardens: it made me quote the poet’s words, — ‘ Happy isles, Like tho.^ Hesperian gardens famed of old, Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales.’ Further oft* showed St. Michael’s. The name, so closely connected with sweet, thin-skinned oranges, made' all our orange-loving youngsters gaze on the island with lively interest. I told them how a Dutch sailor, driven by a storm, discovered these beautiful aiid lonely isles. Put as we talk the tall cap of Pico fades in the far distance, and every eye is opened its widest to catch the first sight of America. It was not long ere some islands greeted our view : one' of them, we were sure, was Tobago ; another, we were equally sure, wa$ Trinidad. ‘ What funny name® !’ said a little girl. ‘ Tohggo must have something A) do with tobacco, has it not?’ ‘ Yes, my dear; Tobago is the Indian name for a pipe, and Koliiba means tobacco. Pipes were made perhaps first in Tobago. Put. Trinidad is a very holy name: it means the Trinity, and the island was so called by Columbus, in gratitude to God Who had helped him to make three voyages and to discover the great mainland of America at last. Trinidad is just the size of our English Norfolk, and among other cariosities it has a lake of pitch.’ ‘Put look at that tumult of waters ! It is caused by the great river Orinoco meeting the rising tide. The sea and the river are battling with each other, and a dangerous thing it is to he between the angry waters. Columbus was once in that strife of powers, and was all but drowned: nevertheless he was* glad of the danger, for his quick eye saw that this was no little island stream which could thus make the mighty tide reel back, but some noble liver flowing from a land great and large.’ , We now crossed the Delta of the Orinoco, where it pours its waters into the ocean through forty channels. Large rivers generally end their course in manv streams, and the shape is like the Greek letter Delta, A. This Delta was. full of trees, and though a damp and dreary place, we could see people lived in it. It happened to he high-flood time, and we distinctly noticed men and women and little ones squatting on planks, which are tied to the trees several feet abovd the yellow swirling river* We sodn crossed this low country* and arrived at the table-lands, as they arc called! Some of them were covered with endless forests. Here and there rocks of the. strangest shapes peep up among the trees. The elimate here is different to that of Old England. In. April and May the rain falls for three hours daily : then comes a delightful month of weather, called the little summer of St. John. Then more rain until September. Put every tract of this strange country has a different plan’ of seasons. While we fly across trcefirl forest and treeless plain I will tell you what a poor Indian woman once said to a Spanish clergyman, who reproved her for mur¬ dering her infant: — ‘ Sir,’ said she, ‘ would to God that my mother had destroyed me at my birth ! You know not the sorrows of an Indian woman. Our husbands kill birds or catch fish, while we must dig the ground. They return in the evening, and we bring them food and drink. They amuse themselves with thpir friends, while 'we must fetch them wood and water. When they have eaten .they fall asleep: we pass almost the whole night iw grinding the maize. And what is our reward ? They drink, and drag us by the hair, and trample us under foot. And, worse than this, when we have served a husband twenty years he will take another woman to he a wife, and she will beat our children and t*eat us as servants : and if we murmur, a ‘stick is raised. 0 Father! what can an Indian woman do better than kill her child, to prev.cnt her from living in a state of slavery worfce than death?’ Put look at that great stone in the river, children. It is called / the fcitone of Patience.’ You sec a river, the Meta, comes rushing to join the Orinoco, just where the stone is. A whirlpool is formed, and boats are often carried round and round the great stone for two days before they can get away. What a provoking trap to fall into ! Put let us go up the Meta. What is that large city? And look, it is built exactly in the shape of a cross ! Oh, that is Pogota. It is a Spanish city, and they have built it like a cross to do honour to our Lord. Put now we flew close to that very famous chain of. mountains called the Andes (from anta, meaning copper). We could not now look down upon the whole earth as before. It was impossible to fly over the heads of these lordly hills. We sailed, therefore, by them, admiring their grandeur and loneliness. We saw Cotopaxi and Chimborazo, the former a stupendous volcano, the other a magnificent peak. For a long time ChimhorazO was reckoned the king of moun¬ tains, hut he has been dethroned by a distant cousin in Asia, and I hear that a brother in his own family has been found a taller giant ; so Chimborazo lia3 had to lift the crown from his snowy head, and it has been given to another. Put yet, how like tlie Patriarch of God’s everlasting hflls he looks ! ‘ Though round his breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on his head/ We now crossed the Andes through a gap in the chain, and hung over the Pacific, or peaceful ocean.

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No. XLil I. CI-IATTEEBOX. 343 Tli at land is Peru. ‘ It never rains in Peru/ they sav, and it looks like it. How dry and dusty every¬ thin £ ’looks ! Here is a town, New Callao. Where is Old Callao ? Under the sad sea-waves. Its very foundations were turned topsy-turvy, and the whole city was overwhelmed by a mighty wave.# Only a few people escaped on the wall of a church. A frigate was carried ever so far on the shore. That mark shows the place. It is dreadfully hazardous to live here. We went on to Lima, and thought it strange to see fields of Indian corn, side by side, where some was just green above the ground, some half-grown, some qftite ripe, and ready for the reaper. We laughed at the great buzzards sitting on the house-tops, or fighting for stinking garbage in the gutters. 0 the dirt ' we saw on the flat roofs of the houses ! How often had we to hold our noses! The Lima folk have no other cinder-heap and dust-hole, it seems. We now left the balloon and mingled freely with the Lima throng. 4 Look at that woman ! how queerly she is dressed ! — she can hardly walk !’ 4 Yes, my dear, it is strange that women tfill do so. That lady’s petticoat is drawn in tit her ankles so very tightly that she cannot step more than ten inches, if she would. I suppose they think ladies should walk as if they had fetters on their legs.’ ’ And why do ladies show only one eye and one hand ? And look, every lady almost has a cross in her* hand, and jewels glitter on her fingers. Oh, how funnily this path is paved ! I declare it is in¬ laid with sheeps’ knuckle-bones ! How cool those fountains make the air ! What did that polite Spaniard say ? 4 ITe that drinks of the fountain will not leave Lima/ Well, I don’t know whether I would stay here evermore for the sake of the fountain. Oh, dear ! what a crowded market-place ! Let us see the fun. Holla ! where arc the stalls ? Why, they have pone ; they use mats instead. What is that fiery woman doing? Cooking? Of course. Look at those liungry-looking Indian fel¬ lows ; how they stare at the greasy lumps of paste which she is dipping in the hot oil ! Oh, you cruel wretch ! you are actually frying fish before they are dead ! Did you ever hear such a noisy fellow, as that cheap-jack ? What has he got to sell ? Every¬ thing ; from jewels and rich lace, down to clod¬ hopping boots and shoes. That man, too, what is he doing with ink-horn and pen? Oh, he is selling lottery-tickets. People here are very fond of gam¬ bling in a small way. Lima is a dry place. Can you believe it? rain fell there only four times in the eighteenth century ! Enough to make people prize their fountains, is it not ? But look, here is a cliurch ; and there is another. Just peep in. That altar, so gaily decked and crowded with candlesticks and flowers, is made of pure silver. But come along, the time grows short. Ask that English-lookingman if earthquakes ever happen here, and how he likes them ? — Earth¬ quakes ! common as blackberries ! How I like, them ? — Not at all. IIow do they feel ? — I cannot easily tell you. First, a distant hollow sound is heard — it increases rapidly — your house rolls and shakes as if it were on a stormy sea. With difficulty you can keep your legs. People run shrieking out of their homes into the road, striking their breasts, and crying to the Virgin to protect them. You feel sea-sick and bewildered, and believe your last hour is come ; as, indeed, it is to many, who are crushed to death by tumbling walls. Young people, thank the Lord you have not to live in Lima. But now the evening shades are falling, and we enter our balloon once more. Vre swept round by Chili, not a cold country, though its name sounds chilly ; we saw crosses here and there on the lonely mountain-paths, where murdered travellers lie. We heaitl the squeaking of the cart-wheels, and won¬ dered if oil was as scarce as rain. There is one il&e, however, in squeaking wheels, for wolves and bears run away when they hear it. We saw men riding in crazy-looking bitoches , or gigs, every gig being drawn by two or three horses, and accompanied by a drove of a dozen more. When the shaft-horse tires a lasso is thrown over one of the loose drove, and it is put in "harness. No one dismounts; all is done on horseback. With the unmusical groaning of ungreased ox¬ cart-wheels in our ears we turned our backs on the country, and came by moonlight to our dear Eng¬ lish home, across the mighty plains and rivers of Brazils, and the solitary sea, whose heaving bosom the silvery moonbeams kissed with soft and pensive glory. G. S. O. THROUGH THE RIPPLES. HROUGH the ripples! How jolly it is to become — unless we are very staid, sober, or aged, or intensely 4 respectable ’ — for the nonce an amateur fisher-boy or fisherman’s daughter ! to dance, and wade through the cool ripple and gently- seething surf ; to carry light tackle, or, possibly, full baskets, to and fro from the landing -boats to the beach! Yes, truly, in the balmy months of July, xlugust,"and September, all this sort of fun is very delightful — indeed, perfectly jolly. But, my young friend, suppose we have this enter¬ tainment provided for us, not only in summer, but for all the rear round — in the chilly damps of October, the January snow-storms, the cutting winds of March — suppose it is a matter of duty, of busi¬ ness ? Ah ! then we must summon up our pluck, brace ourselves to the work we have to do, think of the training of the Greek and Spartan lads of old, how they were hardened to the struggle of life early, that they might become valiant and strong men, and we too must resolutely carry out the task before us, whether the ripples of the sea roll round us in \vinter storm or in summer calm. Fair-weather sailors are laughed at in the proverb, and if fishermen, and their children, too, were to carry on their work only when things looked pleasant, they would incur not merely the contempt of their companions, but they would also ruin their busi¬ nesses. So with all of us : to tread the path of duty when it happens to be inviting, and shirk it when it is rugged, is to tumble into that pitfall of failure which ever awaits the steps of the feeble and half¬ hearted.

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No. XLIY. CHATTERBOX. 345 A Bad Shot. X X /

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346 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIY. A BAD SHOT. CHAPTER I. ITE rain is over now, Ernest; will you come out and have a shot? I want to see how your new gun carries/ 4 Plave you got leave for me in the warren, Ealph ? ’ ‘Oh, yes, to be sure! .Uncle says we may both fire away at the rabbits, but we must let the hares alone. I have promised that.’ ‘ Well, it’s fair enough. Come along, I’m ready.’ The evening was a cold one, and the boys grew quite tired watching Iwles out of which rabbits seemed determined not to venture. Much disappointed, they were crossing the fields towards Ernest’s home when something started up, just within shot. ^ ‘ At last ! ’ exclaimed Ealph, raising his gun. ‘ Take care ! ’ said Ernest, laying his hand on his friend’s arm; ‘it’s a hare.’ ‘ Hare or not,’ said Ealph, ‘ down it goes ! ’ Bang went the gun. The lads hastened to the spot. ‘Oh, Ealph! ’ cried Ernest, ‘I wish you had not fired in such a hurry. It’s a hare, and a fine one, too.’ ‘ Well, it can’t be helped now, we must make the best of it. I co-uld not tell what rose at such a distance.’ ‘ But I warned you in time.’ ‘ And if you did, you might* have been mistaken as well as another: besides, we did not get a shot all day, and it would have been a pity to miss the first chance. The question is,— what to do with it? ’ ‘ Take it home with you, of course, and tell how it happened.’ ‘ No, that would never do. My uncle’s very par¬ ticular about his hares. I know him well ; he’d take no excuse, but talk qhout my breaking my word, and be very wroth.’ ‘ It would be as bad for me to take it home,’ replied Ernest, ‘ for I should have to tell my father all about it,’ ‘ Yes, that would only make matters worse. Bet me think what we can do. I have it now ! There’s a poor old woman living near the corner of that wood, mother to our garden-boy. She has a sick daughter, and would be very glad to get a hare to nourish her. Come, that’s the plan. It’s a chant}-, too.’ ‘ Wouldn’t she talk ? ’ ‘ Not likely, for her own sake. However, we can make sure by not letting her know anything about the matter.’ ‘ You go, like a good fellow, and throw' it over the hedge into her garden. I’ll walk slowly on, and you can easily overtake me.’ Ernest did as he was asked, though he felt that it was not the right thing to do. Had the fault been his, he would have acted otherwise ; as it was, he felt bound to try to screen his friend. The same evening, Jack the garden-boy coming home from his day’s work, in passing through the little enclosure behind his mother’s cottage, stumbled over something, and stooping down picked up a fine hare, with which he hurried into the house. ‘ Mother, see what I found lying in the garden ! W hat shall we do ? Ought I not to run back with it to the big house ? The master’s very particular about his hares.’ ‘ You’ll do no such thing, J ack. It would only get us into trouble, and you’re no way to blame ; for I saw Master Ernest Trevor pass the corner a while ago, with his gun in his hand : you may be sure he shot the hare and fiung it in here for us, just to get rid of it. Never was anything more needed, for poor Mary’s weak from want of good food, and the Doctor said to day she ought to have plenty of nourishment. I’ll boil this down and make a drop of soup for her, and we’ll say nothing about it to any one. The young gentleman mightn’t like it talked about.’ A week passed; Ealph Melvin had returned to school, and Ernest Trevor to his studies at home; when one day Mr. Melvin gave orders for the instant dismissal of Jack. The old gardener ventured to plead for him : ‘ Sir, lie’s the best boy I have ever had, perfectly honest and trustworthy : perhaps you have not been lightly informed about him.’ ‘No, no, Jones, I’m sure enough. I have been told that he was seen carrying a hare into his mother’s cottage, and I’ll have no poachers employed here. Ned Daily was coming out of the wood at the time, and saw him slinking into the house late in the evening with a large hare in his hand.’ ‘ I wouldn’t much mind Ned Daily, sir ; he’s looking for the place for his own son, alid so he’d put in a bad word for poor Jack.’ ‘ Well, well, you can make inquiries to satisfy your¬ self if you like. Jack’s mother has been already questioned, and can’t deny having cooked the hare for her sick daughter. Meantime, dismiss the boy.’ Poor Jack went home in sad trouble that night. Badly as his mother had been able to get on hitherto, how much worse would it be now when he was out of a situation, and his sister every day becoming weaker and requiring more care and nourishing food. ‘ Mother,’ he said, with tears in his eyes, ‘ I wish you had let me run to the big house with Die hare that night. I told Mr. Melvin how I found it jn the garden, but he only said, “A likely story, indeed !’r and turned away. I didn’t mention Master Ernest’s name, for fear of getting him into trouble. Are you certain, mother, you saw him ? ’ ‘ Yes, I’m sure enough ; and I wouldn’t wish to do • him a bad turn no more than you, hjit I can’t see why my son should be accused to save him; lies better able to bear the blame than you. I’ll just go off and tell Mr. Jones all about it ; lie’s a good friend of yours, and won’t see you wronged.’ And Jack’s mother wrapped her shawl round her, and desirihg him to look afte*' Mary while she was out, set off to the house of the old gardener. The result of this interview was, that next day Jones told his master wliat he had heard, expressing his belief in Jack’s innocence ; and Mr. Melvin, feel¬ ing a little shaken in his opinion, rode over in the afternoon to pay a visit to his neighbour, Mr. Trevor. In the course of conversation he mentioned ‘how that young rascal Jack had been killing his hares, and when convicted of one, had the impertinence to say it had been shot by Master Ernest Trevor, and

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No. XLIV. CHATTERBOX. 347 thrown into his mother’s garden. Of course no one could credit such a story: for his part he would as soon believe his own nephew, Ralph, capable of so great a breach of truth and honour. During this speech Ernest could not conceal his uneasiness, and when Mr. Melvin looked steadily at 'him, he felt himself wince beneath the gaze, and turn slightly red. ‘ What say you, Ernest? Mind, I don’t for a moment accuse you, but should like just to hear a positive denial, that I might put down Jones, who wants to have the bo}r back.’ Ernest was silent. ‘Don’t you hear Mr. Melvin?’ said his father. 4 Can’t you say at once you had nothing to do with the business? It would indeed have been an un¬ grateful return for his kindness in allowing you to shoot over his grounds.’ Still there was no reply. ‘Ernest,’ said his mother, ‘you frighten me; why don’t you answer ? ’ All this time the poor boy was debating within himself how to act. Jack had lost his place for the fault of another. In any case that must not be, for his mother was a poor widow, and his sister dying. But if Ernest, to clear him, should tell the whole story, jvould, it not bring Ralph under the severe displeasure of his uncle ? There was one other course by which he might do justice" to Jack, and avoid betraying his friend, — it was to allow the blame to rest on himself. His resolution was taken. ‘ Mother,’ at length he replied, ‘ I did not shoot the hare.’ But there was hesitation in the tone and manner in which this denial was made, and Mr. Melvin began to think it possible that lie might have accused Jack wrongly after all. He thought it better, however, not to press the matter further, and he took leave, begging Mr. Trevor to let him know if anything more was discovered. Ernest’s first impulse, when they were alone, was to lay the whole case before his parents and ask their advice; but he checked himself, fearing his father would think it right to inform Mr. Melvin ; and to all their questions lie only replied as before. ‘How was it you were seen passing the cottage with a hare in your hand? ’ ‘ Oh, father, I cannot say. But will you not trust me ? indeed I am not so much to. blame as you think.’ ‘ 1 can’t make it out. If you are not guilty, why look so confused and red ; and why not den\r it manfully, and let us hear all you know about the matter?’ ‘ Father,’ said Ernest, after some pandering, ‘this much I will tell. Jack is perfectly innocent. He had nothing whatever to do with the hare, further than carrying it from the garden to his mother’s house. Please let Mr. Melvin know, and beg of him to take the boy back.’ iS?o entreaties or persuasions could get more out of Ernest than this. {Concluded in our next.) THE EMPEROR AND THE SERGEANT. From tlic French. is a well-known fact that J oeeph II., Emperor of Germany, had a great dislike to any kind of outward show which usually surrounds royalty. It is said that one day, when dressed in a simple riding-coat, and accompanied only by one servant, not in lively, the Emperor rode out in a small carriage, which he guided himself, with room only for three persons, to take an early drive in the suburbs of Vienna. He wa9 overtaken by the rain as lie was returning to the city. He was still some distance from it, when a pedestrian, also trying to regain the capital, made a sign to him to stop, which Joseph II. did immediately. ‘ Sir,’ said the soldier to him, for he was a sergeant, ‘ would there be any wrong in my asking for a seat by the side of you? It would not inconvenience you, as you are alone in your carriage, and it would save my uniform, which I have put on to-day for the first time.’ ‘ Pray take care of your uniform, and he seated. Whence do you come?’ ‘ Ah ! ’ replied the sergeant, ‘ I have just come from the house of a gamekeeper of my acquaintance, where I have had a splendid breakfast ! ’ ‘ What have you eaten that was good ?’ ‘ Guess !’ ‘ How am I to know ? Was it beer-soup?’ ‘Ah! well, beer-soup is good enough for some people, but what we had was much better than that.’ 4 Perhaps you had sour-krout ? ’ ‘ Something far better than that.’ ‘ Oh, I liave it ! it was a loin of veal.’ ‘Better than that, I tell you.’ ‘Well, I really cannot guess any more!’ 'said Joseph. ‘ What was it ? ’ ‘ What should it be hut a pheasant, my worthy man ! A most delicious pheasant ! one that had been killed on the preserves of his Majesty the Em¬ peror ! ’ ‘Taken from the Emperor’s preserves!’ said Joseph, in 'astonishment. ‘It must have been all the better for that.’ ‘ I warrant you it was.’ By this time they had neared the city, and as the rain still continued to fall heavily, J oseph asked his companion where he should set him down. The sergeant named his house, and then asked the Em¬ peror, — ‘ To whom do I owe so many benefits ?’ ‘ It is your turn now,’ said Joseph, k to guess.’ ‘ You are a soldier, doubtless ?’ ‘ Certainly.’ ‘ A lieutenant ? ’ ‘ Ah, well ! better than that.’ ‘A captain?’ ‘ Better than that.’ ‘ A colonel, perhaps ?’ ‘Better than that, I tell you.’

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The Emperor and the Sergeant. 4 How, then V said the other, shrinking back in the carriage ; 4 can you be a field-marshal ? ’ 4 Better than that.’ 4 Then,’ cried the sergeant, in consternation, 4 you must be the Emperor ! ’ 4 He himself.’ Not being able to throw himself on his knees in the carriage, the poor sergeant lost himself in ex¬ cuses, and entreated the Emperor to stop, in order that lie might get down. 4 Oh, dear, no ! ’ said Joseph. 4 After having eaten my pheasant, you would be only too happy to get rid of me as easily. I fully intend to take you as far as your ‘house.’ And the Emperor would not let him alight till he set him down at his own door. M. P. A.

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fft'N .the wood, ere yet the boughs have lost their yellow leaves, And over the hedge is hung the silvery net which the gossamer weaves, The tall Pyrola see, that is well called "Winter Green, With star-like blossoms, hiding the fading Ferns between. And on every bank, with downy stem and bright red star, The Herb Robert, or the Wild Geranium, may be seen near and far, And the Marshmallow, profuse of bloom, making a purple stain Over the cliffs and sandy flats, beside the changing main. But now to the garden let us turn for flowers that glow With blighter flowers. There are the Orange Lily, gayest of all that blow, The Michaelmas Daisy, and the scentless staring Marigold, And there the sweet Mignonette so loved by young and old. H. G. A.

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350 CHATTERBOX. Xo. XTAV. THE FLOWERS OF OCTOBER. ELIGIITFUL and fair are many of the days of Oc¬ tober; so warm and calm, that we should he inclined to forget the near approach of winter did not the appear¬ ance of the woodland land¬ scape speak of it in the plainest language. The various shades of green, so refreshing to our sight throughout the summer, have now given place to a thousand tints of brown, red, orange, and yellow, that, beautiful as they are, tell of coming decay and destruction. ‘Soon, very soon,’ we say with a sigh as we look upon the fading- leaves, ‘ the angry blast will tear 3^011 from your branches and bury you in thick-matted heaps beneath the trees you now clothe and adorn ; and then, how bare and desolate will be the woodlands ! 7 But when we consider how, year after year, the leavesfadeand fall, yet returning spring ever brings its fresh coop of beauteous vivid green, we look with admiration upon autumn’s brilliant hues, and feci that not at this sea¬ son more than any other should we sigh, but should rather rejoice and be thankful for the ever-changing beauty which our God has given to the earth. But what of the flowers ? for it is to them we de¬ sire chiefly to devote our attention. They, too, are fast departing ; but, like the leaves, only to return again. What a gay tryop has passed before us, as in procession, since the early days of spring ; and now but a few stragglers as it were of the main army re¬ main to gladden our sight during this month and the next ! Few, indeed, compared with the rich variety of the past, but still sufficient to twine into a comely October wreath. Within the shady wood we may gather the pretty, star-like blossom of the Pyrola, or Winter-Green, so called because its foliage remains fresh and verdant throughout the winter. Of this plant there are several varieties, some of which bloom as early as July. To the round-leaved Winter-Green, which blossoms the latest, Mary ITowitt probably alludes when she sings, — 4 I found within the pleasant wood The lone Pyrola growing.’ One little plant that we have not yet noticed, al¬ though its blossom has adorned the banks and hedge¬ rows throughout the summer, is the Herb Robert : — . * Down in the grass, And blushing through green blades, Herb Robert fain Would catch the eyes of pilgrims as they pass, Who seek for rarer plants.’ X early all our young readers must be familiar with this pretty pink bower, so common is it in all parts or the country. Although they have doubtless bound it into many a bright nosegay, they may not know that it is a poor relation of the garden Geranium. At the end of autumn the leaves of this plant assume a rich crimson tint, and thus assist the blossoms in beauti¬ fying the bare roadside bank. A pretty sea-side plant — the Marshmallow — ■ which opens its flowers in August, still forms the chief orna¬ ment of the dreary salt-marsh. It grows to a height of more than three feet, and when covered with" its ale rose or violet-coloured blossoms it is very gay. ts greyish -green leaves are thickly covered with downy hairs, and are soft as velvet to the touch. Several attractive flowers still enliven the garden. The brightest is, perhaps, the Orange Lily, the rich tint of which brings to our minds the words of our Saviour: — ‘Consider the lilies, how they grow: they toil not, neither do they spin ; and yet 1 say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ The Michaelmas or Christmas Daisy is now covered with its lilac-coloured flowers with their golden centres, while the French and African Marigolds, and the sweet-scented* Mignonette? that have been in blossom for some time past, remain yet a few weeks longer. . H. B. A. SOME IDLE WORDS. ( Concluded from page 339.) DOLLY sat there working, working ; vexed, sad, puzzled: and more than once a tear fell upon her pillow. When her mother came in they talked it over together, and the conclusion was this : — ‘ Well, I do think, my dear, that as it’s for poor little Tempy, I’d tiy. I’d have nothing to say about by¬ gones, as he wanted, but you might just go and ask how the child is; it would seem but natural; and you might ask if we could do anything.’ So •towards evening, when work was laid aside, Dolly went down to Mrs. Roberts and asked how Tempy was, and if they could do anything for her. The answer was ‘ Xo, thank you. The child would he all right, no doubt, by-and-bye: worse first and then better: but it would be of no good to worry her with strangers coming to see her.’ And Dolly went home wrathful, and called Mrs. Roberts a cruel woman. Another morning came when Dolly sat at her lace- pillow, and Roberts with his slow, heavy tread, walked up to the door. * Dolly read his face again in an instant. ‘ She's worse ! ’ said Dolly, stopping her work suddenly, and pushing it away from her. ‘Very bad! dreadful bad!’ and that was all the poor mail could sa}r. Presently lie added, ‘ She does nothing but ask for Dolly, Dolly; and she can’t say her hymn with¬ out Dolly ; both when she knows what she’s saying and when she doesn’t. My missus says you’d best come.’ So up rose Dolly; snatched her hat from its peg behind the door, and away she went. ‘You’re not afraid of the fever, are you, Dolly?’ Roberts had said as she reached down her hafc. ‘Afraid? no, poor little dear!* But Doliy sped away so fast, that Roberts only caught her words as she hurried down the street. ‘ It's a whim of hers,’ said Mrs. Roberts, as she let in her unwonted* guest, and stood in her way to prevent her walking straightway upstairs. ‘ It’s best not to contradict people’s whims when they’re ill. It

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No. XLIV. CHATTERBOX. 351 j makes them fretful, and that’s a bad thins:: it's quite another tiling when they’re well; children specially. Dolly paid little heed to what was being said, though she did stand and listen, but when she stepped forward Mrs. Huberts placed herself before her again.- ‘You must not stop long, and 3reu must not talk, nor make the child talk ; else I shall have it all over again.’ And with that she led the way upstairs. °The room and its bed were beautifully neat, and clean, and comfortable. Dolly saw that the moment she entered, but she took small notice of anything but the little' face which lay upon the pillow; the poor little, sunken, fevered face on the pillow, and the thin hand on the coverlid. • Tcmpy’s brown hair— the hair which had excited so much amusement one morning — had’ been cut short, and that altered her very much : but the great change was in her sparkling eyes ; two pretty violets Dolly used to call them, but now they were shining like two stars. Tempy was staring straight up at the ceiling with those sparkling eyes. ‘ She won’t know you, it’s only a whim,’ said Mrs. Eoherts, as if she meant to withdraw Dolly from the room again. But Dolly drew a step nearer to the bed. Presently the child turned and looked at her, very much as she had looked up at the ceiling — one long, quiet stare. Then she moved her hand, and Dolly went quite up to the bedside. Still she looked and looked, and finally she reached out feebly, and wound her lingers in Dolly’s dress. Then the stare died away, and she tried to pull Dolly down to her by her gown, so Dolly stooped and kissed her. ‘You’ll be having it yourself next,’ said Mrs. Eoberts ; but Dolly took no notice, and sat down beside the bed. The poor woman spoke harshly, but it was to hide pain of heart. She would have risked as much herself for such a token of love. She had sat by that bedside night after night; her face was pale with the watching. ‘ Do’ee, my dear, now! do’ee!’ ' she would say gently to coax down a drop of medi¬ cine, and she turned the pillows and smoothed them patiently; but Tempy always turned from her face, and often murmured ‘ Look upon a little child, look upon a little child,’ and fretted because she could not say her hymn without Dolly. So now, with a sharp pang of disappointment, Mrs. Eoberts turned away. When the father came home to his dinner, Dolly was still by the bedside, and there he found her when he came home to tea, and there the doctor found her, and the clergyman ; and they each fancied that Dolly’s presence had done good. ‘ That’s what I call gratitude,’ said Mrs. Eoberts, as she poured out her husband’s tea : ‘ those who * make slaves of themselves are never the ones to get the thanks.’ It was almost the only time she had allowed an expression of vexation to escape her. ‘Never mind, so long as she gets well,’ was Eoberts’s awkward answer : the little revival of hope had made him bold. Of course, now, you can guess the ending of my story, — that Tempy gets well, and Mrs. Eoberts finds out her mistake, and she and Dolly are great friends for ever after ? No : it does not end thus. For one day Dolly sat by the -bedside, and Tempy seemed to be sleeping. Mrs. Eoberts sat at the window working. It was unusual for the two women to watch together thus ; but every nowand then Mrs. Eoberts looked up from her work to the child,, and Dolly never took her eyes off her : you could see they were both anxious. All at once Tempy opened her eyes and looked at Dolly. ‘I know it now ! I can say it now !’ What more she tried to say Dolly stooped down and listened for, and it came in a faint whisper. • Dolly caught what she would say and said it for her : — ‘ Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Listen to a little child : Pity my simplicity, . Suffer me to come to Tliee.’ And the gentle Jesus suffered the little child to> come to Him. When Eoberts came home from his work his wife met him at the door. ‘ I’m sorry for thee, George,’ she said, gently : and then he knew. And if next Sunday those who stood round the . little open grave, under the Good Shepherd window, could have read the heart of the stepmother who stood amongst them, they would have been sorry for her too ; for hers was the most real misery of all. Dolly pitied her. ‘ She may be much better thap we’ve taken her to be,’ said the kind-hearted maiden. No doubt she may, Dolly, and perhaps some of those, nay, many of those who did not believe you, may, on the other hand, be much worse than they have taken themselves to be. I should not wonder. Plere ends my story ; but when will end the misery which those idle talkers have stirred up ? — who can say? The evil they did by casting the stumbling- block in the way of one who so easily stumbled ; the bitterness they -poured into one life, and the thorns they strewed in the way of one pair of little tender feet; will any account of those things, as the result of idle words, be asked for in the Day of Judgment? | THE STOCK- DOVES. TYOVES ! ’ exclaimed a. friend of mine, looking at U our picture. ‘ Are those the wretched birds who coo so dismally in a wicker cage which my old aunt in the country keeps outside one of her windows?’ Of course we made haste to explain, that whether dismal or not, as taste may decide, the cooing doves were not the ‘ stock-doves ’ of our picture. These build in the stocks of trees, hence their name. They have been known,. too, to lay their eggs in deserted warrens without building any nests. These stock¬ doves were more common in former times than now, though we still have them in our woods. Years ago, when forests covered the country, flocks of these birds frequented thprn, feeding upon the beech-mast. The Dove family are very numerous, but all of them may well bring to our mind thoughts of Him Who made use of them as emblems of purity and humility. j - — » —

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No. XLV CHATTERBOX. 353 Ihe Seal-Hunters calling for help.

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354 CHATTERBOX. No. XLY. A SEAL-HUNTING ADVENTURE ON THE BALTIC. UKERS-MATS, a well-to- do farmer in Pasklep, a large village in Esthonia, was standing at the win¬ dow and gazing at the thick black clouds which veiled the setting sun. Then turning to his son Andrus he said, — ‘ This will he a stormy night. For the last fort¬ night the sun has been loosening the ice. The snow o.n the country has thawed. We must make haste, if we wish to capture our game ; so make }rour preparations, my son, that we may be able to start to-morrow morning as early as possible.’ Andrus, a tall and strongly-built lad of seventeen, cheerfully threw aside the axe with which, he was at work mending the waggon and getting it ready for the approaching spring, and he hastened to prepare all that was necessary for a journey across the ice. It was the first time that his father had allowed him to gratify the wish of his heart, which was to accompany him on a seal-hunt. But the anxious mother turned to her husband and said, — ‘ What! will you go again on that dangerous chase, and take our Andrus with you, too ? These rash expeditions every year cause me more and more pain, but this time it will be harder than ever for me to let you go. Don’t do it, Mats ! Look, we have been married nearly twenty years. Our rye-field is in good condition : we have plenty of stores of flour and fish to last us till the summer. Why, then, will you and our son expose yourselves to such dangers ? ’ 4 Ah ! do not talk about things which you do not understand,’ replied the farmer. ‘ It is quite true, thank God, that we do not need to go on the seal- hunt to preserve us from want ; but when God places a wajr of increasing our scanty, means within our reach, it would be wrong if we did not profit by the opportunity. Our fathers and grandfathers have ever been accustomed to this chase, and there is no reason why we should give it up. Our son must grow up strong and hardy, as befits a true farmer. Nothing will better help to make him so than the chase ; and he must not be afraid of dangers. So, dear Ger¬ trude, it is settled that early to-morrow, God willing, we are up and ready to start, and we will be home again by evening, if all be well.’ The wife had many things she would have liked to urge to the contrary, but she knew her husband’s firm will, and was accustomed to submit to his autho¬ rity ; so she was silent, and prepared the supper. Then she fetched from the store-room the hunting-clothes for the morrow’s expedition. But Mats went in the darkness to his neighbour and friend, Christian Ber- thel, to invite him to take part in the chase. He easily consented ; and his son Peter, too, a quick and daring fellow, was to join the party. Mats was pleased at this, and his wife gradually became more reconciled to the affair: for Peter was a great friend of her son’s, and to his care she specially commended him. Darkness was still lying over forest and sea when our four huntsmen were sitting at their breakfast of boiled sour milk with black bread and salt fish. By the flickering light of a torch the father, according to a pious old custom, read a prayer out of his hymn- book for God’s protection on their dangerous journey, then he repeated a fervent 4 Our Father,’ and after an affectionate farewell to those left behind, the four huntsmen started on their road. With rapid steps they passed through the forest of lofty pines, among whose tops the stormy wind was howling. The merry dog, Kriard, who was to accompany them on then* expedition, now hurried on before them, now bounded round them, jumping with joy. And when the day dawned — it was the 13th March, 179G — the four huntsmen were just stepping on to the ice in a bay of the Baltic where they were about to look for their sport. Once more Mats examined the clothing and hunting equipments of his son, as well as the stock of provisions which they had brought with them. Each huntsman carried a large hunch of bread, some smoked seals’ flesh, a pair of woollen gloves, and a tinder-box. Of course the sharp hunting-spear with the strong hook at one end was not wanting. Andrus and Peter had also each a rifle slung over their shoulders, and the two elder men carried a bottle .of brandy with them, too, to warm them in case of severe cold or extreme damp. Passing oyer the loose ice along the shore, which already was beginning to thaw and break up, and then across a tongue of land which stretched out into the sea, the four men at last came upon the firm ice. They hurried quickly onwards, in order to reach the best place for their sport in good time. The weather was just that which seal-hunters love — threatening and overcast — but the storm had ceased; and full of hope they looked round on all sides for their, prey, while they cautiously tested the ice under their feet with their spears before advancing upon it. The hunt was not favourable, as only two seals were slain. Amid the constant wandering hither and thither, hour after hour quickly passed away. At last it was noon, and then it was high time to give up the chase and begin the homeward iourney. The two younger fellows would gladly indeed have remained longer, but they yielded to the advice of the experienced men, so all four turned southwards to pick up the seals they had slain and to carry them home. But when they reached the spot where they had crossed in the morning they found, to their ter¬ ror, that the ice had become loosened from the shore, and that they were now separated from the land by a broad arm of the sea. They plunged their hunting- spears into the water, but these, though four yards long, did not touch the bottom. There was, therefore, no chance of reaching the shore through the water, as ’none of them could swim. In vain did the. four huntsmen run up and down on the edge of the ice, in order to discover some connexion with the dry land. They turned to the north, where the water appeared to be narrower. Berthel alone went to the south-west, where he hoped to find some means of getting across. Soon, indeed, he came to a spot where the edges of

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No. XLV. CHATTERBOX. 355 the ice-fields were nearer to each other : between them small blocks of ice were being driven about ; he quickly sprang upon the largest of these which he could reach, and while he used his spear as an oar, he succeeded, after much exertion, in bringing this frail ice-bark to the fringe of ice which bordered the mainland. Thus in safety, though quite wet through, he reached the firm ground of the shore, upon which he sprang with a thankful heart. .But gazing far and wide, he saw not a sign of his three companions. He hastened to Bisholm, the nearest village, in order to summon people to their aid. "When he had brought the peasants to the shore, the ice had almost entirely vanished. All around nothing was to be seen but the wild waves of the sea lashed into fury by the storm. No one would make an attempt at a rescue which was very dangerous, and. as it appeared, would be quite in vain. In deep trouble and sorrow Christian Berthel, as night was coming on, went alone to his home. The tidings he brought spread terror and mourning in his own home and in that of Dukers’. No one imagined that the unfortunate huntsmen could pos¬ sibly be saved ; so, weeping and mourning, they gave them up for lost. Mats, with his two companions, had hastened along the edge of the ice. At one point they were so near the village of Boslcp that they could distinguish a boy standing on the shore. By signs and loud cries they made him understand that he should fetch them assistance. To their joy they saw him run to fhe village ; but then he remained standing, and went no further. Had he not understood their distress, or would he not help them? The ice quickly carried • them further and further from the shore. Soon had the village vanished from the eyes of the three unhappy men. About six miles from the mainland the little island of Odinsholm lies quite alone amid the waves. It was inhabited by seven fishermen’s families, who sup¬ ported themselves on the scanty product of their fields and by what they caught in fishing, but who often served as pilots to passing vessels. On the northern point of the island stands a lighthouse. Towards this little island (lie ice upon which the three huntsmen were imprisoned was drifting. Soon they were tolerably near to this island and cried out for help. Several persons were standing on the shore ; but the storm was too violent, and the men perhaps too timid. No one offered them any help. The ice again drifted away from the island, further in the direction of the promontory of Spixham. But here the sea beat them with large and violent waves, and thus prevented their landing. The dark night now came on, and the three hunts¬ men had to think how they could seek shelter and protection during it. After a long search they found some cavities in the iceberg filled with snow, in which, with heavy hearts, they laid themselves down. ‘Here you must place yourselves as well as you can,’ said Mats-, ‘ for we shall find no warmer quarters. Our good Berthel may long since be lying at the bottom of the sea. Soon we, too, as it seems, shall be lying in the cold deep. Now, may God’s will be done! Let us commend our souls to His mercy, and to the protection of His holy angels, for it is scarcely to be hoped that we shall ever see the sun again.’ u Thereupon Mats covered his Andrus completely with snow, in order, in this manner, to protect him from the cold. The faithful dog, who was now quite exhausted, he enticed up to him and wrapped him up with his son in the wide sheep-skin. Then he laid himself down to sleep by Peter’s side : — ‘It is not the first night,’ he said, ‘which I have passed on the ice, for my father has often slept with me on it, that we might begin the chase with sunrise; but never was the roaring of the wind so terrible, or death so near us, as to-day. Let us, like men, await it, feeling it comes from Gods hand; but now calmly sleep, so that on to-morrow, if any attempt at deli¬ verance is to be made, we may the more boldly and courageously face the danger/ After a devout prayer he stretched himself on the snow, and soon lay in as deep a slumber as if he had a soft, warm bed under him, and expected to greet a happy morning when he awoke. Andrus and Peter, too, who were fearfully tired, soon fell asleep. But the ice still drove them slowly onwards; and the storm sang them a howling lullaby. ( Concluded in our next.) THE HAPPIEST MAN. A Persian Fable. THE King is ill !’ the doctors cried : ‘ We fear the King is very ill ; Although each remedy we’ve tried, — Blister and lotion, leech and pill.’ Then spake a knight : ‘ Sire, pray be sure This is not a mere idle tale ; Til tell you of a perfect cure, And one that’s never known to fail. ‘First, let the happiest man be sought, In ail your Majesty’s domain, Then wear his shirt when it is brought, And you will soon be well again/ ‘Bravo, Sir Knight!’ the King exclaims; ‘ You’ve hit upon a famous plan. To horse ! to horse ! nor draw your reins Until you find the “Happiest Man.’” Forth rode the Knight full many a span ; He searched each mansion, castle, hall : But when he found the ‘ Happiest Man,’ ’Twas in a cottage, mean and small. ***** ‘ What, ho ! Sir Knight ! Ha ! do you dare ? I told you not to show your face Until you brought that garment rare : — • Away ! — to prison and disgrace/ ‘ Ah ! gracious Sire ! my best I tried ; Speak not to me in accents curt ; I found the man,’ the Knight replied, ‘ But — actually — he — had — no shirt ! ’ M. M. 0.

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SEA CUCUMBERS. materials affording much jelly ! ’ The combination of these extraordinary articles ought surely to make, as the old nursery rhyme says, — 4 A pretty disli to set before a king.’ The specimen scientifically called Chirodota digi- tata , is one of the rarer kinds: its body is white, spotted with orange : and, strange to say, this creature is able to break itself up into several pieces without any apparent difficulty; and, what is stranger still, each of these broken parts becomes a complete and perfect specimen ! Other interesting members of the group IIolo- thuriadce are the Sea Gherkins. The Milk-white Gherkin is a tiny creature compared to those already mentioned, for the body of the largest specimen is not an inch in length, and its tentacles also are very short. One of the peculiarities of this little gherkin in captivity is its habit of displaying itself to the greatest advantage in the night time. 4 When evening comes,’ says a writer on this subject, 4 a tuft protruding from the large extremity unfolds into a capacious funnel, composed of eight, ten, or twenty beautiful branches, implanted on a shelly cylinder, in the centre of which is the mouth. Each branch now begins to sweep the water in succession, and descends almost to the root within the mouth in a contracted state, whence it arises to enlarge anew. These evolutions are protracted until the latest hour, but as morning dawns the whole apparatus is with¬ drawn, and the skin becomes close and compact as before.’ _ / Truly, the Milk-white Gherkin is a marvellous little creature, and I trust that my readers feel enough interest in the subject of Sea Cucumbers to wish for another chapter about them in our next number. A. C. Wheeley. OST people have seen, most people have eaten , the vegetable known by the name of Cucumber, but few people, comparatively speak¬ ing, know that amongst the nu- nierous inhabitants of the sea is , C5P a tribe of living creatures called Holothiiriadae, or Sea Cucumbers. The divisions and subdivisions of this class of marine animals are very numerous: the specimen I have drawn at the top of the picture is, as you see, called 4 the Common Sea Cucumber.’ This particular species is found chiefly on the Irish and Scottish coasts. Professor Forbes tells us that its size varies from four to eight inches, and that the bodies of the Irish specimens are purple in hue : those found in Scotland yellow. The pretty leafy bunch at one end of the Sea Cucumber is really the creature’s mouth; the 4 leaves,’ rich red in colour, are the surrounding tentacles; and these tentacles can be drawn back into the mouth and put forward again, according to the Cucumber’s will. I have read that when the Sea Cucumber is in captivity it appears sometimes to suffer from what children call 4 a fit of sulks,’ for it will not put out or expand its beautiful tentacles for several days. It has also the power of lengthening and shortening its body by the use of strong muscles underneath the skin, — and by this means it moves about, — being moreover assisted in its progression by suckers, after the manner of the Star Fish and Sea Urchins. There is a species of Sea Cucumber called the Trepan e, used as an article of food ; we are told that 4 it is employed by the Chinese in the prepara¬ tion of nutritious soups, in common with a kind of sea-weed, sharks’ fins, edible birds’-nests, and other

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THE LOST THIMBLE. ClOME about tbe meadow, ) Hunt here and there : Where’s mothers thimble? Can you tell where? Jane saw her wearing it, Fan saw it fall, But Ned isn't sure That she dropped it at all. Has a mouse carried it Down to her hole — Home full of twilight, Shady, small soul ? Can she he darning there, Ere the light fails, Small ragged stockings? Tiny torn tails?

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358 CHATTERBOX. No. XLY. Have the ants covered it With straw and sand? Roomy bell-tent for them, So tall and grand: Where the red soldier ant3 Lie, loll, and lean, T\ bile the blacks steadily .Build for their queen. Has a huge dragon-fly Borne it (how cool !) To his snug dressing-room By the clear pool ? There will he try it on For a new hat — Nobody watching But one water-rat? Did spiders snatch at it, Wanting to look At the bright pebbles Which lie in the brook ? How are they using it, (Nobody knows!) Safe little diving-bell, Shutting so close? Did a rash squirrel there, Wanting to dine, Think it some foreign nut Dainty and fine? Can he have swallowed it, Up in that oak ? Wo, if we listen, Shall soon hear him choke. Hunt for it, hope for it, All through the moss ; Dip for it, grope for it — ’Tis such a loss ! Jane finds a drop of dew, Fan finds a stone; I find the thimble, Which is mother’s own! Run with it, fly with it, Don’t Jet it fall: All did their best for it— Mother thanks all. Just as we give it her, Think, what a shame ! — Ned says he’s quite sure That it isn’t the same ! Laurie's ‘ Technical Reading-boolc? A BAD SHOT. {Concluded from page 3-17.) CHAPTER II. ITRNEST made no attempt to clear himself, XL although he knew that Mr. Melvin thought him guilty. He bore all the blame quietly and without complaining, but what grieved him most was having lost the confidence of his parents. His father forbade his using his gun again until he had learned to behave better. Even his gentle mother, though she tried hard to find some excuse for her son’s conduct, feared that he had yielded to sudden temptation, and entreated him to confess all to Mr. Melvin. In writing to Ralph, Ernest had not alluded to the subject; for what was the use, now that Jack was cleared and had resumed his place as garden-boy ? Ralph’s parents were dead, his uncle was his guardian, ' and did not always look leniently on his faults; so that Ernest thought that it was better that things should remain as they were: but little did his friend think, while enjoying himself amongst his school companions, of all the unhappiness which that one wrong action of his had caused. \ acation came again, and Ralph returned to his home. He was welcomed by his uncle, and on the first evening after his arrival he proposed going to see Ernest next day, and having him out to shoot as usual ; but Mr. Melvin, in his severest tone, forbade his doing so. ‘I will not allow you to associate with that boy any more.’ ‘ Why, sir?’ asked his nephew in wonder. ‘ I have good reasons for what I say ; take care that I am not disobeyed.’ Ralph, saw that it would be useless to ask further explanations, and he concluded that his uncle had quarrelled with Mr. Trevor. It was certainly hard on him to be separated from his favourite friend for such a reason, and the pleasure of his vacation seemed quite spoiled. Still he dared not disobey, and could only hope that he might have a chance of explaining to Ernest why they could not be together as usual : but no such occasion occurred, for since his troubles Ernest had not cared to go much about, and above all he avoided the neighbourhood of Mr. Mel¬ vin’s grounds. One day, indeed, they had met on the public road, but as Ralph was in his uncle’s company he .was obliged to pass with merely a nod of recog¬ nition. Ernest was greatly puzzled by this conduct, for he had looked forward with pleasure to bis friend’s return. No doubt Ralph would hear the story of the hare ; but as he, above all people, knew it to be false, it was natural to suppose that he would come and talk the matter over, and probably offer to avow the truth. That he should take no notice was more than Ernest could understand. One day, towards the end of the vacation, Ralph was sauntering listlessly up and down the garden, thinking how dull it was without Ernest’s company, when Jack passed along the walk wheeling a barrow full of weeds. ‘ Holla, J ack ! how are you getting on these times ? and how is Mary ? ’ 4 She’s no worse, thank you, Master Ralph : but we were in a rare fright a while ago. I was near losing the place, indeed I was dismissed for a couple of days, on account of a hare that I never killed at all.’ ‘ Did you get into a scrape about that, Jack ? ’ ‘Yes, indeed, sir, and mother was nearly out of her mind; she didn’t know what way to turn, only she went and told Mr. Jones of how she saw Master i Ernest Trevor with it in his hand. They wouldn’t believe a word of it, till Master Ernest was asked, and when he didn’t deny it then I was taken back.’ Ralph turned away, leaving Jack to wheel on his barrow. All was now plain ; his thoughtless dis¬ obedience and breach of promise to his uncle had

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No. XLV. CHATTERBOX. 359 caused, first, the Joss of situation to an innocent boy, then the self-sacrifice of his friend to save Jack, and at the same time screen him. Surely he would not submit to this? No, he would go at once to his uncle and clear Ernest, who had shielded him so nobly. Hurrying to the house with this intention he found that Mr. Melvin had just gone out, and was not expected to return for some hours. Too impatient to wait so long, Ralph set off at once to see and thank his friend for all he had done, and tell him that he intended to explain everything to his uncle without delay. But on arriving at the door and asking for Ernest, he heard that he had been thrown from his pony the day before, was badly hurt, and not able to see any one. On his asking if he might speak to Mrs. Trevor, he was shown in, and heard how his friend had been for a long time looking ill and out of spirits, and his parents had been uneasy about his health. When Ralph reached home Mr. Melvin was stand¬ ing at the hall door, but as Ernest would not be able for a few days, at the least, to receive any explan¬ ations, it seemed unnecessary to make his confession just then ; the evil might be put off a little longer. Next morning lie would have wished to inquire for Ernest, but Mr. Melvin was going in the same di¬ rection, and dared not venture- The following day he set off early to see Mrs. Trevor. She was in tears. 4 Oh, Balph ! he is much worse, and the doctor fears for his life. If you had come yesterday, he appeared better, and would have seen you. He asked several times if you had heard of the accident, and said how he wished to see you/ 4 1 shall come again in the evening, if possible ; perhaps he would be able to see me then/ And Ralph hurried off. Oh ! how he wished that he had spoken to his uncle sooner, for by this delay he had perhaps missed his only chance of ever seeing Ernest alive. He felt that there was no time to be lost now, and on reaching home he at once sought his uncle and told the whole tale. Mr. Melvin had already heard of Ernest’s dangerous accident, and he sent his nephew off to inquire for the boy whom he had so harshly judged. Again Ralph arrived at the house, determined, if his friend was too ill to see him, to tell all to Mrs. Trevor, and beg of her to let her son know, when it was safe for Jier to do so ; but Ernest lay quite insensible, and the doctor, who was in the house, had very faint hopes of his recovery. Must he then die without having received any explanation, suffering under a false accusation, which his friend might have removed? Ralph was miserable at the thought. Summer vacation came round again. The sun was setting, the burrow was full of rabbits — more in¬ clined to appear than on the former occasion, and once more our two friends were there looking for a shot. Eor God had spared Ernest, and had brought him through his dangerous illness, although for many days he hung between life and death. ^ Mr. Melvin had pardoned his nephew at Mrs. Trevor’s request, and remembering all the anxiety he had suffered. Ernest had now again the full love and confidence of his parents, and^the two lads were greater friends and closer companions than ever. S. T. A. R. THE TOAD. TIE toad is distinguished from the frog by having no teeth in the jaw, and by having a well-developed ear. Many toads have a smooth skin, but the true toads have it covered more or less all over with warty lumps. The head varies in size and form, being sometimes small, sometimes large ; and the shape of the body is equally various. The extremities vary much in length, but in many of the species the hinder ones are much shorter than in the frogs. The fingers are four in number, all free; and the toes are five, more or less webbed. In toads as in frogs there are a number of small glands scat¬ tered over the skin, from which these animals have the power of causing moisture to run out, like a dew, at all points. This moisture was at one time thought to be poisonous, but the liquid is now known to be harmless. But the belief that toads have poisonous power is still common. The negroes of Africa, however, have no such su¬ perstition ; knowing from experience that the skin of the toad is cool, from the moisture it can force through the pores of the skin, they make a strange use of it. Adanson informs us, 4 that in traversing over the burning sands of Senegal the natives are in the habit of applying one of them alive to the fore¬ head, for the purpose of cooling it.’ The food of toads consists of small molluscs, worms, and insects, which must be alive or in motiou, as they never touch dead or motionless animals. When about to feed the toad remains quite still, with its eyes turned directly forwards upon the object, and the head a little inclined towards it, and in this atti¬ tude it remains until the insect or other animal moves, when, by a stroke like lightning, the tongue is thrown forward upon the victim, which is instautly drawn into the mouth. So rapid is this movement that it requires some little practice, as well as close obser¬ vation, to see the motion of the tongue. Toads are, for the most part, nocturnal in their habits, seldom issuing from their retreats till night comes on, or after the hot rains of summer. Toads can live a long time without eating. Instances are recorded on what seems good authority, of their having been shut up for many years in old walls, hollow trees, or in the earth, without their haying been able to get out, and without losing life. The feet of toads are seldom used for walking. These animals,, in fact, only creep, and when they are sud¬ denly laid hold of or surprised they do not attempt to seek safety in flight. They stop, swell out the bod v, and distil from the pores in the skin a white and fetid moisture, and attempt to bite. Their bite, how¬ ever, is not serious, though it produces at times a slight degree. of inflammation. In countries where the weather is cold, toads pass the winter season of the year in sheltered holes, hollow trees, or spaces amongst stones, and there they remain in a state of torpor till the return of spring calls them again into as active a life as they ever lead.

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360 CHATTERBOX. No. XLY. The Toad.

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A Lark in a Crioket-G round. By Harrison Weir.

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362 CHATTERBOX. No. XL VI. A LARK IN A CRICKET- GROUND. FEW clays ago I chanced to be passing through Sonning, one of the delightful old English villages on the banks of the Thames, when I was attracted to a park-like field near the road by hearing the merry sounds of what turned out to be the village school at their noon-day game of cricket. I could not resist the pleasure of pausing to watch the boys at Play. Before long my curiosity was aroused by loud shouts of * * * 4 Look out ! ’ 4 Take care ! ’ 4 Mi n d where you’re going ! ’ whenever any boy approached a certain spot, which seemed to be within a few }rards of one of the wickets, and I asked one of the party what such out¬ cries meant. His reply was — 4 Oh, that’s our lark, sir ! ’ On further inquiry I found that some weeks before the boys had discovered a titlark’s nest in the ground close to their cricket-piece. One of the boys (no doubt the genius of the school) seems to have made the truly original suggestion that the school should take the lark and her belongings under their special patronage. The proposal was at once adopted, and it had become a daily business to see, before settling to their play, that all was right with the lark, and to guard her nest during the game. My bright¬ eyed informant told me with great glee, that four birds were already hatched, and, pointing to the spot, he shouted, 4 Look, sir, there she is a-feeding of ’em ! ’ It was true enough. In spite of the noisy game, the crowd of boys, and the ball flying often close overhead, or rolling near, the mother-bird was hop¬ ping towards the nest with some doubtless delicious morsel for her little ones. Afterwards I saw her coming to and fro without showing the least sign of fear* Evidently she understood the compact, and accepted in good faith the patronage of her young protectors. — War grave Parish Magazine . ‘WOODEN CLARA.’ A TALE OP ANTWERP. By Hendrik Conscience. Y niece Frederica, my lost darling, often asked me why the figure in carved wood, which is to be seen at the foot of the staircase of the Orphanage of Antwerp, was called 4 Wooden Clara.’ I could not then answer her question, but it led me to inquire into the chronicles of my native town, and I learnt the his¬ tory of 4 Wooden Clara;’ a true story, relating to events which oc¬ curred at the time of the taking of our city by the Duke of Parma, and one which 1 am going to relate to you, as I found it in the ancient re¬ cords, and as I heard it from the mouth of some of the oldest inhabitants of our dear old town of Antwerp. CHAPTER I. — DONNA CATALINA. On a fine afternoon in the year 1*589 the little girls of the Orphanage of Antwerp were preparing for their walk with the good mother their Directress, and, assembled beneath the lime-trees in the court¬ yard, they stood awaiting the signal of departure. Some of them while waiting amused themselves by examining with great curiosity the windows of the house adjoining their own. From these windows two women of very different appearance were looking at the little orphans. The elder one, dressed in black, wore the coif and high starched collar which are seen in the old portraits by Rembrandt. Her face was full of gentleness, humility, and goodness ; she was the duenna, or companion, to Donna Cata¬ lina, countess of Almata, the wife of a Spanish nobleman, who had brought with her to Antwerp the dress and customs of her husband’s country. Donna Catalina had hardly reached her twenty- eighth year, but suffering of mind and body had already stamped on her features a look of old age, had mingled grey hairs with her black tresses, had dimmed the brilliancy of her eyes, and bent her elegant and fragile figure. Pale and languishing, her look of ill-health contrasted with the richness of her dress. She wore a robe of green satin over a petticoat of white damask, a collar of the finest lace encircled her neck, and round her throat she wore a Venetian chain with a cross of the finest pearls. Her hair was raised beneath a coif of velvet, trimmed with silver lace. Her duenna, Ines, as she stood beside her, drew aside the curtains of the window, and the Countess fixed on the orphans a look full gf tenderness mixed with envy. 4Oh!’ said she, 4 if God had but deigned to send an angel like these to our house ! If a child did but form a link between Callisto and myself ! Yet these children have no mother, and I have no child !’ 4 Oh, madam,’ interrupted Ines, 4 only look at that one who holds the man’s hand ! Look yonder 1 that fair child.’ 4 1 see her. What a lovely face! how gentle and modest she looks ! She seems to be about twelve years old. Twelve ! Alas, her age ! If I had such a child as that I should envy no one, though I had to work all my life to support her.’ She continued to gaze with tearful eyes on the little girl, who was truly a lovely and charming child, and whose name, constantly repeated by her companions, reached her ear. This child was called Clara. The inhabitants of the Low Countries, though three centuries have passed away, _ still talk of the violent deeds which marked the reign of Philip II. Above all, they remembered one day in Antwerp when the troops of Vargas and Romero made a furious rush from the citadel, carrying fire and sword into the peaceful city. The unfortunate citizens made a desperate resistance to this attack, and defended their hearths to the last : but, overwhelmed by num¬ bers, they perished on the threshold of their houses, within which their wives, their daughters, and their sisters, trembled in fear and dismay. Amongst those who rose first in defence of the town was a youth of noble birth, named Lancelot

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No. XLVI. CHATTERBOX. 363 von Bisthoven. Hardly married a year, the thought of liis young wife and child redoubled his courage, and he fought as those fight who at once defend their whole happiness and their life. Alas ! all was in vain ; mortally wounded not far from his own dwelling, his body was left amid the heaps of slain, and those he loved most dearly were exposed to the fearful dangers around them. His palace was overrun by a band of Spanish soldiers, eager for pillage; seeing this, some of his old retainers dragged their young mistress forcibl}r away, and carried off her child to seek a place of safety. The unhappy lady, wild with grief and terror, ran hither and thither in the streets, calling in vain on her dying husband to come to her defence. Her cries, her beauty, the richness of her dress, had already attracted a Spanish soldier eager for plunder ; when a young noble of the same nation came to the help of the unhappy widow, and carried her fainting in his arms through the crowd till he reached the house of his mother, the Dowager Countess of Almata. Thus it was that Catherine de Ghistelle, the widow of one of the defenders of Flemish Independence, found an asylum with the enemies of her country and her race. The old Spanish lady received her as a daughter, nursing her with tenderness through a long illness, brought on by this dreadful day ; but when at last the unfortunate widow was once more restored to health and to reason, it became necessary to inform her that in the space of a few hours she had lost all she loved on earth. The attendants who had followed her in her flight had perished, and her child, the sole offspring of her marriage, had doubtless pe¬ rished with them ; for, notwithstanding the inquiries set on foot by the Count d’Almata and his mother, all trace of it had been lost. Catherine was herself an orphan from her infancy; her husband was the last of a noble house, and to both of them there remained but a few distant relatives, dispersed by exile and misfortune. Her property wa3 reduced to a very small sum by pillage. She had therefore no protector, no one to look to, but the family of the Count d’Almata, yet it was with sad¬ ness that she resigned herself to follow to Spain the generous lady who had been as a mother to her. A year had hardly passed away when the Dowager Countess fell ill. and feeling her last hour approach¬ ing, she called Catherine to her side, whom she often addressed as her beloved daughter, and thus spoke to her: — ‘ My child, I have one favour to ask of you ; I feel God callsyne to Himself, but ere I quit this world I should wish to know that you were sure of protec¬ tion. Consent to marry Callisto, and I shall be at rest about the Future’of you both.’ The young widow hesitated for some time, for her first affection still lived in her heart ; and she could neither forget her beloved husband nor their child, nor the -days of happiness which for a short time had shone upon her. But she could not resist the en¬ treaties of Callisto and his mother, and Catherine de Ghistelle became Countess of Almata. Their union was a happy one, for the voung couple feared God and tried to fulfil their duties: but though they loved one another with a sincere affec¬ tion, a cloud of melancholy seemed to hang over them both. Their marriage was not blessed with children, and this renewed in the Countess’s heart the remembrance of that joy which she had known but for so short a time in her earlier years. This regret produced a secret barrier between herself and her husband, and though she tried to overcome it, and to turn her heart to Him who disposes all for good, her health suffered from the constant weight on her mind. After they had thus been married ten years, the Count, by the advice of her physicians, brought his wife back to her native country, and established him¬ self with her in a house joining the Orphan Asylum. The Countess, however, on her return to Antwerp, resumed none of her former habits; she renewed none of her former acquaintance ; and, indeed, most of those she had formerly known were either dead or had left the country. Thus she lived in her native town as a stranger: none sought her acquaintance, for no one recognised her. Who, indeed, could have recognised in this sickly and broken-hearted woman, the merry girl, the happy young \vife, whose beauty, whose gaiety, had been the admiration of all ? Who would have known the brilliant Catherine de Ghistelle in the pensive Donna Catalina ? Following the customs of Spain, the wife of Callisto seldom went abroad. In the morning she went to church in a sedan-chair, and when the afternoon was fine she attended the service, lean¬ ing on her husband’s arm, or else accompanied by her women and an old attendant, her page pre¬ ceding her with her richly-bound service-book and her kneeling-stool, and followed by a little negro, who bore her train. This group attracted the attention of the curious, but none of the passers-by remembered her, so completely were they deceived by these foreign customs. Donna Catalina spent the rest of her time in retirement, in prayer, and in working for the poor. The Count often kept her company, but there was ever a sadness and secret reserve between them. (To be continued.) RUNNING AFTER THE RAINBOW. WHY thus aside your playthings throw, Over the wet lawn hurrying so? Where arc you going, I want to know? ’ 4 I’m running after the rainbow.’ 4 Little boy, with your bright brown eyes Full of a wonderful surprise, Stop a minute, my Arthur wise, What do you want with the rainbow?’ Arthur paused in his headlong race, Turned up to mother his hot young face, ‘Mother, I want to reach the^place At either end of the rainbow. 4 Nurse says, wherever it meets the ground, Such beautiful things may oft be found Buried below, or scattered around, If one can but catch the rainbow. 4 0 please don’t hinder me, mother dear, It will all be gone while I stay here.’ So with many a hope, and not one fear, The child ran after the rainbow.

Page 371

Over the damp grass, ankle-deep, Clambering up the hilly steep, [sleep, And the wood where the birds were going to 13 ut he couldn’t catch the rainbow. And when he came out, at the wood’s far side, The sun was setting in golden pride ; There were plenty of clouds all rainbow-dyed, But not a sign of the rainbow. Said Arthur, sobbing, as home he went, 4 1 wish I had thought what mother meant ; I wish I had only been content, And not run after the rainbow.’ And as he came sadly down the hill Stood mother scolding, but smiling still. And hugged him up close, as mothers wild ; So he quite forgot the rainbow. From Our Year . (By the Author of ‘John Halifax Gentleman.')

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I SOMETHING MORE ABOUT SEA CUCUMBERS AND STAR PISH. ACCORDING to my promise last week, I will now give my young friends a few more particulars respecting the class of submarine animals called Sea Cucumbers. The Great Sea Cucumber is the largest species known in Europe ; its proper length is one foot — that is to say, its measurement is one foot when the creature is quiet, and does not distort or extend its body. As 1 have already told you, Sea Cucumbers lengthen and contract their bodies at pleasure, and the Great Sea Cucumber can elongate its body ( one foot in length) until it measures three feet. The variety of shapes which these inhabitants of the ocean can assume is well described in a work on the subject by Professor Forbes : — ‘ The Sea Cucumbers have all the power of changing their shapes in the strangest manner : sometimes elongating themselves like worms ; some¬ times contracting in the middle of their bodies, so as to give . themselves an hour-glass shape; some¬ times blowing themselves up with water so as to be perfectly globular. They usually live among sea¬ weeds, or in mud, and are supposed to seize their prey by means of their long tentacula . The genus ranges over the greater part of the seas of the globe.’ rlhe other Sea Cucumber in the picture is a much smaller species; Professor Forbes tells us that it is called the. Long Sea Cucumber, because it is ‘ the longest in proportion to its thickness of all the British Sea Cucumbers .... it measures about an inch in length.’ And^ now I must say a few words respecting the three Star Fish on the rock above the Cucumbers. rIhe .webbed starlet at the top is the smallest of our. Biitish species — the largest of this class mea¬ suring but one inch : its appearauce is, as you see, very different from that of the brittle stars on the

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366 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVI. rock, with their long thin legs, and small discs or bodies. One of the places where our dredging-net brought us up from the sea vast quantities of these gaily- tinted Star Fish is close to a rock called the Orestone, at the entrance of Torbay, in Devonshire ; and the sight of myriads of brittle stars when emptied from the net to the deck of the vessel is one that must be seen to be understood. A. C. Wheeley. A SEAL -HUNTING- ADVENTURE IN THE BALTIC. (Concluded from page 355.) I^HE night passed away and a new day dawned. The sleepers awoke. When they looked round them they saw plainly the lighthouse of Odinsholm in the ruddy beams of the rising sun. The ice-field had gradually drifted round again to this island, and now lay tolerably near to its shores. Only smaller ice- blocks and open water filled the space between. The pilots of the island stood on the shore, and were now ready to hasten to their help. They had launched a boat into the water. Five brave men had jumped into it, and pushed away from land into the waves, and amid the drifting ice. But it was all in vain. The ice-blocks -were too small to bear a man’s weight, and too close together to allow the boat to pass through them. All the efforts of the brave men were fruitless. They were themselves in danger, every moment, of losing their lives, and were glad when they were freed from the wildly-tossing masses of ice and had again safely reached their island-home. The ice-field with the three unhappy men now drifted northwards. Soon the coast of Odinsholm appeared to them only like a dark streak ; then they saw only the top of the lighthouse in the far distance: at last that final sign of home, and with it the last hope for deliverance, vanished from their eyes. Nothing but sky, sea, and ice, lay before their an¬ guished gaze. The waves of the Gulf of Finland, which is one hundred and fifty miles long, and more than thirty broad at that point, were swelling higher and higher. The ice-field on which they were was lifted up, bent, and cracked beneath their feet. From a thousand openings the water spirted out. One mass of ice after another broke away from it. In a short time the whole ice-field was split up into innumerable smaller blocks. Violently did these various pieces crash against each other, and then fall into atoms, or rise one over the other, beating and smashing everything with a terrible noise and clatter. With death staring them in the face, the unhappy men had now to spring every moment from one ice- block to another. They gradually became stiff with cold and exhausted by fatigue, and it was ever more and more difficult for them to struggle against the death which threatened them on every side. At last they all succeeded in getting together upon a larger and firmer piece of ice. Here they sat down, now utterly 'worn out, and with prayers and tears awaited their last hour. But they solemnly promised, by hand and mouth, that they would remain faithful to. each other and hold firmly together till their last breath. Thus were the three unfortunate men driven along by the roaring waves of the Gulf of Finland. Their stock of provisions was now quite exhausted. It w’as evening again. Once more did old Mats offer up a fervent prayer for a peaceful death and a joyful resurrection. Their last hope of deliverance had vanished. The waves were more and more under¬ mining the ice-raft, which every now and then qui¬ vered at the shock of violent collisions with other ice- blocks. The space it afforded them became smaller and smaller. The foaming waves of the sea broke against it, so that they could scarcely keep a firm hold, though clasped in each other’s arms and lying close together. It was a fearful night ! Every wave that beat upon them seemed to be the last, and each moment one or other of them feared to be torn from the embrace of his friends, and alone, or together with them, to be swallowed up in the deep. But this night, too, passed slowly away, and the sun of the loth March rose upon the three men. Fresh hope returned to their hearts. Their icy-raft, which just before had been whirled round in wild circles, remained motionless. It had reached the boundaries of the firm ice, round which lay the blocks which had been driven on from the south. At a short distance before them rose a lighthouse ; further in the distance they discerned the outlines of a lofty coast. This must be the coast of Finland : that must be the lighthouse and the hills of Hangoridd! The three men, full of new hope, sprang up from their uncomfortable couch. Their limbs were numb, bruised, and stiff, nevertheless they were all well in health. The faithful Kriard, who had passed the night moaning on Andrus’s breast and had kept him warm, sprang round them. He hastened towards the coast, and appeared to be begging his masters to follow him thither. But before the three started old Mats de¬ voutly took off his cap, clasped his hands, and pro¬ nounced a short, fervent thanksgiving. Then he urged the two young men to be very cautious on their way to the shore, as they would have many loose ice-blocks to cross. And now they walked slowly forward on their difficult and dangerous road, keeping the light¬ house, as a guiding-star, in full view. Every now and then first one and then another of the poor ex¬ hausted fellows, stiff with the cold, in their wet clothes, fell or sunk down in some rift in the ice. But none of them received any serious injury. Peter was a faithful companion and helper, both to his young friend and to old Mats. Kriard bounded on before them, trying to find the firmest ice-blocks, so that the three men could always safely follow him. The broader spaces they crossed by flinging their stout spears from one block to the other, and then creeping over them ; the narrower ones they leaped over, and towards noon they reached the extensive snow-covered icy fringe which bordered the shores of Finland. Here the danger of being drowned had indeed ceased, but the wished-for land still did not appear to be much nearer. Then* strength threatened to fail. They rested in order to take breath. Andrus sank down exhausted and half-fainting on the snow. Peter’s advice was to kill the dog, that by his blood and flesh new strength should be given to the lad, who was utterly worn-out. Hard as such a sacrifice would have been to Mats,

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No. XL VI. CHATTERBOX. 367 he would willingly have consented to it if his son’s life could be saved thereby. But the intelligent animal gazed at his companions in suffering with such faith¬ ful, loving eyes, that not one of them had the heart to take that life which had been so wonderfully saved. When Andrus became conscious again, he rejected this proposal with horror and disgust. He said, too, that he was so refreshed by the short sleep and rest, that he felt quite capable of going on further. Then he beckoned the faithful Kriard to him, whom he, not without reason, considered as the preserver of his life during the last two nights, and embraced him with grateful affection. They started again, and after about a quarter of an hour’s march the dog, by loud barking, beckoned them to a spot where with delight they beheld human footsteps. Those they followed full of joyful hope, passed by several rocks and small uninhabited islands, and at length, in a few hours, reached the shore. By God’s gracious help they were saved ! Soon after sunset the three men came to the village of Tech turn. At the first house they came to they asked to be admitted to pass the night. They were so exhausted that they could scarcely relate their adventures ; but their appearance told more plainly than their words all that they had experienced and suffered. The good-natured farmer received them kindly. He hastened at once to his neighbours and told them what had happened. They were only too ready to offer their help ; and the three friends were distributed into three houses, provided by their hosts with dry clothes, refreshed with warm food and drink, and put to bed as quickly as possible. They slept for nearly twenty-four hours, and when they awoke at last they felt thoroughly refreshed. In this lonely village the three seal-hunters re¬ mained for nearly six weeks— happy and grateful for tlieh deliverance. It was not possible for them to return at once to their homes, neither could they find any opportunity of acquainting their beloved families on the opposite shore of the Gulf of Finland that they were still alive. There was still too much ice for ships to sail over the Gulf. They must then wait till they could themselves return and rejoice their loved ones by their appearance. Meanwhile, in old Mats’ house at Pasklep the deepest sorrow reigned. . His good wife Gertrude implored her pastor, with many tears, the next Sunday to remember in the public prayers at church those who had lost their lives at sea, and had not even received Christian burial. The clergyman, though he himself scarcely indulged a thought of their safety, comforted the poor woman with kind words ; but on Sunday, with the whole congregation, he prayed that the souls of the three men who had so strangely vanished might be saved. Sadly and drearily did the days and weeks of that spring pass away to the lonely widow. The sweet Faster festival, too, with its joyous memories, could not comfort her. It was like Good Friday to her soul on that happy feast, for her husband and son were dead, and could not come back to her. On the 25th April, just as the morning was dawning, Gertrude jumped up from her bed after a restless sleep. A strange excitement had taken possession of her. She looked into the street, she went into the | garden ; but all was still — quite still — only in the distance she heard the waves roaring and dashing against the shore. As the children were still asleep she thought that she would lie down again for a few moments longer. Then it seemed as if she heard some one knock at the door. She opened it, and a black figure came in, ran quickly into the room and jumped upon her. She cried out, but recognised with the greatest wonder their faithful dog. ‘ Good Kriard,’ she exclaimed with pain, ‘ do you bring me your masters’ last greetings ? How have you escaped from that dreadful death? Whence have you come from now, after these six long weeks? ’ Kriard replied to the good woman with eager caresses and joyful barkings. He licked her face and hands, and then sprang towards the still open door, at which now Peter entered. ‘ And you, too, Peter ! Are you still alive ? ’ cried the bewildered woman, when she recognised his face, which, owing to the thick beard which covered it, she had not known at first. Then she continued, — 4 And Mats and Andrus ? Were you with them at their last hour, or where and when have you left them ? ’ ‘ Do not frighten yourself, good neighbour,’ answered Peter. ‘ I have come on to greet you from Mats and Andrus. They are both alive, and will soon be here ! ’ The good woman scarcely knew whether she was to believe these joyful tidings. She was almost over¬ powered by the sudden joy. Full of happy ex¬ pectation she hastened to the door, and fell into the anus of her husband and son, who, with affectionate tenderness, pressed her to their hearts. At their mother’s cry of joy the children, too, sprang from their beds, hurried up, and greeted with delight the father and brother whom they had thought to be dead. The faithful Kriard, too, was not for¬ gotten, and received many caresses. The joyful news quickly spread throughout the whole village. The clergyman, too, was soon ac¬ quainted with the return of the lost ones. On the following Sunday, April 26, he, together with liis whole congregation, returned thanks to God the Lord for the mercy which He had in so striking a manner shown to the rescued men. On the afternoon of this happy Sunday the whole company of his relations, neighbours, and friends, assembled in the house of Dukers-Mats. It was natural enough that Berthel and his son Peter should not be absent. The good lord of the manor had also come to convince his own eyes and ears of the truth of the wonderful story which had been told him. All wished to hear a narrative of the great tilings which God had done to the three men. Mats related the whole story of the perilous and marvellous voyage on the ice-field. He concluded with the wish that his children and children’s cliildren might never forget the great mercies which the Lord had shown to him. The guests joined in the venerable father’s pious wish, which they expressed by a hearty Amen. To the present day, in both families, the story of that terrible journey to Finland, and of the miracu¬ lous deliverance, is remembered, and is often the subject of conversation, as well as a cause of gratitude to Him Who holds the waves in the hollow of His hand. J. F. C. — «<**-» —

Page 375

The Seal-Hunters’ return Home.

Page 376

No. XLVII. CHATTERBOX. 369 Calves. By Harrison Weir.

Page 377

370 CHATTERBOX. No. XL VII. CALVES. ^ELL! and what does Chatterbox want to know about us calves? A great deal might he said, for, mind you, we calves are members of a very large, useful, and flighty genteel family. We are related to Count Bison, in Russia ; to Citizen Buffalo, in America ; and to Sahib Zebu, that elegant, deer¬ like animal, whom Hindoo folk worship, and whose only good beef is the ugly hump on the back. In fact, we are like a great tree ; the trunk is Bos, meaning Ox, and the branches are the various sorts of horned cattle — Polish, Hungarian, Norman, and, so forth. Our English branch has many smaller branches. Who has not heard of long-horns and short-horns, Devon- shires and Ilerefords? Wales has her own hardy cows, which live on rough heaths and commons. Scotland boasts her kyloes, her Angus doddies, and her tiny Shetlanders, not bigger than I am, with my milk-teeth still in my mouth. And how dear to Irish Pat is his little Kerry cow ! We have often heard of a great-great-grandfather of ours, who was called Comet, and was _ sold and bought for a thousand guineas. My ambition would be satisfied if I brought my master a thousand shil¬ lings — nay, a thousand pence seems a vast sum to me! Still we cannot tell to what we may grow when we have lost our milk-teeth and get rings to our horns ; for, of course, you know that no calf gets a mark of dignity till he is three years old. We wish people were not so fond of veal, and would give us a chance of shining like our bright ancestor. Comet. We are a healthy and fairly long-lived race, if people will give us plenty of food and good water, and keep us clean, and put a bit of chalk in a trough for us to eat. We have one bad habit — that of licking ourselves. This we ought to be broken of as soon as possible, because it prevents our getting on in the world. ' They say we have, as a family, a great power of knowing what is good to eat and what is not. I have heard that there are almost 500 plants that we might eat if we liked, but we refuse nearly half of them, because we believe they would not be wholesome to us. Now ‘meadow-sweet7 sounds uncommonly nice, but we never eat it, and we should pine away in a field where nothing else grew. But Mr. Goat thinks meadow-sweet a capital dish, a he same may be said of the long-leaved water-hemlock. Mr/ Goat eats it, I may say, like fun, but it’s no fun to us. It is death. Sometimes our poor mothers have got so sick of mouldy hay, that when they are let out in the spring .they . have greedily devoured everygreen thing that came in their way, and have died in consequence. And, being a bit of a poet, I made* up two lines, which I thought would be useful to my brothers and sisters, as follows : — ‘ Meadow-saffron, monkshood, hellebore, and yew, Are among the plants that we calves must eschew.’ Some people say we had forefathers in England in the time of Julius Caesar (you see what a learned calf I am). Those old ancestors were very wild, and untamable, and terrible ; and I have also heard there are some wild cattle yet living in the north, at a place called Chillingham. Perhaps a calf has no right to think of himself, but I cannot help thinking we tame, harmless, and enduring creatures, have no moral re¬ lationship at all with the ancient Urus or the modern wild bull. • But when the greatest biped doctors cannot agree about our origin, who will listen to a poor little calf ? I don’t like to think we belong to folk thkt will set upon a weak or wounded relation and gore it to death, as those wild horned creatures do. That is not my way of doing business, I’m sure. Still, the wild oxen are grand fellows, and I feel a sort of pride in claiming them as cousins. The great Sir Edwin Landseer painted them, and one of them was the subject of Bewick’s masterpiece in the wood- cut line. I don’t know whether to be angry or not that farmers have nearly given up using the members of our family for drawing plough and waggon. I’m sure we don’t cost so much as horses — mind, I don’t wish to speak evil of horses, though I think they are too much mixed up with fast-men, and blacklegs, and high life — catch me running at Epsom or Doncaster for a cup ! But I’m afraid people have found out we are slow, and cannot do as much work as Dobbin, and so we are fastened apd eaten. Well, I’m fond of milk, ahd I dearly love to pick a bit of hay when a dainty bundle hangs before ine, but I often vow I will fast and fret and keep myself a bag of bones, and laugh at the butcher when he pokes his fat fore¬ finger into my sides. Can I cheat him, do you think, or will my fate come at lagt? G. S. 0. ‘WOODEN CLARA/ (Continued from 303.) CHAPTER II. — CLARA, recollection of the little orphan constantly haunted the Countess of Almata, and increased the melancholy which filled her heart. At last she yielded to the desire of again seeing the beautiful child, whose image was so often before her. She resolved, therefore, to pay a visit to the Orphanage, fchi'her arrival at the istablishment the Directress hastened to the parlour o receive her, and curtseying respectfully said,— ‘ It is a great honour to our house that the noble Zountess of Almata should deign to visit our poor iliildren. In what can I serve you, Lady? ‘ I wish, my good mother, to see your children at Jieir.work.’ , ‘ .. T ‘ Willingly, Lady ; be pleased to follow me, and 1 (vill conduct you to the room where they are as¬ sembled.7 i i n i They crossed the court and entered a hall, where a

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No. XLVII. CHATTERBOX. 371 number of young girls of different ages were at Work together, and as they rlied their needle they accom¬ panied their work with a hymn. As the Countess d’Almata entered, followed by their Directress and the Duenna Ines, they ceased singing. All the orphans were dressed alike. Their costume consisted of a petticoat of black stuff, a bodice of dark blue, and a large linen collar with a white apron. On their head they wore a small black hood, beneath which their hair was drawn up, so as to show the whole forehead. The elder ones were busy in making lace on a cushion, others were sewing or marking, whilst the little ones were knitting stock¬ ings ; others, again, were embroidering in gold and silver on various materials. The Countess gazed at the rows of girls, and said in a low voice to the Directress, — ‘Who is that child sitting at the frame yonder, who appears so gentle and so delicate ? ’ 4 Alas, madam ! she is like the rest, without father or mother ; it was she whose sweet voice attracted your attention just now.’ Reading in the Countess’s face the wish which she had not expressed, the Directress continued : — 4 Clara, my child, place yourself before the desk. Children, this noble lady wishes to hear you sing. Sing her the Christmas carol.’ The orphans grouped themselves around the desk, while the Countess leaned on the arm-chair which was commonly occupied by the Directress. Clara began in her silver notes the Christian carol, and the children joined in the chorus.. This chorus, a mixture of Flemish and Latin, may thus be translated. ‘ In excelsis gloria ! • . Et in terra Pax hominibus ! Alleluia ! Alleluia ! Plail! hail! Thou Infant Saviour ! Thou, our Lord and King ! Hail ! hail ! 0 gentle Jesus ! Thy praises, Christ we sing F The air was a rude one, the words most simple, yet the child’s voice gave a charm to. this humble carol ; with her eyes raised to Heaven the little girl seemed to adore the Lord of Whom she sang.. The Countess could not take her eyes off her, and it was the Directress who at length said, — 4 Yes, noble Lady, you might search all through the city for another such voice as this dear child has. Already several convents have asked me to send Clara to them ; but she shall never leayc me, if God so wills. What, Lady, do you think of her voice?’ The Countess could not reply. Tears showed the strange feeling that filled her breast.. At length, seizing the hand of Clara, who stood with downcast eyes before her, she exclaimed, — 4 My child ! your voice has strangely affected me. Look at me : you do not fear me, 1 trust?’ The child raised her blue eyes, and with a sweet smile replied, — 4 Ho, Lady, I fear you not : for. you speak to me with too much kindness.’ 4 Well, then, dear child, embrace me ; and if your good mother gives you leave, accept this little gift, as a proof of the pleasure your singing has given me.’ As she spoke, she pressed the child to her heart, kissed her forehead, and slipped into her hand a small case in velvet. Clara opened tne unexpected gift, and uttered an exclamation of joy on finding it con¬ tained a silver thimble, a bodkin, and a pair of scissors; and taking the Countess’s hand she kissed it again and again. 6 Adieu, clear child!’ said the lady; and she con¬ tinued to gaze upon the little girl as she joined her companions. 4 Oh ! ’ sighed she, 4 if God had given me such a child, how happy should I and Callisto be 1’ Full of these thoughts she followed the Directress to the parlour. There Donna Catalina broke forth, — 4 Do you know the story of this child, my good mother? Who is she? She is so charming and so lovely ! ’ 4 We are quite ignorant, Lady, who this little one is by birth. She was brought to our house when only a few months old, without any token by which she might %bo known. She was poorly, clad, and the beggar who brought her to us could give us no information as to who sl;e was.’ 4 But what said she ? ’ 4 That she had found this child on the public road, and that out of charity she had brought her to us.’ 4 It is strange ! She would seem by her refinement and her beauty to belong to a noble race.’ 4Ah, Madam ! God bestows His gifts aliko on the poor and humble, as on the rich and powerful.’ 4 True., my good mother ! May this child, so favoured by nature and so deserted by fortune, be happy. I will come again to see her, and will not therefore say farewell.’ The Countess kept her word and came again several times, and each* time appeared more and more delighted with the gentle loveliness of Clara. One evening she came as usual, bringing under her mantle a Prayer-book which she meant for her favourite, but the Directress said to her in a sorrow¬ ful tone, — f Our dear child is ill, Lad}", and cannot to-day receive the honour of your visit.’ 4 She is not seriously ill, I trust?’ 4 Ho, thank God! she has but a slight attack of the fever.’ 4 1 should have liked much to have seen her, for I have brought her a little present ; and she seems so pleased with these tokens of my affection.’ 4 Then may 1 venture to propose to your Lady¬ ship to visit this little one in her chamber?’ 4 With all my heart ! ’ 4 Deign then to follow me, Lady ; and may God reward your love for this poor orphan.’ They ascended a staircase, and entered a small chamber with white-washed walls, adorned with a few sacred prints. Clara was in bed., in a disturbed slum¬ ber ; her lips murmured some indistinct words ; she stretched out her arms, and her face seemed over¬ shadowed by some troubled dream. The Countess looked at her in silence for a few moments, and then turning to the Directress said to her, 4 Your duties call you elsewhere, leave me with her; I will watch by her for a time.’ The Directress obeyed and retired. Donna Catalina closed the door and sat down by the orphan’s bed-

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372 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVII. side. . As she sat gazing on her lovely face, and thinking of her mysterious fate and tliat of her own lost child, Clara awoke, and raising herself on her pil¬ low she held out *her arms to the Countess, and in the sweetest tones cried out, — ‘ My mother ! is it you ? What joy ? Kiss me, I beseech you.’ The Countess, deeply touched, yielded' to the poor orphan’s desire, and bending over her kissed her cheeks and forehead again and again. The little girl threw her arms round the neck of the Countess, and repeated constantly in the midst of her. caresses, — 4 Oh, beloved mother, how happy I am in your arms ! happy as the angels in heaven ! But why, why do 1 see you so seldom? I pine when you are not with me, my mother! My dearest mother! speak but one word to your child.’ ‘ 0 dear, dear child ! ’ sighed the Countess, press¬ ing her to her bosom. 4 If you but spoke the truth ! 4 Ah ! why is it but a dream from which you must awake, and which I would fain ' prolong ? Oh ! Clara! Clara!’ On hearing her name thus loudly pronounced the child awoke, and casting a sorrowful and surprised look around her, at seeing the Countess sitting by her bedside, she exclaimed, — ‘Noble Lady, is it you? What has happened to me?’ 4 Nothing, dear child !’ replied the Countess, unable to restrain her tears. ‘Nothing.’ 4 Oh yes, I dreamt, and it seemed to me that I was in Heaven, and beheld my mother, and she spoke to me. But, alas ! it was a dream, and never, never shall I see her ! ’ ‘Never!’ repeated the Countess sadly, and cm- . bracing the poor little girl once more she left her, ! her heart swelling with grief, mourning alike for her first husband, for her lost child, for the orphan, and for herself. ( Concluded in our v ext.) ‘DON’T DROP YOUR H’S.’ ^ J a. TRTJE story. H, dear! it is getting so late, and I’m 80 hungry • (l° let us begin II W) ilk tea;’ said a little girl of six, turning away from the window, where she W J had been watching for the return of her brothers, who had gone out • boating on the river. ‘They said X » they would be back by six o’clock, ^ and now it is nearly half-past. Do ••J ^ stop that stupid work, Nelly, and ($ . let us have, tea, for I am nearly starving.’ ‘Nearly starving! Why, Hilda, you made a capital dinner at one o’clock ! Hut it is getting rather late, so perhaps we had better not wait for the boys : you can go and call the others if you like, dear, and we will begin tea.’ Away ran little Hilda, and the family party soon assembled around the tea-table. There was a large plate of hot cakes on the table, and when every one had had some, mother suggested that the two or three which were left should be sent out to the kit¬ chen, to be kept hot for the boys ; so Hilda was sent with them to. cook, with the message that she was to heat them directly— for as Hilda opened the door she heard her brothers’ voices in the hall, and of course they were very hungry after thdir row. Boys always seem hungry, whether they have any good reason for it or not ; indeed I have heard of one boy who declared if he only had good bread and cheese lie could 4 jog on gently all day !’ But that was only one boy, and I don’t think he ever tried the experi¬ ment, being only a poor plough-boy. But all this time the boys were waiting for their hot cakes. At last Hilda ran out to see if they were ready. She came back, followed by cook, who did not know whether to cry or to laugl\ as she exclaimed, 4 Oh, ma’am, I be so ashamed of myself, that I be ! But I thought Miss Hilda told me to heat them.’ 4 Well, cook, so she did.’ . 4 Well, but ma’am, they are all heaten, so* there are none left.’ 4 Oh, cook has eaten them !’ exclaimed one of the boys, bursting into a fit of laughter, and in which the whole party joined. In the midst of it cook retired, to have a good laugh herself in the kitchen, and re¬ solved never to drop her Jis any more. K. E. B. THE SAVOYARD’S SONG. ^OAI\ away, far away, By Geneva’s blue waters, in gladness we dwelt ; Kind hands there caressed us, Sweet voices there blessed us, As low at our vesper (Jevotions we knelt — Far away. Far away, far away, Once more flew our father’s light vessel in pride, But the storm gathered o’er, And his bark came no more ; Our father’s bones sleep in Geneva’s blue tide — Far away. Far away, far away, Our heart-broken mother gazed out on the wave; O’er her children she sighed, For her husband she died ; On Geneva’s green bank is our mother’s cold grave — • Far away. Far away, far away, From the haunts of our childhood in scorn we were driven, Beft of kindred and home The wide earth we must roam, No hope but in you, no trust but in Heaven — Far away. Far away, far away, The poor Savoyard orphans to-morrow must go : Then pity, kind strangers, The world’s friendless rangers, And bless with your bounty our journey of woe — Far away.

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The Savoyard Girl,

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374 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVII. A sickly pet. fe^HEN I was a little girl, I used to V be very fond of animals. I had rtfe \y/\Nr had Pets kinds: dog's and v \/N£^ kittens, and squirrels, and mice, m£ jf ]* & and American rats, and birds, \f\ If g!\ and rakhits, and I can’t tell how )xW':?& niany other kinds of flesh and t/ V ; fowl, tamed and untamed. But C 1 happened to be rather hard Jj20l /Ai e up for a live plaything, when one day J ohn, the outdoor man, presented me with a hedgehog, ^ by way of something new. I was rather a tom-boy in those days, and a good deal given to climbing trees and other garden pursuits. John and I saw a good deal of one another, and he and I were fast friends. J ohn was not exactly in¬ tellectual ; in fact, I rather think ho had never learnt to read or write; but he had some learning on a subject that always greatly interested me, viz. the nature and habits of all live things. When first I saw the hedgehog, I half fancied John was playing a practical joke upon me, and that it was not a real animal at all, but only an extraordinary bunch of prickly sticks fastened together ; and even when John poked it with his brown finger, and made it move and curl its little round self up into a tighter ball, and I saw it really was something alive, 1 still felt for a moment rather doubtful as j:o my taking to my new present. But I thought it unkind to hurt John’s feelings by telling him so, so I thanked him, and allowed him to place the hard round lump inside my pinafore as I sat on the grass. ‘Now then, miss,’ said he, as he left me and went to hoe the potatoes, ‘ you bide there quiet a bit, and presently you’ll see him put his nose out ; and such a jimmy little nose as it is, to be sure !’ So I waited in patient expectation, which was presently rewarded. I had never seen a hedgehog before, and when, after a few minutes, the little creature softly uncoiled itself and let out its little black nose, I agreed with John that it was the ‘ jimmiest ’ possible. Such a dear little face I had never seen ! I was in raptures. Such pretty, bright, black eyes, such smooth soft fur, and such a sweet little sharp nose ! I loved my new pet at once with all the ecstasy of a sudden passion, and determined to christen it ‘ Jimmy,’ after John’s compliment to its prettiest feature. For a few days Jimmy was very shy with me, and would curl himself up in the hastiest manner if I attempted, to touch or even to advance towards him, but at the end of that time he grew tamer, and soon I was able to let him wander at will about the garden, feeling sure that he would return at night to the little nest I had made for him. At the end of a. week he would let me take him up and stroke his dear little nose, without showing any alarm, and it was not very long before I taught him to answer my whistle and come for a dinner or a petting. As soon as he got to know me, my little hedgehog proved to be a great coax. When the least tired or frightened, he would run and hide himself in the folds of my brown liolland pinafore ; but his favourite place of repose was half-way up my sleeve, where, after screwing himself up with some difficulty, he used to creep beside my elbow, seeming to enjoy the warmth of my fat little arm. Jimmy’s acquaintance with other live stock clid not progress quite so fast, as they were not all pre¬ pared to love him and put up with his strange ways as I was ; and during the first week there were one or two encounters which made me rather nervous. We had two big dogs, Tartar and Rover, mastiffs ; and a Sky e-terrier called Fuzzy. Tartar and Rover were very dignified, and both a little old and lazy ; so, after watching Jimmy with suspicious eyes for * several days, they good-naturedly made, up their minds that he was beneath their notice, and took no further interest- in him. But Fuzzy was younger and more energetic ; besides, I am inclined to think he was a tiifle jealous of seeing my lap (that had before been completely devoted to his service) now so often occupied by my new pet. Anyhow, he showed a disposition to squabble with and annoy the fresh arrival, until taught better. Several times lie made my heart jump into my mouth, by suddenly springing forward with a fierce growl and bristling hair upon poor Jimmy, when he was enjoying a quiet trot over the grass. But lie never got anything by his outbreak of temper but a prick on the nose, for my hedgehog was too quick for him, and had turned himself into a round bunch of prickles long before the dog reached him. And very soon Fuzzy ceased to show any dislike to his new companion; and instead of flying at him, he only watched him wonderingly, sometimes venturing, with a puzzled look in the bright eyes that gleamed through his shaggy hair, to turn Jimmy gently over with his paw, as he lay coiled up asleep in my lap or in his nest. Before a month had passed, Fuzzy and Jimmy had become the fastest of friends, and I was some¬ times made a little jealous, and Fuzzy, I think, a little uncomfortable, by the flattering way in which the latter used to seek the shelter of his companion’s paws when inclined for an afternoon nap, and place his ball of quills right under poor Fuzzy' ’s very nose. Fuzzy, however, I think, felt the distinction, and bore discomfort, as we all will, for the sake of glory. Tip the cat, however, not being of so noble a nature as her canine companions, never became fully recon¬ ciled to Master Jim. I think she never quite forgave him the sturdy pricking he greeted her with when she first made his acquaintance ; but it was her own fault, for being so violent about it. Slid shouldn’t have made such a rush at him, if she didn’t want to get scratched ; but being used to doing most of the scratching herself, I suppose she didn’t like the tables being turned upon her. The truth was, she.was very foolish, and took him for some kind of a rat; and being a strong, courageous cat, used to tackling the rats in the stable-yard, she thought to treat my Jimmy in the same way she' did them. But she found out her mistake when, after flinging herself upon him with great energy and returning to the combat several times with renewed indignation, she was forced to retire vanquished, with her nose bleeding and her conceit taken down. Tip

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No. XL VII. CHATTERBOX. 375 was a very proud cat, and didn’t like it at all. Not being so generous as Fuzzy, she could not forgive the insult, and for ever declined to make friends with her opponent ; and though she was wise enough never to renew the attack, yet she watched Jim covertly, with a lurking wish for revenge in her crafty green eyes, and it was perfectly well under¬ stood by both that no love was lost between them. One day I had a good laugh, but also rather a fright, over Jimmy’s peculiarity in warfare. A stream ran. through tlie'bottom of our garden, dividing our land from a Lord Somebody’s park on the other side of it, and further on breaking through the meadows till it reached the village and passed beside the \ principal public -house there. Along this stream j Jimmy was very fond of wandering— perhaps be¬ cause he found food there to his taste; and I having discovered this, used sometimes to go with Fuzzy, and sit on the grass close by the edge, watching my favourite’s stroll. 1 was half asleep, lying there, one hot summer’s morning, when I suddenly became aware of a row of some kind. Looking up I saw two swans, that sometimes condescended to come down the stream as far as our garden, raising themselves on their feet in the water and hissing violently, and soon I discovered that Jimmy was the cause of their excitement; having, I suppose, in some way interfered with them. By this time, however, I had learnt so much confidence in the powers of my hedgehog, ‘that I waited quietly without any alarm to see his triumph and the swans’ discomfiture. And so it was; for after several angry peeks with their strong bills, Jimmy was as calm and uninjured as ever, and I laughed at his enemies’ # foolish fury. But then occurred something on which I had not calculated. With a last victims dab of his beak, one of the swans suddenly rolled over my pet and sent him tumbling into the river. . I was terribly frightened, not being sure whether Jimmy could swim or no, and made a dash forward into "the shallow water to clutch my hedgehog. And here I should have fared badly but for "Fuzzy’s assistance, who, just as the bird was- preparing to attack me, dashed in to the rescue, and diverted its attention by furious barks. Meanwhile I rushed off With Jimmy in my arms, wet and muddy, but feeling ready to encounter any amount of scolding from nurse for my untidy state in my joy, when at last. Fuzzy joined me too, very much elated and .not at all hurt. I have mentioned nurse now for the first time, but she was a sore trial to me at this period of my life. She used . to call my dear, hedgehog ‘that there filthy beast,’ and objected strongly to the mark of its feet upon my pinafore. ‘It wasn’t no manner of use cleaning up, Miss Gertv,’ she remarked crofesly; and I retorted, — ‘Then why do you? For I’m sure I don’t want you to !’ Tier indignation reached a climax when one day she found Jimmy reposing in my bed, and at last drew from my unwilling lips the fact that we con¬ stantly spent the night together. Upon this she called in my mother, and Jimmy and I were forbidden to share the same couch. In fact, Jimmy was ordered to be kept strictly as an outdoor pet ; until one day, in an evil hour, I discovered that he had a taste for de- . vouring blackbeetles, and having communicated this astonishing fact to cook and nurse (by way of abating the fierce animosity of their feelings towards my pet), the rule was relaxed so far as to allo.w him to sleep at nights in the kitchen for the gratification of his useful taste. Alas ! I did not know then as I do now, how harmful is a blackbeetle diet for a hedge¬ hog, though it is my belief nurse did, and that it was her deceitful way of getting rid of Jimmy. The habit also is one that grows by indulgence, and, like the drinking of spirits to mankind, becomes a perfect passion with the hedgehog race. After a while Jimmy used to disappear for long periods in the daytime, and finally made me anxious by never coming home at all some nights. And then came the sad end. A week had passed, and I had not seen my favourite during that time. I. was beginning to be afraid lest some cruel dog or cat, skilful above his kind, should have caught Jimmy in an unsuspecting moment and got the best of him ; when one day the dead body of my poor little friend was brought to me. A small boy from the village ale-house had brought him in anticipation of a copper, having heard that the young missy had had a tame hedgehog, and thought, per¬ haps ‘ this were her’n.’ I knew Jimmy at once, and cried bitterly over my lost pet, while F tizzy looked on with sad and sympathising eyes. Poor Jimmy ! our blackbeetles had not kept pace with his growing appetite, or else his love of rambling had been too strong for him ! His little corpse was found in a barn belonging to the inn, well peopled by black- beetles, upon which he had no doubt fed and fed, until at last he fell a prey to his unhealthy appetite. I buried Jimmy’s little body with due honours in a corner of my garden, which I kept as the cemetery of my dead pets ; and from that day to this I have never had another tame hedgehog. G. F. A CAMEL’S REVEHGE. A VALUABLE camel, working in an oil-mill in -/j l Africa, was severely beaten by its driver. Per¬ ceiving that the camel had treasured up the injury, and w,as only waiting a favourable opportunity for revenge, he kept a strict watch upon the animal. Time passed away ; the camel, perceiving that it was watched, was quiet and ’obedient, and the driver began to think that the beating was forgotten, when one night, after the lapse of several months, the man was sleeping on a raised platform in the mill, whilst, as is customary, the camel was stabled in a corner. Hap¬ pening to awake, the driver observed by the -bright moonlight that, when all was quiet, the animal looked cautiously qround, rose softly^, and stealing towards a spot where a bundle of clothes and a burnous, thrown carelessly on the ground, resembled a sleeping figure, it cast itself with violence upon them, rolling with all its weight, and tearing them viciously with its teeth. Satisfied that its revenge was complete, the camel was returning to its corner, when the driver sat up and spoke. At the sound of his voice, and perceiving the mistake it had made, the animal was so mortified at its failure that it dash fed its head against the wall and died on the spot.

Page 383

Page 384

No. XLVIIL When, meeting you all on shore again, j\Iy arms round your necks I twine.’

Page 385

378 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVIII. THE SHIP-BOY'S LETTER. ERE’S a letter from Robin, father A letter from over the sea ; I was sure that the spark in the wick last night Meant there was one for me : And I laughed to see the postman’s face Look in at the dairy park,% For you said it was so woman-like To put my trust in a spark.’ ‘Dear Father and Mother, and Granny, I write on the* *breech of a gun, And I think a3 I sit at the porthole, And look at the setting sun, Father’s smoking his pipe beside you, While you holy-stone the porch, • Or are getting clean rigging ready For to-morrow’s cruise to church. 6 You mustn’t be hard on the writing, F or, what with ropes and with tar, My fingers Won’t crook as they ought to, And spelling is harder far : And every minute a lurch comes, And spoils the look of my “ i *s,” And I blot ’em instead of dot ’em, And I can’t set the words of a size. • t 4 And, Granny, the yarns you spin all day Won’t be half so long as mine, When, meeting you all on shore again, My arms round /our necks I twine. You maybe won’t swallow flying-fish, But I’ll bring you one or two, And some Maltese lace for topsail gear, And a fan for — you know who. ‘ Then good-bye to each dear face at home, Till I press Jt with my lips, While you pray at night for “ ships at sea,’ And God speed all sea ships. I smile as I rock my hanimock, Though storm may shriek and scream, For I feel, when we pray for each other, . Were sure to meet again.’ • J. J. Lonsdale. ‘WOODEN CLARA.’ * (Concluded from page 372.) CHAPTER III. — THE BEGGAR-WOMAN. WrO or thfee days after this scene, as the Count d’Almatawas leaving the church about mid-day, he was accosted by an old and poorly- clad woman. He offered her a small alms, but she still continued speaking to him in alow and timid voice, saying, ‘ Sir, I would say something to you.’ At the same time she turned into a little clois¬ ter near the church. The Count readily followed her, thinking she was about to make some appeal to his charity. When they were secure from listeners the woman said, — ‘You are the Count d’Almata?* ‘ Yes !’ replied he in a tone of surprise. ‘ And your wife was called Catherine de Ghistelle ? ’ ‘ Such was her name.’ ‘.I am not, then, deceived ! For three days I have ; sought you, to reveal to you a secret which weighs on i my conscience. ‘My good woman, I don’t wish to know your secret, whatever it may be. ‘ Yes ! yes ! it is for you alone !’ ‘ Speak, then !’ She threw herself on her knees, and in a humble and trembling voice said, — ‘Pardon me, I beseech you, for I am indeed most miserable. The noble lady your wife had a child by her first marriage, who accompanied her in her flight that terrible day when the Spaniards stormed our unhappy town. I was among the fugitives, though I had nought to lose but my life. Thus I found myself amongst the group who surrounded Catherine de Ghistelle as she lay half dead beside the fountain of Quentin Matsys. One of her attendants, who had the child in his arms, was mortally wounded, and at the moment that the young Spanish noble rescued his mistress he placed the child on my bosom before he expired, ex¬ claiming as he did so, “ It is the child of Lancelot von Bisthoven.” ‘ There I was, amidst the dying and the dead, with this poor little infant in my arms. Mad with anguish, stunned with the fearful din around me, I ran for my life till I was far beyond the gates of the town. I stopped only when I reached the village of Hoog- boore. There a farmer’s wife gave me a little milk for the child, and we passed the night in a stable amongst the cattle. ‘ Several days passed away in this manner. Alas ! how shall I tell you the rest? Tempted by the costly necklace which the child wore — a gold chain and a heart in diamonds — I sold them to a Jew, who was on his way from Holland to Antwerp, in the hope of making a- harvest from the pillage of our poor town. ‘ When I had stolen the ornaments the poor little one wore I dared no longer seek out her relatives. I added crime to crime, and for some months I wandered about with the unfortunate child from village to village ; but I could not rest, my Conscience cried out day and night reproaching me with my iniquity. ‘ I returned to Antwerp, and there inquired for the Lady of Bisthoven and her husband. 1 was assured that both had perished on that fatal day. Those who gave me this information were pool’ people, who troubled themselves little about their richer neigh¬ bours. I ought to have sought out the magistrates, but I dared not. At length, finding myself without money, and in most dire misery, for the money the fruit of my/sin had brought me no good, I re¬ solved to take the unhappy, child to the Orphanage, and to confide my secret to the Chaplain. He inscribed my story in a book, in which all that relates to the birth of the orphans is entered. This child, your step-daughter, still lives, noble sir ! God has permitted that she should live, that my sin, my grievous sin, might be repaired. ‘ A beggar at the door of this church, 1 chanced to

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No. XL VIII. CHATTERBOX 379 learn your name, and the name of your wife. Then j made a vow to God to reveal all to you, to confess all. Alas, noble sir ! can you pardon me?’ 4 God has pardoned your errors, my poor woman ! I have no right to be more severe than He ! But what .... what is the name of this poor child ?’ 4 Clara, noble sir ! I knew not her baptismal name, and tlic Orphanage gave her the name of Clara.’ CHAPTER IV. — DON CALLISTO. An hour afterwards found Don Callisto waiting in the parlour of the convent for little Clara, whom he had asked for. He was anxious to see this child, towards whom, in' spite of his noble nature, he felt a certain dislike ; for this child would recall to Donna Catalina the days gone by, and her former husband, that husband of .whom lie had often thought, as of a rival whom* all his affection had not been able to make her forget. The Count received the orphan with coldness, but the little girl ran to him* with the simple confidence of childhood, looking at him with eyes full of wonder and gentleness. 4 Why, my child, do you look at me thus ? ’ 4 Because they tell me you are the Count d’Al- mata, the husband of the noble lady who has been so good to me. You are dear to her, and' should I not also love you, noble sir ?’ The Count looked at her again, and tenderness and gratitude were in his face. 4 Oh, Catalina !’ said he aside, 4 what a tie between us ! Now will you love him, who places your child once more in . your arms !2 4 My child,’ ^id he aloud, 4 the husband of your benefactress desires also to be your friend. Say, will you love him ? ’ 4 Oh, always ! 4 Adieu, then, my sweet Clara ; you shall soon be happy.’ * So saying, Don Callisto kissed the child’s forehead and bid her adieu ; then he went to seek the Chap¬ lain of the. Orphanage ; and from thence he went to the magistrate of the city, from whom he received a roll of parchment, to which was affixed a huge seal in red wax. On his return home he entered his wife’s apartment. 4 1 have tiot seen you all day, Callisto,’ said she, gently. a . # 4 True. I have been thinking much on a plan which I think would add to our happiness. 4 And what is your thought?’ . 4 1 trust, my Catalina^ that you may share it with me. You know we have often deplored that our marriage has not been blessed with children. God has not answered our prayers. His will* be done! But I have been seriously thinking over it, and why should we not prepare a support for our old age by adopting a child, who would cherish us as its benefactors ? ’ ‘Alas, Callisto! it would ever be a stranger’s child!’ ' 4 That would be no obstacle, and it’s heart would he devoted to us. This plan appears to me an excellent one.’ 4 Let it then be done, Callisto. As for me, I only desire that which will make you happy.’ 4 1 have had the necessary act of adoption pre¬ pared; will you look over it, Catalina?’ He held out the parchment to her, gazing at her with an expression of mystery and joy. She read the first pages, and her countenance changed, her hands trembled ; at last she fell on her knees before Callisto, sobbing aloud and ex¬ claiming, — 4 My child ! my daughter ! my own one recovered, and alive ! And that it should be Clara .... Clara! ... Is it possible ? May God for ever bless you, Callisto ! you, who have restored her to me ! you, who are her second father ! ’ Callisto hastened to raise his wife from her knees, and led her into an adjoining room, where Clara awaited her ; and placing her in her mother’s loving arms, he pressed them both in silence to his heart. A week afterwards the orphans, in their Sunday clothes, were assembled to take a last farewell of Clara Juanna de Bisthoven, their former friend and companion. The Count and Countess d’Almata, in the name of their daughter, had paid in a large sum, to the orphan’s fund, anti had given a rich offering to the chapel. Each child had received from Clara a beautiful book as a token of her affection. She came now to take leave of her former companions before she went to Brussels, where she was to be presented to the other members of l;er family. She held the hand of the Count and Countess d’Almata, looking timid and modest in the jewels and rich dress which her parents had provided fo£ her. She smiled on her. companion^ as they presented her with a bouquet, and a sheet of vellum on which there had been written in a fair hand an inscription in honour of Clara and her family. The young girl received these tokens of friendship with many tears. She embraced the good Directress and the orphans again and again. At last the Count, to put an end to this trying scene, took Clara by the hand, and led her and Donna 'Catalina to the carriage, which bore them away to Brussels. To commemorate these events, the directors of the Orphanage caused a figure of wood resembling Clara, the size of life, and wearing the costume of the orphans, to be executed. This figure still stands in a niche of the staircase of the Orphanage at Antwerp, and die common people have given it the name of 4 Wooden Clara.’ * THE LITTLE TOMTIT. THE little Tomtit ! the little Tomtit ! What a joyous bird is he ! He loveth about in the sun to flit, And to perch on the orchard tree : When the shining buds begin to peep, With his sharp twit, twit! and his shrill cheep, cheep! From morn till night ’tis his to keep As busy as bird can be.

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The little Tomtit hath a little hlack cap, And oh, such a twinkling eye ! And his tiny wings they go flip, flap, As he utters his sharp, shrill cry ; And he looks as proud as an eagle can, Who sits on a rock the sun to scan, And he says to the gardener — ‘ Come, my man. We ought to be friends — you and I.’ But the gardener loves not the little Tomtit, For he sees the ground beneath With buds bestrewn, and he vows at noon, Ere night to be his death ! But surely this is a cruel speech, For a worm hath eaten the heart of each ; If the fatal shot the poor bird reach, The innocent suffereth. H. G. Adams.

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CilpHE Toad-Flax .yet flourishes, though most flowers are dead, »» And the Field Gentian puts forth its flag of purplish red ; And the Periwinkle niay be seen here and there of richest blue : But little of floral beauty November bids us, view. But for the Chrysanthemums, fostered by the human hand, And the Asters from China and the German land, The aspect would indeed be gloomy, and' would sorely lack Blooms for our garland, in this month so sad and so black. Yet in all seasons there are pleasures for taking and for giving, And the poorest heart may find flowers in the life he is living ; Not so dead as it seemeth, there is beauty and is light Beady to burst forth at the season which God thinketh right. H. G. A.

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SS* CHATTERBOX. . XLYIIL THE PLOW&ES OP NOVEMBER. we reach the beginning of the e^everith nionth of the year the calm, bright, and cheerful ivhrf weather of autumn is nearly at nv*\^ an en[ rock called the Schockel. Generally YY llffl L*8y a mass of grey cloud rests upon his head, and when it disperses the peo- V j H \{gjk % pie say that the old Schockel witch J J % rises out of a hole in the centre of the rock and sends the worst weather down into the valley. Below this mountain lies a lovely valley, where a small white church may be seen, and its sweet vesper-bell may be

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No.XLVIII. CHATTERBOX. . 383 heard a long way off among the mountains. Avenues of limes, elms, and chestnuts lead from hence to a gorge in the midst of a once almost impenetrable forest, formerly inhabited by hermits, who had excavated their cells in the mountain side, and constructed a rude bell-tower of the trunks of trees. In 1663 a little church was built here, too, by an innkeeper of Gratz, as a thank-offering for a special providence, and in after years it became a sort of shrine for pilgrimages, such as exist inmost Koman Catholic countries, in solitary spots like this, or on the tops of mountains. On the mountain-side above stood a lofty, solitary, ancient cross, from whence there is a splendid view of the surrounding country. It was on a day in the year 1848, when wars had broken out in several parts of Europe, and especially between Austria and Italy, that an old woman, dressed in the quaint costume of the Styrian Alps, knelt at this cross ; her round green hat covered her grey hair, but youthful fire still beamed from her eyes, for her heart was full of one for whose welfare she was sending up a fervent prayer to Heaven. It was a mother who was here praying for her son — a poor peasant-woman from the Andrutzthal, Erau ‘Margaretha JBlumlein, a forester's widow, whose cottage stood at the foot of the Schockel, who had just made a pilgrimage to this church to pray for her only son, to see liim once more, and to bless him. But a few days before the King of Sardinia had declared war against Austria, and even to the beau¬ tiful Styria orders had come for all the best riflemen of the province to range themselves beneath the standard of their monarch. Thousands flocked to the standard, and among them was Eberhard, the young rifleman from the Andrutz, and the only son of his mother, Margaretha Bliimleiji, the widow now kneeling in prayer. And now the young mountaineer, who was scarcely twenty, came himself up the mountain-side. He was a splendid young fellow, with black curly hair, sparkling eyes, and rosy cheeks. The huntsman’s . green hat with the chamois fur, the short grey jacket, and the polished rifle with the broad green ribbon, marked out the brave son* of the Styrian mountains to be one of those bold sons of the Fatherland who would sacrifice their lives, if need be, in defence of their emperor against all foreign attacks. Thus it was, then, that Eberhard, the young moun¬ taineer rifleman of Andrutz, had already taken the oath as a soldier of tlie 10th Imperial Rifle Battaliop, and stood ready to march with the other Styrian • sharpshooters towards the coast, and thence to Italy. .Now the brave rifleman, as a faithful and obedient eon of his pious mother, came, according to an ancient custom of the Styrian peasants, to receive his mother’s last blessing on* consecrated ground. His mother’s quick eye saw him coming a long way off, and soon the widows trembling arms were embracing her only son, while her first tears of farewell fell upon his forehead. ‘ And is it really to be, Eberhard?’ said the poor widow in a low voice, almost choked by deep emotion. 4 Must we part this evening, my son ? ’ ‘ Yes, mother,’ replied the young man. 4 The Em- peror has appealed, so no true son of the Fatherland must be slow to answer. Ho you remember, mother, what my father said to us on his death-bed, 44 All for God, for the Emperor, and for the Fatherland?”’ 4 Yes, those were his words,’ said the poor widow, once more gazing at her only son through her stream¬ ing eyes ; 4 and therefore,’ she added, 4 1 will not hinder thee, Eberhard, from following the call of dutv, though it seems as if my mother’s heart would break at the great grief of parting from thee. And must it be to-day, my Eberhard ?’ 4 Our Styrian rifle corps,’ replied the young man, 4 starts after midnight from the banks of the Mur by rapid marches, to join the corps of Colonel Copal. So it is the last hour, dear mother, in which thy son can be with thee, to receive a mother’s blessing for the eventful future.’ 4 Yes, a mother’s blessing,’ replied the poor woman, raising herself up with restored presence of mind. 4 1, poor woman ! ’ she continued, smiling through her tears, 4 have nothing worthy of value, which I can give thee for thy long journey, my dearest son — only a mother’s blessing; and may it be with thee among all dangers which encompass thee, and may it rest upon thy head till we meet again, if God the Lord wills it.’ The poor woman, in the near prospect of separa¬ tion from her only son, could speak no more. Eberhard’s young heart, too, was now filled with the bitter pain of parting ; he sank down at the feet of his faithful mother, and then her hands rested for the last time in loving blessing on his head, whilst the sweet melody of the evening bells in the little church sounded, forth the hour of prayer, in which both mother and son united at this last solemn hour of farewell beneath the starlit sky. Then the good mother took up a basket which had been laying at her feet. 4 Here, Eberhard,’ she said, 4 take the last gifts which thy mother can offer thee!’ And then she gave him a small bottle of a liquid made from mountain herbs, which the peasants consider to be" good for most maladies ; and also a small piece of parchment, on which was a little picture of our Lord, such as poor people in those countries are fond of carrying about on their persons, the more superstitious considering them as charms, tlie wiser sort as remembrances of those who have given the pictures to them, as well as of Him Who is represented on them. ^ 4 Take it, my son,’ said the pious mother : 4 it *13 the picture of Him to Whom I have so often prayed fo.r thee, as a child, as a boy, as a young man. Take it with thee, and may lie be thy shield and protec¬ tion in all dangers which may befall thee, tillthou re- turnest to the arms of* thy loving an d anxious mother.’ 1 In silence and deep emotion the young rifleman took the little picture from his mother’s hands; then he heard in the far distance the horn, which, sounding from the banks of the Mur, told him that the last hour of farewell had already passed, and, accompanied by his weeping mother’s blessing, the young soldier stepped quickly down through the forest path, to begin in the midnight hour that march which should lead him to the battle-fields of Italy. [To be continued.)

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Margareth a, blessing her Son.

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No. XL1X. CHATTERBOX. 385 Music in the Street.

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386 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIX. MUSIC IN THE STBSET. LL day, from dawn to nightfall, in the London JiMs streets and squares, The Organ Boy is grinding hymns, marches, ballad airs ; Jov of the little children, hut to elder folk a bore, . Who wish him well, but back again upon his native shore. Hark ! lie is grinding just above, at neighbour Dixon’s rails, The good new patriotic tune, 4 God bless the 1 rince of Wales.’ My turn comes next to Dixon’s, and I know tnat at my gate Will sound 4 Pop goes the Weasel,’ for it always is my fate ; And when he stands before Old Brown’s, that house with lilac trees, Were safe for the c Old Hundredth,’ or the tune called 4 Portuguese.’ I’m not a dancing man at all, why should lie always grind A tune that smacks of balls and belles before my window-blind ? ’Tis equally a wonder why, with measured chant or hymn, .He serenades my neighbour Brown, who looks so gaunt and grim. I’m weary of the 4 Weasel,’ and I fancy Brown must long, i As the well-worn tune is rising, for a good loud Chinese gong. But though thy airs are tiresome, I cannot look on thee, i Poor foreign lad, witli anger, for thy homes across the sea. I think what if my little Dick were gone to sing his lav . Beneath “the marble palace of a princely Dona, How I should bless the kindly ones who smiled upon my lad, Tossed him a coin with sunny smile, and made Ins bosom glad ! So kindly treat the stranger, for lie is Old England’s guest, His bread is earned in weariness, and he has an anxious breast; We’ll show lii oi in our foggy laud the sun of kindness shines, Till he secs his own bright home again and the purple Apennines. G. b. O. THE LITTLE JAIL-BIHD. lyTAYN’T I stay, ma’am? I’ll work, cut wood, go JltJL for water, and do all your errands.’ The eyes of the speaker were filled with tears. It was a lad that stood, one winter’s day, at the door of a cottage on a bleak moor in Scotland. The snow had been falling fast, and the poor boy looked cold and hungry. ‘You may come in, at any rate, till my husband comes home. There, sit down by the fire ; you look perishing with the cold ; ’ and she drew a chair up to the warmest corner ; then, suspiciously glancing at the boy, she continued setting the table for supper. Presently came the tramp of heavy boots, and the door was swung open and the husband entered. He looked at the boy, but did not seem very well pleased ; nevertheless he made him come to the table, and was glad to see how heartily he ate his supper. Day after day passed, and yet the boy begged to be kept until 4 to-morrow ; ’ so the couple, after due thought, said that as long as he was a good boy and worked so willingly, they would keep him. One day in the middle of winter a pedler, who often traded at the cottage, called, and after selling his goods said to the woman, — ‘You have a boy out there splitting wood, I see.’ 4 Yes ; do you know him ? ’ 4 He’s a jail-bird 1 ’ and the pedler swung his pack over his shoulder. 4 That boy I saw in court myself, and heard him sentenced — 44 Ten months.” You’d do well to look carefully after him.’. There was something so dreadful in the word 4 jail ! ’ The poor woman trembled as she laid away the things she had bought of the pedler ; nor could she be easy till she had called the boy in, and assured him that she knew the dark part of ‘his history. The boy hung down his head. His cheeks seemed bursting with the hot blood, and his lips quivered. ‘Well,’ he muttered, his whole frame shaking, 4 there is no use in my trying to do better ; everybody hates and despises me : nobody cares about me.’ . ‘Tell me,’ said the woman, ‘how came you to go, so young, to prison ? Where is your mother ? ’ ‘Oh,’ exclaimed the boy, with a burst of grief; 4 Oh I hadn’t no mother ! I hadn’t no mother ever since I was a baby ! If I had had a mother I wouldn’t have been kicked, and cuffed, and horse¬ whipped. I wouldn’t have been saucy, and got knocked down, and run away, and then stole because I was hungry. Oh, if I had only had a mother . The woman was a mother: and though her children slept in the cold churchyard, she was a mother still. She put her hand kindly on the head of the boy, and said from that time he should find in her a mother. Yes, she even put her arms around the neck of that forsaken, deserted child. She poured from her mother’s heart sweet, kind words— words of counsel and tenderness. Oh, how sweet was her sleep that night! how soft her pillow! she had plucked some thorns from the path of a sinning but starving child. That poor boy is now a promising man. His foster- father is dead, Lis foster-mother is aged and sickly, but she knows no want. The 4 poor outcast, the 4 jail-bird,’ is her support. Hobly does he repay the trust reposed in him !

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No. XLIX. CIIATTEEBOX. 337 BEDD GELERT. The origin of the village of Becld Gelert, in the district of Snowdon, is very singular. At the period of Welsh history when the wolf was common in the country, Prince Llewellyn the Great came to reside here for the purpose of hunting. Whilst absent upon one of these excursions a wolf entered his dwelling. The Prince’s faithful dog, * Gelert,’ or ‘ Killhart,’ who -watched over the Prince’s sleeping babe, seized and killed the savage beast. The . cradle was overturned in the fight, and lay upon the wolf and the child. Llewellyn on his return missing his darling boy, and observing the mouth of the dog to be stained with blood, concluded that the poor animal had been the murderer : so he drew his sword and plunged it through the heart of his faithful favourite. What must have been his remorse when, on removing the cradle, the Prince found the wolf dead, and his child free from harm ! In his sorrow and repentance he interred the poor animal, and erected a tomb over his grave, which is still preserved in a meadow between the hotel and the church, and hence Bedd Gelert, or Gelert’s Grave. Llewellyn further built a church, dedicating it to St. Mary, as a grateful memorial and offering for the preservation of his child. This affect¬ ing incident produced from the pen of the Hon. W. IL Spencer the following charming little poem : — 1MIIE spearman heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn, And many a brack and many a hound Attend Llewellyn’s horn. And still lie blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer ; Come, Gelert ! why art thou the last Llewellyn’s horn to hear ? Oh, where does faithful Gelcrc roam ? The flower of all his race ! So true, so brave, a lamb at home— A lion in the chase ! ’Twas only at Llewellyn’s hoard The faithful Gelert fed ; lie watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentinelled his bed. In sooth, he was a peerless hound, The gift of Royal John : * Hut now no Gelert could ho found, And all the chase rode on. And now, as over rocks and dells The gallant eludings rise, All Snowdon’s craggy chaos yells With many mingled cries. That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare, And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there. Unpleascd, Llewellyn homeward hied, When, near the portal-scat, His truant Gelert he espied, Hounding his lord to greet. Hut when he gained the castle-door, Aghast the chieftain stood ; The hound was smeared with gouts of gore — His lips and fangs ran blood ! * Llewellyn married a daughter of King John. Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet ; His favourite checked his joyful guise, And crouched and licked his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn passed (And on went Gelert, too). And still, where’er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view ! O’erturned his infant’s bed he found, The blood-stained cover rent, And all around the walls and ground Witli recent blood besprent. He called his child — no voice replied; He searched — with terror wild ; Flood! blood! he found on every side, Hut nowhere found the child ! ‘ Hell-hound ! by thee my child’s devoured ! 7 The frantic father cried, And to the hilt the vengeful sword Fie plunged in Gelert’s side ! His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart ; Hut still his Gelert’s dying yell Passed heavy o’er his heart. Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell Some slumberer waken’d nigh : What words the parent’s joy can tell, To hear his infant’s cry ! Concealed beneath a mingled heap, His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, Ftis cherub boy he kissed ! Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread — Hut the same couch beneath Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead — Tremendous still in death ! Ah ! what was then Llewellyn’s pain ! For now the truth was clear : The gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewellyn’s heir ! Vain, vain, was all Llewellyns woe : — Hest of thy kind, adieu ! The frantic deed which laid thee’Jow This heart shall ever rue ! And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles, storied with his praise, Poor Gelert’s bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved ; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn’s sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; And oft, as evening fell, In fancy’s piercing sounds would hear Poor Geicrt’s dying yell ! And till Great Snowdon’s locks grow old. And cease the storm to brave, The consecrated spot shall hold The name of Gelert’s Grave !

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Page 396

‘ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER. COMPOSED EXPEESSLY POR £ CHATTERBOX.’ Vivace, Wil-lie Wag went to see Cliar-lie Quirk, More fam’d for liis books than liis fl 3v ~0Z knowledge ; In or-der to borrow a work * « He had look’d for in vain o-ver -P— College. But Char- lie replied, “ My dear friend, You must know I have sworn and a - i d a* f*~ greed, My books from my room not to lend; But pray sit by my tire and read.” & :S- : I u v 4+ tr ■ ' ' — 1 - ! v- - i i - n ** ! i.i r — - & — 1 - 1 i _ _ i _ | Y i - ; — — i - r L Copyright . ‘s^T’lLLIE WAG went to see Cliarlie Quirk, MW More famed for liis books than his knowledge, In order to borrow a work He had looked for in vain over College. But Charlie replied, 4 My dear friend, You must know I’ve sworn and agreed, My books from my room not to lend ; But pray sit by my fire and read !’ Now it happened by chance on the morrow, That Quirk, with a cold, shivering air, Came his neighbour Will’s bellows to borrow, His own being out of repair. But Willie replied, ‘ My dear friend, I have sworn and agreed, you must know, That my bellows I never will lend ; But pray sit by my fire and blow !’

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890 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIX. THE CRICKET AND THE BUTTERFLY. From the French of Florian. fijfo LITTLE Mack cricket sat moping one day, Job Alone in his woody retreat, When a wandering butterfly, coming that way, Alighted almost at his feet. ‘ Most beautiful, sure, of all beautiful things ! And, see ! how coquetish and bold ! Was ever such colour? Just look at his wing, All azure, and purple, and gold ! How charming a life, to be passing the hours In roaming about at his will ! Just sipping the sweets of the daintiest flowers, And of luxury taking his till ! Ah me! what a different fortune is mine! How partial dame Nature must be, Who gives to the. butterfly everything fine, And nothing worth having to me ! 7 While thus the young Cricket lamented his fate, And counted his Maker to blame, Right into the meadow, with mischief elate, A bevy of children there came. And straight at the butterfly every one goes, With bonnet, or kerchief, or cap : Too late he attempts to escape from his foes; He’s caught in a treacherous trap ! Off conies a leg in the terrible strife : And now he has lost a wing ; And now, another: and now his life: Poor little mangled thing ! ‘ Sure, merciful Heaven is kind to me ! ’ Was the Cricket’s penitent moan ; ‘ There are greater griefs than mine, I see, And each must suffer his own. A poor little cricket, so homely and shy, From envy has nothing to fear; While beauty — like that of the butterfly — May cost a great deal too dear ! ’ THE BLACK AND YELLOW ROSETTE. (Continued from page 3S3.) II. — THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE. HE angel of destruction had been let loose over the beautiful plains of Italy. The whole might of the King of Sardinia was hurled against the Austrians. It was at Yolta, after a hard battle: the Austrian army, silent and fatigued, were encamped on the slopes of a vineyard. There was not a breath of air ; evening was coming on, and covering with its dark pall the meadows upon which many a brave Austrian lay, stretched in his last sleep. A spirit of sadness, of home-sickness, seemed to pass through the ranks of the Austrian soldiers, who felt that they were surrounded by enemies, and would have to contest every inch of ground. Put suddenly the stillness which had come over the army was interrupted by soft notes of music, which at first very low, then gradually louder, sounded through the ranks, proceeding from the military band of the corps here encamped, and which were now coming down the hill to the well-known tune of the Austrian na¬ tional hymn. The commander had rightly reckoned upon the effect of these notes. All hearts of the soldiers here encamped now throbbed with enthusiasm, as the strain, 4 God preserve our Emperor ! ’ pealed forth from those maul}' voices echoing far away through the mountains. Put yonder, on a steep slope, leant a young rifleman against a tree, whose eyes gazed sadly before him, and whose voice did not join in the joyous song of his comrades. ITe was deep in thought, and lie did not notice how a man of middle height, in an officers grey cloak, had approached him, was attentively observing him, and was now looking over his shoulder, just as the young soldier had thrown himself on the ground and began to write a little note with a pencil. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked the man in the cloak. The young nfleman at once saw that a superior officer of the Imperial army stood before him. He sprang up and saluted. ‘ I have been writing a letter,’ he replied, rather abashed. ‘ To the' enemy?’ inquired the officer, smiling. ‘No, to my mother,’ answered the young rifleman. ‘ We are just stopping to rest, and I thought no one would hinder me from writing to my mother, to tell her that her Eberhard is still alive and well.’ ‘ What countryman are you?’ inquired the officer. ‘A Styrian from the Andrutz valley, near the Schockel,’ replied the young soldier. ‘ I am Eberhard the mountain-ranger, now rifleman in the 10th battalion, and my mother is the forester’s widow, Margaretha PKimlcin, to whom I have just been writing, that the good woman may learn that I am still alive, and think of her as a dutiful son ought to do.’ ‘ Show it here,’ ordered the officer, as he took the half-finished letter from the young rifleman’s hand, casting his eye over it as well as he could bjr the flickering light of the bivouac. ‘You Styrians,’ lie said after a while, ‘are not only brave soldiers and first-rate shots, but good sons, too : you love your home and your parents.’ ‘ And our Emperor,’ added the young rifleman. ‘Yres, your Emperor,’ said the officer, smiling kindly. ‘I know that: you know how to fight bravely for your colours — that is true, and I can testify to it. Put tell me, rifleman, how are you going to send that letter to your mother through tlm enemy’s land, where nothing passes safely to Styria? Have you thought about that?’ ‘No!’ said the young soldier. ‘ I never reflected about it. I thought that one of the ambulance- waggons, which were taking our wounded across the frontiers, would take my little letter too.’

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No. XLIX. CHATTERBOX. 391 ‘That is very uncertain,’ saicl the officer. ‘ Give it to me, rifleman. I will arrange the matter for you, so that she shall receive it quite safely ; but you must first sit down again and add what I am going to dictate to you myself.’ The young rifleman shook hrs head. 1 When I write to my mother,’ he said with a pause, ‘I know myself what I have to say to her.’ 4 Quite right/ said the officer: ‘still, you must write to her that to-day, after the battle, you were promoted a step, and are now a corporal : and you must allow me too, esteeming as I do your filial love, to enclose a little present to your good mother, which she is sure to receive safely, because I myself shall arrange for the sending off of the letter.’ Now the young rifleman again raised his eyes, which fell on the1 serious but kindly countenance of the man in the officer’s cloak, lighted up as it now was ' by the bright beams of the watch-fire, and whose voice already seemed familiar to him. Now he recognised the man. He smiled. ‘Well,’ said he kindly, ‘do you recognise me now ? Will you, my brave lad, entrust your mother’s letter to Marshal Radetzsky ?’ The young Styrian could not litter a word : he re¬ spectfully handed the letter to the Marshal, who turned round to a staff-officer who had just come up, accompanied by an adjutant. ‘ Colonel Copal/ the Marshal said, ‘ the Styrian rifleman there is promoted to be a corporal, and henceforth is under my especial protection. Soldiers who have their Emperor and their parents in their hearts are those whom a general can best trust. As soon as we have marched into Mantua present this young Styrian to me again. Farewell, my son, till we meet again : your letter shall be taken care of.’ After these kind-hearted words the noble Marshal departed. He had been performing one of those kind acts for which he was so famous, and which so greatly endeared him to the hearts of his soldiers, that they rarely spoke of him by any other name than that of ‘ Father Radetzsky.’* III.— IN MANTUA. The brave 10th Rifles stood behind the walls of Mantua, and their trumpeters sounded for a parade. The strictest discipline was the order of the day, and severe punishment awaited any who should act contrary to this. The eight gates of the city of Mantua, the four chief bridges which passed over the marshy ground on either side of the Mincio to the city, were invested with soldiers, who were most strictly enjoined to maintain this order: no Italian was to have any cause of complaint against the Austrians for violent deeds. Thus the greatest order reigned in the old city, whilst the main body of the Austrian army was already in motion towards the Sardinian frontier. * Field-Marshal Radctsky was one of the most celebrated and successful of Austrian Generals, lie died at an advanced age not many years ago. His memory is veuerated in Austria, much as that of the Duke of Wellington is among ourselves. A magnificent morning had just dawned. The black and yellow standard waved over the citadel in the clear Italian sky; through the wretched suburbs numerous cavalry and infantry were moving, . and the commanding Imperial Colonel was just riding across the bridge in the direction of Verona, sur¬ rounded by his staff. Suddenly he pulled up his horse. A crowd of people, composed of all classes, thronged to meet him. There were riflemen of his battalion among them, surrounded by furious and angry Italians. The Colonel raised himself in his stirrups and looked eagerly round. ‘Thunder and lightning !’ said he ; ‘ this is an uproar ! The Italian bandits think us too weak, and wish, now that the main body has turned its back, to take vengeance on our little garrison. ‘Forwards ! by a quick movement we must bring these fools to their senses.’ lie put spurs to his horse and urged his officers forward, but he had made a mistake. It was no uproar, no cunning trick of Italian bandits to take advantage of the departure of the army. A loud cry of lamentation sounded in his ears ; some twenty unarmed inhabitants of the town, followed by his soldiers, came up to the commanding officer, and implored for protection and justice. An old Italian of venerable aspect, the Podesta (or chief magistrate) of the town, as soon as he per¬ ceived the Colonel, with a respectful salute advanced towards him. ‘Signor/ said he with warmth, ‘we old citizens of the town, though Italians in heart and soul, are opposed to all revolt and disturbance ; we long for the re-establishment of order; we have gladly received the garrison sent by our master the Em¬ peror, and have been gratified by the strict discipline which von, as commander, have so successfully im¬ posed upon your soldiers.’ ‘Well/ exclaimed the Colonel, ‘has any one of my soldiers dared to disobey it?’ ‘ More than that, Signor/ replied the Podesta ; ‘ look at the terror-stricken faces of my countrymen ! Do you know that just outside the bridge towards Verona there was found, at earliest dawn this morn¬ ing, the richest merchant of Mantua, Antonio di Drunelli, robbed, murdered, and covered with blood?’ ‘ Well, and who accuses my riflemen of this deed?’ cried the Colonel, firing up. ‘ This black and yellow rosette/ replied the Podesta. ‘ The black and yellow rosette, that particular cockade which your riflemen alone wear on their hats, this rosette of black and yellow wool lay beside the corpse of the murdered and plundered man ; and so, Colonel, the inhabitants of Mantua rightly con¬ clude that only a soldier of your battalion could have done this deed.’ ‘ That shall be proved immediately/ thundered out the Colonel, taking the black and yellow rosette from the Podesta’s hands. Then he pulled up his horse, and beckoning • to one of his adjutants, ‘ The battalion shall march immediately to the citadel/ he ordered. ( Concluded in our next.)

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The EveniDg after the Battle.

Page 400

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394 CHATTERBOX. No. L. HURRA. (MW C&.°" A TRUE STORY OF A BOG. t (0fr/sg) GROWING that youngsters°;enerally like to read true stories of animals, 5l l(fe 1 Mtf especially of dogs, I will try to write orN\ IpfyiL 011 e ^or ^iem* They wrn have to f°how me to a country a long way off from most of them, for my dog came to me in sunny New South Wales. ITe was not given to me; H* ^ I did not buy him ; he came to me in the wild 4 bush.’ One bright day d some friends of my sister formed a picnic party, to show us the beauties of the land from a height on the Kurrajong mountains. Most of the party were in vehicles of some sort, niy sister and I were on horseback, and we were delighted at the prospect of a ride of fifteen miles through such a country, so new, so strange, so large and free ! Through one or two little towns, past vineyards and orange-orchards, and away to the beautiful river, the 4 Rhine of Australia,’ which we must cross. A little waiting on its bank to suit the punt-man, and, as our horses seemed to think, to give them time to dance and show themselves off, and then all was ready, and we rode on to the punt in company with many others — carts, carriages, sheep, people on foot, and people on horseback. A punt must be a funny thing to take all these, must it not? It is some¬ thing; like the floor of a room, with railings at the sides instead of walls ; a part of the floor, out beyond the railing at each end, is made to rise or fall as it is needed, so that on coming to the bank of a river it rises and lets the bank go under it, and then all on board can land easily. It is pulled across by ropes. Not long after leaving our floating room we found we had cantered past all inhabited places, and were upon a dray-track — no smooth road, but one marked out only by the ruts made by dray-wheels, and by having the trees and brushwood cleared from it, yet it was the highway over the mountains into the interior. We were riding slowly along this road, after having tried our horses’ speed for a few miles, when we noticed a small black-and-tan dog, with a 4 foxy ’ head and tail, standing in the brushwood watching us. We said, 4 What a sneaking, villainous look that dog has ! ITe is more than half dingo.’ (The dingo is the native wild dog of Australia.) So we thought no more of him. At last the track became so steep that we dismounted and led our horses, for it was hot work for them to carry us to the top of the mountain, and then we saw that the dog was following us, though he skulked in the bush and appeared only now and then. But when we reached the little inn where we and our steeds were to be refreshed he slunk in after us, and took refuge under a bed in the room into which we were shown. We tried to coax him to come and speak to us, but he only retreated into the farthest comer away from us, and looked dangerous ; so we left him; and after a refreshing wash and luncheon we strolled about the mountain, enjoying the scenery, until it was time to prepare for our liome- i r ; — ward ride. The dog kept in the background, still shy and untrustiug, but when we were fairly on our way we saw him in the reav, looking rather more amiable ; and by-and-bye he began to bark jojmusty round our horses, and to be a trouble to us, for he made them restive in places where we would rather they had been left in peace, for my sister’s was a 4 buck-jumper,’ and had thrown her once already on the return journey. When we came to the river we thought that we would decide his fate as far as we were concerned. On to the punt he should not come, for he had made ni3r horse take me full speed down a steep bank to the river’s edge ; which I did not relish, because I feared lest he should take a fancy for bathing with me on his back. Tie had done so once, and seemed to think it fine fun. I had to protest very strongly before I could make him understand that I "did not agree to it. It was rude of him: ivas it not? But you must remember that it was very hot there, and the flies did their utmost to make horses wild, so that a bath must have been a relief ! Well, we did keep the dog off the punt. A gentle¬ man of the party drove him back with his fig-whip, and we thought we were rid of the nuisance. But midway across we saw him swimming some distance from us. He gained the race, and welcomed us on the other side with a joyous and triumphant wagging of his handsome tail, and a look which said plainly, ‘Please do not be angry with me, for I do like you !’ And our hearts began to relent. The aforesaid gentle¬ man, however, with his whip kept him at a distance, getting out of his gig to chase him away : but it was of no use; all we could do was to make him ‘keep behind’ and be quiet. This was difficult at first, but during the last four or five miles it became easy, for night was closing in upon us and we had to push on as fast as possible, and he required all his breath to enable him to keep up with us. We reached our friends’’ home in safety, and left the dog to settle himself where he liked. The saddles were taken off, and put down in a porch until the horses had been attended to. By this time we had exchanged our ! riding-habits for evening dress, and were talking over the pleasures of the day, when a servant came to say that the dog would not let the groom remove j the saddles. We found him lying close to them, so that j no one could touch them without passing him ; but he I left them directly we told him to do so. Soon there f was another difficulty. Old Toby, the house-dog, a big fellow, highly resented the intrusion of the little black cur, though he had a handsome tail, and accordingly Toby disgraced himself by attacking j a dog smaller than himself ; but they were not allowed to fight it out. I am not sure that Toby would have had the best of it if they had been, for the stranger was valiant and fierce ; but then Toby had weight, so it was a good thing they were separated. We con¬ cluded that my sister’s bedroom was the only safe place for our self-elected protector and persistent follower. And we took him there, and he at once slunk under ihe dressing-table, and again looked dangerous, aud would not come to speak to us. He stayed there all night, with no more unpleasant result than giving me the idea, in my sleep, that he was gnawing off my bands up to the wrist ! But I

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No. L. CHATTERBOX. 395 awoke to find my hands c all right.’ And now, what name should we give the dog? and what should we do with him ? We called him 6 Kurra/ in memory of the place where he came to us. And we decided that as he and Toby would not be. likely to agree, and as our friends did not want him, he should go home with me that day if he would ; for we were in doubt as to which of us he had chosen, we haying been always together since we met with him. When I was mounted and ready for my solitary ride he was released from his prison, and was wild with delight when he saw the state of affairs. I was soon on my way, my little black lover escorting me in rather too lively and noisy a style through the town which I had to pass on leaving my kind friends. Wc reached home quickly, though not so quickly as Kurra wished, for his one aim seemed to he to keep me up to a gallop all the way; which I did not approve of, for my horse’s sake as Well as my own, as it was an intensely hot day. My home was with a Mr. and Mrs. Macgregor, a dear old Scotch minister and his wife, four daughters, and two sons. They all welcomed me and my dog warmly, but he would have nothing to say to any of them. He followed me to my , room, and when I hung my habit in the verandah he remained ly it, and did not attempt to follow me. In a little while it began to rain, and Mrs. Macgregor went to take in m v riding- dress, hut Kurra showed all his teeth unpleasantly, and would not let her touch it. And from that time lie was my acknowledged protector, watch, and guard, and I could sleep with my room door open all night, though it opened into the verandah — you might say, into the garden — and had no communication with the rest of the house, for Kurra kept close guard. .And now I was very happy, for I had many kind friends — a horse and dog of my very own, and a parrot, too, for some one about this time gave me a half-fledged Hosella paroquet, which I had to feed out of my mouth for a month ! It became a splendid bird, and is a great beauty now, and still calls poor Kurra vigorously. .But I must not make my tale too long by telling you of all my pets. Indeed, I think I must not tell von all about Kurra, lest you should be tired. He in time learned to respect my friends, and his appearance altogether changed when he found him¬ self loved and trusted. Notice this, will you, my dear readers? — what a great change love and kindness can make in an animal; and if in it, how much more in a fellow-creature ? From being a sly and treacher¬ ous-looking dog, he became a pretty, sprightly little thing, and had many pretty ways". One of which was what I called his ‘note of interrogation.’ If called in a quick manner he would rush to me, suddenly stop with head and ears erect, and tuck up his right forefoot, his eyes and whole attitude saying,. 4 What is it ? ’ His two greatest enjoyments were to go with us when we rode, and to chase all horned cattle. I wonder if he had belonged to a stockman, and had been illtreated by him? for he certainly had a most decided objection to men after we knew him, and a great love for horses and cattle. But when out with us he could not moderate his zeal on our behalf — he let that virtue run into the vice of perse¬ cution, and so became a nuisance. He would keep ahead of us, and clear the road of everything living — man, woman, child, or animal, with a wolfish snap at those who did not heed his bark. We could not help laughing at first, it was such a ridiculous sight; but as we had almost always to go through, a rather populous hamlet to the roads, or no roads that we preferred, it did not do to continue such fun, and wc lad to make Master Kurra prisoner when next we rode abroad, and wc saw him standing at the study window with his forepaws on the back of a chair and howling reproachfully. He did not dash through the glass, as I rather feared he would do, hut lie felt the cruel disappointment, and resolved to adopt stratagem in order to prevent such another, and when we wanted him to come to the study next day he was nowhere to he found, though he had been with us a short time before. We started for our ride, and were astonished to see him waiting for us at a turn in 6 the bush,’ about a quarter of a mile from home. We thought we would manage better for the future, hut we found that if we talked of riding or of horses before him he was always gone. . My home was only a few hundred yards from the river, and if we turned to the left on leaving the home-paddock we had to cross it and ride through cultivated lands for some time before getting into 4 the hush,’ so we generally chose the turn that took us into ‘the hush ’ soon ; and we delighted in riding along a cattle or dray-track, not knowing where we were going for half the time we had allowed ourselves for exercise, and then, turning our horses and giving them their heads, let them lead home. . It was great fun, for they scorned ‘ tracks’ of any kind, and took us straight forborne, through cleared or uncleared land, and we Had to be very quick in guarding heads and skirts from branches, snapped- oif trees, and other obstacles to a straight course through 4 the hush.’ We found that we returned in less time than we went, so we rode further out in future. On one occasion, when we chose the river-side for our ride, Kurra was released when we were safely up the opposite bank, for they thought he would not cross the river after us : hut he did. One Sun¬ day, too, he followed us over as we went to church, but he took care to keep only just in sight all the way, for lie knew he was doing wrong, and then remained with the horses during service. You would think it strange to see a number of ladies in church in hats and habits, and a number of horses in the enclosure round the church, and side-saddles, men’s saddles, and bridles, hanging on the fence. When the service is over, the men of the congregation catch the horses and saddle them, first for the ladies, and then for themselves ; but the day that Kurra followed us lie would let no one touch my horse until I assured him that it was all right. He was a splendid swimmer, and if not allowed a seat in our boat he wrould swim alter us until he was tired, then take the shore for a little while, and again swim, and in that way lie would follow us fifteen or twenty miles down "the river. His love for chasing cattle* made him a dangerous companion in a stroll through enclosed acres of par¬ tially cleared ‘ bush.’ Upon one occasion he brought several enormous bullocks down upon us! I have

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396 CHATTERBOX. No. L. never seen such great beasts, or such horns, anywhere else. . Fortunately the leaders seemed astonished at the sight of so many petticoated beings, and three came to a ‘stand ’ a little distance from us. My com¬ panions ran, but fear made me face them, and having scolded Kurra into silence I retreated backwards, staring all the while at the enemy, until I readied a gateway in the fence, and was safe on the other side. Then I sent the dog home in disgrace. When I arrived there I found him crouched in a corner of my room awaiting further punishment, which I gave with my riding-whip ; for he had brought us into great danger, and would do so again if I could not make him remember ; and I am glad to say he wras better after, but never quite safe : horns were too great a temptation ! He would allow no one to strike him but myself, he would fly at them at once ; but he never resented anything I did to him. He could be very savage, and then he seemed as large again as at other times; his tail, head, and neck, almost losing their shape, and a fierce-looking hog’s mane standing high from his tail to his head. If I went to him when in such a state of fury he would be the smooth, gentle, loving Kurra in a moment, as if he meant to say, * I love you, and won’t hurt you ; but I can’t have strangers about the house:’ and up would start all his war-clothing again, and I had to command peace. One more instance of the faithful creature’s dogged protection of all that belonged to me, and I have done. A young girl who also lived at Mr. Macgregor’s, being an especial favourite of mine, and as such was respected by my dog, was once asked to bring me a book from a box in my room. She did not notice that Kurra was on guard, so she opened the box and took hold of the book. That was too much ! He seized her firmly but gently by the wrist, and held her until she put down the book. She patted him and coaxed him, but it was of no use ; he wagged his tail, dropped his ears amiably, but said plainly, ‘ I am on guard, and you must show me your authority for touching them!’ So I was called, and an ‘ All right, Kurra ! ’ set his doubts at rest at once, and he allowed her afterwards to remove anything of mine, but always followed to see that it came to me, and then asked for an approving pat and returned to his self-appointed post. In a few years I returned to England and left my dear, faithful dog, behind me! Do you call me ungrateful and cruel, and wanting in the duty of kindness to animals ? It was a grief to me, but I could not help it, and you will agree with me if you think a little. Kindness to animals is a duty we owe to their Maker and ours, but sometimes a higher duty obliges us to give up our own wishes. And that was my case. I am not rich, my friends are not rich, and I felt I had no right to spend the money required for my dog’s passage home when I knew he would be well and kindly treated to the end of his days. So I left him with those who loved him for his own sake as well as mine, and to whom he was gratefully attached. I heard of him regularly as long as he lived, and >vas told that whenever any one asked him where I was, he would put up his nose and howl a long wailing howl ! Then they would say, ‘ Never mind, Kurra!’ And he would wag his tail and be comforted. Dear old dog! he died a few years ago of old age. Now I have told you all about my dog; his real name, and the real name of the place in which he came to us, and I must say good-bye. But I wish you to learn the same lesson from Kurra that I did, and that is, to judge any one merely by their looks. There may be noble, faithful, loving hearts in very plain cases, and if you will only win the heart you will find beauty in the case . Wait for actions before you judge, and remember that God looks at the heart only. — (1 Sam. xvi. 7.) M. Y. L. AN ECCENTRIC KING-. HEN King George of Greece ascended the throne of the Hel¬ lenes, it was generally believed that his reign would be short, and that the young prince from Denmark would speedily fling away his crown, and return to his delightful home on the shores of the Sound. The contrary has been the case; the King from Denmark is nuii uiiiy a vuij happy man, but also an exceed¬ ingly popular ruler. Nothing can be more simple than the manner in which he lives. I brought to him a letter of introduction from bis father, and it being a very fine September day, I spoiled down between seven and eight o’clock in the morning to inquire of the palace-guards what hour would be most convenient for the King to receive me. To my surprise, the Greek soldier at the gate replied, — ‘ You can see His Majesty now. He is always up before six o’clock.’ This was singular but welcome news to me. ‘Where may I see the Master of Ceremonies?’ I asked. The soldier stared at me. ‘ Send in your card by one of those boys (pointing to two or three pages loitering about the portico), and you will probably be admitted at once.’ Such proved to be the case. Two or three minutes afterward I was in the presence of the King. Imagine a slender young man of twenty-eight, with thin, light- coloured hair, a very expressive, handsome face, ruddy cheeks, using steel-framed eye-glasses, dressed in a chequered plaid, and having ‘his feet in red-morocco slippers, and you have the King before you. He glanced over my letter of introduction, and then kindly asked me to be seated. ‘ You have come here all the way from Copen¬ hagen ? ’ he asked. 4 Yes, sire; seven days ago I was at the flivoli,and took leave of your royal father.’ ‘ Oh, yes, lie likes to go there and mingle with the people ! ’ said the youngling, smiling, ‘ and to laugh over the farces in the open-air theatre.’ ‘ Your Majesty has no theatre here,’ I remarked; ‘ you must miss it greatly.’ ‘Not at all,’ he said; ‘I believe 1 should have no

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No. L. CHATTERBOX. 397 Kurra in the enclosure round the church. time to go if there was a good one in Athens. I am very busy. Look at this,’ he added, showing me a pile of manuscript ; 4 1 am writing.’ 4 Writing ! ’ I exclaimed, in surprise. The King laughed. * Yes/ he said ; 4 writing a book.’ I took the liberty to ask on what subject. 4 On the 44 Lees of JBymettus.” Times must have changed greatly, or the ancient Greeks must have been poor judges of honey. Wait ! ’ He jumped up and brought a tumbler filled with honey and a teaspoon. 4 Taste this.’

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CHATTERBOX. Ho. L. 393 I did so, while he looked at me expectantly. 6 Is it good?7 he asked. ‘Hot very/ I said. * * * 4 Hot near so good as Banish honey.’ c That is just what I am going to prove in my hook.’ He asked me to accompany him to his cabinet. It was a small room full of chemical crucibles, and glasses covered with waxed paper. 4 Here/ said the King, 4 are ninety different sorts of honey, — even from Australia and Hew Zealand. Hymettus honey ranks far below most of them.7 . TIis Majesty made me taste half-a-dozen different kinds. I asked him if he thought that, in olden times, the busy bees of Hymettus had done better. 4 1 incline to that opinion/ he answered; 4 and I am sure I have found out the true reason. The climate of Greece is no longer what it was two thou¬ sand yea;*s ago. That is my discovery/ he added, almost triumphantly ; 4 and if I can prove the asser¬ tion, am I not entitled to some philosophical honours? 7 I ventured to ask for the reasons of this belief. 4 Ah ! 7 he said, laughing, 4 that is my secret. But, believe me, I am well fortified with arguments. I have my classics at my fingers7 ends, and I have waded through much learned literature.7 I asked the King whether he devoted his leisure hours entirely to tins branch of study. 4 Ho, no/ he said, eagerly; 4 to my birds. Will you see my aviary ? 7 There was no refusing, of course. So I followed his Majesty into the court-yard, where he showed me a truly superb aviary. I expressed surprise, and he said, with genuine pride gleaming from his eyes, — 4 Is it not beautiful ? But it cost me a great deal of money — almost more than I was able to afford.7 And now he showed me his pets — the famous five trained magpies. He took off his hat, and placed five bright brass l ings on his head. The magpies took them from him one after another; and then he whistled, and they brought them back to where they had got them. They also placed themselves at his command upon his head, forming a sort of crown ; and when he shouted 4 Oikon ! 7 (Go home !) they flew back to their cote. Another curiosity was a tame vulture of great size, captured near the site of an¬ cient Delphi. At the King’s call the terrible crea¬ ture placed itself with both legs on his shoulders. I shrank back from the vulture ; but the King said, — 4 Hover mind, old Miltiades is very good-natured. He will now shake hands with you.7 Sure enough, Miltiades grasped mv shrinking hand with a grip worthy of his namesake, and with an exceedingly ludicrous air of gravity. The King then ordered him to retire, but the biitl was evidently reluctant. The King ordered a piece of meat to be brought to Miltiades, who thereupon withdrew, while his Majesty proudly told me that he alone had trained the bird to all this. We returned into the palace, and the King kindly showed me the most remarkable apartments, chatting all the while about his parents and his brothers and sisters. He expressed his regret that naughty little Thyra, as he called his youngest sister, was also to be married to horrible foggy England, which he seemed to hold in especial abhorrence. 4 1 suppose/ I said, 4 your Majesty will be present at the wedding?7 4 Ho, not if it comes off in England. I was there once six months, and hardly ever saw a sunny day. How 1 have become so accustomed to the glorious sun that I cannot live without it.7 I was over an hour with this eccentric voting King. He was a model of simplicity and kindness. IiTs subjects love him, and he is happy. How few kings arc there like him ! — Translated for Appleton's Journal from the 4 Baltic Gazette .7 TI-IE BLACK AHD YELLOW ROSETTE. (Concluded J’rom payc 391.) less than a quarter of an hour the whole battalion of riflemen stood on the hill before the castle, ranged in battle array ; the Colonel rode before the ranks : behind, and on both sides, the inhabitants of the city had crowded up to hear what the com¬ mandant was going to do. The Colonel held aloft in his hand the biack and yellow rosette. 4 Soldiers !7 he cried, 4 obedient to the command of our Marshal I enforced, when we first entered this city^, the strictest discipline. Sol¬ diers, you are brave Austrians, — not one of you can have claret] to disobey his Colonel’s command ; you are accustomed to military discipline, and yet you are accused to-day of robbery and of murder!7 A loud murmur of dissent came now from the ranks of the soldiers, but the Colonel continued, — 4 Riflemen of the 10th battalion, the history of the war of 1843 will be full of glory for you ; will you let the brilliancy" of your names be tarnished by the accusation of this crime ? Ho ! I say. The only proof which they have against you is this black and yellow rosette off a rifleman’s hat, found near the corpse of the murdered man. Well, then, let us at once show to the inhabitants of this city that not one of the rosettes in any of your hats is missing, so tlmt none of you could have lost his in doing the deed of which you are accused.7 The trumpets sounded, all the riflemen of the battalion stood to arms ; the Colonel himself, ac¬ companied by several of his officers and the Podesta of Mantua, passed through the ranks. He went through the first rank and examined all the hats of his riflemen — not a rosette was missing : then he went through the second ; here, too, not a shako on a soldier’s head was without the black and yellow rosette, on which shone brightly the Em¬ perors initials. How came the third rank, and here, among the very first men, the Colonel stopped. 4 Thunder and lightning ! 7 he exclaimed : 4 here is one from whose shako the rosette is missing ! 7 His finger pointed to a young corporal, Ebcrhard ( Bliimlein : it was the rifleman from Styria who had no black and yellow rosette on his shako. 4 Man! where is your rosette?7 said the Colonel to him sternly.

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No. L. CHATTERBOX. ,599 The young rifleman seized his hat; he seemed to remark now, for the first time, the loss of his rosette. 4 1 don’t know, Colonel,7 he said, while a deep crimson came over his face. For a long while the Colonel gazed into his countenance. 4 Confess, wretched fellow ! ’ he thundered out, 4 that you have committed this murder.’ 4 Not I, Colonel,7 he said, shaking his head. 4 Who else but you? 7 he exclaimed. 4 So far as 1 can see through the ranks of your comrades, not a single rosette is missing on their hats; you alone have it not. Down on your knees, criminal ! confess that you have committed this murder !7 But again the young soldier shook his head. 4 Not 1, Colonel,’ ho said. 4 May God protect me mercifully from such actions ! lit is true that the black and yellow rosette from my shako is missing, as I now perceive for the first time : but the rosette which you, Colonel, hold in your hand is not mine.7 4 Where is yours, then?7 inquired the Colonel. 4 That I know not,7 replied the young soldier ; 4 yesterday evening, I know, it was on my hat.7 4 And while you were murdering the Italian you lost it!’ said the Colonel. But the young rifleman from Styria stood calmly there, fixing his clear eyes on the angry commander. ‘Pardon me, Colonel,’ he said; 4 no son of Styria could commit such a crime as I am accused of ; and a soldier whom the Marshal himself promoted a short time ago, surely might ask so small a favour as to be heard before he is condemned.’ Now the Colonel looked more closely at the man. 4 1 see!’ he said; 4 you are the very Styrian whom the Marshal addressed in the bivouac after the battle of Volta, and promoted to be a corporal, .because your conduct so pleased him ! No, you cannot have committed this deed of which you are now accused. Speak then, soldier ! how can you prove your innocence ? ’ Then the young Styrian stepped out of the ranks. . ‘Colonel,7 he said, ‘now you are restoring to me my honour again, by declaring me innocent even before you have heard my defence: but you shall hear at once what I can say to prove my innocence to you. When I,7 he continued earnestly, 4 left my home in Styria, I took leave of my mother, and after she had given me her blessing she gave me a little parchment picture as a keepsake : 44 represented on it,” she said, 44 is the figure of ITim to Whom I have prayed for thee as a child, as a boy, as a young man ; take it, and may He of Whom it is to remind thee be a protection and shield to thee, in all dangers which may surround thee, till thou returnest to the arms of thy longing, anxious mother.’7 And when 1 took,’ continued the young soldier, 4 the little picture, I con¬ cealed it inside the rosette of my rifleman’s hat, and have thus carried it with me in all the battles in which I have been engaged in. Italy. If, then, the black and yellow rosette which was found be¬ side the murdered man is mine, that parchment picture must be inside it, and then I must be the guilty one ; but if it is not there, then I beg you, Colonel, to have all the rosettes on my comrades’ hats examined, and he in whose rosette the picture is found must have stolen my rosette from my hat because he lost his during the murder ; and lie must be the man who lias done the deed!’ So spake the young Styrian, and the Colonel, much, affected by his true, honest, and convincing tones, turned round at once to the members of his staff. ‘Off with all the hats,7 he exclaimed, ‘and let all the rosettes on them be opened!’ This was done immediately. The strict examination was nearly at an end, and in not one cockade on the soldiers’ hats had any¬ thing been found. When the sergeant who was examining the men came to the last rank, and to the last man but one — he was a tall recruit, who had only been received in the battalion a few days before; his black hair hanging down over his pale face, his dark eyes, as well as his whole appearance and manner, betrayed him to he an Italian by birth. Plis eyes were fixed on the approaching figure of the sergeant, and as he took his shako from his head his whole body began to tremble, The sergeant now took the black and yellow rosette from this man’s hat, opened it, and drew out the little piece of parchment. He held it up high, that all might see it was just what the Styrian rifleman had described it to be. 4 My picture ! my picture which my mother gave me ! ’ shouted the young Styrian soldier, as, letting his rifle fall, he stretched out both hands for the picture. The tall Italian recruit in whose rosette the picture had been found now sank to the earth like a crushed reed. There was a pause for a few minutes, each of the soldiers present felt that here God ITimself had judged, that this was the hand of the Lord. But no one was so full of gratitude to God, none praised Him more openly, than the honest Eber- hard, whose innocence had been so plainly proved before all his comrades. The Colonel, by whose command the guilty recruit, who afterwards fully confessed his crime, had been led away, now stepped up to the young Styrian rifleman, and placing his hand on his shoulder said, 4 1 am relieved and very much rejoiced, my son, that your innocence has been so quickly and so wondrously brought to light. God Himself has taken your matter in hand, and I shall at once inform the Marshal of what has occurred, that you may be compensated for the injury done you.7 The commandant’s words were warmly approved of by all. All pressed round the young Styrian rifle¬ man, and the story soon spread throughout the city of Mantua. _ In the autumn of 1849 a young officer of tlxe rifle corps clasped his mother in his arms near the cross by the little church in the Andrutzthal, in. Styria. It was Eberhard, the valiant son of the widow, Margaretha Blumlein, who, decorated with the cross of valour, rewarded by bis Marshal, the immortal Eadetzsky, now told her himself the won¬ derful story of his deliverance, as he showed her the little parchment picture she gave him when tliev parted.^ Together they thanked and praised God for His infinite mercies, Who on this occasion had used such a trifling instrument to he the means of saving the life and vindicating the innocence of one of TIis servants.

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400 CHATTERBOX. No. L.

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402 CHATTERBOX. No. LI. MILITARY NURSE. FRENCH sentry had been captured before Metz, and the man was to be trans¬ ported as a prisoner to the head -quarters of Prince Frederick Charles, at the town of Corvey. ‘Lieutenant/ said the poor fellow to the Prussian officer who accompanied the column of prisoners, ‘our way leads past the village where is my home, where my wife and children are, whom I have not seen for a long time ; would you be so kind as to allow me to pay them a visit ? ’ The officer, who just at that moment was thinking of his own family at home, sent a couple of soldiers to guard him, and let him go and pay a short visit. His poor anxious wife was beside herself for joy when she saw her husband again ; and after she had given him and his companions some refreshment, she begged for permission to be allowed to accompany her husband as far as Corvey. Put the poor woman could not carry her little boy herself, and she did not like to leave him alone in the house: an cider boy, who was live years old, could run along by his father’s side. Then a great, strong, Pomeranian soldier, saw where the difficulty lay. He was quartered in the village here, close to the poor woman’s cottage ; he had already — for he, too, had children in his distant home — made friends with the children of the French soldier’s wife, and now he held out his arms towards the little fellow. The boy went gladly to his black-bearded acquaintance, and laid his head on the Pomeranians shoulder. Thus a French pri- . soner of war, with all his baggage on his back, marched along ; on his right arm hung his wife, his left hand was held by his elder boy, and beside him stepped the great nurse in uniform, carrying the child, quite happy and delighted; behind them were the sentries— a good and striking subject for an artist to paint! On the way the wife told her husband liow she had lain sick in bed, and how the Prussian soldiers had shared their rations with her, had bought her wood and water, taken care of her children, and shown her . many other acts of kindness. Thus the party arrived before Corvey ; there the prisoner-of-War took leave of his family ; afterwards he went up to the Pomeranian, embraced him and kissed him, and when the bystanders looked upon those two men who had formerly been enemies, and perhaps before many days were over would again be tiring at each other, when they saw them embracing as brothers, they all felt that love will never cease to exist on the earth, and that it is the greatest and best of all virtues. J. F. C. PROFESSOR FARADAY. OME years ago an electrical ma¬ chine was in the window of an instrument-maker's shop, and a youth stood gazing at every part of it with intense curiosity. After a while, a neighbouring clock * struck; the lad started like one awakened from a sleep, and ran with all speed to his master’s workshop. The boy was the son of a work¬ ing man. a smith, and was in¬ tended also for a working man, but not quite so laborious a trade. Perhaps the boy was not strong enough for his father’s work, so "he was appren¬ ticed to a bookbinder in Plandford Street, Mary- lebone. He was a diligent lad, fond of work in hours of business, and fond of a book in hours of leisure, lie specially enjoyed books on scientific subjects. He liked to read about the wonders of chemistry : still more about electricity — that wonderful power that Hashes out of the thunder-cloud, that dwells un¬ seen in the dew-drop, that at a touch thrills through the startled nerves, and, like an invisible but mighty spirit, pervades all things, from the clouds of heaven to the clods pf earth. After he had found in the shop-window the electrical machine, he spent every spare moment there, taking in the shape of every knob, and wire, and wheel, and plate, with earnest eyes. Then he resolved to try and make one for himself- So by the light of the early summer morn¬ ings lie was up and working away at his machine, hi time he completed it, and found it would act. He touched the brass knob, and the shock. that went through him was as nothing compared to the joy that throbbed in bis heart at seeing his work com¬ plete. He showed it to his master, who, being a kind and sensible man, was pleased and surprised at the ingenuity of the lad. The master was fond of showing the electrical apparatus of his industrious apprentice to every person likely to be interested in a clever youth. Among them were some Fellows of the Royal Society, who might, perhaps, have an admission-ticket to give to lectures that would inte¬ rest the lad. Some few years after, the lad, now a young man, was again gazing with wide-open eyes, and laying up all he saw in his mind. This time it was not through a shop-window that he looked. It was from a seat in the Royal Society’s lecture-rooms that he witnessed Sir Humphry Davy making some beau¬ tiful chemical experiments. The youth did not know which most to 'admire — the beautiful apparatus, the wonderful experiments, or the eloquent lecture — all was so new to him, so interesting I But the lecturer himself was, above all the rest, the object of his admir¬ ation: our youth having been a reader, knew that Sir Humphry Davy was not born of rich parents, though his kindred and his breeding were virtuous and respectable. In the remote town of Penzance, in Cornwall, from the most western extremity of Eng¬ land, the great man had come. He had taught himself

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No. LI. CHATTERBOX. 403 nearly all he knew ; and now the youth saw him standing before the mighty and the noble of the land, the light of genius in his hashing eye3, the words of wisdom on his eloquent lips. ‘Oh! if I could but follow the steps of such a master ! 7 was the unspoken wish of the youthful hearer. This thought produced action ; promptness was a lead¬ ing part of the young man’s character; so he re¬ solved to write to the great chemist and state that he wished to follow some other trade than that to which he had been apprenticed, that he loved science, and would think himself happy to be employed in any way in the laboratory of so great a man. It was a bold step, but the request, though urgent, was full of the noble humility of real worth. His letter was not neglected— inquiries were made ; the good master had no wish to prevent the youth entering on a career for which his talents and studious habits litted him. The electrical apparatus was another aid to him, so the wish of his heart was granted ; he entered the laboratory of the great man, and had ample oppor¬ tunity to study and to improve. There is no need to sayjie did not waste his time or neglect his oppor¬ tunities. Sir Humphry Davy died, leaving a name dear to the philanthropist as well as the man of science ; but his place was not long vacant. Who filled it? He whose youth we have sketched — he whose lectures at the Royal Institution were listened to by royal and exalted auditors — the celebrated and much-beloved Professor Faraday. ‘Seest thou the man that is diligent in his business? he shall stand before kings’ (Prov. xxii. 29.) B. i - that they missed the bracing air’ of their own moun¬ tains. But this was nothing to the sad change in the father ; he sank rapidly, and was soon at rest in a crowded cemetery in the strange country. Bitter was the poor wife’s grief that she should bury him there, away from his own ‘bonnie Scot¬ land,' as she said; but Poverty is a stern master, and she had no means to return ito her own kindred, or to lay him to rest amongst those who had known and loved him. Then began the hard battle of life for the lonely woman : but Kenneth was her great comfort. The same spirit which had taught him from his earliest childhood to ‘ help mither,’ taught him now to shrink from no hardship or difficulty which lay before him. Her friends, who had brought them to the south, came forward now and put the eldest bov at a suitable school, where he might receive an education which should fit him to support himself in trade. Ah, how Kenneth worked ! how he toiled by day and far into the night with that one end, that one aim — his mother — to keep him from wearying. Sneers, taunts, laughter, surrounded him ; his Scot¬ tish dialect, his look, his simple manners, all were made fun of by his companions : but he bore every¬ thing without murmuring or complaint. And then the tide turned, and every one began to find out that Kenneth Grant was more than pains¬ taking : he was clever — brilliantly clever ; and so as he grew older he was tried by praise, but even through that he remained unmoved : simply and steadfastly he pursued his way, his one thought centred in mother and home. . A11 that is years ago. The little thoughtful laddie is a man now in a good way of business; he has helped himself and helped his brothers to make their way in a strange land, and the people say that the Grants have been wonderfullv fortunate; but the mother knows, that under God the ‘fortune7 has lam in the goodness and perseverance of her eldest boy, and she is a proud and happy woman as she looks round on her children, and thanks their Father m Heaven for His goodness to them all. One wish, and only one, is in her heart, and that is to see her ain countrie 7 before she dies; and Kenneth means to give it her, too, and already they are p anning a visit to the old place— the cottage, the glen, and the little stream where was their happy Highland home, long, long ago. A very quiet little story! not much in it to cause wonder or amusement, but it bears with it it’s own lesson— that not by great deeds do we win the crown of success, but by faithful perseverance in common daily duty, by the steady aim at a noble purpose, we shall achieve all, and more than all, for which we hope and strive. j KEMETH’S SUCCESS. (@®@)lT*S no’ much I can do,’ said Kenneth ^rant to himself ; 4 but I’ll try my jjj| ‘ best to help mither.7 And that was fSj H my why he sat so patiently hour after 11 hour with his fishing-rod in hand, A I HuS) hoping at last to get something to- Jr Mb l wards the meal which ‘mither7 hardly knew how to supply for her hungry, sturdy family of boys and girls in her Highland cottage.' There was no father to work : he was living, truly, but so ill and weak, that he was only a burden now. upon the wife, whose hands were already full ; and so at last they had settled to leave their own land and go south to London, where friends had promised to help them, and to put the boys in the way of helping themselves as they grew older. That day, as Kenneth sat fishing, lie was thinking a great deal about the journey, wondering what this city of London might be of which he heard so much talk, and how father and the rest would fare there so very far away from home. But he did not speak ins thoughts to Jamie and Alec and the 3roun°*er ones. I heir heads were full of Kenneth’s success, and when they trudged home with their fish to , mother, they were prouder than he was of the result ot Jus patient waiting. . A month later, and the Scottish laddies were away m the south, and already they had lost somethin^ from their sturdiness and health; or, perhaps it was j A WORD TO BOYS OH LIBRARIES. T) EGIK in early life to collect libraries of your owa. ~ Begin with a single book ; and when you find or hear of any first-rate book, obtain it if you can. After a while get another, as you are able, and be sure to read it. Make the best of your books ; and in this wav, when you are men, you will have good libraries in your heads as well as on your shelves.

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Kenneth’s Success.

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-ft _ 11- ^fE form our latest garland, to grace the dying year, In a season when the landscape’s chill, and bare, and drear : Few flowers can be gathered beneath the gloomy sky, The bloom and the beauty of the earth seem ready to die ; And yet not all, for, 1q ! spreads out the Christmas Bose, Braving the wintry weather, despite of snows and frost, Guarded by the Holly, and beautified by berries red, That give a glow that seems to show that alt is not dead. And the Evergreens that encircle our floral queen — Helleborus, we call her! — make the wreath fresh and green. And so the months pass on, in their changing beauty, Teaching to man many lessons of pleasure and of duty.’ H. G. A. I

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406 CHATTERBOX. No. LI. THE FLOWERS OF DECEMBER. PRING with its buds, summer with its blossoms, and autumn with its fruits, have eacli in their turn passed us by, and now we stand far within the black shadow of winter, for the dull and dreary month of December has set in. Sunny skies and soft breezes have given place to rain-swollen clouds of leaden hue, and roaring gales. No longer do the birds sing from the leafy groves ; the sweet min¬ strels have flown to warmer climes, and the trees’ branches, amid the leaves of which they made their summer homes, are all bare and naked. The flowers, too, of which we have every month gathered a fresh nosegay from hill and valley, field and garden, have all vanished. Indeed, were it not for the evergreens, we might fancy that life had departed from the whole vegetable" world. Far from such being the case, however, within these forms that seem lifeless strange forces are at work, silently preparing for the leaves, blossoms, seeds, and fruits, of the year that is to come. When we said that the flowers had all vanished, we forgot the fair blossom of the Christmas Rose, that opens to cheer us now, in the very midst of this gloomy season. 4 Triumphant over Winter’s power, And sweetly opening to the sight ; Midst chilling snows, with blossoms fair Of pure and spotless white/ As we gaze at its delicate petals our thoughts fly back to the balmy days of summer, for its shape reminds us of the beautiful wild Dog Rose. Glancing at the plant itself, however, we notice that it is a close . compact shrub, growing close to the ground, and dif¬ fering much from our trailing hedgerow favourite. Botanists call it the Hellebore, and say that it is very poisonous, ‘ the scent of a single blossom, in a confined space, having been known to produce alarm¬ ing symptoms : ’ so we must be careful not to handle it too freely, or inhale its perfume. And now, as tve search in vain for other flowers, let us entwine our Christmas Rose with some of the beautiful evergreens of the season to form a Decem¬ ber wreath. First we will gather 4 The Holly, darkly, richly green, Whose crimson berries blush between Its prickly foliage modestly/ This glossy evergreen is one of the greatest orna¬ ments of our gardens and shrubberies ; not only is it pleasing to the eye from the rich contrast of its dark green leaves, and crimson berries, it is. also very use¬ ful in forming close hedges and supplying the hungry birds with food during the severe weather. The Holly grows slowly ; it takes about twenty years to form a good hedge of fifteen or sixteen feet. In Ncedwood Forest, in Staffordshire, may be seen Holly-trees of more than thirty feet in height ; they are of great age, and have very thick trunks. The Holly is always linked in our minds with the festival of Christmas. It entwines the pillars of our churches when we meet together to celebrate the birth of the Saviour of mankind, and makes gay the walls of our homes at the same glad season, when around the hospitable board and the blazing tire relations and friends scattered far apart all the rest of the year are for once united. The Mistletoe must also have a place in our De¬ cember wreath, for is it not the constant companion of the Holly in the Christmas decorations of our homes ? We may find this curious plant, with its pale yellow leaves and clear white berries, growing upon many trees in the winter woods. It was the Mistletoe of the Oak which the ancient Druids so reverenced. And now, having reached the close of the year 1874, we say * * * 4 Good-bye ’ to our young readers, and, at the same time, we hope that our brief monthly gossip has helped to increase their love for the beautiful race of flowers, and awaken in their minds a feeling of thankfulness to the Creator of all things. Let them remember that ‘ God might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The Oalv-tree and the Cedar- tree, Without a flower at all. He might have made enough, enough, For every want of ours, For luxury, medicine, and toil, And yet have m'ade no flowers/ H. B. A. ‘GIRLS ARE OF NO USE!’ GIRLS arc of no use at all ! ’ ‘Oh, William, how dare you say that V cried Mary. ‘We come down at eight in the morning to make your breakfast,’ said Florence, the eldest. ‘I have always to get the kettle at tea,’ said Blanche. ‘ And we darn your socks !’ chimed in little Rose, who had once mended a pair when her eldest sister was away. ‘Well,’ said William, coolly, ‘any servant could do all that as well. Girls are of no use/ . ‘They are better than boys,’ said little Rose, stoutly. ‘ We could do without you better than you could do ■without us.’ ‘ Could you, indeed? I’d like to see you try it/ 4 I’d like to see you try to do without us,’ retorted Blanche. A few days after, as they were at breakfast, bJo- rence*announced that the one servant w^as going for a holiday until the next evening, and that a char¬ woman was coming, by name Mrs. Eve, to fill her ■place# The above conversation had faded from the girls’ minds, for they wrere used to such complimentary speeches from their brother. On this day, when they met at dinner, Blanche said to her sisters,— . ‘ Florence, wrouId you or Mary like to go in to dancing this afternoon? Miss Grey says, that as Rose will not be there she would be glad if one ol you went. Rose wrou’t be there, will she ?

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No. LI. CHATTERBOX. 407 6 No/ replied Florence. ‘ Mother said she need not 30 while she is staying with the Wilsons.’ ‘I don’t care about going to the dancing/ said Maiy. ‘ Don’t you really?’ asked Florence. ‘No, really not. There are such little children ; it’s no fun dancing with them/ So it was settled that Florence should go. The girls helped Mrs. Eve to clear away, and then Florence and Blanche* went to the dancing-class. Mary was reading a book lent to her by a young friend ; and the afternoon slipped away. ‘Mary/ said her mother, coming in with her bonnet on, ‘ I am going over to see Miss Duncan, and if she is at home I shall have tea with her. Be sure and have tea comfortably for William/ ‘ Yes, mother/ The dock struck five as Mary finished the last page, and she said to herself, ‘ Only five ! William won’t be in till six; so I shall have time to run round with this book to Jane, she wished it back to-night/ Five minutes took her to her friend’s, whom she found just sitting down to tea. Mary was easily persuaded to take a cup, saying, — ‘ But I must be home by six/ ‘ Well, it’s only a quarter past five/ said Jane. They laughed and chatted for some time, and when they rose from table Mary looked at the clock. ‘ A quarter .past six! ’she cried in dismay. ‘My dear Jane, I must fly ! William will be in, and he gets so angry if tea isn’t ready/ ‘ Where’s Florence?’ asked Jane. ‘ She • went to. the dancing with Blanche, and mother’s out/ ‘But Florence will be home by this time/ said Jane: ‘so you may as well stay a little longer, for I’m ail alone. I wish you would/ But Mary hurried away, remembering her pro¬ mise to her mother. Mrs. Eve opened the door to her. ‘ If you please, miss/ she began in a timid way, ‘ your father and Mr. William have both come in, and they want their tea.’ ( Well, bring up the tray/ sakhMary, hastily passing licr. ‘ I have, miss/ said Mrs. Eve. . Mary was already in the dining-room; her father was lighting the lamp, and William was sitting by the table, looking rather cross. Mrs. Eve said she had brought up the tray — and so she had, but nothing more; it was put down at one corner of the table, wliile the plates seemed to be chasing each other. There was no white cloth, no bread "or butter, no sugar out. Mary gave out the tea, . fetched the bread and butter, and put the cold meat on the table. ITer father and William sat down directly, for they were very hungry. A quarter of an hour before William had come home at his usual time, hut instead of finding the lamps lighted, the curtains drawn, the fire blazing, tea laid on a snowy cloth, and his mother and sisters waiting to welcome him, as they generally did, all was dark, cold, and cheerless. The lamps were not lighted, the blinds were up, the fire was nearly out, there was no sign of tea, and nobody was in except a strange charwoman. Ilis father followed him in a few minutes; and when Mrs. Eve understood what was wanted she brought up the tray, and just then Mary came in. Ten minutes later Florence and Blanche came in; they looked in wonder at the unusual appearance of the tea-table. Mary explained, and Florence laughed heartily, joined by Blanche. Mary’s con¬ science was not perfectly easy, for she knew that she ought to have seen to it; but the other girls enjoyed it, called it a good joke, quoted William’s own words that ‘ Girls are of no use, and men could do without them/ until William and his father could not help laughing themselves. ‘ Of course we can’t do without you/ said William, ‘ any more than we can without our slaveys. You are our slaveys ; we want you in that way.’ The story was told with great mirth to their mother when she came in later ; and the girls noticed tli at it was a long time before William again said that ‘ Girls are of no use ! ’ Liebe Macleod. THE KOOKS AND THE STABLINGS. Ft ill E rooks and the starlings, though not of a feather, Are often seen flying and resting together. They chatter and caw, and they caw and they chatter, But, all said and done, there is nothing the matter. The ricks are thatched tightly for winter that’s looming, The gun of the sportsman is far and near booming ; Perhaps the birds talk of such things, and oft wonder Whatever is meant by so much mimic thunder. Be tliat as it may, we are sure all this gabbling Is free from ill-wijl as the brook in its babbling ; And children, if given to sneerings and snarlings, May well feel rebuked by the rooks and the starlings. D. G. Tettexhall. -ASFlh SHETLAND PONY. __0_ 1? JPlii^jOXY is a name common to manv jsiljj jlii| small, active breeds of horses, found in different countries. O#? Ponies arc very useful to many poor folk. They are so hardy that they can be 'turned out on a fV common, or in a field, or even in the country lanes, and find their own hiving. They require no corn or care, and yet are readv for use when their owners need them. For an illustration of this race we give a Shet¬ land pony, a native of the rocky Shetland Islands off the north-eastern coast of Scotland. This little creature is strong and sure-footed. It is especially valuable in mountainous districts. But in many a home in southern England, where there are no moun¬ tains, the little Sheltie, with its shaggy inane, is the useful favourite of the boys and girls. " E. L.

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CHATTERBOX. The Skater and the Wolves. <5 G

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410 CHATTERBOX. No. LII. THE SKATEE, AND THE WOLVES. The following- remarkable story of an escape from wolves in e America is related by Mr .Whitehead. UEING the winter of 18-14 0ie observes) I had much ©\° ' Ilf leisure to devote to the lili/ sports of a new country. °£ 0{PMk To none of these was I more given up than to off ° skating. The lonely lakes, o(? frozen by the intense cold > Qj© &u. N< of a northern winter, pre- r^P o|? sent a wide field to the ogp °(? lovers of this pastime. 6 Often would I bind on my skates and glide away up the glittering river. Sometimes I would follow the track of a fox or otter, and run my skates along the mark he had left with his dragging tail, until the trail would enter the woods. Sometimes these excursions were made by moon¬ light; and it was on one of these occasions that [ had an adventure, which even now I 'cannot recall without a nervous feeling. I had left my friend’s house one evening just before dusk, with the intention of skating a short distance up the noble river which glided before the door. The night was beautifully clear. . A peerless moon sailed over fleecy clouds, stars twinkled from the sky and from every frost-covered tree in millions. Light also came glinting from ice, and snow-wreath, and encrusted branches, as the eye followed for miles the broad gleam of the river, that like a jewelled belt swept between the mighty forests on its banks. And yet all was still. The cold seemed to have frozen tree, and air, and water, and every living thing. Even the ringing of my skates echoed back from the hill with a startling clearness. I had gone up the river nearly two miles, when, coming to a little stream which empties into the larger, I turned into it to explore its course. Fir and hemlock of a century’s growth met overhead, and formed an archway radiant with frost-work. All was dark within ; but I was young and fearless, and as I peered into an unbroken forest that reared itself on the borders of the stream I shouted with very joyousness. My hurrah rang through the woods, and I stood listening to the echo that rever¬ berated again and again, until all was hushed. Sud¬ denly a sound arose — it seemed to me to come from beneath the ice ; it was low and tremfilous at first, but it ended in one long wild yell. I was appalled. Never before had such a noise met my ears. Presently I heard the brushwood on shore crash, as though from the tread of some animal — the blood rushed to my forehead — my energies returned, and I looked around me for some means of escape. . The moon shone through the opening of the mouth of the creek by which I had entered the forest, and, seeing this to 'be my one means of escape, I darted toward it. It was ‘hardly a hundred yards distant, and the swallow could scarcely have excelled me in flight ; yet, as I turned my head, to the shore, I could see two dark objects dashing through the brushwood at a pace nearly double in speed to my own. By the great speed, and the short yells which they gave, I knew at once that these were the much- dreaded grey wolves. I had never met with these animals ; but, from the description given of them, I had little pleasure in making their acquaintance. Their fierceness and untiring strength render them objects of dread to every benighted traveller. With their long gallop they pursue their prey, never straying from the track of their victim ; and though, perhaps, the wearied hunter thinks that he has at last outstripped them, he finds that they have but waited for the evening to seize their prey. The bushes that skirted the shore flew past me as I dashed on in my flight to pass the narrow opening. The outlet was nearly gained — a few seconds more and I would be comparatively safe ; but in a moment my pursuers appeared on the bank above me, which here rose to the height of ten feet. There was no time for thought — I bent my head and dashed for¬ ward. The wolves sprang, but, miscalculating my speed, they fell behind me, while their intended prey glided out upon the river ! Of course I turned toward home. The light flakes of snow spun from the iron of my skates, and I was some distance from my pursuers, when their fierce howl told me they were after me still. I did not look back ; I did not feel afraid, or sorry, or glad; — one thought of home, of the bright faces awaiting my re¬ turn, and of their tears if they never should see me, and then all the energies of body and mind were ex- . erted for escape. Every half minute a furious yelp from my fierce foes made me certain that they were in close pursuit. Nearer and nearer they came, — at last I heard their feet pattering on the ice — I even heard their snuffing scent. Every nerve and muscle in my frame was stretched to the utmost tension. The trees along the shore seemed to daruce in an uncertain light, and my brain turned with my own breathless speed; yet still my pursuers seemed to hiss forth their breath with a sound truly horrible, when an involuntary motion on my part turned me out of my course. The wolves, close behind, unable to stop, and as unable to turn on the smooth ice, slipped and fell, still going on far . ahead. Their tongues were lolling out; their white fangs were gleaming from their mouths; their dark shaggy breasts were fleeced with foam ; and as they passed me their eyes glared, and they howled with fury. The thought flashed on my mind that by this means I could avoid them,— namely, by turning aside when¬ ever they came too near ; for, by the formation of their feet, they are unable to run on ice except in a straight line. I immediately acted upon this plan. The wolves having regained their feet, sprang directly toward me. The race was renewed for twenty yards up the stream : they were already close on my back, when I glided round and dashed directly past them. A fierce yell greeted my evolution, and the wolves,, slip¬ ping on their haunches, sailed onward, presenting a perfect picture of helplessness and baffled rage. Thus I gained nearly a hundred yards at each turn¬ ing. This was repeated two or three times, every moment the animals becoming more excited. At one time, by delaying my turning too long, the

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No. LII. CHATTERBOX. 411 wolves came so near that they threw their white foam over my dress as they sprang to seize me, and their teeth dashed together like the spring of a fox- trap ! Had my skates failed for one instant, — had I tripped on a stick, or had my foot been caught in a fissure of the ice, — the story I am now telling would never have been told. But I soon came opposite the house, and my hounds — I knew their deep voices — roused by the noise, bayed furiously from their kennels. I heard their chains rattle ; how I wished they would break them ! — then I should have had protectors to match the fierce denizens of the forest. The wolves, taking the hint conveyed by the dogs, stopped in their career, and after a few moments turned and fled. I watched them until their forms disappeared over a neighbouring hill; then, taking off my skates, I wended my way to the house, with grateful feelings for my preservation. But even yet I never see a broad sheet of ice by moonlight without thinking of that snuffing breath and those fearful wolves that followed me so closely down that frozen river. THE GLOVE. By Leigh Hunt, after Schiller. ^TNG FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought he sat looking on the court : The nobles filled the benches, and ladies in their pride, And amongst them sat the Count de Love, with one for whom he sighed. And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. The lions and the tigers roared with their horrid yawning jaws ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a horrid smother. The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Saith Francis, then, * * * 4 ’Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there/. Be Loye’s love overheard the king — a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same. She thought — 4 The Count, my love, is brave as brave can be ; lie surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me. King, ladies, lovers, all look on, the occasion is divine: I’ll drop my glove to prove his love— great glory will be mine/ She dropped the glove to prove his love, she looked at him and smiled, He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild. The leap was quick, return was quick — he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face. 4 Well done ! ’ said Francis ; 4 rightly done ! ’ and he rose from where he sat ; 4 Not love,’ quoth he, 4 but vanity, set love a task like that/ OUR ANGORA. were very fond of cats in our home, and had one old pussy who had lived with us for many years, and we reckoned her rather a character. She was no beauty; she was just a common tortoise¬ shell and nothing more ; but 4 Binali’ had come to us first a little, starving, stray kitten, which we had taken in for charity ; then she had been a voyage to America and back with .a sailor-uncle; she had walked fifteen miles in pursuit of us one Christmas, when we had gone to stay at the Grange with our grand-parents, and left Dinah at home with the servants; and finally she had gone totally blind of one eye, which put the crowning touch to her oddity. Whilst Dinah lived we were well supplied with kittens of all names and colours, and though many were consigned to a watery grave, and many more found homes with different friends and acquaintances, we always seemed to have one or two more kits than we knew what to do with. But aTl things have an end, and Dinah’s life was no exception to the rule. She died at last from real old age, helped on just at the conclusion by some rough handling, or rather 4 mouthing,’ from a dog, who seized her in the front-garden and half shook the breath out of her. Poor old Dinah ! she never got right afterwards, and at last we had to bury her in a hole in the garden, and we were all rather sad at the loss of our favourite'. It happened that we had no other cat just then, and our mother declared she would have no more ; saying that our pets gave too much trouble. Many were offered us, but in vain ; mother was proof against temptation, until one lucky da}r a friend wished to present us with a fine angora with long silky hair and bushy tail. At first there was the usual resistance, our mother declared the cat would be stolen for the sake of her fur ; but when she consented to see the creature we knew the victory was won, and so indeed it proved, for pussy was admitted as a member of the family then and there. If any¬ one doubts her beauty, her superiority over common cats, however fine, they need not take my word, but look at her picture, and say then if ours is not a fine angora ! !

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412 CHATTERBOX No. LII. Angora Cat.

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GRATEFUL — COMFORTING. COCO BREA K FAST. HI HUB . v ■ f Iff ise %-J % l ^ ’■'gf vi VpA: • '' - >#!%* Hf L . By a thorough kn owledge of the natural laws which govern the operations of digestion- •" nd nutrition, and by a careful application of the fine properties of well- selected Cocoa.. ¥ Epps has provided our wreak fast tables with a delicately- flavoured Leverage vduch may save us m ay heavy doctors’ bills. It is by *he judicious use^oi^cli articles of diet that a c^tstituvAa may be gradually built up, until strong enough to resist every tendency to disease Hundreds of subtle maladies are floating around us, ready to atack wherever there is a weak point. We may a fatal shaft by keeping oursel es well fortified with pure blood and a tv nourished fram e”—On Diet, in the- “ Civil Serv;ce Gazette ■/V ' <■ A Visit to Epps’s Coco ' Manufactory. — Through the kindness of Messrs. ,-s. Ejecently had an opportunity o. seeing the many complicated and -varied pro- Cacao bean passes through ore t is sold for public use; and, being both (i rvsged and highly pleased with what i. saw curing my visit to the manufactory, I J;.. rht a brief account of the Cacao, am’ e way it is manufactured by Messrs. Epps lo V it for a wholesome and hutrfticus - verage, might be of interest to the readers ■/ ' ; .and and Water.’ ” — See Article in “ Land and Wafer." - Manufacture of Cocoa. — We will now give an account of the process adopted . by l cssiv. James Epps and Co., manufacturers of dietetic articles, at the r works in the E ;ccn Road, London.” — See Article in “ Cassell’s Household Guic .... TriCTpc mm ny liABE SIMPLY WITH BOILING WATER OR MILK. SOLD BY GROCERS IN PACKETS ONLY, LABELLED— | AMfcS TPS & 00., H0S8£0?AT!ii0 CHEMIST 48, THREAD ME 4DLE STREET, and 170, PiCOADIJ.LY| LC-r jOF. Works for Dietetic Preparations — Btana Place. E iton Road, l.r '.don. ! bf Hew York <U.S.)s Eaoricka Sr 11 ... jrwi« 3fe t. Boston (U.S.)i Otto Ckpp St ( t, Beacon Street.