Chatterbox 1880

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4 30i WASHINGTON ST CHROMOX Yi.

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THE ZIG-ZAG BOOKS. Two of the Very Best Books for Boys and Girls Ever Issued. ZIG-ZAG JOURNEYS IN CLASSIC LANDS. Or, Tommy Toby’s Trip TO Parnassus. An account of the tour of The Zig-Zag Club in France, Italy, Greece, Spain, Portugal. By H. Butterworth, author of “Zig-Zag Journeys in Europe.” With nearly two hundred superb illustrations by the best artists. One of the most instructive and entertaining books ever issued from the American Press. Small quarto, illuminated board covers, and linings, . $1,75 Sma^l quarto, cloth, bevelled and gilt sides, . 2.25 Small quarto, cloth, bevelled, full gilt, . . 2.50 ZIG-ZAG JOURNEYS IN EUROPE. Vacation Rambles in Historic Lands, with interesting stories and legends connected with the scenes visited. By H. Butter- worth. Illustrated with nearly two hun¬ dred fine eiigrc'Jvings. Ten thousand copies of this book were sold within six months of publication. Small quarto, chromo- lithographed covers and linings, ....... $1.75 Small quarto, cloth, bevelled and gilt sides, . 2.25 Small^quarto, cloth, bevelled, full gilt, . . . 2.50 N. B.— We desire to call attention to the fact, that that the Zigzag books contain nearly fifty per cent, more matter than any books of their class offered- in the country. Published by e'^ES & LAURIAT, 301 to 306 Washington Street, Boston.

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NEW ESTES & LAURIAT’S PUBLICATIONS HISTORIES FOR YOIJlSrO FOLKS. BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. YOUNG FOLKS’ HISTORY OF FRANCE. With 84 illustrations, by A. De Neuville, E. Bayard and others, i vol., 16 mo. Cloth, . $1.50 YOUNG FOLKS’ HISTORY OF GREECE. With 51 illustrations, i vol., 16 mo. Cloth, . 1.50 YOUNG FOLKS’ HISTORY OF ROME. With 1 14 illustrations, i vol., 16 mo. Cloth, 1.50 YOUNG FOLKS’ HISTORY OF ENGLAND. With 60 illustrations, by De Neuville, Bayard and others, i vol., 16 mo. Cloth, . . $1.50 YOUNG FOLKS’ HISTORY OF GERMANY. With 82 illustrations, i vol., 16 mo. Cloth, IN PRESS. YOUNG FOLKS’ HISTORY OF AMERICA. Fully illustrated, i vol., 16 mo. Cloth, 1.50 1.50 YONGE’S YOUNG FOLKS’ HISTORIES 6 vols. Cloth, in a neat box, ................ 9.00 “ “ Half American Russia, extra gilt tops, in this style in sets only, . 12.00 FINE ILLUSTRATED JUVENILES. FIVE MICE IN A MOUSE-TRAP. The story of their lives, their haps and mis¬ haps, and many other wonderful things re¬ lated by The Man in The Moon, done in the vernacular from the lunacular by Laura E. Richards, author of “Babyhood,” etc.; with a large number of beautiful illustrations by Addie Ledyard, Kate Greenaway and others. Small quarto, illuminated covers. Small quarto, cloth, bevelled and gilt, LITTLE-FOLK SONGS. A charming series of Nursery Ditties. By Alexina B. White. Illustrated with choice wood-cuts by Addie Ledyard and others. Small quarto, chromolithographed board covers, . BABYHOOD. An elegant Juvenile for the youngest children, with nearly two hundred fine illustrations, and large type ; text printed on extra-calendered paper. Royal octavo, chromo lithographed, board $1.50 2.00 .75 Chromo OF Cloth, bevelled, black and gilt stamps, vignette, . THE ORIGINAL CHATTERBOX ALBUM ANIMALS. A series of Chatterbox pictures, illustrating the life of our domestic animals, and descriptive of some queer creatures of the animal world. A most entertaining and instructive work for the young. Pictures by the celebrated artist Harrison Weir and others. Royal octavo, illuminated boards. Royal octavo, cloth chromo vignette, A VISIT OF ST. NICHOLAS. By Clement C. Moore; with illustrations in tints b}^ F. O. C. Darley. Extra, super-cal¬ endered paper, illuminated cover, . 1.50 1-25 1-75 •50 THE HODGE-PODGE PICTURE BOOK. A choice Medley of lessons, rhj’^mesand stories, with 150 fine illustrations. A charming book for the youngest children. Small quarto, beautiful chromo covers, . . $1.50 Cloth, bevelled and gilt sides, .... 2.00 OUR BABY’S EASY BOOK. Little lessons and stories for little folks, with many charming illustrations. Small quarto, chromo, board covers, . . . - > .35 OUR BABY’S PRIMER And Pretty Picture Book for the 3mungest children. By Philip Findlay, with sixty- seven illustrations. Small quarto. Chromo¬ lithograph, board covers, . 35 CHIMES FOR CHILDHOOD. A newly illustrated and improved edition of this standard book of poetry for children, with selections from leading English and Ameri¬ can poets. 12 mo. Cloth bevelled, extra, . 1.50 THE ORIGINAL CHATTERBOX PICTURE GALLERY. A series of the best pictures selected from the past volumes of The Chatterbox. Printed on elegant heavy toned paper, with verse to each picture. Royal octavo, illuminated boards, . . . 1.25 Royal octavo, cloth chromo vignettes, . . 1.75 PLEASANT PAGES AND BIBLE PICTURES. For jmung folks. By the author of “The Far¬ mer Bo}\” etc. With twenty illustrations by Dalziel Bros. Large 8 vo. Cloth, black and gilt, chromo side, . 1*25 sent For Sale at ail Bookstores- If not to be found at the Bookstores, postpaid on receipt of price, by the Publishers, I ESTES & LAUHIAT, 301 to 305 Washington Street, - Boston.

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A Bird without Wings . 28 A 8eventj-miles’ Bace with an Ex}Dress Train . 36 A Brave Little Prince . 76 A Loyal Yorkshire Girl . 87 A Year’s Pood for Loudon . 87 A Yegetable that gives Light .. ... 151 A Young Investor . 166 Avarice Punished . 170 A Vegetable’s Love of Light . 198 A Child’s Conclusion . 234 About Oysters . 239 Alexander the Great and the Lion... 270 A Bold Pig . 298 A Les.son in Politeness . 306 A Kind Priend . 314 An Arctic Hero . 326 A Boy’s Log . . 341, 350 A Domestic Servant . 370, 380, 390 A Priendly Lion . 399 Battle Abbey . 140 Brave Soldiers in Time of Peace ... 190 Benjamin Pranklin . 202 Caught in the Snow . 54 Claude Gelee (Lorraine) . 270 ‘ Chance,’ the Pireman’s Dog . 303 Dog and. Duck . 29 Deeds, not Words . 74 Donald Cameron of Lochiol . 135 Dr. Johnson’s Memory . 135 Dogs in Church . 170 Dr. Alexander Murray . 234 Derivation of Words * . 250 Do Insects Talk to each Other 7 ... 326 Dover Castle . 405 Extinct Animals The Ichthyosaurus . 62 The Teleosaurus .. 70 The Pterodactyl . 94 Escape of Peter the Groat . 134 Equal Shares . 311 Early Rismg . 380 Poraging . 47 Farming in China . 327 Friendship . 348 Geoffrey Chaucer and His Pilurrims 7 Garden Rhubarb . “ . 10 Geoffrey Chaucer and His Pilgrims: The Host of the ‘ Tabard’ . 10 The Knight . 26 The Squire . 42 The Yeoman . 55 The Prioress . 76 The Monk . 95 The Friar . 108 The Merchant . 122 Geoffrey Chaucer (continued) : The Clerke of Oxenford . 142 The Serjeant of Law . 159 The Franklain . 175 The Artisans of London . 191 The Cook . 207 The Shipman . 218 The Doctor of Physic . 239 The Wife of Bath . 250 The Parson . 271 The Ploughman . 287 The MiUer . 311 The Manciple . 322 The Reve . 343 The Sumnioner . 381 The Pardoner . 406 Generosity of Bonaparte . 167 Gerard the Lion-Killer . 2u3 Galileo and the Telescope . 215 How Gounod became a Musician ... 207 How Chris Came to Us . 300, 309. Hope’s Genero.sity . 302 Hope for Dull Boys . 383 In Iceland . 191 Ivan the Terrible . 195 Joseph and Stephen Montgolfier ... 45 Jack Frost in St. Petersburg . 62 Kingly Consideration . 406 Lessons in Words . 101 Lochaber — Dog swimming Loch Lochy 154 Lord Nel.son . 25S London Long Ago . 318 London Sparrows . 398 Minute Creatures . 359 ‘Not Mo! not Me! it is My Sister You must Save ! ’ 319 On Board the Sui-prise . 87 Qur Navy . 147 Odoacer . 187 On a Barren Rock . 258 Peas-Blossom 2, 14, 18, 30, 34, 42, 50, 58, 66, 78, 82, 90, 98, 110, 114, 122, 130, 138, 146, 154, 162, 170, 178, 186, 194, 204, 210, 218, 226 Pictures from New Zealand . 244 Robert’s Turning-point 101, 106, 118, 126 Rudolph of Hapsburg . 403 Sir William Jones . 71 Scraps of Biography 143, 150, 215, 259, 399 Sir Walter Scott . 212 Sir Walter Scott and His Dogs . 271 Scraps of Knowledge . 343 Sagacity of a Hen . 346 The Thames from Source to Mouth : — 1. From Source to Oxford . 3 2. Oxford . 23 3. Oxford to Marlow' . 36 Pago The Thames (continued) : 4. Marlow' to Cookham . 5. Cookham to Maidenhead ... 6. Windsor . 7. Magna Charta Island . 8. Prom Chertsey to Hampton 9. From Hampton to Hampton Coiu't 134 10. Hampton Court to Tw'ickenham 150 11. Twickenham to Richmond . 12. From Richmond to Chisw'ick ... 13. Chisw'ick to Houses of Parliament 14. Westminster to Waterloo Bridge 15. From Somerset House to the City 16. London Bridge and Monument 17. The Custom House and ‘ Pool.* 18. Tow'er of London and * Pool.* ... 19. From the Tow'er to Greenw'ich ... 20. From Greenw'ich to Blackw'all... 21. From BlackwaU to Woolwich ... 22. From Woolwich to Erith . 23. From Erith to Gravesend . 24. Gravesend to the Nore Light ... The Castle Goblin... 6, 10, 19, 26, 38, 46 The Honest Porter . 63 The Moslem Solomon . The Haunted Castle . The First Gentleman of His Family The Cheirotherium, or Hand-Animal The Adventures of a Young Half- Caste Indian . 174, 1^ 116 166 182 199 214 274 259 279 303 319 334 351 371 388 411 71 94 147 151 The Monkeys of Gibraltar Tw'O Brave Children ... The Conceited Singer ... The Sick Goose . The Farmer’s Parrot . 189 202 223 223 226 The Boy Trapper 230, 23 4, 242, 253, 262, 266. 274, 282, 290, 298, 306, 314, 322, 330, 338, 346, 354, 362, 374, 378, 386, 304, 402, 410 ’ " ^ 242 278 287 The English Bull-Dog. . . The Story of an Indian King . The Megalosaurus and Iguanodon ... The Ancient Animals of the Valley of Paris . 295 The Dinotherium . 334 The Post Office . 335 The Megatherium and the Mylodon 318 The Ancient Animals of the Valley of the Thames . 358 The Broken Serpent . 364 The Ascent of Snowdon . 366 The Creation of the Camel . 367 The Prisoner’s Daughter . 374 ‘ We W'ill go without You ! * 74 Watches . 103 Working the Wits . 107 White Mice . 138 * What will Mother Say ? * . 245, 251 Wild-Beast Merchants ... . . .367

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IV CONTENTS A Stolen Glance at Good Things for To-Morrow . A Street-Arab’s Reverie . A Riddle . Blind Jack . Brother Pat’s Birthday . Ouckoo’s Egg in the Hedge-Sparrow’ Nest . Clocks Striking . . . Drive the Nail . Page 92 125 271 199 279 3 359 380 135 POETRY. Grandmother . Page . 51 ‘ Good Old Dog ! * . . 33S Grannie’s Bonnet . . 386 In Trouble . . 74 Lazy-Bones . . 229 ‘ My name is Norval’ ... . 295 On Duty . . 335 Perseverance . . 23 Puzzles for Foreigners . 270 Snow . * . . 63 Tommy Green . The Castaway . The Boy who could not Lie The Ferry-Boat . The Blackbirds . The Mitherless Bairn . The Rainy Day . The Wars of the Primrosea The Boys in the Stream ... The Discerning Dog . Page . 13 60 . 108 , 163 , 178 , 215 , 261 , 342 . 375 . 399 ILLUSTRATIONS. COXjOTJI^/EID ‘ Page A Bird without Wings ... 28 A four-legged Thief . 48 A Stolen Glance at Good Things for To-morrow ... 92 ‘Are you Grammar-school boys ? ’ . 129 Alexander the Great and the Lion . 269 Ancient Animals of the Valley of Paris . 293 A Bold Pig . 297 A Lesson in Politeness ... 305 A kind Friend . 313 An Arctic Hero . 328 Ancient Animals of the Valley of the Thames ... 357 ‘Boney’ attacked by the Butcher’s Dog . 57 Battle Abbey . 141 Blind Jack . 200 Benjamin Franklin . 201 Blackwall . 333 Bob and Lester escaping through the Window ... 396 Castle Goblin . 5 Cookham Lock . 53 Chertsey Bridge . 117 Camall in pursuit of Robert 120 ‘Comrade, you must not shed blood in this place ! ’ 132 Cheirotherium . 152 Chivying the Pig . 172 Chiswick . ... 181 Chris playing and singing to Mother . 309 Cuckoo’s Egg in the Hedge- Sparrow’s Nest ... "... 360 Dog and Duck . 29 Donald Cameron of Lochiel 136 Devonport . 148 Dogs in Church . 169 Dryburgh Abbey. Burial- place of Sir Walter Scott 212 Don Gordon a Prisoner . . . 237 ‘Dave, does you want me to wallop you ? ’ 256 David covered his face with his hands and cried aloud 264 Dan shouldered his rille and disappeared . 205 David leaving the store with his purchases . 273 Dan hiding behind the fallen log . 281 Dan ‘polling’ the raft ... 2i)2 David passing the Quails into the Waggon . 329 Dan stealing the Pointer . . . 340 David escaping from his Father ... . 353 David discovering the foot¬ prints . 356 Dan on the watch . 401 Dover Castle . 405 Don jumped on his Pony and rode homeward ... 409 Erith . 372 Page Fire in the Dormitory ... 49 Geoffrey Chaucer . 8 Grandmother . 52 ‘George crossed over the way to speak to Robert’ 104 ‘ Glen’ swimming across Lock Lochy . 153 Giandfather destroying Ray’s Violin . .* ... 185 Gibraltar . 189 Godfrey searching for Dan’s Money in the Store-house 232 Godfrey ‘ seeing’ the old Negro . 236 Godfrey’s hiding-place in the Island... . . 284 Greenwich . 317 Godfrey escaping from the ‘hunters’ . 325 ‘Good old Dog’ . 337 Godfrey forcing an entrance into the Smoke-house ... 377 Grannie’s Bonnet . 385 Gravesend . 389 Herman cried, ‘There he is, mother ! ’ 12 Herman rescued by the Dwarf . 40 He tossed up his h .id, and off he went . 112 Hampton Cpui-t Palace ... 133 In Trouble . 73 ‘ It is my sister you must save!’ . 320 ‘Is that your own self, Davy?’ . 36h ‘ Janie’s head dropped, and tears burst forth afresh 101 Joseph and Stephen Mont¬ golfier . 45 Lifting Piccola over the pailings . 220 Lazy-Bones . 229 Lord Nelson in the Hospital ward . 257 London Bridge . 260 ‘ Look out, Don, look out ! ’ 289 Lester and Bob . 308 Lester and Bob setting fire to the Shooting-box ... 316 London Sparrows . 397 Mr. Carr practising on his Flute . 33 Marlow . 37 Maidenhead Bridge . 69 Magna Charta Island ... 100 Mr. Carrington tried to soothe him . 140 ‘ My name is Norval ’ ... 296 ‘ Mohammed shattered one of the brazen serpents’ 364 ‘Mrs. Pepper’ watching the antics of her friend 381 Nurse and the Trencher Cap 17 Now then, stupid . 89 Napoleon’s Generosity ... 168 Oxford . 21 Page Out went the candle . 44 On Board the Surprise ... 88 Orleans House . 149 Odoacer, First King of Italy 188 Old Goody di-opping the Tea-kettle . 221 ‘ 0, come, let me catch you ’ 280 On Duty . 336 Pat dressing up a Ghost ... 1 Perseverance . 24 ‘ Poor boy I what a bum I ’ 65 Pat getting a ‘ Cropper’ on the Ice . 81 Pat meeting the Ogre himself 84 Pat’s second visit to the Orchards . 157 Piccola in the Donkey-cart 180 Pursued by Indians . 184 ‘ Piccola, go with Father * 193 Pat lighting the Fire ... 205 Pictures from New Zealand 244 Ray and his Grandfather in the Orchard . 97 Robert getting out of the Window . 105 Robert in Prison . 125 Richmond Hill . 165 Ray Carrington approach¬ ing the White Cliffs of England . 228 Robert Bums and Dr. Alexander Murray . 233 Rachel beating ‘ Bee Music’ 245 Rachel being decked before Flora’s Glass . 252 Rachel sank do^vTi on the ground . 253 Ralph and Chris in the Garden . 301 Source of the Thames ... 4 Snow . 64 Sir William Jones . 72 Signor Cherita and old Cann 156 Signor Cherita serenading Ray . 161 Signor Cherita finding Ray 145 Somerset House . 213 St. Paul’s and Cannon Street Railway Station in 1879 248 Sandrocottus and the Lion 276 Sagacity of a Hen . 345 Salamander asleep in the Squire’s Wide-awake ... 369 Salamander making her escape . 392 Southend . 412 The Host of the ‘ Tabard’ 9 Tommy Green . 13 The Boys swimming across the River . 16 The Merchants at Supper 20 The Kniirht . 25 Taking a look through the Keyhole . 32 The Squire . 41 The Yeoman . 56 The Castaway . 60 Pago The Ichthyosaurus . 61 The Teleosaurus . 68 The Prioress . 77 Tearing down the ‘ Pie Flag* 80 The Pterodactyl . 93 The Monk . 96 The Friar . 109 The Merchant . 121 The Doll in the Playground 124 The bridal party passing George’s grave . 128 The Clerke of Oxenforde . . . 144 The Serjeant of Law . 160 The Ferry-Boat . 164 Tarantula, Centipede, and Rattlesnake . 173 The FrankLain . 176 The Thievish Blackbirds ... 177 The Artisans of London . . . 192 The Czar Ivan kills his son . 196 The Houses of Parliament 197 The Cook . 208 ‘ The old woman sighed and shook her head’ . 209 The Mitherless Bairn ... 216 The Shipman . 217 The Sick Goose . 224 The Farmer’s Parrot ... 225 The Doctor of Physic ... 240 The English Bulldog ... 241 The Wife of Bath . 249 The Rainy Day . 261 The brothers discovering that the canoe had gone 268 The Parson . 272 The Custom House . 277 The Megalosaurus and Igu- anodon . 285 The Ploughman . 288 The Tower of London ... 304 The Miller . 312 The Manciple . 321 The Dinotherium . 332 The Training Ship . 341 The Reve . 344 The Megatherium and the Mylodon . 349 The ascent of Snowdon ... 365 The Camel . 368 The Prisoner’s Daughter 373 The Boy in the Stream ... 376 The Summoner . 384 The Discerning Dog . 400 The Emperor produced the Bag of Gold . 404 The Pardoner . 408 ‘You’re the most impu¬ dent young monkey in the school, sir’ ...‘ ... 116 Windsor . 85 ‘ VTiat are you doing here ? ’ said the Rector 113 White Mice . 137 * Who’s there ? ’ . 300 Woolwich . 352 ‘ Who’s dat calling Sam ?’ 393

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Pat dressing up a Ghost.

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2 CHATTERBOX. No. 1. PEAS-BLOSSOM. * Good Master Peas-blossom, I shall desire You of more acquaintance.’ CHAPTER I. TPtANGEKS always remarked on the great likeness between Patrick and Philip Bright, or, as they were generally called, Pat and Paddy; and Mr. Bright would course, to the initials of their names. It was a matter of debate ^ ^ family as to whether this time- honoured -joke referred to the hkeness between the two letter P’s ’ or to the vegetable pro¬ duction * peas.’ Pat inclined to the tirst idea, Paddy to the last; and on one occasion Pat’s arguments were so forcible that they made a decided impression on Paddy, that is to say, on his outer man, for he dis¬ played a black-eye for several days afterwards. This should have settled the question once for all, but Hhe man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still; ’ and if Paddy had had as many eyes as a peacock, you might have blackened them all before you could have moved him to alter his obstinate young mind. Besides, he maintained that the black-eye was another point in his favour, for you always find a black patch on dried peas. It was only strangers who noticed the likeness, the other members of the Bright family declared that there was not the very faintest resemblance between them ; but Molly used to say that Pat was not the least like Paddy, but Paddy w^as just a wee little bit like Pat : for which very Irish remark she was teased and laughed at by the rest without mercy, till she appealed to father, who said he thought he could see what she meant, though it reminded him of the story of the negro who said, ‘ Caesar bery like Pompey, and Pompey bery like Caesar, ’specially Pompey.’ The girls used to say that Pat was more of every¬ thing than Paddy, and when they were pleased with him they would say that he was taller, older, stronger, cleverer, had bluer eyes, raoie curly hair, could run faster, jump higher, skate better, had more fun in him — was altogether, in one comprehensive word, jollier than Paddy. When, however, he had done anything to displease them — such, for example, as putting a frog into Molly’s bed, or fastening one of Nora’s plaits to the back of the chair with cobbler’s wax w’hen she was absorbed in a fairy tale, or dressing up a ghost on the dark landing to frighten Peter as he went up to bed — on these occasions they would say he was ruder, rougher, liorrider, tiresoraer, teasinger, and disagreeabler, than Paddy ; and nurse would add, ‘ More owdacious and mischevious.’ But, on the wdiole, the J3right family generally agreed that happine s could not be spelt without two p s, and that if ‘ P ’ stood for plague, it also quite as often stood for pleasure. Some of ray readers have already made the ac¬ quaintance of the two P’s and the rest of the Bright family ; but to those who have not, I must explain that there was no mother to be the head and centre of everything at Kelburn Lodge, to make happy days happier and dull days brighter, to dry away tears and charm away naughtiness, to listen, and comfort, and advise. She had died when little Peter was born; and Mr. Bright often thought sadly, when he joined in the prayer for fatherless children in the Litany, that the motherless children need pity and prayers quite as much. — It was only on Sundays that they had their father with them either, for he was in London aU the week, working hard in his office. Not long before this story begins he had had very heavy losses, and had been obliged to give up his comfortable London house, and much of the pleasant ease in wffiich they had lived hitherto, and take a cottage in the country for the children, while he had to devote himself, morning, noon, and night, to hard drudgery to earn their bread and butter, and to re¬ nounce all thought of the dignified ease and comfort that was formerly his hope for his advancing years. It was no small matter providing bread and butter for all those hungry mouths, as Honor could tell you, as she adds up the indistinct figures in the baker’s book and sighs over the total, which no adding up will make smaller. Honor is only sixteen, and, nurse says, will never be a good housekeeper if she lives to be sixty ; but she does her best, and no one can do better than that: and even that severe critic allows that she might do worse ; and father smiles on Saturday night at the neat account-books and anxious young face, and says that there never was such a manager as his little girl. I am afraid that, in spite of her best endeavours, Honor’s management would not be so successful if nurse were not behind the scenes, who had all the children in that warm Irish heart of hers, and would give the last drop of her life’s blood for them. She had loved, and scolded, and tyrannised over them in their prosperous days, and now, in their adversity, she loves them better than ever, and scolds them more, and tyrannises worse, and does all the work of the house in a masterly manner, which is the surprise and admiration of other households wffiere the ser¬ vants do their work with their hands and not with their hearts, and the mistress has not the little key of love among the other keys on her bunch. There is also a certain Aunt Bell behind the scenes, who is always ready to help and advise Honor in any difficulty which is beyond nurse’s powers. She had hved with them after their mother died till she mairied John Keith, just before they left London, before Mr. Bright’s troubles came to a climax. When the crash came, Mr. Keith offered a cottage belonging to him at Hinton, close to the Grove, where he and Aunt Bell lived, and Mr. Bright gladly availed himself of the offer, feeling it a great comfort to settle the children again under the kindly wing of Aunt BeU. Besides Honor there were Brian, Pat, Paddy, Molly, Nora, and Peter — seven all told. Brian was awav in Italy with Colonel Wilmott, acting as tutor to his little boy and studying art in a studio at Naples, having a great talent for drawing, hie was older than Honor, but all the others were younger, and Peter, the youngest, was only six. Pat and Paddy w'ent every morning into Mudford to the Grammar School there, and were not back till

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No. L CHATTERBOX. five ill the evening, except on Saturdays, v^hich were half-holidays. It was a good thing for Honor that the boys were so much away during the 'vveek, for she might have found it hard work to keep anything like order with¬ out father or Brian to hold the unruly spirits in check; and she wa.s inclined to dread holiday-time, which not only kept the hoys at home every day and all day, but entirely upset Molly, Nora, and Peter, who at other times were not hard to manage. John Keith was a great comfort at the;'e times, and Honor hailed the sound of his whistle outside, or the sight of his cheery face at the window, as a godsend when the home waters were getting troubled, and her hand seemed too weak to guide the unruly bark. John Keith would take off the boys to cricket- matches, or fishing, or boating, or rabbit-shooting, or to a meet of the fox-hounds. He always seemed to have something delightful to propose which pleased the boys and kept them out of mischief, and aid not seem to bother himself at all. The term ‘ boys ^ in holiday time was always understood to include Molly, and Nora, and Peter; and it was a great relief to the anxious little head of the household to see the whole crew, always including Don and half-a-dozen dogs of Mr. Keith’s, set off on one of those expeditions, with a vast deal of noise and laughter and running back to fetch forgotten sticks or whips, and shouting back messages when they were far out of hearing. ' It’s very good of you, you know ! ’ Plonor would say to John Keith, in her odd, awkward way; ^but I wish you wouldn’t bother yourself with them. I don’t see why you should be plagued, and they do well enough at home.’ Which sounds ungracious if you cannot see Honor’s wistful little face, and her great, speaking, grateful eyes. ^ Very good fiddlesticks!’ John Keith would an- sw’^er, with his jolly laugh. ^ It’s very good of the boys to undertake to row me down to Mudford on this broiling day ; and they have promised not to upset the boat if it can possibly be avoided. All right. Honor Bright. Don’t you worry that wl.se little head, but be off to Aunt Bell and make hay while the sun shines, and no one can say it don’t shine to¬ day. Here, Molly, hold the umbreila over me! quick! I’m fainting ! ’ (To be continued.) THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. I.— FEOM SOUKCE TO OXFOKD. * O happy Thames ! that didst my Stella bear, I saw thee, with full many a swelling line Upon thy cheerful face, Joy’s livery wear ; While those fair planets on thy stream did shine,’ The boat for joy could not to dance forbear. WITHIN two miles of Cirencester, in Gloucester¬ shire, is to be found the source of the Thames, a clear fountain in a little rocky dell, known by the name of Thames Head That is a pretty idea which likens the Thames from its source to its mouth to a human life. The prattling spring-head is childhood; Oxford represents education and self-control ; Windsor suggests the gaiety and biilliancy of youth, while London implies the hard work and success of life, which thence, like the Thames, flows on and on until it is lost in the eternity of living waters which surround the world. At Thames Ilead they teU of a stupid fellow who once put his right hand across the first trick¬ ling water of the Thames, and then said, ^I have stopped the Thames: what will they say in London .P’ lie was one who never floated down the stream of life with an Oxford, a Windsor, and a London for halting-places. For very many miles from its source the Thames is not suited to continuous boating. Of course here and there may be found a stretch of deepisli water, but frequently the great river is not many inches in depth. Indeed, until the building of Ingleshara Weir, which is fifteen miles from Thames Head and one hundred and fifty-two miles from London Bridge, the river w'^ould frequently in summer become a mere rivulet. Ingle- sham Weir has no lock, and practically bars the river about a mile above Inglesham Round House, where the navigation of the Thames may be said to end. Here barges and other shipping are turned westward, and towed into the Thames and Severn Canal. By this canal the Thames is put into water-communication with the West of England and the Midland Counties. In the reign of George III. the Thames was divided into six districts, which are still good in law. Certain gentlemen, living near the river, are appointed in each district to see that the river is not ill-used, and that those who sail or row on it shall behave themselves. The Thames is not the longest river in Great Britain and Ireland, but it is, of course, the most im¬ portant. The Humber is the longest, the Severn the second ; the Shannon is the longest river in Ireland, and the third in length amongst the British Isles — and then follows the great stream w^hich w^e are now rapidly to descend. Eight miles from the Round House we come to Radcot Bridge, where the great Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby, afterwards Henry IV. of England, gained a battle over the soldiers of his cousin, Richard H. Twenty-four miles farther Ark Island is reached, and here those who are coming down the stream generally sleep for the night, and at the Bablock- hithe ferry-house, which is about a dozen miles from Oxford. A few miles nearer the great city of learning Ensham Bridge is passed. Here there is a very singular old custom still in existence. The church bell is briskly tolled every morning at four, winter and summer. The parishioners suppose that the bell is intended to call labourers to work — as it actually does in the fair summer weather. But the custom is probably the continuance of the old matin, or early morning prayer-bell, and which must have been rung when the church was an abbey. A good ^ pull ’ from Ensham, and the*' towers of Oxford are to be seen in the distance. As we pull under the bridge at Oxford we may see on the right side of the river, and opposite Christ¬ church meads, the almshouses, whiem stand upon the ground where the first houses of this land were built in all England. (To he continued.)

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Castle Goblin.

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6 CHATTERBOX. No. L THE CASTLE GOBLIN. A TALE OF THE HARZ- WALD. By Frances H. Wood, Author of ‘ Number Eleven,’ &c. &c, CHAPTER I. — GOBLIN CASTLE. T was Chnstmas-tiJe, and the snow hung like a white fringe on the great firs in the Harz forest, and had spread a white carpet in e very- glad e, and over the sheet of ice which covered the moat surround¬ ing a grim old castle whicli stood in one of the darkest, gloomiest parts of the ITarz Wald. As closely as possible to the edge of this moat were huge forest trees, so that in the summer time the sun could only shine on the upper windows of the grey old building, and there was little enough chance of any of his rays reaching through the narrow loopholes into the great dark-vaulted rooms within. It would be difficult to picture anything more dismal than the building ; and it was little wonder that it was thought throughout the country to be haunted, and was known far and near as ‘ Goblin Castle.’ Very strange tales were told in whispers over the cottage fires of the little Giill-men,’ who appeared at times and played wild pranks on the dwellers in the district ; but the tales always wound up with saying that it was only in the days of the wicked Baron John that these fairy folk had appeared, and that since Ulric the Ggod, and his beloved wife, Gertrude, had ruled over the estate, nothing had been seen of them ; and that tricks had entirely ceased, much to the relief of every one, since whatever these elves might be, they always brought evil, and not good, to the house, and were brownies, rather than good fairies. Let u8 look into the most cheerful room in Goblin Castle on the New-year’s Bay, when our story begins. Tapestry hangings on the wall, and em¬ broidered chairs, which said much for the industry of the ladies of the castle, made this room more habit¬ able than any other ; the light also came in through a large latticed window looking out upon the court¬ yard, and a bright wood-fire blazed upon the wide- open hearth. Close to this fire two people sat — one an old lady, with hair as white as snow, was spinning, whilst the other, a young and pretty woman, was doing some delicate tapestry work in a large frame. On the darker side of the room three children were playing with a most unusual visitor, a sun-beam, which had taken advantage of the bare branches of the trees to creep through the loophole, and was now flickering on the head of the youngest of the party, a tiny dot of two years of age ; the elder children sh licked with delight as they tried to catch the quivering light as it glittered in the tiny curls. Unhappity, it was a short-lived pleasure ; the sun had very soon travelled further along the wall, and the children, having lost their pretty playmate, wished some fresh amusement. Herman, the eldest, a boy of six, ran up to his grandmother, and asked eagerly, — * Grandmother, is it true that there are elves in the castle ?’ ^ Not now, my child ; but when your father was a child he heard and saw much of their tricks.’ ‘ Nay, mother,’ said the younger Baroness, in an under-tone, ^ will it not frighten the children to hear of the goblins ? ’ ^ Surely not, if they are good and well-behaved, for the sprites hurt none but those who are naughty.’ * Was grandfather naughty, then ? ’ said Herman. ‘ Hush !’ said his mother, holding up her finger. The grandmother busied herself in arranging the logs of wood on the hearth. ^ What were the elves like ? ’ said Herman, eager y. ^ Lilve hill-folk. They wore dresses just like the miners at the Harz, with caps, and coats, and b’ eeches just like them, only they were far smaller; and when you had seen them one minute, and went to look for them again, behold they were gone. But many was the ill trick they served your grandfather.’ ‘ What sort of tricks, grandmother ? ’ * They would drink the castle well dry in a single night, and take the armour from the wails, and turn the pictures round ; nay, I can remember one day how I was in the great hall, and I met one of the elves myself. I was so terrified that I turned to run away, but a voice said, ‘‘Fear not, good Frau, but tell your husband that if he mend not his way, and if he cease not to oppress the poor, it will be the worse for him.” And with that, when I looked round to say that my lord did not oppress the poor, the hall was empty, and none was there but myself : but it was that same year that your grandfather died.’ Herman looked grave. ‘ I will be a good lord, like my father, when I am grown up,’ he said. ‘ Better be good now,’ said his mother, ‘ and then there wiU be no need to fear either elf or goblin, for neither can do you hurt. I would my lord were at home,’ she said, turning to her mother-in-law ; ‘ it grows dusk, and the Barons of Ur Wald and Bunkel Widd are not over-friendly with him, and I fear me we shall have more snow.’ ‘ You are nervous, my child,’ said the old lady, calmly turning her Avheel ; ‘ there is no cause for fear : it is but the dusk creeping through the castle which miikes you think it late. Ulric can scjircely be here ti 1 it is dark, for it is far to come through the forest.’ ‘ It is the forest that I fear, for it is there that most of your race have met their deaths,’ said Gertrude ; ‘ and even though I have lived here for seven years, I am not used yet to its gloomy, changeful shadows.’ ‘ Nay, but mother,’ said little Hermin, looking up, ‘ are you naughty, then ? ’ ‘ Why should I be naughty ? ’ said his mother. ‘ You said we did not need to fear anything unless we were naughty,’ answered Herman. Mother and grandmother looked at each other, and smiled; but before they could answer the child’s question there was a sound of horses’ hoofs crossing the drawbridge, and Gertrude hastened into the hall, and was just in time to welcome the Baron as he dismounted from his horse in the court-yard. She saw at once that he looked grave and uneasy. ‘ What is it, my lord ?’ she asked. ‘ Y^ou have no good tidings ? ’

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No. 1. CHATTERBOX. 7 1 Her husband drew her back to the room where they had been sitting with the children. ^ I fear me the Barons intend me some mischief ; they were all against me when I spoke of swearing allegiance to the King, and all declared that nothing would ever make them take such a step. They cannot see that, though they call themselves Free Barons, they are indeed nothing but robbers, who live upon the spoils of their weaker neighbours. These are evil days to live in, for each thinks only of his fcwn gain.’ ' And they were angered with thee for not agreeing with them P’ said his mother. * Ah ! my son, beware lest they slay thee as they slew thy father.’ ^ There is but one whom I deem evil enough for that,’ said Ulric, ^ and that is Baron Albrecht of Grafsberg. lie has long coveted this castle, yet I scarce think he would take such means to secure it.’ * Beware of him, m}’- son !’ said the old lady ; ^ he comes of an evil stock, in whom is neither truth nor mercy.’ ^ I can but go my own way, and do that which is right ; whilst I do that, nought can hurt me,’ said the Baron, quietly. ' My people love me ; they are true and faithful, and that is my best defence.’ Itw^as indeed a sad time in the history of Germany, for many amongst the Barons reckoned themselves free from all obedience to the laws of the land or to the King. In their mountain or forest fortresses they Jived like so many robber chiefs, and pillaged the merchants or pilgrims wdio passed through their lands, oppressed their people, and lived heathen or godless lives whilst calling themselves Christians. An attempt was being made to restore some degree of order to the land, but so far all efforts had been in vain. (7b he continued.) GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. ^EOFFBEY CHAUCER was one of England’s most celebrated poets. He lived 500 years ago, when the clothes and customs of English people w'ere very unlike what they are now ; but as the minds and hearts of men are the same in all ages, we can easily understand the characters of the people wEom Chaucer describes. He evidently drew them from those that he met in daily life, and took his scenes from the sights and habits with wiiich he w'as surrounded. The book by wiiich he is best known is called T/ie Canterhury Tales. In this he describes how he met thirty people at the Tabard Inn in Southwark, and went with them on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Thomas a Beckett in Canterbury Cathedral. They spent an evening at the inn arranging their plans for the journey, and, at the landlord’s suggestion, agreed that each pilgrim should tell twm tales on the road, in order to while awTiy the time and amuse the rest of the travellers; one story to be told in going, and the other in returning from the Kentish city. In these days, when w^e travel by express trains, and every station offers a stall full of books and new'S- papers for one’s amusement, it is difficult to imagine how Chaucer and his companions could find time to perform their pilgi image in such a leisurely fashion. Of course they rode on hor.ses instead of being whirled along by steam-engines, and their nags did not even trot and gallop as ours do now, but moved at an even ambling pace which did not jolt the rider or prevent him from talking. Chaucer died before he had finished writing all the stories that he intended the pilgrims to relate, but in his Introduction to the Tales he describes each of the pilgrims separately, and w^e hope to give a portrait and short account of each of them in turn ; but first w^e must learn a little more about the poet himself. Chaucer was born about 1320, was educated at Oxford, Cambridge, and Paris, and wrote his first book when only eighteen years old. Up to his time nearly all poetry w'as w’ritten in Norman-French, and all prose books in Latin, but he ventured to break through these rules of literature and wrote his f)oems in English as it w^as then spoken. The anguage has altered a great deal since his time, and it is difficult to understand many of his words; but his books are very valuable as specimens of the old English tongue, and the name of ^ The Father of English Poetry’ has been given to him because he w^as the first to wuite in his native language. Book-wTiting was not the only occupation that filled up Chaucer’s time ; he fought as a soldier under the flag of Edw’ard III. against the French, and w'as sent by tfie King on diplomatic service to several places on the Continent. John of Gaunt, the king’s son, made a great favourite of him, and had him tc live in luxury at Court; but wdien Richard H. came to the throne Chaucer fell into disfavour, and had to fly from England. As soon as he ventured back again he w'as seized and imprisoned in the Towner, but about nine years before his death he was released; and then, no doubt glad to escape from the ups and downs of public life, he retired into the countiy, and lived very quietly, w'riting his Canterbury Tales. He died rather suddenly in London, wdiere he had gone for a short visit on business, and w^as buried in the Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey, a.d. 1400. Chaucer w^as never ^ Poet Laureate’ in spite of his being .«uch a great w'riter, because he lived long before the office was created in England. The first Ijaureate we hear of w^as sixty years after Chaucer’s time, and it w'as not till 23>0 years after, in the reign of Charles H. that a patent was granted really establishing the post, and its salary fixed at ^ 100/. per annum and a tierce of canary wane.’ The duties of a Poet Laureate are to write on what¬ ever great events befall his nation or the family of his sovereign. Mr. Alfred Tennyson holds the office now, and two of the latest and most beautiful poems he has written are on the ‘Relief of Lucknow,’ and the ‘Death of the Princess Alice.’ One of Chaucer’s books was about J ohn of Gaunt’s marriage, and another on the death of John’s wife, Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster. No doubt the poet was rewarded in some fashion for the compliments he thus paid to the royal family, but w’e do not know what sort of payment he received. {To he continued.)

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Geoffrey Chaucer.

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10 CHATTERBOX. No. II. GEOFFREY CHATTCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Continued from page 7 .) THE HOST OF THE ‘ TABAED.’ * Now, Lordings, trewly ^ welcome right hertily.* \l]E hest of the ^Tahard’ inn J^/)^ was Harry Bailly, a big man, Y y\; with laughing eyes and smil- iiig mouth, wlio so thoroughly undorstood his business that fi he managed to please his guests ^ and to pay himself well at the iV J /I rtlp same time. \ delighted to see the r twenty -nine pilgrims arrive, ^ for it was not often that so many people came on one day, and he forthwith set himself to work to make them comfortable, and to secure that they should stop again at the * Tabard ’ when they returned from Canterbury. He supplied them with a supper of excellent food and wine, then *maad’ their ‘rekenynges’ or bills, and when these were paid he began to devise a plan for their amusement on the journey next day. He suggested that each pilgrim should tell two tales for the ^ merthe ’ of the re.st, which would ^coste nought,’ and be far better than riding in silence as ^ domb as stoons.’ If they agreed to this he pro¬ mised to join the pilgrimage and show them the way to Canterbury. Then, as they came back, all were to stop again at the ‘ Tabard,’ and he who had told the best tale should have a good supper given to him at the cost of the otliers. The pilgrims readily promised to carry out their host’s plan, though they can scarcely’ have failed to see how greatly it was to his own advantage. Earl}^ next morning he roused them from sleep, and when all had mounted their horses he led the way out of London, riding at a slow trot until they reached Saint Thomas’ Ford, which is said to have been where the second milestone on the old Canterbury road now stands. At the foid they halted, and drew lots to see who should tell the first tale. The lot fell to the Knight, and he forthwith began his story. The ^Tabard’ inn really existed in Southwark in Chaucer’s days; but in 1676 the sign was changed to the ^ Talbot,’ and an inscription was set up, saying, — ^ This is the inne where Sir Jeffry Chaucer and the nine-and-twenty pilgrims lay in their journey to Can¬ terbury, anno 1386.’ A tabard was a sleeveless coat, worn long ago by noblemen in war time. The only men who wear it now are the heralds of the College of Arms in London. (To he continued.) THE CASTLE GOBLIN. A (Continued from page 7 .) CHAPTER II. — THE GOBLIN. IX months have passed since the new’'-year tide, wdien Baron Ulric returned from his interview wdth . the neighbouring Barons, and Tr summer now reigns over the Harz Wald. Yet in the midst of all heantv there is a wild irloom J in the deep-tangled paths, and strange shadows flit across the mossy glades. In the castle there is great sorrow^, for the old grand- i mother has been taken from the home on earth to her last resting- place, and sorely both Ulric and ^ his wife miss her; whilst the children cannot understand her absence, and ask constantly when she wnll return. Little Herman w’^as playing on this warm June day by the castle w^ell ; he cared but little that it was said to be the favourite haunt of the fairy folk — had not his mother told him that good children need not fear? In fact, so accustomed were the children to the strange legends of the castle, that the sights and sounds which even now wTre sometimess seen and heard did not alarm them at all; and when the servants started and ran away as some rusty old piece of armour rattled without any warning, or the tapestry weaved without any apparent cause, Herman would stand his ground, full of childish curiosity to know wFat was going to happen. Old Hans, the swdneherd, saw the child standing near the w^ell, and coming up bade him go into the house. ^ It is Midsummer Day,’ he said, ‘ when the pow'er of the fairy folk is at its height, and if you seek their haunts, w^ho knows but wdiat they may carry you away, and make you serve in their mines ? ’ But Herman only laughed, and repeated his mother’s words, that good children need not fear; adding that she had told him only that day that he was good, so he must be safe. ^ Besides, Hans, I have often played here before, yet I never saw the fairy folk, much as I wish to see them.’ Hans shook his head at the child’s daring; but he would not stay to argue, for his swine were in the forest, under the charge of a small lad, and he must go to see that they were safe and to help to drive them home, as it was getting late in the afternoon : therefore, once more advising Herman to leave the haunted well, he hurried about his work, for though he was old and decrepit, and the lad in charge of the pigs was quite able to take care of them, Hans would have broken his heart had he known that he was of no use, and the Baron and Baroness indulged his innocent delusion. Herman remained some time longer, amusing him¬ self by building a kind of tower with some stones which had come from the well, which from disuse had fallen out of repair. At length, tired with the heat, he fell asleep, and as he slept he dreamt. He thought he was in the forest, at a point where there was a small brook of water, and tliat suddenly this brook began bubbling up until it came to his feet. GARDEN- RHUBARB. rpiIIS now common fruit was first introduced JL amongst us only some sixty years ago. The gardener who first cultivated it began by sending five bundles to the Borough Market one morning. Only three of these were sold, whilst now tons of it are in every market in the kingdom, A. li. B.

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No. 11. CHATTEKBOX. 11 He sprang up to run away, and as he started up he woke. But, to his surprise, his dream was partly true, for he heard a strange sort of gurgling sound in the well; he sprang up to see w^hat it was, and found that the water seemed sinking so rapidiy that he could almost measure its decrease. He must have been sleeping some time, for the sun was getting low, and the shadows of the trees were unusually heavy and deep. An unwonted fear seized upon the boy, as he remembered that it was as old Hans had told him. Midsummer Hay. All the queer traditions of the castle came into his mind ; he turned hastily to run into the house, but had only gone a few steps when a voice behind him cried, — 'Stay!’ He looked back ; there, to his surprise, not to say fear, stood a tiny figure about his own height, near the well, and as he stopped, half in curiosity half in fright, he saw that the dress of the small creature was exactly like the description he had had of the goblin. The elf cried, — ' Bid thy father that he draw up the bridge at once, and admit none into the castle on any pretence, or there is one who says it will be the worse for him.’ ' Who art thou ? ’ said Herman, standing his ground bravely. At the same moment he heard his mother’s voice calling him ; he turned to answer her, and pointed towards the haunted well, but when he looked back at the spot where the little man had stood he was nowhere to be seen. Quite startled, he hastened to his mother with the tale, but she only laughed. ' It was a dream, my boy,’ she said. Still she allowed him to lead her to the well, and saw that one part at least of the dream was true ; for the water of the well, generally at the surface, was so low that it looked liked a faintly sparkling star. The Baroness gazed round her in surprise, and at the same moment Herman cried out, ' There he is, mother I there’s the little man 1’ and she saw a small misshapen figure in miners’ clothes waving his hand warningly at her from behind one of the pillars of the crypt or cellar w'here the well stood, for it is better to explain that it was beneath the castle, and opened on to the moat, which separated it from the forest round. The Baroness was so alarmed, that, without waiting a moment, she seized Herman by the hand, and hastened to the upper part of the castle, where she sought her lord and told him the adventure. Ulric laughed, and would have treated the whole as imagina¬ tion, but the children’s nurse, an aged woman who had been many years in the family, and who unper- csived had heard the Baroness’s tale, came forward, and Avith the familiarity sprinoing from long years of faithful service addressed the Baron. ' My master, as a child I remember once to have heard this saying, — “ Let the Lord Ulric mind the rede Of the mine elves, or sore his need.” And what can that mean but that this warning was to come to you, and that you must obey it if you would escape trouble ?’ Ulric laughed again. He held such foolish fears to be only fit for women : still, at the sight of his wife’s alarm, he so far yielded as to promise that as soon as Hans and his assistant brought in the swine the drawbridge should be raised; and old Ursel, finding that her petition that Hans might be left to fend for himself was not noticed, went up to look through the slit holes for the first appearance of the old man and his squealing charge. She saAV something very different to what she expected. Out of the forest shade to the strip of green sward near the moat drew a number of large wains or vans, whilst a group of burly-looking men, in the peaceful garb of burghers of some towns, Avere grouped about, as if doubtful Avhat to do. As Ursel hastened doAvn to tell what she hr.d seen, a horn Avas heard outside, and the Baron Avent forth to inquire who the strangers were who stood at his gate so late in the day, for Goblin Castle Avas out of the regular road, and but few travellers cared to pierce through the dusky forest and seek its hospitality. The foremost of the Avorthy citizens, a venerable- looking man Avith a flowing Avhite beard, told the tale of himself and his companions, how at the entrance to the Harz they had been met Avith fearful accounts of the laAvless deeds of the Free Barons, and had heard of the goodness of Ulric ; hoAv, toAvards sunset, they had found that in some Avay they had missed their road, and one of their troop having said that he knew they Avere not far from the Goblin Castle, they had, notwithstanding the strange legends of the sur¬ rounding forest and the gloomy valley, determined to risk spirits rather than men, and to seek a night’s shelter Avithin its Avails. 'Which you shall haA^e,’ said the good Baron. ' Moreover, if you have indeed courage to face the goblins of this place and fear them not, you may be of use to me, for the elf Avho haunts the castle Avell has been seen by some of my folk this evening, and bade me raise the draAvbridge, warning me of danger. Should such danger come your train Avill be of service, for many of my folloAvers have but just departed to help the king to restore order, and we have but three left to guard the castle.’ The merchants had looked askance at one another on hearing of the goblin, and some of the men seemed as if they dreaded* to go Avitbin the elf-haunted Avails, but the old burgher promised that he and his Avould do all in their power to help the Baron to defend the castle. ‘ And indeed in these troublous times,’ he said, ' I marvel that you are not more guarded ; it would have been safer to have had the draAvbridge up all day than to keep it down so late : and I must ask, that since our Avains are full of costly silks and valuable Avines, they may be placed Avithin the castle courtyard, lest they should be robbed at night.’ Baron Ulric agreed, and the ponderous Avaggons assed over the creaking bridge and Avere safely oused in the courtyard. When this was done, the bridge Avas raised and all communication Avith the forest cut off. ' I Avould,’ said one of the merchants as he stood watching the cumbersome machinery for raising the. bridge at Avork, ' that we had not heard of these goblins, for I misdoubt these elves, and would rather sleep in the forest, yea, oven near the Free Barons, than in a haunted house.’

Page 18

Herman cried, “ There he is, mother! ” But no one heard him, for he spoke to himself, and the men were too busy with the bridge. One of them held a torch, for it was already dark within the castle ; the light fell full on the merchant’s face, which looked white and fuU of fear. He had barely finished his speech to himself when a wild shrill laugh at hand startled him ; at the same moment came a strange cry echoing through the great vaulted hall, ^ Too late ! too iate ! ’ The burgher caught sight of a small, uncouth figure, flitting through the darkest part of the hall. He hurried forward to see what it was, hut his feet slipped from under him, and he fell down two or three steps at the entrance of the crypt where the liaimted well was. By the time he had recovered his feet the gliding figure had vanished. {To be continued.)

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Tommy Green. TOMMY GREEN. SYE had a wash — they’ve cut my hair — I feel so rare and clean ! They’ll hardly know me in the street For little Tommy Green. ^You’ll make your fortune now, my friend,’ I heard the barker say ; ^ A lad with such a clear cool head Can always make his way.’ I wonder now, would Mr. Smith Just let me sweep the floor, Carry his parcels, mind the shop P At first I’d not ask more.

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14 CHATTERBOX. No. 11. But by-and-by I’d grow so rich I’d have a shop, and lean Against the door in smooth black clothes, And be called Mister Green. Or, stay ! I'll be a drummer boy ; It’s stupid keeping shop ! I’ll beat the drums and hear the guns Bang off with such a pop. And then, in battle I’ll be brave, And rush upon the foe : I’d get to be a general. Oh, very soon, I know ! Or p’raps the\ ’d take me at the inn. Now that I’m trim and neat. To carry corn and hay, and lead The horses up the street. AVlien I grew big I’d be a guard, And blow my horn so loud ; Or, fine fat coachman, crack my whip Above the staring crowd. Or I could be a sailor-boy And cry out, ^ Yo, heave, oh ! ’ And climb the masts, and furl the sails. And man the boats, and row. There’s many a cabin-boy. I’ve heard. Has turned out quite a swell. And come to be an admiral : Why shouldn’t I as well ? Oil, here’s the school — the master, too ! I’ll ask what he’d advise ; He gave me twopence to get snipped. He’s kind as well as wise. What is it. Green ? A real great man Some day you wish to be ? Come in then sharp, my little lad. And learn your A, B, C. H. A. F. PEAS-BLOSSOM. (Continued from y age 3.) CHAPTER II. , UT the sun did not shine much during the few first weeks at Kelburii Lodge, for it was at Michaelraiis that the Brights came there. Hap¬ pily, holida3^s do not last for ever, and when term had once begun life at Kelburn Lodge became less tur¬ bulent; Honor could wield her rod of office with more composure; Molly and Nora returned to civilised habits, dolls, and bead-work, beguiling Peter with them in spite of his superior sex and the manly contempt he snowed towards such things when Pat and Paddy were present; and those two heroes went off with a rush at eight o’clock in the morning, and did not return till after five o’clock in the evening. For Mudford was five miles from Kelburn Lodge, that is to say, along the turnpike-road, though by going across country you can save nearly half-a-mile at severe expense to your clothes. I need not say, that for the first week or so Pat and Paddy always went to school as the crow flies, which happy bird has no elbows to its jacket or knees to its trowsers, and sails serenely over brambles and quickset ; but at the end of that time Mr. Bright forbade any more short¬ cuts to school, and enjoined that Mudford should be reached every day by the high road : for nurse, with speechless indignation, brought some much-dilapidated garments to be inspected ; and Honor, though doing her best to screen the delinquents, was bound to confess that a certain Latin grammar had been reduced to its present bloated, pulpy appearance, by having been d opped into the river one morning on the way to school, and there not being time to fish it out, had lain soaking there for the instruction of little roach with a thirst for learning, till the boys had rescued it on their way home. But when it further transpired that the boys had swum across the river one morning when they found that part of the old foot-bridge had been carried away by a flood, and had gone on to school in their wet clothes, and had sat in them aU day — ^ as was enough,’ as nurse said, ^ to give one the rheumatics even to thinlr of ’ — Mr. Bright pronounced sentence against the short-cut without any recom¬ mendation to mercy, and all the more forcibly for a violent fit of coughing from Paddy, which he had tried to restrain till he was nearly black in the face, and which burst out all the louder for his efforts at repression ; for father and nurse, and Honor, too, had had a terror of coughs ever since the doctor had declared Brian’s lungs delicate, and had urged his going to a warmer chmate for the winter ; and though no one could have suspected Paddy of anything amiss with his lungs, that unlucky cough of his was a powerful argument against the field way to Mudford. There were, however, advantages even on the turn¬ pike-road, and it was not often that the boys walked the whole five miles without getting a lift for, at any rate, part of the way; and as they were not par¬ ticular in their choice of carriage they were easily suited, and sometimes entered Mudford in John Keith’s high dog-cart, behind his thoroughbred ‘Blink- bonnie,’ or in Miss Vincent’s little basket-work pony- carriage, driving her pink-eyed, lazy pony, with white reins ; or clinging on to the break in which Sir J ohn Gale’s coachffian was exercising two hvely carriage horses, which seemed to prefer going entirely on their hind feet, or backwards; or in one of Faimer Blossom’s great yellow waggons, with a team of fat horses, with bells jingling on their heads; or in Widow Wicks’ donkey -cart, with free leave Ho wallop the critter ’ as much as they pleased ; or, best of all, on a road-engine, getting very black in the face and liands during the journey. On Friday, being Mudford market-day, they were sure of a lift in some of the farmers’ gigs and carts; and eveiy morning, if they were in good time, Webb’s milk-cart would pick them up at the corner, and take them all the way into Mudford.

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No. II. CHATTERBOX. 15 Mudford Grammar School stands close to the old parish church ; so close that the great hells shake the dormitories with their vibrations, and wake little new¬ comers to remember, with a shudder, how near the churchyard with its old tombs and grassy mounds lies. The school-house, wdiere the master, Mr. Kadley, lives, is in front, facing the church, and is a long, low, red-brick building, thickly covered in parts with ivy and Virginia creeper. It is built on a low^r level than the church, for Mudford is on the side of a steep hill, and the churcb is nearly at the top ; and so if you want to reach Mr. Radley’s front door you have to go down several steps from the churchyard and a steep bit of garden, down which the water rushes in a cataract on wet days. But this is not the ^vay that Pat or Paddy or any of the day-boys go, for the large schoolroom out behind has an entrance from Paul Street, and only the boarders are free to come in by the churchyard. Mudford School was not a very first-class school by any means, and before Mr. Radley’s time it had reached a very low ebb ; but the present master was a clever, pushing man, and a good scholar, and under his management the school rapidly improved, the numbers largely increased, especially the boarders, and a higher class of boys attended. So Mr. Bright was content to place Pat and Paddy there ; and though the boys growled and grumbled, and made fun of it all at first, they soon shook down into their right places ; which, as far as Pat was concerned, seemed to be in the thick of all the mischief, from which happy situation Paddy also was never far distant. There was something about Pat Bright that marked him out, even at first sight, as a ringleader — a certain twinkle in the corner of his eye, and a way he held his head, and an odd little cock of his nose, as if he could smell a bit of fun a hundred miles off. Nurse used to say, wdth half-aggravated pride, * He don’t w'ant no label to mark him Pickle,” Master Pat don’t!’ So when he made his first appearance at Mudford School, though he came primed with good resolutions, having had a severe lesson not long before at Saltgate, and repeated exhortations from father and Aunt Bell, there w^as quite a stir among the boys, and quite an excitement to know which party they would join, as the new boys would evidently not be weak fellows either as friends or foes ; for even in the small w^orld of Mudford School party-spirit ran high. So at dinner-time that first day all the boarders, and a good party of the day-boys, gathered round the Brights, and one of the biggest boys inquired, — ^ Hullo, you chaps ! are you Pies or Larks ? ’ Paddy stared ; but Pat, supposing this was some obscure joke on their names, from which he had suffered much at King’s College, at once responded by turning up his sleeves and inviting his questioner to ^ Come on ! ’ ^ ^ ^ Now then, young Bantam !’ said another, there’s nothing to fight about : we want to know which side you’re going to take ? ’ ^ ^ ^ * Under which king, Bezonian ? Speak, or die 1 ’ quoted another. ^ Oh, bother it all !’ said Pat, still rather red in the face. * I don’t know what you chaps are driving at with your pies and puddings.’ ^ A shout of laughter from the day-boys received this remark ; but just then the dinner-bell rang and the other day-boys ran off, while Pat and Paddy, who lived too far off to go home to dinner, followed the others into the dining-room, where their minds were enlightened on the important subject of Pies and Larks. Twelve boys of Mudford were entitled to be educated at the Grammar School at a merely nominal charge, and these w'ere most, of them sons of small tradesmen or the clerks at the factories. Even when the few boarders at the Gi ammar School had been farmers’ sous from the neighbourhood, little, if at all, superior in position to the day-boys, there had been a feud between boarders and day-boys ; but as the school improved, and the boarders became mostly gentlemen’s sons, the difference between them became more marked, and the animosity greater, till it had reached a high pitch at the time my story begins. The day-boys had been nicknamed ' Mud-larks,’ as a term of contempt drawn from the name of the towm and the little dirty river. Mud, that crawds along at the bottom of the hill; and they had retaliated by calling the boarders ^ Mud-pies;’ and these two names, after having been bandied about and treated on either side as direst insult, and avenged by many a fight in the corner of the play-ground, out of sight of Mr. Radley’s windows, were adopted by the parties them¬ selves, and treated as terms of distinction of wdiich they were very proud. Now Pat and Paddy being day-boys, of course, naturally belonged to the ^ Mud-Lirk ’ party, but as they were to dine at school they occupied a sort of doubtful position, and so "were free to cast in their lot with ei tiler side. Parties were pretty equally divided just then, as there w'ere twenty ^ Pies ’ and nineteen ^ Larks.’ If the * Pies ’ were superior in rank and manners, the ^ Larks had decidedly the advantage in brute force and intellect; for Joe Wilkinson, the cheese- factor’s son, a great, strong-built fellow, could have fought all the ^ Pies ’ with one hand, and beat them quite as easily at Greek and Euclid; which, as the * Pies’ said, ‘ will be no earthly good to a fellow wdio only wants to pick maggots out of cheese all his life.’ ^I say, you’d best throw up your caps for the Pies,’ said Millet, who was sitting next Pat; ^we have no end of fun, and those Larks are such shocking cads. Why, I’ve seen that great brute, Wilkinson, playing marbles in High Street with the baker’s boy ! '‘You don’t say so !’'said Pat. ' And who won Millet passed over this very irrelevant inquiry to dwell on the advantages enjoyed by the 'Pies;’ and his eloquence was such that, when the school assembled after dinner, Pat and Paddy declared them¬ selves ' Pie ’ to the backbone, much to the disappoint¬ ment of the 'Larks,’ who had reckoned on a reinforce¬ ment of their party. ' Christmas is coming soon,’ said W^ilkinson, ' and we’ll make mince-pie of you.’ 'Come and try, said Pat. {To be continued.) *

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The Boys swimming across the River.

Page 23

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18 CHATTERBOX. No. III. PEAS- blossom:. ♦ {Continued from page 15.) CHAPTER III. said Pat; ^I’m not particular as clothes ! ^ A grunt full of 11 0^1 meaning occurred here from nurse, -who had been called into consulta- ‘ enemy can’t accuse me of that.’ Here he examined his elbow, which was fraj^ed out, and gazed at a button w'ith a leaden rim showing round the edge. ‘But Sr I won’t mahe myself a figure of fun to please old Kadley. Talk of Pies I it’s more like guys!’ The family at Kelburn Lodge were gathered round the table, on which lay two new trencher-caps, such as w ere worn by the boys at Mudford School, with long, glossy silk tassels, which Molly stroked gently from time to time. * I don’t see w^hy you should object,’ said Honor. ‘ The men at Oxford and Cambrige always wear them.’ And she sighed, thinking how gladly Brian would have worn the cap and gown. ‘ I dare say,’ went on Pat; ‘ and so do those cads at the Commercial School that we used to have such mills with up in Begent’s Park. If I’ve set one of these trenchers floating on the water up there, I’ve set a dozen ; and now in my old age I’m to be called upon to wear the thing myself 1 ’ ‘Mr. Yincent wears one on Sunday going to church,’ said Molly, wdio was impressed with the effect of learning and scholarship conveyed by the sha^ corners and silky tassel. ‘ Oh, yes ! and a chestnut wdg to keep his sermon from coming out in steam from the tofJf of his bald head, which I don’t require.’ ‘ It’s not so bad as a Bluecoat boy,’ said Nora. * Well, upon my word,’ said Pat, ‘ I think I’d as soon clap on a pair of yellow stoq^ngs and take to petticoats at once ! ’ ‘ It’s no use maldng a fuss about it,’ remarked Honor, rather rashly ; ‘ you’ll have to wear it, so you must make the best of it.’ ‘ And your old one isn’t fit for a scarecrow,’ added nurse. ‘ Not since - Now, Master Pat, adone 1 ’ For one of the trencher-caps had suddenly found its way on to her own head, on the top of her ciisp muslin cap and blue ribbons. ' I never did see such an owdacious - ’ And here nurse retired, flustered and rufiled in cap and temper, to her own domain, the kitchen, while Molly and Nora tried on the caps, and went up to see the effect in the looking-glass in their bedroom, and came to the conclusion that with these valuable stage properties they might very w^ell get up the trial scene in the Merchant of Venice^ with Molly for Portia and Nora for Nerissa; for wdiat could be more appropriate for the costume of a doctor of law in old Venice than these same trencher-caps ? Meanwhile Honor, very unwisely, was tr}dng to bring Pat to reason, w'hich was something like trying to drive a pig over a plapk, which Honor might have known by experience is only to be done by pulfing the pig violently by the tail in the opposite dir^tion. She ought also to have been suspicious of Pat’s sub¬ missive way of listening to her remarks, though, in¬ deed, she did feel a little uneasy when he asked if she thought he might wear it to church on Sunday if he was a good boy, and w^hether he might have the family umbrella, called ‘ the camel,’ on account of two humps, to take to school, as it would be such a pity if the cap got injured by the rain. However, she thouglit no more of it till the next morning, not even w’’hen Pat looked in at the dining¬ room window and gave her a military salute with unfathomed mischief in it ; and it was only when breakfast was over and she was going up to visit Paddy, who was in bed nursing that cough of his, that slie saw that the two trenchers were still hanging side by side in the passage. ‘ Maybe he’ll have forgotten it,’ said nurse. But Honor shook her head, remembering the mili¬ tary salute. Neither was she to be deluded by Pat’s excuses and apologies when he came home in the evening. Next morning she was more on the alert; and when Pat leaped up from his breakfast, with his mouth full of bread and butter, exclaiming, ‘ Murther, if it’s not eight o’clock 1 ’ she said, in as dignified a manner as she could assume, — ‘ Don’t forget your cap, Pat.’ Pat put on the voice of extreme old age. ‘Me poor memory’s not w’hat it was, me dear: thanking ye kindly for reminding a poor old body.’ The next moment he put his head into the door again with an insinuating smile, — ‘ hlonor asthore ! may I just step up into your bedroom to see how my back hair sets under this arrangement ? ’ ‘ It s past eight, Pat.’ ‘All right! I’ll go into Mudford like greased lightning when once I’ve got under way. Why, bless you ! if there’s only a favourable wind, I’ll be blown in as easy as eggs with such a thundering great top¬ gallant jibboom on my head.’ ‘ You’U be late ! ’ ‘ It’s not my fault. Unaccustomed as I am to fancy dress, I might disgrace my family by appearing with this interesting object upside down or wrong side in front.’ ‘ Make haste, then.’ And Pat w’ent clattering upstairs, and they heard him moving about in the room overhead. ‘ Is he gone ? ’ Honor asked presently, hearing no noise above. ‘ I haven’t heard him come down,’ said Nora. ‘ I thought I heard the back-door shut just now,’ said Molly. ‘ Shall I run up and see if he’s there ’ Yes, Pat W’as gone sure enough ; and why he had gone so silently was only explained when nurse went up to make the beds, and throwing off the clothes found the trencher-cap in the middle of one of them, rather bent out of shape by the w'eight of the blankets. Paddy’s cold was still too bad to allow of his going out, and in return for being obliged to relinquish a fool^ball match between the Larks and the Pies, which came off that week, he made the most of the privileges allowed at home to any one with a cold —

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No. III. CHATTERBOX. 19 laid in bed to breakfast, sat in, the arm-chair by the lire, kept Molly and Nora always on the trot to fetch him things, and Peter on the verge of tears with his teasing, chose the pudding for dinner, made frizzly-jack for tea, had black-currant jam at dis¬ cretion, Aunt Bell to read to him, and treacle-posset after he was in bed at night, such as only nurse can make. So it was not proved what line he would have taken about the trenchers, for though his feelings on the subject did not seem to be so acute as Pat’s, stiU they generally pulled in the same boat. Every morning that week Honor and Pat had a skirmish over that unlucky trencher, which Molly and Nora nicknamed the hete noir, and Pat called much the same in English. One morning it was nowdiere to be found, and after prolonged search for it on the part of Molly and Nora, and pretended rage and despair on the part of Pat, he had to set off without it, and almost imme¬ diately afterwards it was found fastened to the back of Honor’s chair as she sat at the brealifast-table. Next day he started fair with his trencher on his head; but he left it on the scarecrow in the field opposite the house, where the butcher’s boy found it some hours later. Honor was altogether in despair, but nurse w^as fairly put on her mettle by this time, and was resolved that Pat should be outwitted. So next morning every hat or cap of Pat’s, Paddy’s, or Peter’s, was care¬ fully put away, except the trencher-cap, w^hich hung in solitary state od the pegs, leaving Pat no further choice in the matter of head-gear. ^ But,’ as nurse said, ‘ you must get up overnight to be beforehand with Master Pat.’ And it never occurred to her mind to remember that on the opposite side of the passage hung the girls’ garden hats. And if she had remembered it, how could she have imagined it to be possible that Pat w’ould have laid hands on Molly’s old sailor hat, hewed olf the long blue ribbons with his knife, and worn it into school and back, as nurse said, ^ as natural as anything, and as impudent as you please ! ’ (To he continued.) She was just turning to consult her faithful nurse, when the old merchant who had acted as spokes¬ man came forward, and, as if guessing her thoughts, said, ^Trouble not yourselves about our entertain¬ ment, lady ; we have ample store of provisions wdth us, since w^e never trust to the rough fare of the inns which we pass in our journeying. It is late in the day for you to have to cater for so many, but as soon as the waggons are safely stored some of our attendants will bring forth food and help you to spread the board. We could scarce do less, seeing that your lord has sent forth his men in de¬ fence of our cities and the burgher rights.’ The Baronec-s was inclined to resent the suggestion, but the last words soothed her ; besides, she could not imagine how she should otherwise manage. So as speedily as possible the burghers’ servants brought forth their stores, and supper w’as prepared. The portly merchants had certainly determined to fare well, and the simple retainers and maids of the Baron opened their eyes with surprise as pasties, and sau¬ sages, and brawn, and various dishes of confectionery, appeared from the wains, supported by an ample supply of Avine. It had been suggested by the old man that, for security’s sake, there should be warders posted on the battlements to give warning in case of any raid. ^ For,’ said he, ^ if the Free Barons should hear by chance of the riches we have brought with us here, it might tempt them to try to seize the castle.’ The Baron thought the advice sound, so the guard was set, the merchants bidding three of their atten¬ dants to assist in watching. This being done, the Avhole party sat dowm to what w^as indeed a feast, and soon the great hall echoed wdth song and jest, while the merchants urged every plea they could think of to persuade the Baron to join with them. There was almost as much feasting amongst those on guard, for the burghers had remarked that there w'as no need to keep up such strict discipline as if the place was in a state of siege, and portions of the meat and cans of the ale w^ere sent to the warders. At length the noise and jesting grew so loud and wdld, that the Baroness, who had honoured the table with her presence, thought it time to retire; she went up to the children’s room, where she found them all asleep ; and she w^trs sitting by their beds, gazing at them wdth a mother’s deep affection, Avhen the door opened and the old nurse, Avith a face full of dismay, came in. ^ Madame,’ she cried, ‘ my heart misdoubts me that these are no true merchants, for as I passed the turning by the turret staircase, Avhere two of them are posted, I heard one man say to another, “It Avill not be long ere the castle is Count Albrecht’s ; but when it is, I for one sha 1 not remain Avith him to be terrified by ghosts and goblins. Never, till I came here and saAv the little man myself, did I believe the tales there were about him.”’ ‘ Nay,’ said the Baroness, ‘ his Avoids cannot mean aught but that he OA^erheard the Baron telling the merchants of the goblin’s Avarniug and of the threats of the Free Barons.’ ‘ Then wherefore should the man speak of leaving Count Albrecht unless he were in his service now?’ said the old woman. * That is true,’ said the Baroness, anxiously, and she THE CASTLE GOBLIN. (Continued from page 12.) CHAPTEH III. — THE MERCHANTS. HE goblin had been quite put out of ^ ^ mind of the Baroness by the sight of her unexpected guests, for whom she felt utterly at a loss how to provide. The Baron, never very preyed upon by his stronger and more grasping neigh- ^ hours, had spent every farthing he could lay hold of in fitting ^ out his retainers to join the king’s ^ standard : for themselves it did not matter, as they were accustomed to living in the quietest and simplest w'ay; but burghers she had always understood were fond of good living, and how was slie to place such a meal before them as would not shame her husband’s hospitality ?

Page 26

The Merchants at Supper. was about to descend to the castle hall to try if she could have a word with her lord, when a sound of eager voices below stopped her. As she stood hesitating on the threshold, the warder on guard stepped forward, and without any explanation or excuse commanded her to return to her room. She would have resisted such a command in her own castle, but the soldier raised his pike, and wdth his threats forced her into the chamber ; in another moment the massive door was closed, and the women and children were prisoners. In the meantime, what had been going on in the great hall ? The loud, boisterous mirth, seemed sud¬ denly to have ceased. Those were days when men drank deeply and thought nothing of being overcome in their cups ; but Baron Ulric was an exception to this rule, and piided himself on it : the merchants’ wine must therefore have been of unusual strength,

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T" Oxford.

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22 CHATTERBOX. No. III. for ere he had talien a second cup of it it made him feel strangely drowsy, and as he answered the pledge of the venerable merchant who had spoken for the party, his head drooped and sank on the table : the good cheer seemed to have just the same effect on all liis followers. The merchants laughed as they saw first one and then another sink down, overcome by sleep. Presently the old merchant rose. ‘ Have I not well earned my wager,’ said he, that I would gain the castle without shedding a drop of blood f Up, my merry men, and off with these cumber¬ some robes, which are. unlit for an honest knight to wear.’ i • • j He rose as he spoke, and tearing off his wig and beard, stood forth amongst them a young, strong, and not uncomely man, had it not been for the eyil look in his brown eyes. The rest of the merchants followed his example, and casting off their robes stood presently forth in full knightly attire; and scarcely were they thus clianged when a strong body of men marched in at the door, and, assisted by the merchants’ servants, proceeded to fasten the legs and arms of the sleep- 11)0- host and his retainers, and to remove their weapons. All this was done amidst much laughter and jesting. , . i ^elf, is a prisoner, and a prisoner you shall remain till you use your influence to persuade him to withdraw his men from the royal st.indard and join the Free Barons in the defence of their liberty.’ ^ ^Freebooters rather, in the defence of their dn- honest and iinknightly acts. Never will I urge my husband to do that which is against his honour and mine : it w^ould be better for us both to remain prisoners all our days I’ said the high-spirited 1 ‘dy. ^ ‘ We shall tame her the sooner if she is by herself,’ observed one of the Barons. ‘ Let us place her in the chamber which opens from the hall, then the same man can guard both doors.’ ‘ Not in the goblin chamber !’^ urged the old nurse, pressing eagerly forward ; ^ it will kUl her to be by herself there ! ’ ‘ Nay, fear not for me,Ur3el,’ said Gertrude> quietly and ff-arlessly ; ‘ there is less cause to dread the elves than these evil men : but guard the children for me.’ So saying she went calmly into the room chosen for her, and the Barons proceeded to take entire po.s- session of the castle and to set the guard, for tliey had brought a strong body of men concealed beneath the apparent merchandise. It was as well for them that they had, for in no case w^ould the soldiers watch alone. More than one of them declared that they had seen a strange elfish figuie flitting about the rooms, and that although wdlling to encounter any odds as far as human beings were concerned^ they were not bound to wage w’ar wdth spirits; and Count Albrecht, knowing what he had seen, could not in¬ sist on their staying alone. ‘In a week’s* time,’ he said to his companions, ^ matters will be settled in the castle ; w'e will leave a fuard here and will ourselves ride to bring my bride, the beautiful Kunegunde, home. The place will be more cheerful when there is a lady to rule, and the proud Baroness sliall be her tire-woman.’ The barons laughed at the idea, but reminded the Count that though the castle was to be his the spoil was to be theirs, adding that they did not envy him his share, for that when their part of the garrison was withdrawn, there would be some difficiilty in persuading Albrecht’s handful of men to remain. ^ Time enough for that,’ said the Count ; * but now let us rest, for there is nought to be done, and to¬ morrow Ulric and his men will be, perchance, awake, and be ready to agree to our terms.’ So all the chiefs of the party, rolling themselves up in their cloaks, sought for any beds or couches they could find, and soon fell asleep, and in an hour’s time the only sound in the castle was the heavy tramp of the men on guard as they walked up and down to keep from sleeping, and the stifled sobbing of the serving-maids, who had been thrust into a small side- room, "vhere they dared not sleep, but huddled to¬ gether, not knowing whether they were most afraid of the goblin or of the new mont&r whom. they felt they should be forced to serve. * CHAPTEH IV. — ELFISH TRICKS. Men rose betimes in those ancient days, and C ^unt Albrecht was so anxious to see how his prisoners would behave themselves when the effect of the drug was passed off, that ho got up at dawn, and leaving the knights’ chamber, whicii he had taken for his own use, went downstairs. The two men who guarded the top of the passage looked at him so strangely that it roused his wonder ; but, fearing that they were about to stop him with some fresii account of the goblin he hurried on, and, soon leached the tapestried room, where his friends Ilupert and Otto had thrown themselves, clothed as they were, on one of the embroidered couches. They were both soundly asleep ; but^ as^ Albrecht came up to them he could not help thinking what a strange weird light the wdndow cast upon their faces and hair. At that moment Otto awoke, but he had scarcely glanced at Albrecht before he burst into such a‘loud laugh that he woke his companion, who laughed just as loudly. Albrecht became furious at their merriment ; but Otto, who could not speak for laughing, fetched a brightly burnished shield from the hall, and the Count looking into it, could scarcely help laughing himself, in spite of his anger, for he found that his hair, his beard, and even his face, had been dyed a brilliant blue, and he presently ^ saw that his friends were not in a much better plight, for their hair had been treated in the same wiiy, but being much darker did not show the change so much. (To be continued.)

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No« III. CHATTERBOX. 23 THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. II.— OXFOED. LEARNED French writer, who Jmows probably more of Eng¬ land than any other French¬ man, has declared Oxford to be the loveliest city in the world, Venice alone excepted. Indeed no city can well be more beautiful than Oxford, with its many exquisite towers and steeples rising heavenward, with the lovely river running near it, and beyond, the softly undulating hills of Oxfordshire. Here the Thames is called the ^ Isis.’ Many well- informed men have assumed that the word ^ Thames ’ is made up of ‘ Thame ’ and ^ Isis.’ But this does not appear to be the case. It is more likely that the stream here took this classic name as the result of its flowing 60 near that great seat of learning, Oxford. Here the Thames appears as a handsome and navigable stream. But strangely enough, until the year 1628, the Thames from Oxford to Burcot, seven¬ teen miles, was quite useless for all purposes of navigation. But in that year the citizens bestirred themselves, obtained legal permission to raise money to pay for deepening the bed of the river, and from that time to this barges have easily reached Oxford. The University of Oxford, as all the world knows, is a seat of learning composed of many Colleges, all in some degree under the control of the Vice-Chancellor and various properly appointed authorities. Oxford is wonderfully ancient. It is now held thftt King Alfred did not, in the year 886, found Oxford, but that he restored it generally, and endowed a college. This good and learned king was born at no great distance from Oxford — at Wantage. Alfred’s work in Oxford appears to have been that of giving the University good and lasting laws. When William the Conqueror came to rule over England he ordered that French should be the lan¬ guage taught at Oxford, and that English, as then spoken, should be abolished. The Anglo-Saxon pro¬ fessors resisted the king’s will for some time, but they yielded at last. Here Roger Bacon, the probable inventor of gun¬ powder, studied ; and here lived Andrew Borde, fellow of New College, a great physician and greater wit, who served Henry VIII. The term ^ merry-andrew ’ came into use in reference to this laughter-loving doctor. Almost every College is noted for some peculiar special features of interest. Christ Church has the Cathedral and gnndest buildings. Magdalen pos¬ sesses the loveliest walks. New College, whose walls are the old city walls, boasts a fine avenue of trees. Queen’s College is celebrated for its Christmas boar’s-head feast, held, it is said, in memory of a bene¬ factor who, when a student, saved his life while walking in the woods, by thrusting a book down the throat of a wild boar which attacked him. At this college, until recently, every student was, on New- year’s Day, presented with a needle and thread, the Principal saying, ^Take this and be thrifty.’ This custom referred to the founder, one Egglesfield, whose name probably was a corruption of ^ aiguille ’ and ^ fil,’ which are good French for needle and thread. The custom was to remind students how by thiift the founder had saved enough to establish the college. Henry V. studied at Queen’s College. Once, when Prince of Wales, he appeared before the king his father in a blue satin dress, worked full of holes, from each of which fell a silk thread, still passing through the eye of the needle which had helped to work it. This embroidery was a reference to the prince’s college and a promise on his part to be ‘ thrifty ’ in future, for the heir to the throne had been wasteful. The las-t College, founded in memory of John Keble, author of The Christian Year, was opened in 1870. Here may be seen that loveliest ideal picture of the Redeemer, ^ The Light of the World,’ by Holman Hunt. At Oxford Ridley, Latimer, and Cranmer suffered death by burning. The spot is now marked by a monument near Balhol College. On a summer evening, when scores of boats are out on the river, no sight can be more beautiful than Oxford from the Thames. Many of the students you see rowing will one day help to rule and, we trust, to make still nobler, their native land. (To he continued.) PERSEVERANCE . ONE step and then another, And the longest w'alk is ended ; One stitch and then another. And the largest rent is mended ; One brick upon another, And the highest wall is made ; One flake upon another. And the deepest snow is laid. So the little coral workers. By their slow and constant motion, Have built those pretty islands In the distant dark-blue ocean ; And the noblest undertakings Man’s wisdom hath conceived. By oft-repeated effort ELave been patiently achieved. Then do not look disheartened On the W'Ork you have to do. And say that such a mighty tusk You never can get through ; But just endeavour day by day Another point to gain. And soon the mountain w^hich you feared Will prove to be a plain ! ^ Rome was not builded in a day,' The ancient proverb teaches ; And N ature, by her trees and flowers, The same sweet .sermon preaches. Think not of far-off duties. But of duties which are near : And, having once begun to work, Resolve to persevere. I

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Perseverance. “ One step and then another, and the lonsjest. walk is ended.

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The Knight. A knight there was, and that a worthy man. I To riden out. he loved chivalric. That ^ the time that he firste began j Trouthe and honour, freedom, and curtesie.

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26 CHATTERBOX. No. IV. GEOVrBEY CHAtrCEB AND HIS PILGBIMS. (^Continued from page 10.) THE KNIGHT. * Ho was a verray perfiglit, gentil knight.’ HE knight was a soldier of high rank. In Chaucer’s days the kin" Kept no standing array, but a certain number of men in the country were bound, as our militia and volunteers are now, to be ready to go out and light whenever they were called upon. Chaucer himselt was a soldier when young, but lighting and writing are occupations that cannot be carried on well together ; so when the poet took up his pen he laid aside his sword. His short experience of military life taught him, however, what a model soldier ought to be like | so 'when he dcicribed the ^perhght knight’s’ character he drew it from the knowfedge that he had gained by experience. In proof that war and literatuie thrive badly side by side, it is curious to note that after Chaucer’s death no great writer arose in England for more than a hundred years ^ the reason being that the country was never free from wars for a whole century, so nobody had time to think of writing books. The knight was brave and skilful : he had fought in many distant lands — in Russia, Prussia, Africa, Turkey, and Palestine ; but, better even than being brave, he was truthful, honourable, and courteous, never known to do a villainous deed or to use a wicked word. The hard, rough life he led, did not spoil his sense of right and wrong ; so, however often he had to shout and give orders to his men, he never tried to enforce those orders with oaths or bad language. His yea meant yea, his nay, nay ; and the soldiers knew it, and obeyed him all the more readily for being treated with courtesy. They respected him also for his simple habits of life. His clothes con¬ sisted of a coat of chain-armour, over which he wore a plain fustian suit, which was stained with rust-marks from rubbing against the armour below. When he got homo from the wars the first thing he did, before even changing his clothes, was to go straight to Canterbury, and there return thanks to God for his safety and victory, giving the glory of his success where it was due, and not taking it to himself. We must not imagine that his being ^ a very per- fight, ffentil knight,’ meant that he was at all feeble or wanting in manliness. Gentle towards the weak and helpless is what every brave man ought to be. A pretty story, showing that a tender heart often lies under a soldier’s coat, is told of the Emperor Charles of Spain, who, during a campaign in Flanders, lived for so long outside some city which he was be¬ sieging that a swallow had time to build her nest upon his tent. The soldiers wished to destroy it, but the Emperor forbade them ; and after he had taken the town, and wished to move the tents to some other place, he ordered that his own tent should be left standing rather than break up the home which the skilful little bird had built. So the tent was left empty and fiapping in the breeze until the swallow’s eggs had hatched and her little ones had flown away. Napoleon I., too, who often seemed hard and cruel as a soldier, yet had a soft corner in his heart, which showed itself now and then. Once, 'whilst England and France were at war, a young British sailor was taken prisoner and kept at Boulogne. Here the lad, when pacing by the sea-shore and longing to be at home, caught si"ht of an empty barrel tossing amongst . the waves. This he seized and hid it in a cave, 'svhore he worked very hard and contrived to turn it into a rough kind of boat. At last, when it was finished, he pushed the little vessel off to sea, jumped in, and be"an to row across the Channel which separated him from Old England ; but he had not got far before he was overtaken and brought back. The Emperor heard of his rash attempt to escape, and sent for liim, and asked what motive had led him to risk liis life in such a reckless way. The lad replied that he longed to see his mother again. Touched by the sailor’s simple devotion : — ‘ And so thou shalt,’ Napoleon said ; ‘ Ye’ve both my favour fairly won : A nobie mother must have bred So brave a son ! ’ He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England old, And safely landed. Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner plain and hearty, But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparte. THE CASTLE GOBLIH. (Continued from page 22.) PRETTY state we are in !’ the Count cried, his anger returning more hotly than ever. ^ Who can have played us this trick, I should like to know ? He shall feel the strength of my fist, I warrant ? ’ But it was in vain to rave; the men-at-arms knew nothing about it, and could with difficulty keep them¬ selves from laughing in the Count’s face, being only restrained by fear of his wrath, which, when once roused, was more like that of a wild beast than of a man. The worst of it was, that with all their efforts Albrecht and his companions could not remove the colour, which was evidently produced by woad, some of which had been prepared for dyeing some stuffs ■which had been spun and woven by the Baroness’s maidens. * We must e’en go and see our fair prisoner 'with our helmets on and visors down,’ said the Count, furiou ly : ‘ it would never do to allow her to laugh us to scorn ! ’ A peal of laughter from the upper part of the hall made the three knigh'ts look up. Over this end there ran a gallery, where, in special times of rejoicing, a band of musicians used to play. Leaning over the

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No. lY. CHATTERBOX. 27 edge of this gallery, the friends saw to their dismay, in the now bright daylight, the figure of the goblin looking at them, and pointing with a mocking tinger. ‘ Ila, ha ! ho, ho ! ’ he laughed, and it seemed as if every corner of the great hall took up and echoed the laugh in a strange and ghostly manner. Albrecht and Kupert felt almost paralysed with fear. Not so, Otto, who, seizing his sword out of the sheath hurled it up at the sprite, who in.stantly vanished as if struck by it, and the sword fell with a clang on to the door of the gallery. ^ Follow me ! ’ cried Otto, as he seized a fresh sword from the armour hanging on the wall, and bounded up the narrow stair which led to the gallery. The others, for very shame, were obliged to follow him. When they reached the gallery they found Otto standing speechless with surprise. The gallery was empty, the goblin and sword had both vanished. In vain the now startled knights hunted right and left, above and below, for some way by which the elf could have left the gallery. They were now con¬ vinced that the legends of the castle must be true. They hastened down the stair even faster than they had mounted it, and it seemed to their distiii bed imagination that they were pursued all the way by the mocking laughter of the goblin. They held a council when they got back into the tapestried room, and determined tliat it would never do to let their men hear of their adventure. To put it out of their minds they determined to go and see their prisoner, and went first to Gertrude’s chamber ; but what -was their surprise on entering to find it empty ! The door was still locked, the key in their own possession. The guards declared that no one had been near them, and that they had kept strict watch all ni^ht ; that to a late hour they had heard the lady pacing up and down inside ; they had heard her voice as though addiessing some one, and after¬ wards there had been silence. The only matter which was clear in this mystery was that she w’as gone. As there was only a loophole in the chamber, and no other means of outlet, the knights declared that the Bareness must have had a duplicate key, and that the soldiers had fallen asleep, and she must have taken advantage of their w'ant of vigilance to escape. Whether they believed this in their hearts mav be doubted, but they were anxious to prevent any panic among.st their men. They vi^it ;d the nurse’s room next, and found her and her charges there. Her first question was after her mistress, and when she heard of her escape she wrung her hands in terror. ‘ Did I not pray you not to put her in that chamber?’ she cried. ^ Well I wot that she had no key with her ; and it is by no human agency that she has been removed.’ Albrecht was furious at this speech, for the men-at- arms were at the door, and heard all that passed. ^ Dost thou credit the idle tales about this goblin?’ he said. ^ Nay, then, thou shalt e’en tiy ^vhether he will aid thee and thy charges to escape ; wdien I with my good sword guard the door myself, and both lock and bolt are drawn.’ In vain the nurse pleaded that she might not be put in a room which she feared so much. Herman, child as he was, scolded her for her fear. ‘For w'ell I know no evil can befall us if we do that which is right,’ he said. And he marched boldly into the room where his mother had spent the night, leading his little sister Fiuda by the hand, whilst nurse now willingly followed wdth the younger child. Provisions w^ere brought them by the Count’s ordeis, and the door being closed, Kupert and Otto v ent to visit their other prisonQrs, leaving Albrecht on guard outside the goblin-haunted chamber. They found Baron Ulric most indignant at the unknightly trick which had been played off upon him, and the base use made of his hospitality, but more firmly determined than ever not to join the Barons’ cause. So, finding their words of no avail, they left him and his men a sufficient stock of food, and returned to the upper part of the castle, not sorry to escape from the dusky vaults, where they constantly expected to see the little elf ; nay, they •would have declared that they heard his strange, gruff laugh, following them. They heard Count Albrecht calling them. Ilis voice sounded by no means easy, and they hurried to him. He was looking perplexed and anxious, and told them that he had but a moment before heard a scream of terror from the haunted room. And said he, ‘ Since what we have seen ourselves, I cannot doubt that there are goblins in the castle; and perchance we acted foolishly in puttii g our prisoners in this room.’ ‘ At least let us see that they are safe 1 ’ said Kupert. The door w^as so securely fastened that it took some time to undo the various bolts, and their hands seemed to tremble in a veiy unusual manner. When at length the door was opened, they were surprised at finding Herman alone, and quite free from fear. In answer to their questions, he said that the door had scarcely been closed and bolted, and he w'as trying to comfort the nurse, who was crying, •when she gave a great scream. Looking up, he saw the same little goblin who had spoken to him by the castle w’eU. The knights looked uneasily at each other. ‘ What was he like ?’ they asked. Herman told them, and they questioned him further as to -what he had said. ‘That I cannot tell; but he bade me not fear, since he came to do me and mine service. Then he •whispered with the nur^e, and she looked greatly surprised and pleased ; but she asked, “ Cannot we take them all ? ” and he said, “ No, not at once ; but I will return for this brave voung Baron, if he will give me his promise to shut liis eyes, and not to open them till he hears the clang of a sword thrice on the wall, and ere half-an-hour is passed I will come for him.” So I did as he told me, and presently I heard a sword struck thrice on the wall, and I looked round and found myself alone.’ ‘ But alone thou shalt not remain,’ said Albrecht, furiously. ‘ What ! shall we be mocked at by a creature of air, and made sport of before our men P Thou shalt stay with one or other of us from this time, and never leave our sight, lest the goblin lay hands on thee. To-morrow, when I go to fetch home my wife, thou shalt ride •with us, and we will leave thee in safety. Thy father shall only -win thee back by joining our cause.’ {'I'o he continued.)

Page 34

A BIRD WITHOUT WIHGS. A SINGLE bone, found in a New Zealand water¬ course, was brouirht to England and sent to Professor Owen. It belonged, he said, to a wingless, tailless bird, which was at least twelve feet high ! Other men of science thought this to be impossible, and tried to prevent him from making his opinion known. But Professor Owen was right, and a speci¬ men of the Apteryx (tliat is, ^ wingless ’ bird) in due course arrived at the Zoological Gardens in London. This strange creature is nocturnal in its habits, and, if brought out into the light of day, runs here and there in search of cover. Wingless and tailless it is, stand- inir upon legs like those of an ostrich, and with a long bill that might belong to a stork. This long biU has more uses than in the case of most birds. When its ungainly owner leans forward it is ased as a support,

Page 35

Doa ANT> DUCK. I ONCE had rather a strange and awkward favourite in the shape of a beautifid white duck. It appeared to consider itself sanctioned to roam over the premises at large, and one morning, to my alarm, it waddled up to the kennel of my brother’s dog, a bull-terrier, I expected nothing but instant death for it. Imagine, then, my wonder to see the duck not only come within chain-length, but even enter the kennel. The dog just as a bent and aged man would lean upon a walking- stick. With it, too, the Apteryx is enabled to unearth the worms on which it feeds. From the bones which have been found, it is certain that this and other strange birds once existed in many of the islands in the Polynesian ocean. A. K. B.

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30 CHATTERBOX. No. IV. too, did not seem to consider this an affront, but 'svent in after it and lay down. Their friendship was soon established. No one would dare to toucn his strange favourite, and if any other fowls appeared, a display of two rows of ivory teeth, and a significant growl, warned them away. When the daily meal was set down, the dog would patiently allow the duck to satisfy itself before he attempted to eat anything. But ducks, like all other fowls of the yard, are fattened for selfish motives, and after a time this duck was killed. The effect of its death on the dog was sur¬ prising. For several days he tasted little food, and he constantly whined for lack of the society of the animal for whom he had had such a strange affection. A. W. K. PEAS-BLOSSOM. {Continued from page 1^.) CHAPTKB IV. Pat came home from school afternoon afresh interest had * entirely taken possession of his mind, and nurse’s wrath and Honor’s reproaches were quite thrown away on him; as, indeed, ^ they generally were, running off JrX!%^ J like water from a duck’s back. ' * All right,’ he said ; ‘ I’ll wear the bothering thing fast enough on Monday, never fear!’ ' There’s some trick about it, I’ll be bound,’ grumbled nurse. ^I’d scorn the action,’ replied Pat, with honest indignation. ‘ I don’t want to bother father about it,’ said Honor, ^but - ’ ‘ It’s not a bit of use either,’ broke in Pat ; ' for if the governor were to beg and pray me on his bended knees, with tears in his eyes, to wear my old hat, I couldn’t do it; for I have received orders special and direct from Richard Radley, M.A., A.S.S. i^'c. etc.. Head Master of Mudford Scliool, to appear in the character of Tom Fool on Monday.’ ^ I wouldn’t trust him. Miss Honor ; he’s as slippery as a eel: that’s what he is !’ ‘ Do you think I’d disobey his riverence ?’ said Pat. * You don’t know what an angel I am at school. He’s too good to live,” says old Radley when I con¬ strue, and Carr’s sobs over the beauty of my sums are heartrending. I’d take off my jacket to show how my wings are sprouting, only 1 might catch cold or reveal the holes in my waistcoat.’ Nurse went away with a shrug of the shoulders and some grumble about ^ wings of a goose more like I ’ And Honor still looked very doubtful till Pat, passing behind her chair, suddenly put an arm round her neck. ^ Honour Bright !’ he said ; which, though choking and rumpling to the collar, was reassuring. So notiiing was said to father on the subject ; and on Monday morning both the boys (for Paddy had by this time recovered) set off to school in their trencher- caps as if it had been their habit from infancy, and there was nothing offensive or remarkable about them ; while nurse watched them suspiciously out of the corner of her eye till they were out of sight, and Honor hardly dared to congratulate herself that she had heard the last of Pat’s cap till she saw it come home in the afternoon on its owner’s head. The fact was, that Pat’s head was quite full of something else, and this new subject of interest was a certain mysterious house they passed every day on their way to school. This house stood about a mile and a half out of Mudford, on the Hinton Road, and was known to the public by the name of ^ The Orchards,’ but as ^ The Ogre’s Castle ’ to Pat and Paddy ; and it was the property of a certain Mr. Carrington, or Fee-fo-fum according to the boys. There was certainly something peculiar both about him and his house, though not enough to account for the overwhelming curiosity of the boys. Seven years before Pat and Paddy went to Mudford School a strange gentleman bought the Orchards, which for some time had stood empty. It was not at that time an attractive house, smothered in ivy, with very small lattice-windows, on which the ivy encroached at every opportunity, as if it grudged the small amount of light that found its w^ay into the dull, dark rooms, where the damp stood on the walls and a smeU of the grave pervaded eveiything. There was a tidy bit of garden in front sloping down to the road, but some great fir-trees on one side kept off the morning sun, and a row of poplars did the same kind office by the afternoon sun on the other.* Behind, and on either side of the house, lay the orchards from which it was named, full of gnarled old apple-trees, that were the beauty and value of the place in one. They had been neglected as much as the rest of the place, and, no doubt, required pruning and cutting, and the introduction of new sorts and younger trees. ].Iut they were very beautiful in blossoming-time all the same, and in autumn, too, when the boughs were laden with rosy and russet, and golden and brown — a very garden of Hesperides to the eyes of the schoolboys as they passed ; and not even to be despi.sed in winter, with the emerald mosses and hoary lichen on the twisted trunks, and mistletoe hanging from the boughs in daintj’- pale green and pearls. Tliis was how ^The Orchards’ was wdien Mr. Carrington took it ; but so it did not long continue, much to the regret of some of the Mudford young ladies, who called it picturesque, sometimes sketched it, and had not got to five in it. First of all he stripped off all the ivy and knocked out large windows for all the rooms, and put in sashes with big panes; and when the sun had taken a good look round the place along with the carpenters tind painters, paperers and whitewashers, the damp and mould^rew tired of the house under its new aspect, and went off to find more picturesque quarters else¬ where. Then all the elm-trees on one side of the garden were cut down, and the fii’-trees on the other soon shared their fate. ^ He means to live in public,’ the Mudford people said. But then he began to build a wall all along be¬ tween the road and the garden; ^ and very neat, too,’ the Mudford people said: ^much better than palings.’ But the wall went on growing higher till it was ten feet high, and shut out the house completely from the sight of passers-by. And in this wall there was a

Page 37

No. lY. CHATTERBOX. 31 strong door with a bell at the sid urd when one of the Mudfoi d ladies tried the handle of the door she found it locked ; and when she rang the bell and told a strange man who opened it that she had been much interested in the alterations and should very much like to walk round and see the improvements, he said there was no admittance to any one, and shut the door in her face, just as she was going to make a few polite inq^uiries, and left her rullled and indignant in the road. All round the Orchards was put a high, close, wooden fence, ingeniously garnished along the top with hooked nails ; and in this strongly fortified abode Mr. Carrington established himself "with two old servants, both of them deaf and crusty in temper, his son or grandson, a boy about five when he first came — a little, solemn, brown-faced, dark-eyed creature, who was seen from time to time by the old man’s side among the fields and lanes round about the Orchards, or with cross old Mrs. Cann at church on Sunday. • This was all that was known of the mysterious new-comer, fer Mr. Carrington neither paid nor received visits on any excuse, and even avoided, if possible, meeting people, rarely going beyond his garden and orchards ; and when he did, choosing unfrequented paths and roads. Those who had chanced to meet him reported him to be grey-haired and bent, but seemingly more with trouble or illness than with age, for his eyes were still bright and keen, and full of a glowing, restless fire, that seemed hardly to accord with his grey head and stooping shoulders. Of course this mystery set all the tongues in Mudford and its neighbourhood wagging violently, and various explanations were given for his conduct, most of them on the very best authority. He was a coiner, carry¬ ing on his unlaw^ful business behind the high wall. He was a lunatic wdth rare lucid intervals, and surly old Cann was his keeper. He was a practiser of the black art, and held communion wdlh evil spirits and unholy powers ; and this, indeed, was why he had chosen the Orchards, about which there were dark stories of a stain of blood on one of the bedroom floors, and of a former owner being found hanging on one of those gnarled apple-trees, and of a moaning ghost that walked on moonlight nights, wringing its hands in wild lamentation. Others maintained that he was a doctor crazed into an alchemist, and trying to find the elixir of life or the philosopher’s stone ; or he was a criminal hiding from justice ; and some even mys¬ teriously hinted that he was another case of the man wdth the Iron Mask, and that he w^as twin-brother to the heir of some great property, and so had to be kept in the strictest seclusion to prevent a contested succession. Hut seven years passed on with nothing fresh occurring at the Orchards to excite remark ; nothing neAv was found out about Mr. Carrington, and people got used to the mystery and found something else to talk about. But to Pat and Paddy the whole affair was new and deeply interesting : the very sight of such a high w'all W’itn broken glass lying thickly on the top, and those palings bristling with nails and spikes, w’^as enough to make it almost a point of honour to examine further ; and when added to this there were notice-boards at each corner, announcing that trespassers would be prosecuted with the utmost rigours of the law ; and that even if you stopped for a moment to take a look through the key-hole in the door, a chorus of ferocious barking burst out from the other side ; it was not to be wondered at that Pat felt it was more than any free-born Briton could stand. He could not get half the information he expected, and the dull want of curiosity among the Mudford people struck him as astonishing, as he did not remember that curiosity is apt to languish during seven years without any food to keep it alive. There was not one of the Pies who knew or cared any tiling about the Orchards, and the Larks were not on terms that allowed of much ex¬ change of sympathy with Pat. But this want of sympathy at school was amply made up for by the breathless interest displayed at home ; even Honor was drawn into it and imagined romantic histories of this strange recluse, while Molly and Nora had some new theory about him every day — that he was fearfully disfigured and had no nose; that he was like the veiled prophet of Kho- rassan ; and Molly was quite prepared to enact the scene when ‘ He raised his veil, the maid turned slowly round, Looked at him, shrieked, and fell upon the ground.’ Then /they thought he might be the Wandering Jew, passing a few quiet years at the Orchards to recruit himself for a few centuries of travelling; or he was a ghost who sucked the blood of little children and haunted the churchyards on moonlight nights. Mr. Carrington’s character varied according to the books they had been reading. They walked over one afternoon to stare at the place, but found that it was decidedly disappointing, for they lost their way in trying a short-cut across the fields, and Peter got dreadfully tired and hurt his foot, and Don stole a very dirty bone out of a cottage they passed, and tried to bite the rightfid owner when she protested against his dis¬ honesty. And when they got there, there was nothing to see : the w^all was quite new-looking brick, not the least ruinous or covered with ivy as it should have been; and the door was bright green with a bronze letter-box, instead of being worm-eaten and studded with heavy nails and clamped with iron, red with the rust of ages. And if you went into the field oppo^^ito and stood on tip -toe and jumped, you could see a window with a canary cage hanging in it, which did not seem consistent 'with mysterious wickedness. There were not even any savage barkings to be heard that afternoon, though Don went and sniffed and blew under the green door as if it were the most commonplace residence in the world. So they went home much disenchanted, and did not guess that two bouncing retrievers with whom Don had a passage of arms by the turnpike were the savage brutes whose hideous ravings Pat had de¬ scribed, or that the boy w’lio whistled them off was the Ogre’s grandson himself. {To he continued.)

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Taking a look through the Keyhole. J

Page 39

Page 40

34 CHATTERBOX. No. V. 1 PEAS-BLOSSOM. (Continued from page 31.) CHAPTER V. EATsTIME at school Pat had thrown himself warmly into party politics, and infused new life into the Pies, wliich had been decidedly the weaker party before the Brights joined its ranks. They beat the Larks ^ all to smithereens,’ as Pat described it, at foot-ball — less, I am bound to say, by skill than by good^ luck, and by the spirit and confidence that Pat rejoiced in liimself and imparted to his friends ; for the very sight of his face was enough to discourage his enemies with a presentiment of coming defeat. He was also ingenious in devising persecutions which hid fair to make life at school intolerable to the Larks. It was he who sent the Larks all home from school one day in blissful ignorance that the word ASS was imprinted on their baclis in bold characters in white chalk; and who instituted the solemn league and covenant by Avhich the Pies bound themselves to re¬ venge every that was dropped by a Lark, by an immediate and severe pinch administered to the cul¬ prit, even should it. occur in lesson-time and under Mr. Radley’s very nose. He also suggested the idea that the day-boys had no right to the playground, and for the first few weelis hardly a day passed without a tremendous struggle taking place in the half-hour after dinner to clear the play-ground of the Larks, who, on their side, as doggedly resisted and contested their right to an equal share in that very dull-looking square yard. The Pies had the decided advantage in numbers now the Brights had joined them ; but some of them were little fellows who did not count for much, while the Larks were mostly big and strong, and with plenty of pluck, too, so that it was as much as Pat’s stratagems could do to get the better of them. But they had no one among them to be compared to Pat as a leader, and they did not know how to turn their superior force to account ; so when the school-bell rang in the afternoon, and the boys came into the schoolroom hot and out of breath, with not uncommonlym torn jacket or a black eye adorning some one, the victory generally remained with the Pies. < What a noise those boys make !’ Mrs. Radley would say to her husband : and he would laugh and answer, — ‘It’s those wild Irish boys, the Brights: they are made of mischief.’ And then he would go to a window to get a sly peep at the fun in the playground, for he was an eas}^- going, good-tempered man, who liked an honest bit of fun as well as any of his boys. He had taken a lildng, too, to the Brights, and especially to Pat, though he had failed to discover the angelic qualities that Pat had described to Honor as develoning so rapidly in him at Mudford School ; and he had soon come to the conclusion that ho and mischief were never far apart, and that when anytliing went wrong Pat was at the bottom of it. The usher, Mr. Carr, more generally lvno^^^l as Hhe Car of Juggernaut,’ did not, by any means, share Mr. Radley’s liking for Pat. He was a sensitive young man with a bad complexion, who parted his hair down the middle and played the fiute dolefully, and cast sheep’s eyes at Miss Wilkinson’s barley-sugar curls, and was even accused of writing verses full of ‘ loves ’ and ‘ doves,’ ‘ hearts ’ and ‘ darts,’ for pre¬ sentation to that young lady, and his temper was easily upset ; so altogether he Avas a tempting subject for attack from school-boy wit, which is apt to deal hardly with the small weaknesses of very early manhood, and, with all his virtuous intentions, Pat could not resist the fun of a brush now and then with old Juggernaut. For Pat had virtuous intentions. He meant to try his best to get on at Mudford, and not cause any trouble or anxiety at home; and sometimes even, after a serious talk with Aunt Bell, or a word or two Avith father, he Avould make up his mind to turn a regular ‘ sap,’ and cut cricket, football, and ' larks ’ in general, and come home at Christmas laden with prizes and honour, to the surprise and delight of his proud and happy family, and oristling with Latin and Greek, Euclid and algebra, at every pore. But, un¬ fortunately for these brilliant promises, something ahvays happened to prevent his beginning the vigorous course of application he intended ; and before he had been a month at school, he suddenly found himself in such hot Avater as threatened to put an untimely end to his career at Mudford altogether. The fifth of November and its observance was the rock on which poor Pat so nearly came to shipAvreck. From time immemorial — that is to say, for the last tAvo years, since Millet had been at MudLford School — there had been a grand display of fireworks in the play-ground on the evening of that day, followed by a dormitory supper. In former years party feeling had been laid aside for the occasion, and Pies and Larks had shaken hands over a Roman candle, and had done their best to blow themselves up in company ; which Avas convenient to both parties, and especially to the Pies, Avith Avhom pocket-money Avas not very plentiful in the middle of the term, and who, being at a distance from their families, were not able to represent their needs so strongly and persistently as the day-boys could do. But this year peace Avith honour was not to be hoped for, and the Larks left the contested play¬ ground and betook themselves to the large meadow behind Mr. Wilkinson’s cheese-store, and there pre¬ pared a mighty bonfire, the size and splendour of Avhich they incessantly trumpeted in the ears of the Pies, as also the squibs and rockets, Catherine-wheels and Roman-candles, they Avere going to provide, tiU the Pies were almost in despair, and could hardly keep up the outward show of contempt and superiority Avith Avdiich they tried to conceal their envy. Pat and Paddy, with Avhom pocket-money Vas a rare thing, could contribute nothin" but enthusiasm, Avhich does not go for much in this matter-of-fact age. They had also much experience of producing Avonderful effects Avith damped gunpoAvder, and blue fire, and gun-cotton: effects Avhich Avere never exactly what Avas expected. And they were also willing to singe their eyebrows and damage their clothes to any extent.

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No. V. CHATTERBOX. 85 But the Pies would have fared hadly if John Keith had not come to the rescue. lie woidd not have known the straits they were in (for it was a point of honour with the boys not to ask him or Aunt Bell for anything), if he had not noticed Paddy’s longing eyes fixed on his powder-flask when he loolmd in at Kelburn Lodge one day on his way home from shooting. ‘ I’ll take you and Pat out shooting rabbits in the Christmas holidays,’ he said. But even this delightful proposal did not bring the complete satisfaction that might have been expected. ‘ Well, what now ? ’ ‘ Oh, nothing.’ ‘ What is it, Molly ? ’ ^Kemember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder y treason and plot,’ said Molly. ‘ Oh, that’s it, is it ?’ said John Keith. ^ Squibs and Pharaoh’s serpents, and bad smells and no eyelashes —eh, Paddy ? ’ ^ No chance,’ said Paddy, ruefully. And then a few more questions drew out the melancholy state of affairs ; and the result was the arrival next day of a box full of aU manner of in¬ teresting and wonderful-looking objects, in blue and striped papers, with a pervading smell of lucifer- matches and excitement : a box which, had it been full of books, would have been a sore burden to Pat and Paddy to carry the five miles into Mudf ord, but which, as it was, seemed no weight at all, and even to make the distance shorter. Molly, and Nora, and Peter, very much regretted the departure of the box, and tried to persuade Pat that it would be much better to have the fireworks at home ; but they were consoled by being allowed to choose a small Catherine-wheel each out of the box ; and with these and a pemiyworth of red fii'e they prepared to have a display over the duck-pond, which was to rival the Crystal Palace in splendour, while nurse was much relieved to see Mr. Keith’s present carried off safely, before they had all been ‘ blown to shivers.’ The excitement among the Pies as the fifth ap¬ proached waxed furious; for besides John Keith’s ample gift, one or two more contributions had dropped in, and Mr. Padley himself gave some large Roman- candles and a balloon, and announced his intention of witnessing the display from the schoolroom window, with Mrs. Radley and his little girl ; and with im¬ mense labour the letters ^ R. R.’ were formed in little oil lamps against the wall, which was to be lighted as a finale with Catherine-wheels spinning above, be¬ low, and on each side of it. The Larks’ bonfire sank into utter insignificance compared to this. But the fireworks were not the only grand event of the night, or the one which required the most pre¬ paration beforehand, or made the greatest demand on pocket-money. The feast in the dormitory was talked of and planned for weeks, and some of the delicacies to be enjoyed on that occasion were even kept hoarded up from the hampers of good things that the boys brought back with them at Michaelmas. But this year there was a fresh element of difficulty in the matter, for Pat and Paddy both declared their intention of being present at the banquet, let the consequences be what they might. Any one but the Brights might have been daunted by the difficul¬ ties in the way — the five miles between Kelburn Lodge and Mudford, the necessary explanations at home, and the necessary concealment at school, for the feast was conducted altogether without the know¬ ledge of the higher powers. But where there’s a will there’s a way, and Pat and Paddy’s wiU to go to the feast was beyond all doubt. Tliey examined the scene of action carefully, to devise some means of getting in and out, but it Avas decidedly unpromising. The two dormitories were over the schoolroom, leading one out of the other, with two windows looking into Paul Street and tw'o into the playground at the side. The staircase led up from the passage between the schoolroom and the master’s house, and Mr. Carr had a little room at the top of the stairs, the door of which was close to the dormitory door, and either he or Mr, Radley -went round every night at half -past nine to see that they were all snug in bed, and to turn out the gas ; and then the key was turned in the lock and the boys were supposed to be safely disposed of till the next morning. Mr. Carr was accustomed to make use of this time of freedom to practise the fiute in the deserted schoolroom — a most irritating process to all the boys in the rooms above, but simply torture to those afflicted with a musical ear, who listened shuddering for the eighth note in ^ Home, sweet Home,’ which always brought the tune to an end with a bray. Various devices had been invented for conveying their disapproval of this serenade — violent knockings on the floor with hair-brushes, loud renderings of the same touching air through combs ; but with no avail. Pat would not have stood it for a couple of nights ; but, happily for Mr. Carr’s musical ambition, Pat was not one of the number of sleepers in the dormitories, and only had one opportunity of hearing his perfor¬ mance of ^ Home, sweet Home,’ with variations, when there was so much noise going on in the dormitories above that he did not pay much attention to the noise below. ^ It’s no go ! ’ said Millet ; ^ there’s no getting in or out of those old dormitories.’ But Pat was not so easily discouraged, though the windows were all a long way from the ground, and pro¬ vided with stout bars along the lower part. As soon as he got home he laid siege to nurse, and tried a good dose of blarney, that never failed to find its way to nurse’s Irish heart, in order to prevail on her to make a cake for him — a downright good one, with plenty of plums in it;. not ^ a jumping cake,’ which, in the Bright family, was meant to convey that the pluins were so far apart that you had to jump from one to the other. Honor being housekeeper had also to bo cajoled ; but this was not a work of such difficulty, and when both she and nurse were favourably inclined, there was a good chance of the cake being supplemented by a few apple-turnovers, or even some jam-tarts. ^ But, Pat,’ said Honor, ^ I don’t see what you want them for, if Mr. Radley has asked you to tea,’ for Mr. Radley had invited the boys to tea on the fifth, in order that they might be present at the fireworks. ^ Well, you see,’ explained Pat, ^there’s to be a

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se CHATTERBOX. No. y. supper after the fireworks that old Radley has nothing to do with, and all the hoys bring somethin^.’ ‘ But you’re not going to stop for that? ’ said Honor. < Remember what a long way you have to come home.’ ^ Oh, we’re not coming home,’ said Pat, composedly; * we’re going to sleep there.’ ^ At the school ? ’ ^ Yes ; there’s plenty of room in the dormitories.’ ^ Did Mr. Radley ask you ? Are you sure it’s all right?’ * Right as a trivet.’ ^ I wonder he didn’t write to father.’ * Well, you see,’ said Pat, ^ he mayn’t have known that Paddy and I wear pinafores at home, and go out in a perambulator, and always sit in high chairs with a stick to keep us from falling out, and have a coral and bells to amuse us.’ * Well,’ said Honor, * I must say it’s a cornfort that you won’t have that long walk late at night; and nurse will put up your brushes and things in a bag for you to take.’ ^ All right,’ said Pat ; ^ the less we take the less we shall have to leave behind : so we had better be like the fox and cock, who took a brush and comb between them into the ark.’ {To be continued.) A SEVENTY-MILES’ RACE WITH AN EXPRESS TRAIN. ON July 13, 1877, an exciting race took place from Dover to London, between the Continental mail express train and a carrier pigeon conveying a docu¬ ment of an urgent nature for the French pohce. The rails, carriages, and engine of the express train were, as might be expected, of the best possible con¬ struction for power and speed. The pigeon, which was bred by Messrs. Hartley and Sons, of Woolwich, and ^ homed ’ when a few weeks old to a building in Cannon Street, City, was also of the best breed of homing pigeons known as ‘Belgian voyageurs.’^ The bird was tossed through the railway-carriage window by a French official as the train moved from the Admiralty Pier, the wind being west and the atmo¬ sphere hazy, but with the sun shining. For upwards of a minute the carrier pigeon circled round' to an alti¬ tude of about half a mile, and then sailed away towards London. By this time the train, which carried the European mails, and was timed not to stop between Dover and Cannon Street, had got up to full speed, and was tearing away at the rate of sixty miles an hour towards London. The odds, at starting, seemed against the bird; and the railway officials, justly proud and confident in the strength of their iron norse, predicted the little aerial messenger would fail : but the race was not to the strong. The carrier pigeon, as soon as it ascertained its bearings, took the nearest route, in a direction midway between Maidstone and Sittingboui ne ; the distance, as the crow fiies, between Dover and London, being seventy miles, and by rail seventy-six miles and a half. ^ As the Continental mail express came puffing into Cannon Street Station the pigeon had been home twenty minutes, having beaten Her Majesty’s ro3'al mail by a time allowance representing eighteen miles. THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. {Continued from page 23.) No. m.— OXFORD TO MARLOW. ‘ ^ HAVING beautiful Oxford (which is one hundred and sixteen miles by nver from London) behind us, we soon reach Ilfiey Lock, between which point and Folly Bridge (which wn have left behind us) the Oxford inter-collegiate boat-races are rowed. The first point of interest now reached is Sandford. This is the favourite bathing-place for Oxford students. ^ The obelisk near the water was raised by fellow-students in memory of two young scholars who were drowned here — the second while trying to save the first. Nine miles from Oxford we reach Abingdon. Here William the Conqueror spent Easter, ^ 1084, at the monastery, and on departing left his son Henry, afterwards Henry I., called Beauclerc, or Fine Scholar, to be taught amongst the monks. Another ten miles and we are under Dorchester Bridge, about half a mile below which the * Thame ’ enters the Thames, below a towing-path bridge. And here let us suggest how the name Thames may have been given to our great river. May; it not have hap¬ pened that each ©f the two rivers joining at this point was called the ‘ Thame,’ and that once joined, the plural ‘ Thames ’ was adopted ? n- j Three or four miles bring us to Wallingford, where we may mark the quaint tower of the church built by the great Judge Blackstone.^ Here, after the battle of Hastings, Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, did homage to William the Conqueror. And here, in the following century, Stephen and Matilda fought for the crown of England. Thirty-nine miles from Oxford we reach Caversham, where Charles I. was for some time kept prisoner. Here Roundheads and Cavaliers fought, as did after¬ wards the partisans of unhappy James II. and his conquering son-in-law VTlliam III. Near Caversham the Kennet, which is the water-way to the west of ]5ngland, falls into the Thames. A little w^ay up the Kennet lies Reading, where Henry I. died from eating too many lampreys. „ i It was from Caversham that Charles I. was allowed to journey to Maidenhead to see his children, and manifested that love for them which so deeply moved Oliver Cromwell. And here, it is said, Cromwell refused the peerage with which, it is declared, the King offered to distinguish the Puritan if he would support the King’s cause. Going down stream one soon reaches Sonning, in the churchyard of which place lies the great judge. Lord Stowell, who died at 91. Below is Wargraye, celebrated for its mill. Indeed, in the eighty miles between Oxford and Staines there are tweiity-nine mills and water-works, the former being chiefly paper-mills, the in-fall from which certainly does not improve the stream. By this time we have left Pangbourne, the great

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38 CHATTERBOX. No. V. resort for London anglers, far behind, and ^ we are approaching Henley, where, from the bridge to ilegatta Island, there is the finest mile and more of straight water to be found on the Thames above London Bridge. It is upon this noble stretch of the Thames that the famous Henley Regattas are held. The first boat-race here was rowed in 1829, since which time Henley Regatta has steadily increased in success and popularity. ‘ Two whitish streaks,’ says Mr. Charles Reade, speaking of the Henley contest, ' on the water ; one on each side the little fairy isle, and a great patch on the Berkshire bank. The strealis were the two racing boats ; the black patch was about a hundred Oxford and Cambridge men ready to run and hallo with the boats all the way ; or, at least, until the last puff of wind should be run, plus haUo’d, out of their young bodies.’ Leaving Henley, the oldest town in Oxfordshire, and the tower of whose church was built by the celebrated Cardinal Wolsey, the Chiltern Hills rnay be seen as we row on to Medmenham, fifty-four miles from Oxford. And now we approach Great Marlow Bridge, known to all bargemen in connexion with a ^ puppy- pie,’ after which laughter-loving boating-men inquire of the bargees, who always get into a dreadful rage nobody Imows why. Great Marlow Church is very beautiful ; while the view over the valley of the Thames from the hills above the town and on the road to Reading is one of the finest from source to mouth of the Thames. (To he continued.) from time to time lighted up the corners of the vaulted rooms. The armour hanging on the walls rattled in the gusts of wind ; nay, one of the men went so far as to say that he had seen a suit of armour which lay in a corner of the hall suddenly rise, and, giving itself a shake, move across the room. The Barons were very angry at this tale. * Where lay the armour, you fool ? ’ asked Rupert. ^ No fool am I ; but it was in that corner, and I saw it rise and walk.’ ^ That it was there and empty, I can declare,’ said the armourer, who stood near. ^It was but this forenoon my eye lighted upon it, and I ^ examined it closely, for it was the best-wrought suit I had ever seen — none of your European make, but worked in foreign parts.’ ^ Find it now, you Imaves ! ’ said Baron Otto. But their search was in vain, the armour had dis¬ appeared. And after awhile the men-at-arms came hurrying back with open mouths and eyes full of alarm, declaring that they had seen a gigantic armed figure passing towards the dungeons where the knight was. The dungeon door was opened; but the pri¬ soners, who, at least, had not been released by the goblin, knew nothing of the matter. The Barons made Herman go with them on their search. As he passed down the steps towards the dungeons, a low voice said, as if in his ear, — ^ Hold yom'self ready to escape at any moment in your journey to-morrow.’ ^ What do you say ? ’ asked Rupert. ^ I did not speak,’ said Herman. ^ Who spoke, then ?’ asked Rupert, growing alarmed and angry. At this moment came again the strange laugb which had startled them in the morniiig. The Barons caught sight of the tall, mailed figure, of which their men had spoken. They hurried up to it. It was an empty suit of armour, the very suit of armour for which they had been seeking ; yet one and all declared it had not been there when they passed down to the vaults. The Barons returned to the hall, and were stiU discussing all the events of the day, when Herman, who had been sent back to his couch, was so overpowered with drowsiness that he fell asleep, and did not wake till late in the following day. CHAPTER V. — THE HAUNTED FOREST. Herman had not been awake a minute before he noticed an unusual stir in the castle. All seemed eager to be off, and already the horses stood harnessed in the covrtyard. As soon as breakfast was over the knights prepared to set forth. The boy noticed to his great joy that the brown horse on which he was to ride (in front of a brawny trooper), was an old favourite of his father’s^ whom he had often fed with apples and carrots. It was so tractable and clever tliat it might almost have been trained in a circus, and when the little lad came up, and glad even to meet a four-footed friend threw his arms round its chest, the horse bent down its neck, and showed by every means in its power its pleasure at seeing its little master. Even the stout • THE CASTLE GOBLIH. n (^(^dinued from 'p. 21 .) COR Herman’s heart sank at ^ finding , himself alone with f ( c) III I Hi these lawless men; but he \\ilv%l y summoned all his pride up to keep back his H tears, and Imowing resistance \ i Tain, he followed his [ ^ \ M captors in silence down to the 1 1 1 tapestried chamber. Although closely watched, g— ^Vy/ ke was not unkindly treated, but the hours of the day ^ seemed to drag, and he was glad when it grew dusk, and he was commanded to lie down and rest within sight of Count Albrecht, who had determined to sit up aU night to see that the men kept proper watch. The Count and his friends thought with relief of the few hours they would be abroad fetching Kunegunde home. The castle was to be left meanwhile in the care of one of their esquires, a perfectly fearless man, w’ho did not seem to care in the least for the tales of the goblin, though he owned that he had seen it. It was a gusty, stormy night, notwithstanding the time of year. Peals ©f thuKder roared over the castle, lightning hashed through the loop-holes, and

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No. y. CHATTERBOX. 39 men-at-arms were pleased at the sight of the horse and child. Once outside the castle, the little hoy^s spirits re¬ vived ; a ride even with enemies was a treat, and aftef the storm the morning was lovely. He did not forget also that the goblin had promised to assist him during the journey ; and whilst the troopers, and even their masters, looked suspiciously at every gnarled tree and started at the woodland shadows, he felt free ^rom fear : were not the forest elves on his side, and on the side of the good Baron Ulric ? Noontide came, and the party stopped awhile to refresh themselves near a spariding stream which flowed through the forest. Then they rode on, the fo-rest growing darker and darker ; and as afternoon deepened into evening, and the tall mountain shadows added their gloom to that of the dusky glades, all longed to get beyond the wood. Suddenly there was a wild cry, as of a night-owl. The party, whose nerves were all stretched to the utmost, started at the unexpected sound ; the horse, on which Herman rode stood still as if carved in stone, at the same moment the boy gave a shout and stretched forth his arms. His guardian, looking up, saw on a bough just above his head, almost within reach of his hand, the figure of the goblin of the castle. With a cry of terror he leapt from the horse and took t® his heels ; an universal panic seized the troop, who galloped off in all directions. Even the knights were carried away by the sudden impulse which seemed to affect both man and beast. In a minute or two they recovered their senses, and with some difficulty rallied thdr men, but when they re¬ turned to the spot where they had left Herman and the great brown horse both had vanished, and they were greeted with a shout of derision from the in¬ visible goblin. Sullen and dejected they were obliged to go on their way, and arrived towards night at the castle where Count Albrecht’s betrothed lived. Kunegunde was an orphan, as beautiful as she was oor, and hved with an avaricious old uncle, who had een only too happy in return for a handsome sum of money to give her in marriage to the Count. It was in vain that the poor girl said she did not care for him, she was given no choice ; and on the following morning she was forced to ride away with her new lord to the Gobhn Castle, accompanied by one maid, who was even more frightened than her mistress at the sound of the dreaded name, yet, being the bride’s foster-sister, she resolved not to forsake her in her need. It was once more dusk ere they reached the haunted castle, having passed the forest without any adventure. The drawbridge was lowered at the sound of the Count’s horn, and the esquire said that nothing had been heard or seen of the goblin during the absence of the wedding-party, and that indeed nothing had happened but that Hans the swineherd had returned with his swine, and had yielded up to the Free Barons’ commands. This was satisfactory, and the bridegroom and his friends having visited the prisoners and found them safe and as obstinate as ever, prepared for supper, where they obliged the bride and her attendant to appear. They dared not refuse, but at length the mirth grew so riotous that they could no longer remain, but fled to an adjoining chamber, where they fastened themselves in. The revellers were too much occupied to notice their absence, and the frightened women remained huddled together for a long time. At last, finding they were not fol¬ lowed, Kunegunde proposed that they should throw themselves on a large bed which happened to be in the room; the long journey and the excitement of the day had so fatigued them that they fell soundly asleep, and it was broad daylight when they awoke. Even then they might have slept on, had it not been for strange sounds which fell upon their ears ; amongst others, Kunegunde heard her name called. Slie opened the door and looked cautiously forth. What was her surprise at finding the whole party of rioters vainly trying to escape from the seats to which they were strapped, whilst each of them looked most comical, every hair of their head and chin having been re¬ moved, and the bare scalp and skin of the face once more dyed blue. The two women went forth, and not without some fear cut the straps which bound the intruders, but the only aim now of these valiant men was to try who could escape fastest from the haunted building. They found it more difficult than they expected, for somehow the drawbridge seemed to- be suddenly be¬ witched, and refused to yield to their attempt to lower it. The men were almost frantic, and their masters could with difficulty restrain them from trying to leap from the battlements. Since they were prisoners, they determined to strengthen themselves by some more of the wine which stood on the supper-table. Scarcely had they done so when the same sort of stupor seemed to fall upon them as had seized Ulric and his men. When they woke it was dusk, and they found themselves lying on the green sward outside the castle. Bright lights were shining from every window and loophole, and loud peals of laughter and shouting rang forth from the dreary building. The Free Barons and their men rubbed their eyes and looked up ; yes, it was certainly true, the goblins had entire possession of the place. Without stopping to claim armour, waggons, or any of their property, the whole party fled : nor did they stop running till they got to the edge of the forest. It was long before they lost the sound of the derisive shouts which fol¬ lowed them, and which seemed to come from the battlements of Goblin Castle. Never again did any of those who had captured the castle so cleverly set foot within the haunted woodland shades. But we may be more bold, and even venture into the great hall, where, wonderful to say, sit the Baron and his men, together with the Baroness Gertrude, her nurse, and the three children, and the bride and her foster-sister. Hans the swineherd is talking to his master, who listens with evident surprise to his story; and walking about amongst the men-at-arms and the Baron’s party is a small deformed figure, in whom all re¬ cognise the goblin. He seems very well satisfied with himself, and gives himself great airs for such a small body. Let us listen to Hans’s story. (Concluded in our next.)

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42 CHATTERBOX. No. YI. aEOPFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. [Continued from page 26.) THE SQUIRE. * Embrowdid was he as it were a mede A1 ful of fresshe fiowres white and reede. * * * ♦ Schort was his gowne with sleeves long and wyde, Wei cowde he sitte on hors and faire ryde.’ Squire’s coat must, indeed, have been a gay one! ^Embroidered like a meadow full of fresh white and red flowers.’ This sounds like nothing less than a field full of ox-eye daisies and scarlet poppies all ablaze at once 1 His short gowne (i. e. coat) and skilful horsemanship remind us of the short scarlet or blue jackets that the fine riders in our cavalry regiments wear now ; but our soldiers are not allowed to indulge in * long and wide ’ sleeves, since such clothing would hamper the free use of their arms. The squire, however, was not a full knight (or soldier) yet. He was only twenty years old, and thought a great deal about his smart clothes,, and his own beauty and accomplishments. He could dance, sketch, write, and sing songs, and no doubt was a great favourite amongst his lady friends; but these trifling amuse¬ ments were not the chief object of his life. The desire that was strongest in his heart was to become a brave soldier, like his father the knight; and in order to gain a little experience he had been allowed to accompany the latter on some short military expe¬ ditions to Flanders and elsewhere. When the squire’s own turn came to go forth to war, and leavfe the comforts of home and the joys of love behind, we may be sure he would be as ready to quit them without a murmur as good soldiers in all ages have been and are. Tlie night before the battle of Waterloo was fought most .of the Duke of Wel¬ lington’s officers were at a ball in Brussels, but in the raiddle of the evening word was whispered amongst them to come quietly away and prepare for the morrow. One by one they stole out, forbearing to frighten the woinen they left behind by telling why they were going away, and what prospect lay before them. At daybreak, dressed in gay uniforms, as fine as the squire’s smart coat, they followed their leader to the field of battle, from which very many did not live to return; but all were upheld by the certain knowledge that — ‘ Not once or twice in our rough island-story The path of duty was the way to glory.’ The squire’s ambition to follow his father’s pro¬ fession is one that exists just as commonly in the hearts of soldiers’ sons now as heretofore. It would be interest¬ ing to know how many of the men in our army have had fathers, brothers, uncles, and relatives, in the same service. Only lately an instance of this came to light, when Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead earned his rank as Major and the Victoria Cross by his gallant help in defending the garrison at Borke’s Drift in South Africa; for a notice given of his parentage in the newspapers showed that his ancestor. Ensign Brom¬ head, fought at Quebec in 1759, under General Wolfe ; his grandfather. Sir Edmund de Gonville Bromhead, at Waterloo; and that his three brothers, as Avell as himself, have all served in her Majesty’s army ! Chaucer teUs us little about the squire’s character; he was too young for it to have fully developed ; but the description that he was ' courteous, lowly, and use¬ ful,’ shows that the father’s good teaching and example were training the son to become worthy of the ^ grand old name of gentleman^ As to his pilgrimage, one may feel sure that he went to Canterbury to give thanks for his father’s safe return from war, and not merely to please him¬ self. He was ^ of gret strength,’ and so light-hearted in spirits that he played the flute or sang all day long. ( To he continued.) PEAS-BLOSSOM. (Continued from p. 36.) CHAPTEB VI. HE fireworks were a brilliant success, and fizzed, and banged, jand sputtered to every one’s heart’s content. A 'guy was rigged up for the occasion with a cheerfully smiling, healthy red face, at the top of a ter¬ ribly distorted and decrepit body; and Pat insisted on a trencher-cap crowning the whole, and generously offered his own rather than that Guy should go uncapped : which noble offer was rendered needless by the unearthing of an old battered affair in the knife-house, which Pat adorned with a Catherine-wheel at each corner. Great anxiety was felt during lesson-time at a slight tendency to rain, which produced a marked effect on the construing, which did not resemble the fireworlvs in brilliancy; but, happily, the clouds cleared off, and, except for a slight obstinacy in the lamps in * R. B.’ to light, there was nothing to comnlain of. Mr. Badley suggested that there ought to have been a third ^ B,’ for ’rithmetic, as he concluded the two others stood for reading and ’riting ; but that he supposed they thought any allusion to the subject might be painful after the grievous display over the decimals that morning. I am afraid the Pies were not possessed of suffi¬ cient generosity not to be a little elated at the rumour that came into the play-ground, that the monster Lark bonfire was a failure, as the wood was green and damp, and persistently gave forth volumes of smoke and scarcely any flame. So the Pies shouted the louder as their rockets flew and their Cathprine- wheels whizzed, and Guy writhed and crackled at the stake, still smiling good-naturedly from among the flames, and Mr. Badley’s little girl clapped her hands, and little Miss Pink, who had one window overlooking the play-ground, shivered and gasped with fear at the sparlcs flying hither and thither, and the smell of gunpowder and smoke, and kept her goloshes on all the evening, in order to be ready to run at a moment’s notice to fetch the fire-engine ; ‘ though,’ as she said.

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No. VI, CHATTERBOX. 43 ± ^what is the good of that, with Jones most likely- drunk at the Horse-shoe,” with the key of the engine- house in his pocket ? ’ And she snilfed and choked even in her sleep, with her vivid dreams of conflagra¬ tion, even though she had a large watering-pot and two cans full of water at the bottom of her bed quite handy. ' liave the Brights to go all the way out to Kelburn Lodge to-night? ’ said Mrs. Radley. ^ We might have found them a bed here very well ; but I suppose their friends would be frightened if they did not make their appearance.^ ‘ It is to be hoped,’ answered Mr. Radley, with a laugh, ^ that their friends are not troubled with nerves, or those two pickles must lead them a sad life. They are brimful of mischief, especially the eldest. But I’ll go and see if they would like to sleep here. Moreover, I fancy there’s something brewing in the dormitory to-night, from sundry signs and tokens’ (which showed that Mr. Radley was not so blind as his pupils fondly imagined), ^ and I’ve no doubt those Bright boys would like to be in the thick of the fun ; ’ which showed that Mr. Radley did not rightly understand the nature of those Bright boys, which was to get into the thick of the fun without any one’s assistance. But when Mr. Radley reached the play-ground, where the last spark of coloured fire had died away, and the last lamp in the tail of the last ^ R ’ was flickering preparatory to going out, the Brights were gone. He might have known it by there being just half the noise. ^ Where are the Brights, MiUet ? ’ ‘ Gone, sir ! ’ ‘ Have they been gone long ? ’ * No; only just this minute. They said it was getting late, and their home is five miles off.’ ‘ Quite right,’ said the master ; ^ quite right : but I was going to say, they might sleep here if they liked.’ ^ Shall I run after them, sir ? They can only just be round the corner.’ ^ No ; it’s not worth while to do that, as they have started.’ ^ Oh, I say, what a jolly sell*!’ said Millet, when the master was out of hearing. ‘ We might have saved all the bother of hiding if we’d only known five minutes earlier.’ For meanwhile Pat and Paddy had indeed gone, but only upstairs, and were, as Millet said, just round the corner; but it was the corner by -the dorjuitory door. They had gone out with much clatter, and had shut the door out into Paul Street with a bang, leaving themselves however inside, and had then stolen back very cautiously along the passage, and iip the stairs to the dormitory. Once therel they considered themselves safe, at any rate, till nine, when Joe came up to light the gas ; but there were nearly two hours before that would happen — two hours of didlness and security before they need hide. But they were reckoning without their host, for as they entered one dormitory they saw, to their horror, light shining from the door of the inner one, and heard steps approaching. They beat a retreat as quickly and silently as they could, but at the bottom of the stairs they heard Mr. Radley’s voice ; so the only escape left to them was into Mr. Carr’s room, the door of which was partly open. In they went, and stood holding their breath while the steps came nearer, and the light shone brighter through the crack of the door. It was one of the maid-servants, who had been watching the fireworks from one of the bedi’oom windows, and she stopped outside Mr. Carr’s door and listened, having evidently heard some unusual noise. ^ Puss, puss, puss 1 ’ she said, and pushed the door a little farther open, and then was passing on, appa¬ rently satisfied that she had made a mistake and that there was nothing there ; when Pat, unable to resist the temptation, gave vent to a loud, long-drawn-out ^ Me- a-aw,’ bearing the very faintest real resemblance to a cat’s ordinary tone of voice. However, Mary Anne was not discriminating, and she stopped and called again, ^ Puss, puss ! poor pussy 1 where are you ? ’ Paddy nudged Pat to be quiet, but could not prevail on him to repress a second loud, coarse ‘ Meaw;’ at the sound of which Mary Anne turned back, and pushing open Mr. Carr’s door peered in, holding the candle up high above her head.’ ^Puss, puss!’ Out went the candle with a dex¬ terous puff from Paddy, while Pat flicked his hand¬ kerchief against Mary Anne’s petticoats as if the cat were brushing past her in escape. It was well imagined, but Mary Anne had not lived six months in a boys’ school without learning by bitter experience the ingenuity of her tormentors. So after the first ^ Mercy on us ! ’ and ^ Oh ! my goodness ! ’ and retreat to the top of the stairs, she recovered herself suffi¬ ciently to suspect a trick of ^ those ’orrid boys.’ ^ It’s some of you young gents up to some of your games again as didn^t ought to be up in the dormi¬ tories at all, leave alone Mr. Carr’s room as ain’t allowed, jumping out and frightening any one into fits pretty near.’ The boys hesitated for a minute as to what course they should pursue, but when Pat heard her fumbling with a match-box and preparing to strike a light, they came to the conclusion that a bold line of action was the best policy, and Pat said, ' Hullo, Mary Anne ! is that your Have you got a candle there ? Do come and give us a light to ffiid that old brute of a cat.’ ^ Oh, it’s you. Master Carol, ain’t it ? 1 thought I heard a cat about somewhere. TIowever could it have got up here ? It’s Miss Pink’s old Boney, I’ll warrant, as is always scambling about. These ’orrid matches won’t light!’ * Here, let me have a go,’ said Pat : ' we’ll give the old beggar a lesson not to come here again as sure as my name’s Carol.’ And he went on rubbing away with the wrong ends of the matches till Mary Anne’s patience was quite exhausted, and she proposed stepping down to light the candle at the gas in the passage : but this was not at all Pat’s wish. ^There’s enough from the windows to catch the old ruffian,’ he said. ^ There he goes! catch him! Don’t let him go! I’ve got him! Poke him out!’ And therewith began a most vigorous and animated hunt after the imaginary cat, under and over beds, behind doors, from one room to another and back again, pushing Mary Anne about, and calling to her to ‘lay hold’ and ‘look alive,’. tiU Mary Anne got quite out of breath and bewildered, and could almost have declared that she could see by the dim light of the gas-lamp outside the window in

Page 50

Paul Street the creature that the two hoys were pursuing so energetically, and she never doubted that the meaws that arose when the supposed Master Carol was in the neighbourhood were the real excla¬ mations of a four-legged cat in fur and whiskers. If it had not been for fear of some one hearing the noise and bringing a light to bear on the scene, Pat and Paddy thought it was an uncommonly good bit of fun, and would have liked to have kept it up longer; but every minute was a risk, so the imaginary cat was allowed at last to escape downstairs, and the boys charged down after it and along the passage out into the playground, while Mary Anne followed more slowly, and, tired of. the pursuit, turned off the other way into the kitchen. Fortune favours the brave, so the boys met no one in the passage, and after a few minutes made their way back stealthily, and took up a safe position in the

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Joseph M( inner dormitory, ready to creep under a bed when Joe came up to light the 'gas ; where they remained unmolested, while the real Carol was much mystified when they went into prayers by Mary Anne'^s nods and winks, and by a whispered remark about that ^ ’orrid cat,’ which he was disposed to think was some obscure pece of personal rudeness, till he went up to bed and tat explained the mystery. (To be continued.) ontgolfier. JOSEPH AND STEPHEN MONTGOLFIER. TOSEPH and Stephen Montgolfier were paper tf manufacturers, living at Annonay, where their father had for many years carried on this business. Joseph, born in 1740, seems to have been a self- willed boy. He was sent to school at Touimon, but he showed great dislike to the discipline which was enforced there. The distaste he had always felt for

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46 No. YI. CHATTERBOX. study TN’as increased when a theological course was proposed, in addition to his other instructions. For¬ tunately, a treatise on arithmetic fell into his hands at this time, and he studied it with eagerness. Some time after this he went to Paris, where he made ac¬ quaintance with several scientific men. He Avas now recalled hy his father, Avho Avished him to share in the management of his paper manufactory. His labours Avere completely successful. In conjunction with his brother he made great alterations in the manufacture of common paper, conlriA’^ed an air-pump for rarefying the air, and introduced several chemical and mechanical improA^ements. At length his ingenuity was directed into a new channel, AA'hich speedily, rendered his name famous throughout Europe. There have been many stories related as to what gaA^e the first idea of such a machine as the balloon : some asserting that it AA^as Joseph who first caught the notion by watching the smoke as it ascended the chimneys one day during the memorable siege of Gibraltar, Avhile he sat solitary and musing on the possibility of penetrating into that place. It is knoAvn, also, that his brother Stephen had been much impressed by reading Priestley’s work upon the different kinds of air, so that he concei\’^ed the idea of navigating the heavens by means of a gas lighter than common atmospheric air. Their subsequent calculations, experiments, and proceedings, were all carried on in common. Such brotherly co-operation does honour to the hearts of those ingenious men. It Av^as on the 5th of June, 1785, that the small town of Annonay, near Lyons, was in a state of great excitement, as the brothers Montgolfier had promised to exhibit a balloon ascent; an unheard-of thing — incredible, as most thought. At the appointed hour a crowd gathered to Avitness the novel spectacle. Nothing, however, was visible but immense folds of paper. 1110 ft. in circumference, fitted to a franie weighing 500 pounds, and containing 22,000 cubic feet. To the astonishment of all it Avas announced that this balloon would be filled Avith gas, and would rise to the clouds on the application of fire underneath. The mass gradually unfolded and assumed the f orni of a large globe. At length it rose with great rapidity, and in less than ten minutes was at an immense elevation, and then gradually sank. This balloon contained nothing but heated air rarefied by fire, the receptacle of Avhich was attached underneath the globe of paper, which had an orifice opening doAvn- Avards. Various experiments were afterAvards made in Paris, previous to the time Avhen men freely trusted them¬ selves to these hazardous conveyances. Joseph Montgolfier died on the 26th of June, 1810, having survived his brother eleven years. When Bonaparte, then first consul, distributed crosses of honour to citizens who had contributed to the ad¬ vancement of arts and sciences, the decoration was bestowed upon Montgolfier. THE CASTLE GOBLIN. [Concluded frontpage 39.) CHAPTER VI. — HANS’S HISTORY. After I left the little Baron,’ said Hans, ' I went on to the portion of the forest Avhere I kneAv luy herd was. The road seemed unusually long, and I stopped to rest half-Avay under the Vulture Rock.” I Avas sitting there when I heard a sound of voices, and loolring over a corner of the crag I saw a great number of wains. Nothing doubting but that these were merchants Avho had erred from the road, I Avas about to go and set them in the right traclr, when something I saAv made me halt. The men-at-arms outside the Avains Avere handing provisions to others who seemed concealed within. Much wondering, I went as close as I could Avithout being seen, and found the three merchants discussing the steps to be taken. Count Albrecht was hot, and weary of his false beard, so he moved it, and I saAV at once Avho he was, and guessed what there Avas to come. There was no time for me, with my crippled limbs, to turn back and give the alarm; but I remembered the cottage of the wise woman was at hand — perhaps she could help me ; so thither I went, and told her my tale. She thought for a feAv moments. There is one chance by which I might Avarn the Baron, but I take much upon myself in so doing, and you must swear not to reveal to any one what you shall now see, until you are set free so to do.” ’ ^ You are free ; there can be no further use in guarding the secret ; and the good Baron Avill never turn it against us,’ said a voice from among the men-at-arms. * Yes, you can speak, Hans,’ said another voice, and a very old Avoman came forward to the table. It was tlie very one to Avhose cottage Hans had gone for advice, and she was reputed to be something of a witch, and to have strange poAver over the castle goblins ; her name was Mother Margot. ^ Mother Margot,’ continued Hans, ^ AA^histled at the door, and forth there came the very strangest figure I had ever seen —misshapen, with a head out of all size Avith his body, and long thin arms. I saw at once that it was he whom we had knoAvn as the Castle Goblin.’ * Carl,” said his gi’andmother, ^Hhe time is come for which thou wert born. Haste thee doAvn the secret passages thou knowest of, and up by the castle Avell, and bid the first person thou seest tell the Baron to draw up the bridge.” As she spoke she helped the strange lad to raise a stone in the floor, and he dis¬ appeared doAvn a narroAv, low passage, which seemed to pass straight downwards through the rock. As soon as he had gone. Mother Margot explained to me that for generations the eldest of her family had ahvays been deformed like this boy, and strange as to its intellect ; and that one of these strange lads had, years before, discoA^ered some subterranean passages communicating ‘with the castle Avell, and perhaps originally used for draining the castle. These passages Avere too small for any but a dwarf or child to pass through, and it seemed the great object of these afflicted cliildren to find out all they could about the underground communication with Dr. Johnson, being asked his opinion of the title of a very small volume remarkable for its pomposity, replied, that *• it was similar to placing an eight-and- forty pounder at the door of a pigstye.’

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No. VI. CHATTERBOX. 47 the castle. Very likely the damp and cold of the vaults increased their natural deformity, hut they lived almost entirely in the network of caves — some natural, some artificial — which ran beneath the castle ; and by degrees they found many secret assages and means of communication with the old uilding, of whose existence even the owners were not aware. During the life of Baron John they had used this knowledge as a means of revenging them¬ selves upon their harsh and unjust lord, and many was the piece of spite which they had worked by means of the dwarf of that time, whose intellect seemed brightened by living underground. Indeed, as long as there was a ;piece of mischief to be done by them, the goblin-like dwarfs were clever enough. ^ As you know, my lord,’ continued Hans, ^ you delayed obeying the goblin, till too late and fell into your enemy’s power. Then it was determined that the knowledge which had one time been used against a bad Baron should be used for a good one, and all the strange things which have happened during the last few days were the -work of Carl, under the direction of his grandmother. It was he who brought the Baroness, and nurse, and children, by a secret stair through the castle, and out to his grand¬ mother’s cottage, where they have remained ever since ; and it was Ifis plan that we should use trickery, as we coidd not use force, and frighten the Barons out of the castle. We could not release you, my lord, since we knew of no entrance into the dungeon.’ ‘ But,’ asked little Plerman, who had been listening open-mouthed to the swineherd’s tale, ^how could the dwarf drink the castle w'ell dry ? ’ ^ He had found a way of turning the water off into another channel,’ said Hans, * so that he could enter by that means.’ ‘ And wherefore did he not remove Herman with his nurse and the children ?’ asked the Baron. ‘ The staircase was too dangerous for the child alone, and I expected to be back very shortly for him, before the knights made their morning rounds ; but the nurse’s scream prevented that and alarmed the guard,’ said the goblin himself. * Then, my little elf,’ said Gertrude, who was surprised to hear that one said to be almost foolish could speak and act so sensibly, for in his grand¬ mother’s cottage he had been supposed nearly idiotic, ‘ was it your doing that the armour walked, and the drawbridge would not descend ? ’ ^ Yes, my lady,’ said the little man. ^When I found that the Barons would not be frightened out of the castle, I thought of arming all my people, and conveying them in by the secret stair, that we might rescue our good lord. We are men of peace, and had neither armour nor weapons, so wo could not contend with the armed men of the castle. When I found how the Baron’s fears grew as one strange thing after another happened, I got our people to prop up the bridge from the outside, so that it could not be lowered ; and it was I who drugged the wine, and helped to •get them out of the castle, near which I warrant me they’ll not venture again.’ ^ And how didst thou rescue Herman ? ’ said the Baron. ‘ Old Whitefoot had been trained to know the cry which I uttered, and at its sound to stand still,’ said the goblin. ^ There was not a man in all that band who had not been frightened by me in the castle, and well I knew that even the kniglits, if they saw me, would fear, and give me the chance of rescuing the boy.’ ^ Truly thou art a brave and clever fellow,’ said the Baron, admiringly ; ^ but I marvel how thou hast escaped scatheless through it aU.’ ^ So do I, my lord,’ said the elf, gravely ; ‘ for I grew too venturesome, and once I was very near death, as the sword and wound in my arm will show.’ He held up Baron Otto’s sword as he spoke, and showed a deep Avound in his arm, Avhich was only just beginning to heal ; and he told how the Baron had hurled his sAvord at him, and how narroAAdy he had escaped through a secret door in the waU knoAvn only to himself. Supper over, the Baron AA^ent round with the dwarf and examined all the secret entrances to the castle, inAvardly resolving that he Avould have them stopped up, Avhich resoh^e he carried out at once. As for Plans and the goblin — the humble instruments of his release from the power of the un\A^orthy knights — he rewarded them liberally, giving the wise Avoman and all her family a house and land, and a good sum of money, and p^’oviding well for the swineherd during the remainder of his life. At first he was rather puzzled Avhat to do with Kunegunde and her foster-sister, but they begged so earnestly not to be given into the power of a man like Albrecht, to whom Kunegunde had been married against her Avill, and Avhom she had neA^er accepted as her husband, that it Avas determined to keep the unfortunate bride concealed in the castle, Avhero she lived for some years, when her husband was killed in a drunken braAvl, and she was free from him. Shortly after she was married to a worthy knight, a great friend of the good Baron’s. Notwithstanding the confession of the dAA^arf, and the Baron’s having examined into the story, there were not a few who believed firmly that it Avas not by human agency that the wicked Barons had been turned out of the castle, and for many years the servants of the castle avoided the haunted chamber, and the great hall, and the castle well at night-fall. But this is certainly true, that no goblins have been seen in the castle since the imprisonment of Baron Ulric, excepting on the tapestry, where the whole history of the capture of the castle and its release by the Avonderful elf has been worked by the skilful fingers of the Baroness, the foremost figure in each picture being — The Castle Goblin. FORAGING. A POLICEMAN complained to a magistrate that a horse came every night and stole hay from a stack, but he coidd not secure him, as he kicked cut so furiously that it Avas impossible, so he always got clear off. What was he to do ? * Bring the thief before me,’ replied the worthy magistrate, ^ and I will surely con\dct him.’ ^ But I cannot,’ said the policeman. ^ There is no prisoner, so no case,’ said the justice.

Page 54

CHATTEKBOX. No. VI. A four-legged Thief.

Page 55

No. VII, CHATTERBOX, 49

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50 CHATTERBOX. No. YII. PEAS-BLOSSOM. [Continued from p. 45.) CHAPTER VII. UST listen to those boys!’ Mrs. Hadley said that evening as Mr. Carr got up at half¬ past nine for his usual tour of inspection in the dormi¬ tories. ^The gunpowder has got into their headsj’ answered her husband. ' I will go up myself, Carr, and take a look round. You will hear what a wonderful calm will ensue in the hubbub when they hear my step on the stairs, and a cough outside the door is enough to send them all sound asleep and snoring.’ It was just as he expected ; nothing could be more peaceful than the dormitory as he passed through it : but though he suspected the reality of the powerful snore that issued from Carol’s bed, he did not guess that the wrapped-up figure from which it proceeded was really Pat Bright with all his clothes on.^ IN or did he observe a strange motion about Millet’s bed, which gradually tilted up on its front legs, till wdien the gas was out it was standing so erect that Millet could hardly keep in— a peculiarity which might have been set down to an earthquake, or to some spiritual agency, by innocent observers who did not kno^v that two boys were underneath. There was not the same difficulty about striking a li'^ht when Mr. Hadley left the room as there had been with Mary Anne and Pat, and candles soon flamed and guttered in all directions; for the gas was not available, being kept rigidly under lock and key. , . j • The banquet was spread in the inner dormitory, as being farthest away from the master’s house and Mr. Cari"s room, and principally over the passage and entrance-lobby ; for although the boys began by taking off their boots, and creeping about on tiptoe, and speaking in whispers, they knew these precautions were not likely to last very long with^ twenty-two boys all together in one room, and one of these Pat so they chose the room where the noise was least likely to be heard. ^ ^ There was such a display of good things on Carol s bed, which was chosen for the banqueting-board, as you might not see in many a long day ! Grub of all sorts and shapes heaped in tempting profusion on pieces of paper, whicn the inequalities of the bed relieved from all appearance of stiffness or sour pre¬ cision, causing the jam-tarts to mix in friendly fashion with the sausages, and Pat’s cake to jostle tlie pork- pie, amd the gingerbread nuts and shrimps to join company ; but, after all, they were none of them the worse, and were not eaten with any less relish. ^ Nor had drinkables been forgotten ; for a perfect regiment of ginger-beer and lemonade bottles stood on the washing-stand, and a deadly-looking bottle of British sherry from the grocer’s, which was Millet’s contribu¬ tion to the feast, and which was regarded with respectful admiration by the other boys. And it was only Pat wffio had the honesty to confess after the first sip that he didn’t mind if he never tasted it again, tnank you ; and when once the ice was broken the others agreed emphatically that it was ‘ beastly.’ And even Millet thought the same in his heart of hearts, though he w^ould not allow it, and persisted in drinking it to the end, even to the sediment at the bottom ; remarking that he supposed the other fel¬ lows were not accustomed to wine at home, and that the ‘ muddy tub’s swipes ’ they got at dinner was more in their line. But he was very sick next morning, wffiich he set down most unfairly to Pat’s cake, or to having eaten bloater paste spread upon the same, which certainly was sufficient to upset any one. For the great deficiency in the feast was bread, which seemed such a dull thing to provide that none of the boys would stoop to it, and yet was necessary to the thorough enjoyment of either shrimps, sausages, or bloater paste. The other deficiencies were not so important, as ingenuity was able to remedy them. As, for instance, the difficulty of getting the corks out of the bottles without a corkscrew ; for though Pratt had one of those wonderful knives bristling with blades, scissors, toothpicks, gimlets, tweezers, screw-drivers, and such-like dangerous weapons, and among them a corkscrew, that useful implement gave way at the very first cork : so the others had to be jobbed out with knives, which led to several severe cuts, or poked in, which gave a decidedly corky flavour. But when the corks were disposed of another difficulty presented itself — what to drink out of; for there was only one glass in each dormitory, on the 'svashing-stands, for teeth-cleaning purposes, and one of these had been broken by Paddy during the cat hunt. The tin soap-dishes were tried, but found to impart too strong a taste of mottled soap even for the least particular palate, and the cover of the bloater-paste pot was incurably fishy and salt. The raspberry-jam pot did better when its contents were disposed of, and it was even maintained that it improved the taste of the lemonade ; so they made shift with that and the one whole tumbler, and if any one was in a hurry he could drink out of the bottle. Everything went off most successfully ; and if 1 at had not unlucldly left a candle burning on a bed in the outer doimitory all might have ended as well as it began, and Pat might have remained a Pie to the end of the chapter. But accidents will happen in the best-regulated family, and it w^as a mercy it did not lead to more serious consequences. The feasPwas spread, as I have said, in the inner dormitory, and the fun was getting fast and furious without any of them noticing that the air was be¬ coming thick with smoke, and that little puffs and curh of the same were coming through the half-open door into the next room. It was Paddy who first noticed it, as the smoke set him coughing, having, as you know, had a bad cold. ‘ I say 1 ’ he exclaimed ; ‘ what a smoke 1 ’ There was so much noise that his exclamation was not noticed, and he went to the door and pushed it open, and then such a stifling cloud of smoke met him that he gave as loud a cry as his choking and gasping w'ould let him, and the group of boys round Carol’s bed were startled into attention.

Page 57

J^o. VII. CHATTERBOX. 51 ^ Oh, murther ! ^ cried Pat. ^ That candle ! ’ And he made a dash into the other room, feeling his wffy through the blinding smoke towards the bed, where he remembered having set down a candle stuck in a ginger-beer bottle while he fetched the soap-dish from that room for drinking purposes. Paddy and one or two more rushed in after him, and began tearing off the smouldering counterpane and blankets, and tramp¬ ling and pressing out the sparks, which happily had not yet burst into a tlame, though by their vigorous tossings they might easily have roused that treacher¬ ous element that so soon turns from man’s useful servant to his cruel tyrant. Some of the boys ran to the water-jugs, which had been emptied for various purposes during the feast, and the cans which were not ever filled by Joe till the morning; others kicked and thumped at the door, to attract attention in the house ; and others tried to open the window without thinking of the likely effect of a sudden draught of air on the smouldering sparks. ^ Stop your noise a minute ! ’ Pat called. ^ Let’s hear if old Carr is still at his Home, sweet Home ” downstairs. I heard him a minute ago.’ But the music, if music it could be called, was still now, and not a sound to be heard ; and just at this moment a crash of glass from the next room announced that in their efforts to raise the window, or in despair at not doing so, the boys had smashed a pane, and the next minute the cold rush of air set the blanket Pat thought he had smothered into safety in a blaze under his very hands. Matters seemed really getting desperate, and through the smoke some one was to be heard crying and sob¬ bing, and declaiing they were all going to be burnt alive. Who this was was never rightly discovered, for after the danger was over they all stoutly denied the charge ; and so I can only answer for it that it was neither Pat nor Paddy, though Pat might have been excused an outcry, having burnt both his hands badly. But help was not far off; and the next minute the door was thrown open, and Mr. Carr and Joe were there, soon followed by Mr. Piadley. Buckets of water soon settled the flames, and the scorched and smoking mattresses of the two beds that had suffered, and the remains of the bedclothes, were dragged out into the playground, where the rain soaked away any lurldng seeds of further mischief, and through the open windows the smoke made its escape and the air came in. Pat and Paddy had both worked away with a will, entirely forgetting that they had no right to be there at all ; and, thanks to the excitement and smoke, neither Mr. Radley, Mr. Carr, nor Joe, noticed their presence, and when the commotion was a little allayed, and Mr. Radley had time to look round and notice the faces of the boys — most of them, as you can fancy, more or less pale and frightened-looking — the Brights had remembered themselves, and were in hiding. Mr. Radley called the names of the boys, and examined sundry burnt fingers. ^ I fancied just now,’ he said, Hhat I saw - But it must have been you. Millet^ that helped me down with that mattress ? ’ And then he went and looked into the inner dormi- toiy, which was a scene of desolation almost as great as the outer one, though it had not been wrecked by fire and water; for the remains of the feast and empty bottles were scattered about in all directions, and a gust of wind and rain came through the broken window. ‘ What is the meaning of all this ? ’ said Mr. Radley. None of the boys answered, and the master went on, rather grimly, — ^ We must have all this explained from beginning to end to-morrow. It’s too late to-night. You may be thankful, boys, you were not aU burnt or stifled before we heard anything of the danger. I will find room for tlie ten boys from the outer dormitory in the house for to-night, and the rest of you must make the best of your quarters here, which don’t loolc very comfortable; but that’s not owing to the fire, I suppose. Stop up that broken pane, and be quiclc into bed. No, Joe, they don’t want the gas liglited again. We have had enough fire for to-night.’ And then the outer dormitory boys filed off with Mr. Radley, and the rest were left to darkness and their own reflections, aggravated, in several instances, by feeling very sick. They were not, as you may fancy, a very cheerful crew ; and when Pat, in spite of his sore hands, tried to make a joke of it, and said, ^ They had had a display of fireworks with a vengeance,’ Millet answered crossly, ‘ Oh, it’s all very well for you ! You’ve not got to have it out with old Radley to-morrow, but will sneak out of the mess altogether.’ And Carol added, ' And it’s all your own fault, too, leaving the candle on the bed ! ’ Which was certainly true, but mean ; and Pat would have liked to punch his head for it, only his hands were too sore for the administration of justice. So he and Paddy made themselves as snug as cir¬ cumstances would permit with blankets and a pile of jackets, and slept as soundly as Pat’s burns, and Paddy’s cough, and Millet’s snoring, would allow. {'To be continued^ GRANDMOTHER. ^ RANDMOTHER sits in her chair by the fire, Reading or dozing from morning to night; Deaf are her ears, and her poor limbs are crippled : Almost the only thing left her is sight. Whilst I can work or can play with my neighbours, Still must she sit ; and she hears not a sound : Sometimes I fancy the angels must speak to her. Radiant her looks spite of silence profound. Peace reigns supreme on her grey head and forehead; Calm is expressed in each line of her face; Where are the wells whence she draws her content¬ ment? Is it alone the effect of God’s grace P One day I asked, on the slate that hangs by her — ^ Grandmother, how is it happy you seem ? Helpless and cut off from hearing and action. Surely your life’s but a sorrowful dream P ’ ^ Child! you forget I have had all your blessings — Joys in my childhood, and labour, and love; God, Who gave strength till my life’s work was ended. Patience grants now till He calls me above.’ H. A. F. G.

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Page 59

The Thames at Cookham.

Page 60

54 CHATTERBOX. No. VII. THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. (Continued from page 38.) No. IV.— MAELOW TO COOKHAM. LL lovers of beautiful sylvan scenery must quit Marlow with reluctance. Its lovely hanging woods of beech are rarely equalled, while the tiny singing waterfall, caused by the obstruction of Marlow Weir, en¬ hances the pleasant charm of the whole scene. Here the hapless poet Shelley lived during the year 1817. And it is only due to the memory of that great, if disordered genius, to record that, when here, he showed deep interest in, and great kindness towards the poor, who at that time overcrowded the district. It was about this part of the river the poet loved to boat, and writing to his wife of those days he says : — ‘ The toil which stole from thee so many an hour Is ended, and the fruit is at thy feet ; No longer, where the woods* to frame a bower With interlaced branches mix and meet, Or where, with sounds like many voices sweet, Waterfalls leap among wild islands green. Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen. But beside thee, where stni my heart has ever been.’ In the midst of Bisham beech-woods stands Bisham Abbey. Not much of the original building is left. Bisham Abbey is^ the first point coming down the Thames which is associated with that lion-queen whose name is' so eagerly woven by the people into the history of countless towns and spots in England. There is no proof that the great Elizabeth ever visited this part of the river Thames. But the dwellers there¬ about will not give up the belief that at times Queen Bess resided here, at the Abbey. A fair pull and we are at lovely Cookham, one of the most beautiful spots on the Thames. Here the angler and the artist, the poet and the philosopher, meet on equal ground ; for at this point the branching, winding, tranquil river, has charms for all. But especially is Cookham a place which ^ charms yet tires not ’ the angler. Many a pleasant point can" he find w’here he may, as Pope says, — ‘ Take his silent stand Intent, his angle trembling in his hand.’ Some of the heaviest trout found in the Thames are taken at Cookham. Here used to be one of the j)rettiest of the few pretty wooden bridges over tlie Thames. It has been replaced by an iron one. In our view we see dipping into the stream one of the finest horse-chestnuts in England, and almost within its shadow we shall come upon the ^Old Bell and Dragon,’ whose landlord will Avelcome you with smile for smile. The ancient square tower of Cookham Church, thickly mantled wdth ivy, is very beautiful, and forms a lovely object from the river, which indeed here winds so much, that the neighbouring heights and overhanging woods appear to shut it in, and give it the effect of a calm and translucent lake. The tales you will hear in Cookham and the ^marvellous big’ fishes they will show you in glass cases, are interesting to the angler. The walks about this part of the Thames are exquisite. There is also a certain castle frequently presenting itself to the eyes, and which much exercises the curiosity of the boating-man, or tourist; until he learns that it is a ^ sham’ work, and is really a summer-house standing in Lord Boston’s park. The river now becomes exquisitely lovely along the few miles which brings the boat to Maidenhead. (To he continued.) CAUGHT IN THE SNOW. A True Story. HEN I was in D - last year, I had the pleasure of meeting Mons. V - , a Russian, a fine old man over eighty, but still vigorous both in mind and body. The con¬ versation turned on the risks which young men run, and he gave us the following account of the great danger in which he himself once was through his own rashness : — * Many years ago, when I was quite a young man, I was travelling with Govern¬ ment despatches in the Caucasus. We had put up at an inn, my servant and I (he was my only com¬ panion), and had dined. I then called for my bill,, and ordered a sledge to take us to my next resting- place, some twenty miles farther on, where I intended to spend the ni"ht. The innkeeper remonstrated strongly, saying that travelling farther that day was not safe ; a snow-storm might come on at any mo¬ ment and then we should lose the track — we had better spend the night where we were. I was not pleased with the fellow, and thought he was merely trying to get more money out of me, and therefore I insisted on the sledge being prepared ; and after a few more remonstrances I gained my point, and we set out. ^ It was a fine afternoon, and the first few miles we journeyed pleasantly enough, for the road was not bad, but when we had reached about the seventh mile the foretold snow-storm came on, sweeping straight in our faces right along, almost parallel with the ground. The sledge-driver turned and asked me if I would not turn back ; the posts, he said, by which alone he knew the road, would soon be covered by the snow. But I would not hear of it, and the only answer he got was, “ Drive on, and make haste ! ” So we got over another mile, the snow beating in our- faces aU the while. Up to this time I feared no danger. But suddenly the driver turned and said, I have lost the track, sir, and I do not know which way to go, backwards or forwards.” Here was a dilemma !. What had my rashness brought me to ? It was evi¬ dently no use to go on and get lost amid the snoAv-drifts,.

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No. VII. CHATTERBOX. 55 of the mountain ; if we remained where we were we should soon be frozen to death or buried in the snow. I knew not what to do. We could see no sign of our road, the posts were covered, and nothing was to be seen but snow. But the driver came to the rescue. There is only one thing, sir, to be done. I feel pretty sure that we are not far from the road ; we must take out the horses, turn the sledge over, and take refuge underneath it, covered with our rugs.” But then we shall be buried directly ; what use is there in that ? ” Yes, sir, we shall be covered with snow ; but I will take the poles off the sledge, fix them upright in the snow, and then any travellers passing along will see them, and come and dig us out.” It was evidently our only chance. We did as we were advised, fixed the long poles upright in the air, turned the sledge over, made ourselves a comfort¬ able nest inside, and there, covered with rugs, we betook ourselves to rest, knowing not whether we should ever be awakened. There we lay, while the sledge was quickly covered by the snow. It was a strange resting-place, yet it was not long before we all three slept. So the night passed. ‘ Yery early in the morning, as the driver had pro¬ phesied, some travellers came along the road, saw the poles, guessed its meaning, and proceeded to dig us out. Thus were we awakened and saved. My two companions were unharmed ; but my servant, being restless, had dragged my rug off from me, and I had been caught by the cold. We were taken back to the inn, and by dint of baths and rubbing I was brought back to consciousness; though it was months before I fully recovered the effects^ of that eventful night. It was a narrow escape, was it not ? ’ continued the old man ; ^ and I thank God for having so wonder¬ fully preserved mj^ life from the great danger into which my own foolhardiness had brought me.’ J. K. K. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Continued from ‘page 42.) THE YEOMAN. ‘A not-head hadde he with a brown visage, wood-crafte cowde he wel al the usage.’ HE Knight only took two attendants with him on his . pilgrimage — his son the Squire, and a Yeoman. This was a mark of great humility on the Knight’s part, as men of his rank generally went about with a long train of followers. This Yeoman, too, was not even a middle-class farmer, which is what we usually understand by the word, but simply a forester, who in times of peace had charge of the woods and game on his master’s estate. He was dressed after ''.he fashion of Robin Hood’s men, in ^ coote and hood of green.’ Green has always been a favourite colour for the clothes of those wdiose work lies in woods and fields. Our gamekeepers now are generally clad in suits of dark green corduroy. The reason of course is, that green is less conspicuous amongst leaves and grass than any other hue, and therefore less likely to frighten and attract the notice of game. The Yeoman’s hair was not allowed to be long, as was the fashion for men in Edward the Third’s reign to wear it, but cropped short, so that he is described as having a ^not (or ' nut’) head,’ and a ^ brown visage.’ The short locks were to avoid his coming to such an end as Absalom did among the branches, and the bronzed face resulted from his constantly living out of doors in all weathers. He evidently took a pride in being well dressed for his station, since the feathers of his arrows were taken from the peacock, and stuck out from the shaft instead of drooping. Both of these facts were marks of great smartness. Most people used swans’-wing feathers for their arrows, and peacocks’ were only employed for their greater beauty. Robin Hood once received a present of a hundred sheaves of arrows from Sir Richard-at-the-Lee, and they were an ^ eUe in length and feathered from the peacock.’ In addition to his bow and horn, the Yeoman carried a dagger on one side, and a sword and buckler on the other ; so w^s as ready to fight for his master in times of war as to hunt in days of peace. The pride that he took in being suitably clad for his work shows that the Yeoman was not ashamed of his calling in life, and he did not try, by^ dressing himself up in gay clothes, to be a bad imitation of his master. It is only a very silly fellow who is ashamed of honest work, even though it soil his hands or even blacken his face. The Yeoman had one more ornament about him, and that was a silver figure of St. Christopher hung by a chain round his neck. It is touching to find that he had chosen Christopher for his patron saint, since the circumstances of the latter’s life in many ways coincided with his own ; and this thought must have been a comforting assurance to him of the heights of holiness to which it is possible for humanity to attain. ‘ Martyrs and Saints, each glorious day, Dawning in order on our way, Remind us how our darksome clay May keep th’ ethereal warmth our new Creator brought.’ The story of Christopher’s career is that he was a servant in station, and a giant in personal size and strength. He lived in the darkness of heathendom, but had sufiicient gropings after the light to deter¬ mine to obey no one as master unless he were greater and stronger than himself. After serving under several earthly lords, and even under the great Spirit of Evil, Christopher learnt that all these were less tlian Almighty God, and so hencefoiward gave him- I self up entirely to the service of the Lord and Master of all. 1 (To he continued.)

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56 CHATTEBBOX. No. VII. The Yeoman. “ A not-head hadde he with a brown risage, Of wood-crafte cowde he wel al the usage.”

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Paddy and Miss Pinkos Cat.

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58 CHATTERBOX. No. VIII. PEAS-BLOSSOM. {Continued from p. hi.) CHAPTER VIII. )T was a silent and surly-looMng com- • 1 yj k that assembled in the school- tVT ^ room next morning when the hell ^ ^ rang at half-past seven for the first \ calling over, and neither Pat nor Paddy looked very brilliant as they crept out of the school into Paul Street, appearing, as they were, un- J washed and uncombed, and with an ' — hour and a half to dispose of in the rain before school-time, and no prospect of breakfast to beguile the time. Millet’s taunt was still rankling in Pat’s mind, and he could not help feeling himself something of a sneak and a coward for escaping the blowing-up which all the other Pies were catching at that very moment. He was altogether in the dumps, a very unusual state of things with Pat, and his aspect was not improved by a smear of jam on his cheek and of smoke across his forehead ; and Paddy was no better to look at. And yet as they passed along Paul Street and saw Miss Pink’s window open, and the rosy-cheeked, sim¬ pering block on which Miss Pink made her caps standing temptingly near, in spite of his depression Pat could not resist the temptation of transferring his trencher to the head, and walking on uncon¬ cernedly as if nothing had happened. I have said that Miss Pink had a window looking out into the playground, and she also had one in Paul Street, hard by the entrance to the Grammar School ; and being at such close quarters she was often brought into ' contact with the boys ; and as she was an old maid, and fidgety and nervous, as old maids are apt to be, she and the boys waged constant warfare. They were the plague and worry of her life, and at the same time the excitement and interest ; for she was fain to confess in holiday-time that she found it un¬ commonly dull. She was a dressmaker and milliner, and she had a little brass plate on the door in Paul Street an¬ nouncing the fact to the public; but she was very genteel, and })ad no vulgar display in the window, but only sometimes a fashion-book laid carelessly open, or the above-mentioned simpering head adorned with a bonnet of the latest Parisian fashion, as interpreted by Miss Pink. Half-past seven in the morning is too early for any one to be genteel, so Miss Pink was just then in what she called ‘ dishabullj with her .gown pinned up round her waist, and her hair in fiat, whitey-brown curl¬ papers, polishing the plate and handle of the door with a feather ; while Bonaparte, her sandy Tom-cat, dis¬ respectfully called ^ Boney ’ in the neighbourhood, (not a fitting name, as he was decidedly stout), took a morning airing, drawing back his feet with a sensi¬ tive shudder at every step on the damp stones. Miss Pink had had a very disturbed night in con¬ sequence of the fireworks, and her nerves (which in nine cases out of ten may be translated ‘ temper ’) were upset, so she was not inclined to look with a friendly eye on the two trencher-caps that went by ; and she tossed her head and made no reply when Paddy wished her ^ the top of the morning,’ and she rubbed away at the door-plate as viciously as if it were a Grammar-school boy. She was quite unconscious^ of Pat’s manoeuvre with his cap, till he came back with a very injured and offended expression. ^ Really, Miss Pink, it is too bad that a fellow can’t walk quietly up Paul Street without losing his hat ! ’ Miss Pink stared in bewilderment. ^ Would you ask your friend to give it back to me at once ? It’s raining, you see, and I’m in a hurry.’ ^ My friend ? ’ said Miss Pink. ' Tes, the young lady in your window ; she has got it on.’ A glance at the window revealed the truth to Miss Pink’s indignant eyes ; but Avhat form her vengeance might have taken on this new piece of Gmpidence’ of those ^ plaguy boys ’ I cannot undertake to say, for just then her attention was distracted by a sudden outcry, for the stately progress of Bonaparte along Paul Street had been rudely interrupted by the sudden attack of a certain butcher s dog named Bob, who was the terror of all the cats for niiles round. It was in vain that poor Boney arched his back, and swelled his tail into the size of a respectable bolster ; in vain he spat and growled; Bob was not to be frightened by such demonstrations : there was a bark and a spring, and then Bonaparte turned to flight, with the dog open-mouthed and panting close behind ; and then the cat turned to bay again and tried to use his claws, and again the dog put him to flight ; and then there was a scream from Bonaparte, for the dog’s sharp teeth were in the soft, sandy fur, and the battle would soon have been over if sudden reinforce¬ ments had not come up from the rear, and Bob’s tail been seized hold of by hands that were strong, though they were sore, while Paddy got a grip of the dog’s throat and made him let go his teriified prisoner. Bonaparte, too wild with fright to distinguish be¬ tween friend and foe, gave Paddy a long scratch down the back of his hand, and then darted off be¬ tween Miss Pink’s feet, tripping her up on the door¬ step, and straight upstairs to a dark corner under Miss Pink’s bed, from whence nothing would allure him, and where he remained licking his wounds, and glaring out of the darkness with great, glowing, topaz eyes. Bob was quite taken aback at this unexpected turn of affairs, and bewildered at boys, of all people in the world, taking the part of a cat, and went sneaking off with his tail between his legs, assisted in the right direction by a kick from Pat. Miss Pink was quite ‘flabbergasted,’ as she said afterwards, and when she had picked herself up could do nothing for a minute but gasp and say, ‘ Bless me heart ! Dear, dear, dear ! Goodness gracious ! ’ and wipe her eyes in the leather she had been rubbing the plate with. It would have been genteel in such cir¬ cumstances to go into hysterics, but she did not think of that till afterwards, and besides it was too early in the morning. Then she turned to the two boys, and seizing hold of Paddy, who happened to be nearest, by the collar of his jacket, and beckoning to Pat to' foUow, said quite fiercely, — ‘ Come in, both of you, this very minute ! Come in, I say!’

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No. VIII. CHATTERBOX. 59 And she dragged Paddy in by main force, and Pat followed meekly, for, truth to tell, he was pretty nearly fainting, though he would have denied the charge, of such weakness with the greatest indigna¬ tion, for his hands were nearly raw, and the struggle with the dog made him painfull)’’ conscious of it. Even Miss Pink, in the midst of her excitement and confusion, noticed how ashy pale he had turned. ^ Mercy on us ! ’ she said ; ^ has the dog bit you ? A nasty, savage, bloodthirsty beast as ever breathed ! ’ ^ No,’ said Pat, '■ it’s not that ; ’ and then he turned so giddy that he had to catch at the back of a chair to save himself, and winced and started back with pain as his hand touched the chair. ^ It’s his hands,’ said Paddy ; ^ he’s burnt them awfully; and we’ve not had any breakfast, and that makes a fellow feel queer.’ ^ Ah,’ said Miss Pink, shaking her curl-papers, ^ it’s those horrid, dangerous • fireworks, which never lead to any good ! Let me look at your hands. Dear ! dear ! dear ! I never did, never in all my born days ! And I suppose Mrs. Padley didn’t a bit know what to do for them now ? She’s too young to be at the head of such a houseful! of mischief ; and not a servant worth twopence — a set of Highty, lly-away things, thinking of nothing but ribbons and young men ! ’ ]3ut here Pat felt in honour bound to explain that Mrs. Padley knew nothing whatever of the matter. ^ And no breakfast either ! ’ Miss Pink went on severely; ^ a set of growing boys that ought to have their meals as regular as clockwork ! ’ And here again Pat felt bound to explain that they were not boarders, and that Mrs. Padley was not responsible for their breakfasts. ^ You’re not day-boys ? ’ she said. And then they told her who they were, and where they came from, and tried to explain in a confused sort of way how they happened to be so much too. early for school, and without any breakfast ; telling just enough to make Miss Pink guess vaguely at a pretty piece of mischief, which she excused freely for the sake of the gallant rescue of Bonaparte. But all the time she was not idle, for she was dressing Pat’s hands with sweet oil and cotton wool, and binding them up till they looked like tlie hands of a gouty old man : but Pat did not care a snap how they looked while they felt so comfortable. ^ Thank you,’ he said ; ^ it’s awfully good of you. I’ll bring back these handkerchiefs and things to¬ morrow when I come to school. Now we’d better be off, and not bother you any more.’ No,’ said Miss Pink, ^ that you won’t ! You won’t stir a step till you’ve had some breakfast; that is, if you’re not too fine to have breakfast with me.’ ^Fine !’ said Pat : ^ we don’t look much like that. • Paddy looks as if he hadn’t washed for a twelve¬ month.’ ^ Look at home,’ said Paddy : ^ it’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black.’ ^ But don’t you bother about breakfast for us,’ went on Pat : ^ we shall do well enough, and we can eat double at dinner.’ But Miss Pink would not hear of such a thing, and she forthwith be^an bustling about preparing for breakfast with such speed and energy tliat her curl¬ papers rustled in the wind like dry oak-leaves in October. ^ You’ll excuse my curl-papers, young gentlemen,’ she said. ^ I’d have made myself smart if I’d known beforehand I was to have company.’ ^ And we’d have tittivated ourselves up, too,’ said Paddy, tr)dng vainly to part his curly hair with his fingers. ^Now I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Miss Pink,*^if you wouldn’t like some warm water and a comb ?’ The boys, who were beginning to make themselves quite at home in Miss Pink’s little house, gladly ac¬ cepted the offer, and she took them into the bedroom and supplied them with hot water and a tail-comb, and^ left them there while she got the breakfast, feeling quite amazed at her own confidence and cool¬ ness in trusting two boys — and most of all. Grammar- school boys — among all her secret treasures. Her confidence was not misplaced, for though I am sorry to say Pat, in spite of his gouty hands, tried on Miss Pink’s large, frilled night-cap, and Paddy tried the, effect among his own curly locks of the little, shrivelled plait with which Miss Pink supplemented her own rather scanty ringlets, and though they both inspected with much amusement the silhouettes of Miss Pink’s family — stout, bald-headed gentlemen, with frilled shirt-fronts, and ladies with very low dresses, and big puffed sleeves, and hair dressed very high, leaving wonderful long necks visible, and read the date of the sampler worked by Bosina Pink in a year when she would have warmly denied being in ex¬ istence, for age was one of her weak points — yet, in spite of this, they would neither of them have dreamed of revealing these secrets to the outer world on any consideration. Meanwhile the smell of coffee was maldng itself pleasantly evident, and Miss Pink might be seen scudding up Paul Street to the baker’s in search of hot rolls, and into Martin’s for slices of ham, and out again in hot haste after new-laid eggs ; and then she suddenly remembered Pat’s disabled hands, and was up tapping at the bedroom door, and nothing would do but that she must sponge that young hero’s face herself and comb his hair, which she parted on the wrong side. She very much wished to bestow ^ just a leetle Macassar oil,’ to produce a more effective butcher’s curl on the temple than Pat’s dry obstinate hair would accomplish ; but this Pat resisted, though he was willing to go great lengths to please Miss Pink. What a brealifast the boys made to be sure, in Miss Pink’s snug, little parlour, with the round table drawn up close in front of the fire, and the rolls standing down on the fender to keep hot, and the coffee on the hob ! Miss Pink enjoyed that breakfast quite as much as the boys, if not more; for day after day she was used to sit down to breakfast — yes, and dinner and tea, too — by herself, with no one but Bonaparte to speak to ; and after all one’s jown company, however genteel, is apt to be dull. Indeed tliat morning Miss Pink quite forgot to be genteel, and laughed at the boys’ talk till the tears ran down her cheeks, and she had to hold her sides from their aching ; and she was even more surprised than they were when the school-bell rang out, and Pat and Paddy jumped to their feet and caught up

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The Casti\way. their caps (Pat’s still being on the head of the dummy), and, with their mouths still full of roU, ran off, only to come clattering hack in a minute, very much out of breath, to pant out sometliing about ‘Not thanked you — awfully kind — jolly blow-out,’ to which iliss Pink replied, ‘Bless my heart! you needn’t have come back for that, getting late for school. I don’t want any thanks, only come and have breakfast with me another day, that’s all.’ (To he continued,) THE CASTAWAY. “E were fifteen hands all told when we sailed, And here I am to-day. Left all alone, for the rest went down With the ship in an unknown bay. A sudden squall on the starboard bow, And I was among the waves, And I heard my mates gasp hurried prayers As they sank to their sailors’ graves ; And I thought of their prayers (/ had never prayed) As I sat on the dripping weeda

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The Ichthyosaurus.

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62 CHATTERBOX. No. yilT. On a rock I reached, and buried my face, For all the old evil deeds That ever I’d done came into my mind — I’d lived a wild life before. ’Tis awful to be alone with God And the sea on an unknown shore ; ’Tis then, my lads, that one needs a friend, But who’d be a friend to me ? I’d not thought about God since I left the school As a lad to go to sea. And then I remembered a picture-card That hung on the old school wall — Christ wallring upon the stormy waves, And a saint I can’t recall. And the words below, ^ Be not afraid.’ Then I raised my eyes again. And the storm was hushed, and the Eastern sun Bose bright on a glassy main. And the ship hove in sight that brought me off. And I vowed I would faithful be In serving Him, the Sailors’ Friend, Who had done so much for me ; And I trust when the sea of death comes up, Which we aU know, lads, must be. If I have done aU that I could for Him, Pie’ll do what He can for me. S. H. G. EXTINCT ANIMALS. THE ICHTHYOSAURIJS. ^HERE was once a time when the temperature of the whole earth was far hotter than it is now, and tropical plants flourished even in the polar regions, now covered with ice and snow. Long before there were human beings in the world, before even the mammoth or mastodon ap¬ peared, the principal forms of animal life were fishes. Then came huge creatures, between fishes and reptiles, somewhat resembling lizards in structure, and called Saurians, from the Greek word for a lizard. The most gigantic of these strange inhabitants of the sea was the Ichthyosaurus, or fish-lizard. It had the body of a fish, with a long tail, having a fin below, and enor¬ mous jaws, like those of a crocodile, armed with rows of strong teeth ; but it was most remarkable for its immense eyes, which were larger than those of any other animal that ever existed. This tyrant of the deep was about thirty feet in length, and his voracity was so great that even the Plesiosaurus, a monster with a neck like a serpent, was devoured by him, as we know from the fragments aiscovered in the fossil remains of the stomach of the Ichthyosaurus. For the red sandstone has preserved everything. Though now so hard, it was once the soft sand of a sea-beach, and on it we can trace the foot-prints of the animals that walked over it, and even the rain-drops that fell on it in the days when this old world was young. A. R. JACK FROST IN ST. PETERSBURG-. From the French of Alexandre Dumas. ONE day I made up my mind to go out on foot. I armed myself from head to foot against the cold ; wrapped myself up in a huge great-coat of Astracan fur, pulled a fur cap over my ears, wound round my neck a Cachemire scarf, and thus ventured out into the street, having no part of my person exposed to the air but the tip of my nose. At first all went well ; I was astonished i;o feel the cold so little, and smiled to myself at the tales I had heard. As the two students on whom I called w’ere not at home, I set out on my return home, when I fancied that the passers-by looked at me Avith some anxiety, though no one spoke to me. By-and-by a gentleman, perhaps of a more talkative turn than the rest, said, as he passed me, ^Nofs.’* As I did not know a single word of Russian, I thought it hardly Avorth Avhile to stop for a monosyllable, so I walked on. At the corner of the next street I met a ioschik,t Avho drove his sledge fuiiously, but great as was his speed, he also thought it necessary to speak to me, and cried out, ^ Nofs ! nofs ! ’ Finally, as I entered the Admiralty Square, I found myself face to face with a mougick,J Avho did not say anything at . aU, but, taking up a handful of snow, threAV himself upon me, and before I could free my arms from their numerous Avrappings, he Avashed my face all over, and rubbed my nose especially hard. I did not see the joke, particularly in such Aveather, and getting one hand out of my pocket, I gave him a blow Avhich sent him spinning some distance. Tavo countrymen passed at that moment, and they, having looked at me for a moment, threw themselves upon me, and in spite of all I could do held my arms doAvn, Avhile my friend the mougick took up another handful of snoAv, and, as if determined to have his joke out, began rubbing as hard as ever. But if my arms AV’^ere not free, my tongue was, and thinking myself the victim of some mistake, or of some assault, I shouted for help at the top my voice. An officer ran up, and asked me who Avas annoying me. ^ ^ What, sir ! ’ I cried, Avith a tremendous effort ridding myself of the three men Avho, as if nothing had happened, quietly walked off doAvn the street, ^ did you not see Avhat those felloAvs Avere doing to me ? ’ ^ What were they doing ?’ ^ Why they Avere. scrubbing my face with handsful of snow ! Do you think such practical joking is in good taste, especially in such weather as this ? ’ ^But, my dear sir, they were doing you a great service,’ replied my new acquaintance, looking me straight in the face. ^ PIoAv, sir ? ’ ^ It seems to me your nose was freezing.’ ^ Good gracious ! ’ I cried, putting my hand to that feature. ^ Sir,’ said a passer-by at this moment to the officer ; ^ Sir, I beg your pardon, but your nose is freezing.’ ^ Much obliged to you, sir,’ replied my companion, as if he had been informed of the most every-day *No3e. t Sledge-driver. t Cab-driver.

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No. VIII. CHATTERBOX. 63 occurrence. Stooping down he took a handful of snow, and performed for himself the same service that I had received from the poor mougick whom I had treated so roughly in return for his good nature. ^ You mean, then, that if it had not been for that man - ? ’ ‘ You would have lost your nose.’ ^ Then, excuse me one moment.’ And I set oif at full speed after my mougick, who, thinking that I wanted to demolish him altogether, took to his heels ; so that, as fear is naturally more fleet of foot than gratitude, it is probable that I should never have caught my man, but that the bystanders, seeing him flying and me in hot pursuit, took him for a thief, and stopped his way. Coming up I found him holding forth with great volubility, and protesting that his only crime had been an excess of philanthropy. Ten roubles which I put in his hand explained my pursuit of him. The mougick kissed my hand, and a man standing by, who spoke French, advised me, in future, to take better care of my nose — an unnecessary piece of advice, for from that moment, until I found myself safe at home, I never once lost sight of it. A. Cx. ^ Why should I have to pay you for an act Avhich in the end you would have liad to perform without anybody’s orders ? What is the poor strange man to me ? ’ ^Indeed!’ exclaimed the porter, laughing; thought the sick man was closely connected Avith you, as you took so much interest in him. But look at the plate on my arm. I am No. 70, and I have promised the police authorities always to perform services which any one told me to do. So, great sir, it won’t do. You must pay mo five grosclieii, which is right according to my tariff’.’ The already large crowd of bystanders was in¬ creasing; they noAv burst into a loud laugh at the comic appearance and strange words^ of the porter. So the stout gentleman thought to himself it is best to cut the matter short, and give the rogue the money. He took out a heavy purse and handed him ten groschen. ^ That is generous ! ’ said the porter ; ^ generous, indeed, your honour ! I thank you humbly ! ’ But when he remarked that the gentleman^ was about to go aAvay, he seized him by the arm and said, — ^No, no, great sir! it won’t do yet! Now you have paid me, you must wait one moment longer, till the affair is at an end.’ Then he bent down to the sick man, handed him the ten groschen, and said, — ^ See, poor brother, this a poor porter gives you, who has seven little ones at home ! Now let’s see what the others will do for you ! ’ All who were present stood amazed ; but a moment after they burst out into loud expressions of praise at the poor porter’s generous action. Animated by this good example, each gave the poor sufferer Avhat he could afford. The stout gentleman put his hand into his purse, and did not count what he put into the sick'man’s hand. The porter’s deed had touched his heart. He wished to give him something, too, for his < seven little ones;’ but when he looked round for him he was nowhere to be seen. J. F. C. THE HOHEST PORTEE. ATOT long ago, in one of the most bustling streets of IM Berlin, a poor stranger was seized with an epileptic fit. A group of idle, inquisitive persons, soon gathered around 'the sufferer, who lay on the ground trembling, struggling, and beating about with his hands; but no one seemed to think of lifting him up out of the cold, muddy street, and taking liim beneath the shelter of a roof. Suddenly a stout, well-dressed gentleman came up, gazed at the unfortunate man, and said in a tone as if he were used to command half the world, — ^ Come, take the poor man up into a neighbouring house ! You are doing no good by standing gaping at him there ! Be quick ! ’ ^ That shall be done at once, my fine gentleman,’ replied a street porter who had just come up; ^but not unless you stay here yourself.’ ^ What has that to do with it ? ’ asked the grand gentleman, indignantly. ‘ That will I explain to you, great sir,’ continued the porter. ^ The likes of us has no right to go into a strange house ; but if such a grand gentleman a^ you is present, who knows so well ‘how to issue his commands to common people as to what they are to do from pure mercy, it will perhaps be all right.’ ^ Well, then, don’t stand any longer thinking about it,’ said the gentleman, ^ and set to work.’ The porter now carefully took up the suffering man and carried him into a house close by. At the gentleman’s request the proprietor not only permitted this, but brought several things to help the poor man, who soon recovered. Upon this the gentleman was about to depart. ^ ^ Stop, if you please ! ’ cried the porter. ^ Great sir, our people live on their earnings. Be so good as 1 to give me what you owe me for my services. You have ordered and I have obeyed.’ The gentleman scanned the porter with a proud look, and said, — SHOW. I^HE snow came whirling through the air, X Covered the branches once so fair. Covered the valleys, clothed the hills, Covered the frozen streams and rills. Bobbed the fields of their verdant tinge. Hung on the hedge a fantastic fringe : DoAvn it came whirling through the air. Whirling and dancing here and there. Now it came falling thick and slow. Flakes of a solemn, lingering snow ; Then it came eddying light and soft. Leaving with joy its home aloft. Borne on the wings of a gentle breeze. Played it around the spreading trees ; Merrily played with their branches bare. And settled down in contentment there, Or, seeking a home on the ground beneath, Beposed on the fields or barren heath.

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The iSuow Storm.

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No. IX CHATTERBOX 65

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No. IX, 66 CHATTERBOX. PE AS-B LOSSOM. {Continued from pane (iO.) CHAPTKU IX. HEN Pat and Paddy got into school it was easy to see some¬ thing was amiss. All the boys looked very glum, and not one would reply to Pat’s telegraphic signals to know vThat had oc¬ curred; and when Paddy, who was sitting next Carol, nudged and asked whether tl ere had been a shindy and if old Radley was in a wax, Carol told him crustily to ^ Hold his row and shut up.’ The curiosity of the Larks was naturally heated to boiling pitch by the sight of the burnt mattresses and bed-clothes in the playground, and when they saw Pat’s bandaged hands and the surly apnearance of the Pies they could hardly contain themselves. Strano-e to say, the story of the fire in the dormitory had not° got noised abroad in the town as yet, for generally any news, and especially bad news, tiew round the town like lightning in speed and like a snowball in the wonderfid way it grew as it went, till in twenty-four hours there was often no recog¬ nisin'’’ the first insignificant whisper; so that a tale falliiu’’ from the parsonage-roof one morning has by tlie next day gi’own into the alarming news that the whole roof had fallen in, crushing the vicar, his wife, and all his family. Put the fire at the Grammar School had not yet hecrun to be talked of, so the Larks were quite unpr^ pared when they came to school ; and it was not tfil midday t^iat it was known all over the town that the schooriiad been nearly burnt to the ground, and that several of the boys had been seriously injured, and that Joe, the odd man, had been so burnt that he had been removed to the hospital and was not expected to recover t which story was told to the sufferer himself, much to his amazement, that evening. ^ But the Larks had to wonder unsatisfied till prayers were over, and then they heard something that made them open their ears and mouths extra wide. They all felt that something aerioip was coming when Mr. Radley cleared his throat twice and looked round the schoolroom. The Pies, perhaps, knew what to expect, and were not any the more comfortable for that; and Mr. Carr looked solemn and important. , , , , 'You are too easy 'with the boys, Mrs. Radley used to say to her husband; and that morning she had said it repeatedly, for fire was her especial terror, and the danger of the night before weighed heavily on her mind, and led her to urge strong ineasui’es on her husband; and perhaps the recoUection of his wife’s words gave more severity to Mr. Radley’s face and manner as he locked round the room. ' i’lttrick and Philip Bright, come here ! ’ ^ Pat gave a quick, searching look at the Pies. Face after face drooped a little under his look, and the eyes turned away and would not meet his ; and he went up iind stood in front of Mr. Radley’s desk, trying to hide his bandaged hands behind him, and Paddy followed. , j ' I find,’ said Mr. Radley, ' that you and your brother were here last night ? ’ ( Ye^ sir. ' In tiie dormitory without my leave ?’ ' Yes, sir.’ 111 ' And that it was owing to you that the place was set on fii-e.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ■ ‘ Have you any excuse to maKe r ^ Pat gave a sudden look up into the master s face. ‘ It was a bit of fun, sir ; and we— I didn t mean to set the bed on fire.’ ‘ It was a bit of fun that I don’t mean to have re¬ peated,’ Mr. Hadley said; ‘and I shall therefore write to your father to ask him to place you at some other school, where I hope you may do better. As tor you,’ he added, turning to Paddy, ‘being younger, and influenced by your brother, I do not consider you 80 blameworthy, and therefore have no objection to your remaining at the school, if Mr. Bright It: but you will be detained during play-time for the next month, and I shall set you lines to occupy your time.’ , , The faces of the two boys at these words were a study to see. Pat turned white as ashes, whiter even than he had at Miss Pink’s, and stood quite still; while Paddy was crimson, and was aU in a work, edging up closer to Pat, and gettii^ hold of a corner of his coat, which he kept fingering, as he burst out, — .-0 4-1 T’rv. ‘ I’m not going to stop here without Pat I i m ^^And then Pat pulled his coat roughly out of Paddy’s fingers and said, with an odd tremble in his voice,— ‘ Shut up 1 Don’t be a fool ! ’ ^ What have you done to your hands ? said Radley, whose eyes had just then lighted on the ’’“Thiy« burnt,’ said Paddy. ‘They’re awfully bad with trying to put out the fire ! ’ ' Shut up ! ’ growled Pat again. Mr Radley in his heart of hearts was sorry for Pat, and wished that an outburst of excuses or re¬ criminations on the other boys might have thrown some fresh light on the matter and given him an excuse for miUgating the seventy of his sentence; but Pat’s silence made this difficult. But bs the two boys still stood there expecting something further he ^H^rphere are two parties in the school, I am told ? ' ‘ Yes, sir.’ ‘ Day boys v&i*sus boarders ? ‘ Yes, sir.’ . o > ‘ And you belong to the boarder party . i 0 Sir ^ ‘ No ? ^y, you were with them laat night ? * ‘ Y es sir.’ ‘ Weil,’ the master said, impatiently, * and you are great friends with them r” r • j t ‘No,’ said Pat, ‘they ar® not my fnends. 1 woiddn’t ^ve a thank-you for a set of cowardly sneaks for my friends!’ Pat was not pale any longer: the colour was bui’ning and blazing in his cheeks, and his eyes were

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bright with defiance at the Pies, who did not look in very high feather just then. electrified at the turn affairs had taken, and found it difficult quite to undei- ^*®® l^ave been suddenly e^®""??® *P°'^®'’^“’ champion was an unex¬ pected bit of good luck : but they did not know if the deserter meant to join their ranks at once, passint^ strmght from one party to the other, or if he meant to b® independent and wage war on Pies and Larks ^ ciugh, really, Pats line of action mattered ^red^'™^' that his days at school were num- Still, however, a thrill of satisfaction passed through the Larks as Pat went back to his place after a few more words from Mr. Hadley, and Wilkinson stretched out nis hand as he passed and whispered, — ‘I m awfully sorry, old chap.’ And when they saw one of Pat’s wounded members returning ^ilkmson’s grasp heartily, regardless of pain, they hailed it as a sign of his casting in his lot wth the Larks, though I do not think Pat would have refused the offer of such generous sympathy trom the bitterest enemy or the most utter cad. It certainly would have been more dignified of the ^rks to have held aloof from the Brights, after all the insulte and persecutions they had suffered at their hands, and not to have been ready to receive them with open arms as soon as ever they cast off their allegianp to the Pies; but then, as the Pies always said, the Larks were such shocking* cads -^ssons dragged very heavily that morning none of the boys were in working mood, and all had their minds much distracted by the events of the night before, and Mr. Radley himself was disturbed ^d put out, haying, as I have said, a liking for Pat, and a strong feeling against tale-bearers and sneaks. Pat was very subdued and quiet, except when he was brought into contact with any of his former allies, and then he blazed up a bit. But Paddy was like a young hedgehog, bristling in avery direction, ^d so tiresome, and restless, and obstinate, and con- teadicfory, that poor Mr. Carr was at his wits’ end to know what to do with him. During the play-hour after dinner Paddy had his lines to wnte out in the schoolroom, and Pat chose to stop with him, though he was free to go out if he hked; and he sat on the edge of a desk, swinging his pictures of Mr. BadJey, Mr. Carr, and all the Pies on the gibbets they so richly deserved, wrote opprobrious remarks on the bJack-board, and cut his initials very deep on Mr. Carr’s desk. ^ V’ ’ « I ' ^^y tion’t you just cut off home ? I don t see why you sliould bother about this jolly old hole of a school. I only wish they d give me the sack as weU; but they needn’t think I m going to stay. I shall just tell father.’ i at had been whisthng gloomily as Paddy spoke up to this point, but now he stopped*abruptly. It-s father,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t care a snap of the fing^er, but its father; he’ll be so awfully vexed, and I promised him and Aunt Bell Pd mind what I was about.’ It was not often that the two boys talked seriously • 80 rarely indeed, that now Paddy rubbed up all his . hair into a mop, and stared, leaning his elbows on the desk before him. of timt ? ’ ^ ^ never thought schoolroom door opened, and IS. Badley came in, with her little girl clinging* to her skirts, and piping shyly at the boys from behind ttat friendly shelter. Pat had only spoken to Mrs. Ra^ey twice since he came to Mudford, and on both ot tfiose occasions she had been annoyed at somethinn- ne had done : once he had thrown a ball in at one of the bedroom windows, and on another occasion had pt the gate into the garden off its hinges, and these two occasions had impressed him with the idea that she was cross and fault-finding, and what the Brights ^ unjust estimate of her character, as he now found out. borP J. 1 burnt your hands whjCt I can do with them.’ < getting all right, thank you,’ said Pat. Ihey weren’t so veiy bad after all.’ Let me see,’ she said, and came and sat down on the form by his side, and took his poor, sore hands in hers as gently and kindly as even Aunt Bell mio-ht have done, and that was highest praise ; wdiile little -Barbie twisted the corner of her pinafore and screwed up her mouth, peeping at Paddy to see if there were the materids for a game of play to be found in him. Ihough Paddy, as we have seen, w^as not by anv means in his best mood, he could not resist Barbie^ peeping blue eyes, so the paper on which those unluckv lines should have been written was rapidly converted f p another ] minute or two Barbie was driving a very kicking and plunging hors® up and down the schooh-oom, and ended p last m accepting a seat on the back of the same dangerous animal, and charging about over torms and desks in a manner highly .satisfactory to the rider herself, but rather alarming to beholders Meanwhile, I think Miss Pink would have been surprised to see how skilfully Mrs. Radley undid the P?*. ^“ds with those pretty white hands of hers, inflicting wonderfully Uttle pain on those poor, sore fingers. ^ ‘Poor boy!’ she said; ‘what a burn!’ And she looked into his face with such gentle pity that it brought tears rushing into those Irish blue eyes, as only kindness, and, above all, unexpected kind^iess, was apt to do, so that he had to keep them very wide open, and turn his head away and sniff, seeing that he could n^ use his disabled hands for a protection : but when she went on to say, ‘What will your mother say when you get home?’ all precautions were useless, and two big tears rolled down before he had time to stop them with his sleeve. Mrs. Radley had young brothers of her own, and did not seem to notice drops, though one of tliem fell on her own hand, while she went on dressing the biu’ns afresh ; and Pat found himself using her soft white handkerchief to dry his ridiculous eyes, with¬ out knowing that she had slipped it between his fingers on purpose : so he soon got the better of the weakness, and was able to speak in a tolerablv steadv voice. ‘ ®®®’’i'® ‘,'7® a"V mother; but, he went on quickly, to stop the look of deep

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The Teleosaurus.

Page 75

Page 76

70 CHATTERBOX. No. IX. pity in her face, which he felt was uncalled for, ‘ we\e a father, and you don’t know’ - ’ Here a break, and a good deal of swallowing. ^ ^ He will he sorry to see your hands so hurt,’ Mrs. Radley said, after a minute. ‘ It’s not that; it’s not the burns. I’d rather have been burnt all over. But perhaps you don’t know — perhaps old — I mean Mr. Radley — hasn’t told you that I’ve been expelled, and he’s goin^ to write to father and tell him ; and that’s worse than the burn. I promised him,’ Pat went on, — ^I’m so unlucky, you know, and always in hot water, and I got into a horiid scrape in the summer that might have led to all sorts of awful things, and I promised fatlier then that I’d mind what I was after. And Brian, too, before he went away, gave me a regular jaw; and Aunt Bell, though she never preaches, looks at one till one feels I don’t know what; and Honor, since Brian w'ent, has taken to that sorry Idnd of looJt that makes one feel what a brute one is. And as for father, I don’t know how I shall be able to 'stand it when the poor old governor comes down on Saturday, and looks so bothered, and worried, and patient.’ And here Pat subsided, with his head on his arms on the desk, for Mrs. Radley had finished bandaging his hands, and he was free to hide his face in them. Mrs. Radley was, as I have said, inclined to accuse her husband, when no one else was present, of being too easy vdth the boys; and that very morning her words had urged him on to that severity to¬ wards poor Pat which now seemed so grievous to her. She also used to say to her fiiends, with some pride, ' I make it a rule never to interfere between my husband and the boys. I do not always iinder- stand his reasons for treating them with seveiily or leniency; but I am sure whatever he does is quite right.’ And I think Mrs. Radley’s was a very wise rule. ^ -I • But few rules, however wise, are altogether with¬ out exceptions ; and as Mrs. Radley sat by Pat in the schoolroom she could not quite convince herself that her husband was right in his treatment of Pat, or think that he was easy enough on this occasion. ' Well,’ said Mr. Radley, a few minutes later, as his wife came into his study and stood silently by his side, with her hands on his shoulder ; ^ Well, has the wild Irish boy been trying some of his blarney on you ? ’ And then he looked up into^ her face, w^hich was very eloquent in its silence, with the soft dew on the eyelashes. Mr. Radley was very sorry for Pat himself, and all the morning had been seeldng for some good oppor¬ tunity, consistent with his owm dignity, to relent towards him, so it did not need any very powerful arguments to persuide him. ‘ I don’t like to interfere,’ she said ; ^ I wmidd rather not say a word : but he is so sorry, so very sorry, because of his father and the trouble it will cause him ; and besides,’ and here Mrs. Radley caught up little Bvirbie, still out of breath and laughing from her game with Paddy, and put her in her father s arms, * John, he has no mother.’ (To he continued.) EXTINCT ANIMALS. THE TELEOSAURUS, the extinct BRITISH CBOCOBIBE. river Ganges, in India, there is a huge reptile called the Gavial, or Garial, distinguished from the Egyp¬ tian crocodile by the extraordinary shape of its head and jaws : there is no other living species of crocodile like it ; but Britain once possessed a crocodile resembling that of the distant Ganges, and of even larger dimensions. The Teleosaurus, or ‘ Perfect Lizard,’ was a reptile of that remote period that preceded the age of the great elephants and tigers. It sometimes attained the length of thirty feet ; and the jaws, which had an opening of six feet, were shaped like those of the gavial, being long, narrow, and straight, till at ride extremity they widened out like the beak of the bird called the spoonbill. Its teeth were more nu¬ merous, and set closer, together, than those of the Egyptian crocodile ; and it was covered with plates on its under-side as well as on its back. Though it was longer and more slender than the crocodile of the Ganges, and the vertebrae of its back-bone were united by flat plates instead of a ball and socket, it resembled it more than any other animal. In those ages, so long passed away, when such monstrous creatures lurked amongst the reed-like plants of the rivers, and the forests of strange ti'ees were haunted by reptiles of still more vast dimensions, how different must the aspect of the country have been from what it is now, when the largest lizard is only two or three inches long ! A. R. THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. V. COOKHAM TO MAIDENHEAD. \ HE scenery from Cookham to Maidenhead is charming. On the right the boat glides under Clieveden Wtiods, growing on the highest bank against which the Thames flows from its source to its estuary. Excellent indeed, then, are Clieveden or Cliefden Woods, and very delightful does the palatial house standing in their midst appear, built as it is near the brow of the hill. In these lovely beechwoods picnics are frequently arranged for the Duke of IVestminster, who occupies Clieveden, and practically leaves the woods free to the public, while the house itself is fairly worth a visit. It can readily be seen when the Duke is away ; though, for that matter, his Grace is cmite willing to have the public about his grounds, which

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No. IX. CHATTERBOX. 71 ^retell in ^^I’ont of tlie house for miles— even down to Maidenhead Bridge. More than once he has invited London societies of working men and others to Cheveden, and has in their interest even organized athletic sports, he himself distributing the prizes. From the lawn in front of the house a beautiful stretch of scenery is beheld. The eyes range over the tree-tops to the river below, winding its silver course towards royal Windsor, where the castle, even at this distance, appears stately and strong. left, isTaplow; beyond it the beautiful cha^l of Eton College, throwing up its pointed spires Bray ^ village of . Maidenhead Bridge is a handsome structure, and It is celebrated for a capital echo. It is recorded tliat a young Insh boating-man was so astonished wrtu Its immediate and polite repetition of his ‘ Good mormng, that he is reported to have said he fuUv expected, ^ some fine day,’ that ^the elegant echo would reply, ^ The same to you, sir ! ” ’ The town of Maidenhead is a pleasant one. Here, after six years’ separation, Charles I. was aUowed to meet three of his children, the town being strewn with flowers and decked with gi*een boughs. The royal father and children dined and then drove to Caversham recently mentioned in these papers, and where the ,Parharaent had prepared a lodginrr. There the king and his children passed two days together. ^ Beavmg Maidenhead and continuing down stream in a short time Eton on one side and Windsor on the other attract attention. But before these great places become fully defined we reach Bray, and then Monkey Island. Bray is celebrated for its easy-going vicar, who, in the sixteenth century, changed his religion as readily as he w^ required. When Heniy VIE. threw off the Papal supremacy, so did this Vicar of Bray. He remained Protestant under Edward VI. ; at once re- canted when Mary came to the throne; and finally, when Mary died and Elizabeth was crowned, once more he declared for the Establishment, keeping his ■word— in accordance with the song still sung,^ * And this is law I will maintain Until my dying day, sir, — That whatsoever king shall reign, I’ll be Vicar of Bray, sir I ’ Monkey Island takes its name from the droll statues ot monkeys fishing which marks the buildings here. They were built by the third Duke of Marlborouo-h. IS’ow ^e noble chapel of Eton comes fairly Into ®^ve King Henry, of that name the c>ixtu I cries Shakespeare. And he deserves the wish as the founder of Eton, which he established in 1440 for the support of a provost, ten priests, twenty-five poor grammar scholars,’ and as many poor men ^ to pray for the soul ’ of the king, who was a devout Gathohc. Now aU is changed. The poor men, as ever, remain, but the poor grammar scholars have developed into seventy king^s scholars, while Eton has become the most aristocratic school in the world and always has upon its books from six to seveii hundred scholai-s, -whose parents or guardians pay very large sums for the education of their boys. (2o he continued.) SIR WILLIAM JONHS. was born in Lon- don, in the year 1746. His father was the child of ^ small farmer in the Isle or Anglesea, who gave his son the best education which his narrow circumstances allowed. Mr. J ones died in 1749, leaving- three children, the eldest, William, being three years old. Mrs. J ones determined ^rr.r. 1 ''' ^ttract lils youiig mind to the lore of knowledge by making it pleasant to him, and she questions by the reply, f r" ^ to which he often referred in after hfe. old the boy was able to read any ^nglish booh and m ks sixth year he learned the rudiments of the Latin grammar. When seven veai s Old he was sent to Harrow School, and at the age of twelve the extraordinary powers with which he was gifted became apparent. So great was his ardour in the acquirement of toowledge,that during the latter part of his residence at tins school he often passed much of the night in study, taking coffee to keep him awake. In 1764 he entered at University College, Oxford, and he there added a knowledge of Arabic to the vast store of classical lore which had abeady acquired. In the year 1765 he accepted the situation of private tutor in the family of Lord Spencer, and in the year foUowing w^as ap- pomted to a fellowship in the University. ^ J"® of Denmark, he trans- ^ Persian manuscript the , Shah; in 1774 he gave to the world his Commentaries on Asiatic poetry ; and in the end of the same year was caUed to the bar. In memo, anda drawn up by himself in 1780, he notes his intention of perfecting himself in twelve languages, -Greek, Latin, Itahan, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Hebrew, Arabic, Persian,^ Turkish, German, iSnglish, as the means of acquiring accui’ate knowledge of history, arts, and sciences. The most interesting period of his life was now approaclnng.^ In March, 1783, he received an appoint¬ ment to be a judge in the Supreme Court of Judicature ir- ^ m’- /“oiediately on his nomination he married Miss Shipley daughter of the Bishop of St. Asaph, to whom he had been long attached, and embarked gr that country, from which he was never to return. He died in the year 1792. THE MOSLEM SOLOMON. A CURIOUS PROBLEM. Three brothem were heirs to their father’s oxen, seventeen in number. By the Mohammedan law ? eldest brother was entitled to one half, the second to one third, and the youngest to one ninth of the whole number. As the animais could not be divided without destroying them, the subject was referred to the decision of Ali, the Commander of the baithful. The caliph added an ox to the number and then made the division. This gave eacli brother moi-e than his share — the eldest nine, the next six, and the youngest two— and yet left to the Pidnce the OX wiiicii he had added. — A'ew Yo7'k Post.

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CHATTERBOX. No. IX. Sir William Jones.

Page 79

In Trouble.

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74 CHATTERBOX. No. X IN TROUBLE. terrible trouble is baby ; ^ Full loudly he screams and he cries ; His brealrfast is lost, and replace it He cannot, — however he tries. The cup of warm milk all so tempting. Stood safe but a moment ago ; In his haste he leant over to grasp it. But instead threw it all down below. At once he burst forth into weeping. And heart-rending shrieks loud and shrill ; He saw not a land hand w’^ae near him The empty cup soon to refill. Dear baby ! too often we elders, liike you, break our hearts without need. And see not the Hand that provides us Our food in sweet harvests and seed. If a check ever lessens our plenty, And wasted our crops ever lie. Then, forgetful of all our past blessings. How hastily rises our cry ! Ah 1 dry we our blind^g tears, baby, Look up to our Father above. And patiently wait till He fills us Our cups in His mercy and love. ‘WE WILL ao WITHOUT YOU!’ From tlio French. The Society for the Encouragement of Good lately presented a medal of honour to the ladies G. and L., daughters of the Count of M., for having done the following brave action: — ^ Last year, at the time of the inundations of the Gironde, some poor peasants surrounded by the water, which kept advancing, cried aloud for help. ^The sailors, terrified by the rapidity of the disaster, and fearing for their lives, ref used all the supplications of the family of M. that they w'ould attempt a rescue, for it seemed to them impossible. Then the ladies G. and L. advanced towards a boat and said, — ^ We will go ■without ycu ! ” inspired by the heroic example which was ^ven them by the two ladies, the men made up their minds, and with the boats went to pick up the unfortunate families, who otherwise would have perished. * When the families were once in safety, the same men, still obedient to the same benevolent impulse, returned to save the animals and cattle. Thus not only the poor people had their lives saved, but they also had not to lament the loss of their humble for¬ tune. When the danger -was passed these guardian angels, to wdiom they were indebted for having es¬ caped the greatest calamities, did not feel that they had entirely fulfilled their task. They lavished on the poor folk the most touching care, provided for their most pressing wants, and tried by the kindest attentions to make them forget their sufferings.’ E. H. L DEEDS, NOT WORDS. DITH amd Kate Graham were girls of nine and ten years pld. They w^ere both clever, and had the keen love for some of their studies combined with the strong dislike of others which is a mark of many intelligent children, and which it is not alw^ays wise in their elders to be guided by, since children, as well as grown-up peo¬ ple, sometimes change their opin¬ ions on many subjects. Kate loved liistory, and enjoyed in her small way a discussion on tlm sins of Oliver Cromwell as contrasted with the virtues of King Charles I., as much as her father and his friends did an argument on tlie respective merits of Lord Beaconsfield and Mr. Gladstone. Edith, on the contrary, disliked history, and thought it Wery dry,’ and preferred geography and even sums, much to the ■wonder of her° sister. They had, however, one taste in com¬ mon. They were very fond of poetry, and when- the day came round on which it stood on the lesson- list they ■were glad. One day Edith had chosen the well-lmo^wn poem of * Cassabianca ’ for her piece, and having said it well, and enjoyed both the saying it and her mother’s praise when it was done, she laid down the book and saw that her sister had been listening whilst she repeated the verses. ‘ Do you like it, Kate ? ’ she said. ‘Like it ! ’ cried the excitable Kate; ‘I think it is splendid ! What would I not have given to be that boy ! To die such a noble death, and to be such a hero ! ’ ‘What do you call being a hero, Kate?’ said her mother, smiling as she watched Kate’s flushing cheeks and sparkling eyes. ‘ Oh, mother ! A hero ? Why, some one w^ho dies on the field of battle, or kills his enemies; or— or - ’ ‘ Is burnt up alive,’ said Edith quietly, supplying an idea. ‘But I fancy,’ said Mrs. Graham, ‘ that you rather miss the lesson ■w'hich the poem is intended to conv’^ey. What do you think, Kate, that Cassabianca died to prove ? ’ ‘Why, mother,’ said Kate, rather surprised that her mother could ask such a question, ‘ he died be¬ cause he was a brave, noble boy, and was not afraid even of such a dreadful death ! ‘ Well, I admire him as much as you do, Kate; but I still think you have not fully understood ■what is really the beauty of his character. All the heroes that I admire either suffer or conquer, or do great deeds for some particular end which they had in view ; not merely for the sake of showing how brave, or how clever, or how great they are. What, now, should you say was the reason that Cassabianca stood so bravely there, whilst the terrible fiame.s came nearer and nearer, and even until they wrapped him round in fire ? ’ ‘ His father told him to wait there,' said Edith, in her gentle voice.

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No.X. CHATTERBOX. 75 ^Yes,’ cried Kate, seizing the idea at once; ‘be died at the post of duty, and it was a splendid thing to do. I wish — I wish I was a boy, that I might be a soldier, and die on the field of battle, clasping the Queen’s colours in my arms, or fighting bravely for my country!’ * Well,’ said Mrs. Graham, smiling, ' as that cannot be, my Kate, you must try to bring your enthusiasm within the bounds of every-day life. There are plenty of opportunities given both to men and women to do brave things, and grand things ; more, perhaps, than you think. And do not forget that the beauty of Cassabianca’s heroic death was its o'bedtence. He died, as every hero worth the name has died such deaths as you admire, to prove his obedience.’ Karte blushed at this, for her bright, impulsive character, was just of the sort which finds obedience the hardest lesson to learn. ‘ Mother,’ she said, ‘ whenever I read or hear of things like this, I cannot help longing to have the chance of doing the same.’ ‘ Don’t be afraid, Kate. The wish is in itself a noble one; but remember, it requires a great deal that you have yet to learn to become a heroine, and the chance may come sooner than you think.’ A week or two after this conversation there came what Kate and Edith thought the most important as well as the most delightful event of the whole year — the annual visit to the sea-side. It was a month full of happiness and enjo)rment, and not the least exciting part of the whole was the preparation before¬ hand ; the deciding what to take and what to leave, what books it would be least hard to part with, what work materials were most necessary, or which of the baskets and treasures’ of various kinds it would be hardest to do without for one month. The weather was glorious, the sea blue, the sands most delightful, and the cliffs as grand as ever, in the eyes of fthe happy sisters. Captain Graham, their father, some¬ times took them out on boating expeditions, when they were allowed to fish for mackarel. One bright morning, to their immense delight, the two girls had coaxed their father into promising to take them on one of these short sea-trips. They went down to the place where boats were to be hired, and chose the one they liked best. ‘Now, girls,’ said their father, ‘you two can get in and arrange yourselves comfortably, and you must wait for me here. I have to go up into the town, but I shall be back in ten minutes. Don’t be up to any mischief, now, but whatever happens stay here. Sam, the boatman, will look after his boat and you too, so wait quietly tiU I return.’ Away went Captain Graham on his errand, and Kate and Edith took their places, asked many ques¬ tions of old Sam Salter, whom they had known for several years, and whose opinion on wind, weather, and fishing prospects, they held in much respect. A quarter of an hour went by, and Mr. Graham dirl not return ; then Sam said to them, — ‘ I hope the Cap’n won’t be long ; for the tide’s a- comiu’ in, and we might as well be off. We shall have a change before night; and it will not be all summer sailin’ by this afternoon.’ ‘ Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ said Kate. ‘ We shall come back to our dinner at two o’clock. Besides, it is a lovely morning, Sam; and the sun shines splendidly.’ ‘That it do. Miss Kate; but it’s not a-follerin’ that it should be always a-shinin’,’ said Sam, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘ But if you young ladies are not afraid of being left. I’ll just run up for a old tarpaulin o’ mine, which is kep’ up in my old woman’s cottage; and I’ll be down again before the Cap’n’s aboard.’ ‘Afraid, Sam ! ’ cried Kate, a little injured. ‘Why, your cottage is close by; and — and — we’re never afraid of anything.’ So Sam went for his tarpaulin, and the two girls talked, and planned, and arranged their hooks and lines, and forgot everything but the happiness of the moment ; the blue sky, the distant groups of children playing on the shore, the pleasant air, and the delight¬ ful prospect of the two hours’ fishing. Presently they were roused from their careless talk by feeling the boat move. They were very much startled, when again it lurched slightly, and then touched the sand with a grating sound. ‘ Oh, Kate 1 ’ cried Edith, seizing her sistePs hand. ‘ What is it ? ’ Again the boat moved, more decidedly; and the water rushed round it with a gurgling sound. ‘ I do believe,’ cried Kate, throwing aside her line, ‘ the tide is close to us ! Father said it was coming in. Oh, why did he leave us ? What can he be doing ? ’ And she started up, with her wonted energy and impulse. The boat gave a roll as she moved, and she again fell forward, nearly up.setLing her sister as she did so. Edith gave a scream, and clung to her. ‘ Kate ! Kate 1 ’ she cried, ‘ we shall be taken out to sea, and no one can save us! And Sam said the weather would change. There will be a storm 1 ’ she almost shrieked ; ‘ and we shall be drowned ! Oh, father ! father 1 ’ The cries and sobs of poor Edith aroused Kate’s stronger spirit. The boat was by this time completely floated, and she was wrought to a pitch of nervous excitement in its way as overpowering as Edith’s. ‘ Whatever we do it must be quickly done,’ she thought; and they were yet more terrified as the in¬ coming tide rolled a larger wave under the boat, lifting it higher in the water : so high, that this time it did not touch the sand again. ‘ Edith,’ she said, ‘ no one can hear us here. I see nothing of Sam, and father does not come. We had better get out whilst we can,^ and run to shore 1 Come, Edith, come I ’ she exclaimed, catching Edith by the wrist in her excitement ; ‘ we can do it now ! In another minute it will be too late, the boat will be out to sea I ’ ‘No, Kate, I cannot!’ cried her sister, sobbing bitterly. ‘ I cannot do it 1 Let go my hand, I shall fall backwards if you drag me so.’ ‘ Come this instant ! ’ cried Kate, climbing over the boat’s side as she did so. ‘ Edith, come 1 ’ ‘Father told us not to stir, whatever happened!’ cried her sister. ‘I must do as he said, Kate. Won’t you stiw, too ? ’ But Kai^, who was hanging to the side of the boat, had now no clioice but to let herself drop as the swaying of the water lifted it up. Her feet were in the water and she felt the beach. J ust then, as she

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76 CHATTERBOX. No.X. turned to run ashore, she saw her father beckoning to her to stay where she was, and running at full speed down the pathway on the cliff. She called to him with all her strength, and found too late how foolish she had been to leave the boat. The tide was coming in rapidly, and a long swirling wave lifted her off her feet, and she lost her balance and fell to the ground. In her fall Kate’s feet had become entangled in a long wreath of sea-weed, and she was thrown against a sharp stone, which grazed her forehead. The poor firl fainted, and knew nothing more until she found erself in bed, in the little room which she and Edith shared together. ' Edith ? ’ was the first word she uttered.^ Edith sprang forward with an exclamation of joy at hearing her sister’s voice. Captain Graham then drew near and stooped to kiss her. ‘ WeU, Kate,’ he said, ' what a fright you gave poor Sam and me ! What were you thinking about ? ’ . 1 ‘ Father— the sea— the boat! ’ she said, in a tearful voice. < The boat, silly little girl ! ’ said her father, smiling. * Why, did you not know that it was fastened to a stake ? Did you think I, or Sam either, would have left you in a boat unmoored, with the tide coming in, to di-if t out to sea alone ? ’ Just then Kate saw her mother standing close by, looking both sad and pale, for she had been inuch frightened wlien Kate was brought honae insensible. A tiood of recollections came over poor Kate, and she burst into tears. ‘Mother,’ she said, raising her head from the kind, encircling arms that were round her, ‘after all, Edith, who never says or thinks anything about being brave, was a real heroin© to-day. She sat still and stayed where father told her, and I was frightened and ran awav.’ ‘Never mind, my Kate ; next time you will say to yourself, “ Deeds, not words ; ” and I shall have two heroines in my family 1 ’ M. P. B. A BRAVE LITTLE PRINCE. A PRETTY story is told of the young son of Napoleon I., tlie child whose birth was cele¬ brated with such re joicing as ‘ King of Rome,’ and whose early death is hardly thought w'orthy of notice in history. The little boy lived with his grandfather, the Emperor of Austria, at Schdnbrunn. \V hen he was about six years old the Princess of Wales sent a present to the Emperor of a pair of young lions. Little Napoleon took a great fancy to these new pets, and often visited them, fed them, and caressed them, till they became very fond of him. The Emperor, naturally enough, had not so much time to make friends with these strange • playfellows, and one day when he asked to see the lions, little Napoleon thought he noticed an uneasy look on his grandfather’s face as they were let out of their cage. In a moment he ran up to the nearest lion and threw’ his arms round its neck, exclaiming,— ‘Now’, grandpapa, you inay come near j he shan’t touch you.’ II. A. F. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Continued from yog e 55.) THE PRIORESS. ‘ There was also a nonne, a Prioresse, That of hire smiling was ful simple and coy.’ UT few ladies were riding Ayith our pilgrims, and of these, the highest in position and character was Madame Eglentine, the Prioress. She. was accompanied by a nun wdio acted as her ‘ chapelleine,’ or chaplain, and three priests; so that she travelled in some state, as became so great a lady. _ She must have found the rude manners of some of the pilgrims a sad contrast to the peaceful quietness of the religious house over which she presided ; but she fitted herself to her circum¬ stances, and whilst preserving her dignity took pains to appear cheerful, and was always pleasant and amiable. She had a fair, broad forehead, a straight, w’^ell-shaped nose, and a small mouth with soft red lips. Her wdmple was folded round her face full seemly, and her cloak was very neat. On her arm she wore a pair of beads, the small ones being of red coral and the large ones green ; and thereto hung a gold brooch, bearing on it a crowned letter ‘A,’ under which was written the Latin motto, ‘ Amor vincit omnia^ or, ‘ Love conquers all things.^ And she was as w’ell taught as she w’as sweet looking; for she spolce French very properly and fairly, but it was after the school of Stratford-atte- Bow’, for French of Paris was unknown to her. At chapel' when she sang the Divine service, she intoned it full sweetly 1 And how well-behaved she was at meals, too! dipping the morsel nicely in the sauce without wetting her fingers much : for in her time forks were not used, so she had to make use of her fingers instead. And then she wiped her lips so clean before drinking, she left never a farthing of grease in her cup ! But, to speak of her conscience, she was so charit¬ able and piteous that she grieved if she but saw a mouse caught in a trap. She had several little dogs, small hounds, that she fed daily wdth roasted meat, and milk, and w’aste bread, and sorely w’ould she weep if a man struck one of them with a stick, or if any of them died, for she w’as all goodness and tenderness. Altogether, our gentle Prioress was a perfect lady ; and so our host, w^ho show’cd little reverence for the hunting monk or the merry friar, addresses her with the greatest respect, saying, — ‘My lady Prioress, by your leave, if I should not offend you, I would ask you to tell us a tale next. Now’ will ye vouchsafe, my lady dear ? ’ ‘ Gladly^ paid she, and went on to tell her story; which, as she was a religious lady, was about a miracle which w’as said to have happeued once. In those days there w’as an extreme dislike, amounting even to a positive liatred, of the Jews; and this un- II

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The Prioress. * Then there was also a nonno, a Prioresso, That of hire Rriiilin'jr wns ful simple and coy.* reuyonable prejudice made people believe the most liis h3^mn, and so his murderers were discovered and absurd stories of their wickedness. The good Prioress tells us about a little Christian boy who was killed by some Jews, because he sang a hymn as he was passing through their street on his way to school ; and that when they had hidden, his body, the little boy, by a miracle, still continued to sing punished. We know better now than to think people wicked merely because their religion is different from ours, for we know that there are good Jews as well as good. Christians. {To be contimied,)

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No. X. 78 CHATTERBOX. PEAS - BLOSSOM. (Continued from page 70.) CHAPTBB X. /HEN Mr. Hadley aimouiiced at the end of school-time that afternoon that he had agreed to let Patrick Bright remain on assurance of his future good behaviour, there was a subdued murmur of satis¬ faction from all the boys, Pies and Larks without exception, which swelled into three cheers when Mr. Hadley had left the schoolroom. The Pies were much relieved, as they had been suffering all day from remorse for their treason, and they now gathered round Pat, all eager to'excuse and explain their ^nduct, while the Larks watched to see wnether, now Pat was going to stay at Mudford, they might still count on him as a recruit to their party, or whetlmr he would forgive and forget the treachery of the Pies and con¬ tinue to be the active and ingenious enemy ot the Larks, w^hich he had proved himself ootore. But, however circumstances might turn ^ Larks, one and all, would rather have had Pat Bnght there as an enemv than have lost him altogether, "with all the fun and life and laughter he had brought with ^^T4t looked, for him, quite sheepish when Mr. Hadley spoke, and said, ‘ Thank you, sir,’ in a very mild and subdued tone of voice; and then became very busy collecting his books and strapping them tightly together, and he was quite silent during the chorus of explanations from the Pies. . j v ‘ You know that old Carr had smelt a rat, and ne gave Hadley the tip.’ ' Old Hadley must have seen you when you had hold of that mattress.’ , , , n ^ It didn’t want half an eye to see that he knew all about it really, though he kept it dark and went on pumping.’ ♦ * It was all Jones’s fault, he’s such a—; — ‘ It wasn’t! I never said a word 1 It was that ass Carol, he blabs out eveiything 1’ * Oh I it’s all very fine for you to tnlk 1’ Still Pat was silent, pulling with his teeth at the strap as if his life depended on getting the books a hair’s-breadth nearer together, and his face was quite unreadable to both Pies and Larks. a say. Bright, old chap 1’ Millet said ; rit’s all right, isn’t it ? You don’t bear malice, for we’re all in the same boat, and we’ve all come in for the row as well?’ ^ Bless your hearts,’ said Pat, ‘ I don’t bear any malice! It’s all right, and no bones broken!’ ^ You’re a brick and no mistake !’ said Millet, with great satisfaction. ‘ Three cheers for Pat Bright !’ The Larks had had enough of this, and began to move off. ^ Much obliged, Pm sure!’ said Pat, with rather a gi’im smile. ^ A..nd now I’ll ask you to give three more while you’re about it for my friends — the Larks.’ He made a pause before the two last words, and tliey made so sure he was going to say the Pies, that some of that party were already embarked on the hip hip, hip,’ in their honour, and looked uncommonly foolish at the unexpected termination, and Millets hand dropped from Pat’s arm as if it had been stung, ‘ You mean to cut our company, then ? he said. ^ Yes,’ answered Pat, cheerfully. ‘ I think I men¬ tioned it iust now to Mr. Hadley, if you happened to be listening. I’ve not got even a hnger in the Pie now, nor Paddy either. Hullo there, Wilkinson I can’t you stop for a fellow ?’ ' You’ll have to mind the League and Covenant, Carol called after him, as Pat left the schoolroom with his new friends, ostentatiously slipping one arm through Wilkinson’s, and calling Webber ‘old chap ‘ Ay, what were you remarking ? Bidn t like tp be done brown, eh ? Well, it’s very natural in Pies to be crusty— isn’t it, Webber ?’ ‘ You’U have to mind the League and Covenant if you’re a Lark,’ repeated Carol. ‘Most -appy. I’m sure,’ replied Pat; ‘as its my ’abit to drop my A’s. So now, then, young tartlets, do your worst ! ’ .v. . i And with that Pat took himself off into the play¬ ground with Paddy and an admiring train of Larks ; and before the discomfited Pies saw what he was about, or could take steps to prevent it, he had md the enemy into their very citadel — the end of the ^ round, which the Pies, under Pat’s leadership, jontested in many hard-fought battles, and tore down the Pie flag, which had fluttered proudly aloft through many desperate attacks of the Larks, and as many gallant repulses. This flag had been made by Molly and Nora under Pat’s directions, and represented a ferociousdooking yellow lion on a crimson ground, dancing frantically on one leg, surrounded by sun, moon, and stars. ^ And this flag, that had been the pride and glorification of the Pie party, and of Pat in particular, was now torn down, crumpled up, and kicked round the muddy playground before the very eyes of the Pies, who gazed helplessly at this act of defiance from the schoolroom windows, too much taken by surprise to offer any resistance or revenge the insult.^ ^ For the next few days Pat’s friendship^ with the Larks was simply outrageous, and flaunted in the face of the irritated Pies at eve^ opportunity. The Larks were quite elated at their new acquisition, and gave themselves such airs as had never been known in the annals of Mudford School ; and the Pies did not seem to have the spirit to keep them in their proper place. ^ ■. t i Pat was, of course, quite a hero among the Barks, and Paddy also came in for a good deal of glorifica¬ tion. They were always accompanied on their w,ay home by a party of admiring friends. Wilkinson was anxious, if they would have agreed, to undertake all the lines which had been imposed on the Brights for their escapade on the fifth. They were invited to tea at half-a-dozen different houses whenever they liked to go ; kmives and pencils, tops and catapults, were pressed upon them as loans, since they would not take them as presents ; and they might have con¬ sidered themselves free of the grub-shop to tuck in as much as they liked ; and they might even have bor¬ rowed pocket-money to almost an unlimited extent, if such had been their wish.

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No. X. CHATTERBOX. 7D But after the first week or two the ardour of this friendship rather subsided, as is apt to happen with friendships founded merely on pique. Pat decidedly dis¬ appointed the Larks as a leader. Pie was very much on his best behaviour just then, and anxious to please Mr. Radley, and show that he could be trusted ; and he wished to get a decent report to show to father at Christmas, and so he was not so reckless in fun and mi.schief as he had been with the Pies : and then he had a wav of sneaking off now and then to see Mrs. Radley, which seemed contemptible to the other boys, and tiresome when they wanted him to do something else. And he would not let any one speak of her as old Mother Radley in his healing, which was regarded as squeamish and fanciful on his part ; and as for any of the practical jokes on Miss Pink, which had been hitherto an every-day amusement with the Grammar-school boys, he flew into such a rage at the idea of tying a dead cat on to her knocker that that exquisite bit of fun was abandoned. Pat, on his side, though he was not particularly aristocratic in his notions, did not And the Larks veiy much to his taste ; and there was not one of them he liked as well as he had done Millet, with whom he was inclined to become great chums, which made his feeling about the treachery of the Pies all the more hitter. So Pat did not make such a Lark as might have been expected, and as he was not so aggressive as usual, party matters became quieter as the term drew near its end, and there was nothing interesting enough at school to put the Ogre’s castle out of Pat’s head. Every day as he passed the high walls and close-shut door added to his curiosity and his wish to know what was concealed behind, and as Christmas drew near, and over those close palings he saw the mistle¬ toe lianging in great hunches from the mossy branches of the apple-trees, while Nora and Molly lamented that not a bit was to be found on any of the trees in the garden, or at Aunt Bell’s either, his Angers quite itched to have the cutting of some of those pearly spoils. ^ Molly,’ he said, one day, ^ what will you give me if I bring you a bit of mistletoe from the Ogre’s orchard ? ’ * There’s high walls,’ said Molly, more sensible than grammatical. ‘ With broken glass at the top,’ added Nora. ‘And hooked nails on the palings.’ ‘ And fierce dogs.’ ‘ And man-traps and spring-guns.’ ‘ And the Ogre.’ ‘ And the ghost.’ ‘All the same,’ said Pat, ‘Lwill get that bit of mistletoe.’ ‘Nonsense ! ’ said Honor, which qxiite decided Pat that it should be done. CHAPTER XI. In these short, dark December days, the gas had to be lighted in the schoolroom before afternoon lessons were half over ; and by the time Pat and Paddy set out on their way home it was quite dark, and some¬ times so dark, that if their way had not been very plain-sailing and straight, they might easily have missed it. But on the afternoon succeeding the conversation described in the last chapter a little light was thiown on the matter by a pale, watery moon, that looked peevishly out now and then from among the ragged clouds, and then hid her face again in a hurry. It had been wet and gusty all day, and little sharp scads of rain fell now and then, and the roads were very heavy with mud, and so, in consequence, were the boys’ gaiters; and, as Pat said, there was only just light enough to see a puddle when you were in the middle of it. It was not an encouraging night on which to seek adventures, but nevertheless, when the boys reached the Orchards Pat made a decided halt. ‘ Come on,’ said Paddy. ‘I’ve an engagement here,’ answered Pat. ‘Oh, bother it all! whatever’s the good.'’ You know it can’t be done.’ ‘ Difficulties,’ said Pat, ‘as Peter’s copy-book informs us, are made to be overcome. Patience and perse¬ verance conquer all difficulties : and besides, it’s a point of honour to get some of that mistletoe.’ ‘ Bother your honour ! ’ grumbled Paddy; ‘and the mistletoe, too ! ’ ‘ Well, lay hold of my books and cut along home,’ said Pat, ‘ and I’ll taclde old Fee-Fo-Fum by my¬ self.’ ^ Of course, Paddy would never have agreed to this, and Pat knew that he would not. ‘The wall is certainly a poser,’ said Pat. ‘We must try the palings.’ The palings vyere nearly as discoura^ng ; for, though the boys examined them carefully all round the or¬ chard, as indeed they had often done before, they could not find one that did not bristle with spiteful-looking nails. ‘ No go !’ said Paddy, with some satisfaction ; ‘ and I’ve been thinking, Pat, it’s uncommonly like stealing to take the old chap’s mistletoe.’ ‘ And it seems to me, Paddy, uncommonly like the grapes bein^ sour ; and it’s very easy to be honest with aU those jolly old nails in between. Here goes I ’ And with that Pat took off his trencher-cap and threw it clean over into the orchard. ‘I say,’ said Paddy, ‘whatever did you do that for? ’ ‘ The die is cast ! ’ said Pat, striking an attitude. ‘ And it’s got your name inside it ! ’ ‘That’s just it. The rubicon is past. You see, I must get my cap now or perish in the attempt ; and if any one malces any impertinent remarks, I can say I only came to fetch my property. So just give me a back up.’ So Pat climbed up on Paddy’s shoulders, and from there managed, as only a cat or Pat Bright could have done, to find a place on the palings where he could plant a knee free of nails, and then Paddy heard a lunge, a tear, and a low cry of, ‘ Oh murther 1 ’ and y the moon that struggled out just then he saw that Pat was gone. ‘ Here I am,’ whispered Pat through the palings, ‘ all right : but those murtherin’ old nails have damaged my trowsers no end! It’s uncommonly lucky it’s so dark, or I might feel modest. Hush!' (7'o be contirmed,)

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Page 87

Pat getting a Cropper ” on the Ice.

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82 CHATTERBOX. No. XI. PEAS-BLOSSOM. {^Continued from page 79.) 'LL round the orchard where Pat found himself there was a path, moss-grown and stained wdth damp, with the shadows of the twisted and distorted ap¬ ple-trees lying across it in strange, weird shapes, dis¬ tinct one minute in the moonlight, confused and dim the next from the ^ Y clouds ; and on this path, not a couple of yards from where his juinp had landed him, lay his trencher cap. But before he had time to catch it up, or make a grab at the mistletoe close over his head, or give a thought how he should get hack over the palings, which was indeed a matter of some difficulty, seeing that there was no Paddy on that side to give him^ a hack up, he saw a figure coming along the path with an almost noiseless step. Pat was not nervous, and had so often dressed up and acted the ghost for Peter’s advantage, that he had become hardened in such matters, and it required some¬ thing very appalling to make his blood run cold and his hair'stand on end (which, by the way, it always did) ; but I must confess, that at the sight of that approaching fi(»-ure, with the bowed head and noiseless step, the memory of the ghost reputed to haunt the Orchards came forcibly into his mind, and made him wish that he was not divided from Paddy by such high palings ; and when, in a patch of open moonlight, he saw the figure stop and wring its hands together and heard it utter a groan, exactly in the manner attributed to the ghost, his heart beat quicker than was quite com¬ fortable. But the next minute Pat was assured, though even being sure it was not the ghost was no great comfort, seeing that' it proved to be the Ogre himself, from whom only a few yards separated Pat. Yes, it was the Ogre ! There were the bent shoulders and long, gray hair; his face looked ghastly in the moonlight, and his eyes were fixed on the ground as he walked. It w'as not a pleasant position, for though Pat drew close to the trunk of a tree, and hoped so to escape observation, there, in the Ogre’s very path, lay the trencher-cap, square, and black, and distinct, as if courting the notice of those downcast eyes. Pat held his breath and turned cold, as he watched the Ogre come up to the cap and stop. For a minute he stood motionless, looking down at the cap, while Pat’s pulses beat like minute^ J^uns, and then the Ogre took a step to one side to avoid the cap, and passed on as slowly and noiselessly as before. Pat could hardly believe his senses ; and, as he straightened himself up from the crouching position he had kept by the appWtree, he could not take his eyes from the old man’s figure, slowly passing away between the trees, with the moonlight now and again touching the bent, gray head and stooping shoulders, and he was so absorbed in watching him that he started, as he said, nearly out of his skin, when a voice close b.' hind him said, — ^ What are you doing here ? * . , It was a boy of about Pat’s height, standing close to him, and Pat could just make out that he had a dark face and great, wondering eyes. Pat was too startled to answer at once, and the boy repeated his question, adding, ^ And how did you ffethere?’ ,. , ^ I came to fetch my cap, and I got over the palings. ^ There are nails in the palings.’ ^ ^ < Yes,’ said Pat, inspecting the hole in his trowsers, ruefully ; ‘ so I found. ^ ‘ Didn’t you see the notice boards r , . - ‘ Yes,’ said Pat; ‘ I think I observed something of the kind.’ , u -u^ ^ Didn’t yeu see on them that trespassers would bo prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law ? ’ ‘ Yes ; but you see I didn’t know what the utmost rigour of the law might be, so I didn’t care.’ ^ ^ How did your cap come over here ? ^ 1 threw it over.’ t 'Wliat for ? ’ ^ Is there anything else in a small way you’d like to ask ? I think I’ll ask you a question or two by way of a change. Was that your governor that went by r * My what ? ’ * Your father ?’ <No; my grandfather.’ * Would he be in a wax if he found me here r ‘In a what?’ ‘ Would he be angry?’ i Yes.’ ‘ I was in a jolly funk when I saw him come up to my cap. I thought it was all up, and my goo^ cooked ; but he went on after looking at it as if he were in a dream.’ ‘ I don’t suppose he noticed it.’ ‘ What a rum start to be sure I ’ The boy looked puzzled, and Pat went on, — ‘ You see, I threw my cap oyer on purpose, because I wanted to come. It was a kind of a bet ; every one said I couldn’t, and so I did.’ ‘ How did you mean to get out ?’ Pat looked round at the high palings, doubtfully. ‘ I didn’t think of that ; that is a poser ! ’ ‘ Would you like to go out at the door ?’ ‘ Rather 1’ said Pat. ‘ I’ll let you out ; but you must come as quietly as a mouse, • so that my grandfather, and Cann and Goody, may not hear you. And you had better come quickly, for the dogs are barking, and Cann will think something is wrong.’ , • , . The boy had a pretty, soft voice ; but he spoke in a prim, formal way, like a fellow in a story-book, Pat thoun-ht, and he did not seem to understand a word of slang ; and ‘ yet he does not look altogether like a muff,’ decided Pat, ‘ and I think I could hit it off pretty well with him.’ While, on his part, the^ boy looked at Pat as a sort of new and amusing animal, speaking a peculiar kind of language which he could not easily understand, and doing all sorts of odd, un¬ accountable things. And yet he returned Pats liking, and with that strange sort of instinctive fellow- feeling which exists between boys, even when brought up in utterly different circumstances, he resolved to help him to escape the displeasure of his grandfather and Caim.

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No. XI, CHATTERBOX. 83 ‘ You^re a brick!’ said Pat, encouraged in his slano- by the way it puzzled his hearer. 'Then you won’t fipilt on me to the governor?^ ‘ I will let you out at the door, if that is what you mean,’ said the boy. ^ Pat had recovered his cap by this time, and as the moon was behind a cloud and it was dark, the bov took Pat s hand and led him as one girl might another, but not a hit like two boys. ^ Hold hard y said Pat suddenly, when they were nearly out of the orchard. * I wish you’d give me a bit of mistletoe. I promised my sister to bring her a bit, but i addy smd he thought it was stealing when he saw the hooked nails; but if you gave me a bit it would be all right. Just a little bit wiU do: we’ve of it^’ and the girls think so much ' You can have as much as you like of it,' said the boy, but it 8 so dark, we can’t see to find it. There IS ^me on this tree, I know, if I can reach it.’ The mistietoe was found and a great bunch cut, and Pat could hardly restrain his feelings of satisfaction, but as they were near the house and the dogs were making a tremendous noise he was obliged to bottle them up for future expression. Then the boys went on together hand-in-hand ^ong the dark garden path. As they passed the back of the house a door opened suddenly, letting out a blaze of light, and a woman stood black against it peering out into the darkness. Master Pa,y!^ she called in a shrill, cross voice. Master Pay! what be at out there in the cold and damp, and tea waiting ?’ ^Fm coming directly, Goody,’ answered Pat’s com- panion, when I have been round to the dogs.’ ' What a noise them brutes is making ! There’ll be some tramps about, I’m thinlring.’ ' Silence, Pilot ! Lie down. Skipper ! Kennel, Fury!’ The dogs left off barking at their young master’s voice, but still protested with low growls Fat’s presence as the two boys passed by. There were bolts and bars to be undone at the door, and when at last it was open, and Pat would have said a few parting words of thanks and a wish to meet again, the boy— Master Pay as the woman bad called him— would not give him time for a word but bid him quickly 'Good-bye’ and shut the door again, leaving Pat outside with the big bunch of mistletoe in his hand, looking about for Paddy, and listening to the sound of the bolts being drawn again and the boy’s footsteps going away up the path. CHAPTER XII. You can fancy with what triumph Pat carried that bunch of mistletoe home, and how he mystified and excited every one with his description of his adpntures in the Ogre’s castle, so highly coloured and improved that at last Honor declared she did not believe that he had been in at all, though Pat called 1 addy and the bunch of mistletoe and the hole in his trowsers as witnesses to the truth of his story; and was inclined to doubt his description of the Ogre having fiery eyes and a tail, and the doo-s haVlTIO* fVlVQQ ^ of romance, and they tried hard to persuade Aunt necessary the Ogre, to her party after Christmas, as a natural sort of way of making his acquaintance. ^ disenchanted hy having precincts, it only seemed to add to his interest. Paddy could hardly get him past the Orchards going to or coming from school, so anxious was he to catch sight of his new friend: but though he loitered about the road and round by the pahnga, and watched the green door till Paddy got cold and impatient and angry, his patience was never rewarded, and when after a week of disappointment he s^moned up his impudence and rang at the bell by the door, and mquired in an insinuating way if he could see Master Bay, after being made to repeat his question six tunes by a deaf old woman, till the last time he yelled it out as if he were hailing a ship at sea, she told him to be off or she’d ‘ speak to the penice, and slammed the door in his face. Put 1 at’s interest was not to be put an end to as abruptly as his conversation with the cross old woman wu rooted that it survived even ^J'^^^ristmas holidays. The examinations did not put it out of his head, though he was really try- tJ?®™ ; the last tremendous game of football before breaking-up, though Pat went lame tor a week after m consequence of liis frantic exer- taons, WM not half so absorbing; the turkey that Aunt Bell sent to Miss_ Pink was a trifle in comparison, chose it himself from the gobbling troop at the Grove, and superintended its feeding for the iMt few days of its existence, and took an active part at Its execution and in picking its feathers, and carried it into Mudford in triumph with his own hands. Bven when the holidays had fairly begun and he no longer passed the mysterious Orchards twice every day,_the thought still haunted him in his dreams by night and m his waking thoughts by day; he took It out rabbit-shooting with him, but not even the excitement of firing off a gun could drive it away; It followed the foxhounds with him over hedges and ditches, with a jump here and a tumble there and a scramble everywhere, and was in with him at the death when he got a pad for his pains, and in all his toumph only regretted that he could not show it to rrmce Mistletoe. Aunt Bell’s New-year’s party was quite perfect, of course, but even that would have been better if the Ogres grandson had been there; and this broim-ht down upon Pat a storm of indignation from the i^st of the family, who considered it treason of tlie deepest dye to hint that anything to do with Aunt JJell was capable of improvement. The faintest shade of discontent was so new in Pat, that it could only be explained by the idea that the old wizard at the Orchards had cast a spell over him, and, to punish him for his trespassing, had made a wax image which he 'would, torment in various ways — by runnin*^ red- hot pins into it or melting it slowly in front of the hre, and that everything that was done to the imao-e would be felt by Pat in the flesh ; and though Pat declared that he did not feel red-hot pins runnino*

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Pat meeting the Ogre himself. But when the snow came down and the frost De^^’an the wizard’s spell seemed to have less ^wer, ind Pat thought less of the Orchards and Prince Mistletoe. Whether it was that he built the thought lip in the gigantic snow-man on the lawn, or flung it iway in that furious cannonade of snowballs with which he and Molly defended the snew fort in the oaeadow against the desperate assaults of Paddy, N'ora, and Pet^; or whether it was shaken out of him in the first tremendous cropper he came on the ice, I cannot say ; but certain it is, that by the end of the holidays he thought almost as httle of the mys¬ terious giver as he thought of the mistletoe he had given, which had turned yellow and shnveUed on the nail in the beam. ^ ^ x -uu 4. The frost came just when it ought that winter, that is, in the holida3^s. Other yearfe it had come in an inconsiderate way in school-time, and only lasted o

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Wiiulsor.

Page 92

86 CHATTERBO:?^. No. XI. 1 day or two, without giving any one a chance of learning to skate, and had thawed altogether by the time the holidays came ; and if the hoys on a half¬ holiday had struggled up to Kegent’s Park or the Serpentine, they had barely time to get their skates on and tumble down once before it was time to come away ; and they got so hustled and pushed about that they hardly knew if they stood on their head or their heels, though they might safely have concluded that it was the former. But now John Keith took them in hand and set them going ; and there was the piece of water in his park Edways at their service, and swept clear of snow, and watered every evening while the frost lasted. * Awfully slippery ! ’ as Molly complained as she just tottered on her skates, as if that were a new and unexpected defect in ice ; and she and Nora de¬ cidedly gave the preference to the small and very rough pond at Kelburn Lodge, of which one end had been broken up for the benefit of the ducks, and where they solemnly sailed about between a couple of chairs till they were more at home on their treacherous footing. The frost began on New-year’s Day, and lasted unbroken tiU the end of the holidays ; and frost and snow mean fun, at least to the young Brights, and such as they ; though, I fear, they mean trouble and poverty, and sickness and hunger, to many. {To he continued.) THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. VI.— WINDSOE. * Thy forest, Windsor, and thy green retreat, At once the monarch’s and the muses’ seat.’ [( OPE thus writes of "Windsor, which has been the central home of the English kings probably during a thousand years, and certainly over eight hundred. The nucleus of the present pile was built under Ed¬ ward III. by William of Wykeham, "who founded Winchester School. This architect received a shilling a-day for his work, and he and the king had a difference as to whose name should be engraved on the walls as the builder. The bishop-architect carried the day. Various sovereigns expended vast sums on Windsor palace-castle. Elizabeth added the fine north terrace, George III. restored the great chapel of St. George at his owm expense, and George iV. ob¬ tained an enormous sum — nearly a million sterling — from Parliament to make the interior more comfort¬ able for the persons employed about the court. AVhen the Queen is not residing at Windsor the castle may be freely visited. It is full of interest, from the splendid stables to the noble terraces w'hich surround the castle, from the beautiful St. George’s Chapel to the great K«und Tower, from the top of which one can, in very clear weather, see over por¬ tions of twelve counties — Middlesex, Essex, Herts, Bucks, Berks, Oxon, Wilts, Hants, Surrey, Sussex^ Kent, and Beds. St. George’s Chapel — a very beautiful building — ia now used for royal marriages, the last prince married there being the Queen’s third son, the Duke of Con¬ naught. The crypt of St. George’s has been used as a royal burying-place for more than three centuries, and after the custom ceased of burying the sovereigns of England and their familiee in Westminster Abbey. The last prince of the loyal family who died, however, was not buried herej but at Frogmore, where the Queen has built a magnificent tomb-house, or mau¬ soleum, over the remains of Prince Albert. But his memory will be kept more vivid at Windsor than even at Frogmore by the beautiful Albert Chapel, upon which her Majesty has laid out vast sums, with the result of converting it into a complete architectural gem. This building had previously been called the Wolsey Chapel, having been intended and prepai*ed by the powerful cardinal for his place of burial. Windsor Castle stands in Windsor Great Park, beyond which is the deer-haunted forest, fifty miles in circumference and sixteen across. In the park are to be found some of the finest trees in Europe, while in the direction of Cher tsey lies Virginia Water, a lovely tree-bordered piece of clear water, where the children of the royal family first learn to angle. To return to the Round Tower. From its summit, amongst other places, we may see Burnham Beeches,- also Beaconsfield, whence the Premier takes his title, and where the great Burke lies buried. Great Hampden is also to be seen, the birth-place and burial-place of the patriot of that name. Runny- mede with Magna Charta Island are readily observed, and also Cooper’s Hill, rising in the heart of that same Windsor Forest where Pope passed his earlier years. We may always know when the Queen is in residence at Windsor by the Royal Standard flying at the head of the great tower, while it is furled and never seen when the Court is away. When the Queen is absent from Windsor the state apartments can always be seen. The chief works of art are to be found in the Waterloo Gallery and the Vandyke Room. The Castle Ten-ace, 2500 ft. in length, is the finest walk of its kind in the world. It surrounds the castle on three sides, and yields a most delightful prospect. The walks in and about Windsor baffle description. Whether we wander through the low-lying meads, where Sir John Falstaff was trundled out of the wash-basket into the Thames, or make our way under the noble trees in the park ; whether we take our way up or down the river, or break away into the forest — all roads are equally delightful, and made bright beyond themselves by historical associations. The fine old oaks are very remarkable. Herne’s Oak, however, mentioned by Shakespeare, was blown down about twenty years since. The Queen had a number of articles made from the wood. Vast trees, lovely glades, now and again a red-roofed village, and ever the great frowning Round Tower in the distance. Such is Windsor. Nor should the royal town be left without a visit to the Tapestry Works, recently opened under the royal auspices at Old Windsor, while Eton itself affords many delightful nooks and pleasant walks. (To be continued.)

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No. XI. CHATTERBOX. 87 A LOYAL YORKSHIRE GIRL. gkHEN Charles I. was ’being* con¬ veyed south by the Scotch, that they might deliver him into the hands of his enemies, he spent a night at Leeds. lie was lodged in the Red House there, so called because it was built of brick. It was the first house in Leeds made of brick and not of wood. A maid -servant at the Red House, pitying the captive king, found a quiet moment in which to suggest to him that he should disguise himself in a dress and cap of hers, and escape by a back alley, to which she would guide him. * I have a friend in the town,’ said the loyal maid, *at whose house you may be sheltered till a chance offers to reach the coast and make for France.’ Charles was deeply touched by the offer; but seeing small chance of success in the plan, he de¬ clined it, placing at the same time in the woman’s hand, as a token of gratitude, the only insignia of Royalty left him — the Order of the Garter. *I may never be able to redeem this pledge,’ he a;dded, ^ but in days to come my son doubtless will : so keep it safely.’ ^ And then the Scotch hurried him forward to meet his foes, and the maid never more beheld her king. We all know hjs unhappy end. Months and years ]^t, and England was in all the excitement of the Restoration, when a country¬ woman p^resented herself before the now king, Charles H., laying at his feet the memorable Order of the Garter given her so long ago. ^ Whence do you come, my good woman ? ’ asked the monarch, fresh from his triumphant ride through rejoicing London. * From Leeds, your Majesty,’ was the answer. And^ then her story was told in full. * Maid or wife ? ’ asked the Idng. ' My husband is imder-bailiff in Leeds,’ said the good woman, modestly. * Call him no more underling to any man,’ said the king, ^ but let him be chief bailiff in Yorkshire from this day.’ His father’s friend in need was thus nobly honoured. If only the merry monarch had had high principles to match his kindly heart, England might have rejoiced in a noble ting; whereas we all know the sad slory of his pleasure-loving court and seK- indulgent life. H. A. F. A YEAR’S POOD POR LOHDOH. A FEW years ago Dr. Andrew W’ynter calculated that if all the barrels of beer drunk in London were piled together in Hyde Park, they would form a thousand columns nearly a mile in height. Then, if we were to imagine ourselves standing on this pile, we must suppose we saw in one direction a long herd of oxen approaching. Whilst the first was nearing the bottom of the pillar, the last would still be as far away as Peterborough. On another road we might fancy we saw a thick mass of sheep coming on, ten abreast, and the sheplierd and his dog with the end of the flock would still be at Bristol, 121 miles from our pillar. Another road for seven miles and a half would be thronged with calves ; whilst by another a herd of swine, stretching over nine miles, would be crowding into London. All these were but enough to satisfy the hunger of London for one year. All the birds sold for the table during the same time would, if they were to fly close together, cover a square space of fifty-one^ acres. All the hares and rabbits eaten in the same time would, if marching in lines of 2000, extend at least a mile. Then if we had piled together all the quartern loaves consumed in London for the same time, they would make a pyramid nearly one hundred yards square, and more than twice as high as St. Paul’s Cathedral. As London is always increasing in size, no doubt this picture is now a good deal under the truth. A. R. B. OH BOARD THE ‘SURPRISE.^ [ HE ship might well be called the Sur¬ prise,^ for it did indeed contain a surprise, no less than an unexpected passenger who had not paid for his passage, and would not have been allowed a berth on board had the master known of his presence. The Su7‘prise was a small vessel on its way back from Port Natal in Africa, where it had been laden with wool and hides for England. On account of its small size it was able to cross the bar at the mouth of the harbour and lie close in to shore, where the thick ^ bush ’ creeps down quite to the water’s edge. There it is supposed the unwelcome passenger crept in, without booking himself or asking for a berth beforehand. One dark night a musical sailor sat playing his concertina on deck after the toils of the day. The sacks of wool were all piled in the hold, and the ship would weigh anchor and set sail next tide. And then they think the new passenger crept in out of the thick bush, and slinked away instantly out of sight among the great wool bundles. He and all his brothers and sisters were known to be fond of music. Half way across the Atlantic, a sailor having oc¬ casion to visit the hold rushed up, pale with fear. He had seen for the first time the new passenger, a great boa constrictor some eight or nine feet long, his body as thick as a man’s leg ! Fat and well and healthy looked the terrible creature. Of course the hold was fastened up tight for the rest of the voyage, and the snake was left undisturbed in the quarters he had chosen for himself. One good thing he did, and that was, he completely cleared the vessel of rats, which previously swarmed in it. On reaching London Docks on the 1st of June, 1876, Mr. Jamrach (who is a dealer in such wares) was sent for, and the Surpi'ise's latest pas¬ senger was secured and taken to a safer residence on dry land, much to the comfort of the vessel’s crew, if not to hi£ own. H. A. F,

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Page 95

No. XII. CHATTERBOX.

Page 96

90 CHATTERBOX. No. XII. PBAS-BLOSSOM. {Continued from page 86.) CHAPTEB XIII. ISS PINK, one morning, on seeing Pat pass her window just as she was placing a triumph of millinery- on the head of her dummy, ex¬ claimed, ^ When are you coming to have breakfast with me again ? ^ It was the first day of school, and the hell had rung full ten minutes ago, right in Pat’s ears as he came up Paul Street with Paddy. But Paddy went into school alone, and when Pat’s name was called no voice answered ^ Ad^m and when Paddy was asked where he was he mumbled out something so indistinct that no one was any the wiser. The fact was, that Pat had fallen under the spell again— the very first sight of the Orchards had been enough to set him off. They had been talking, Paddy said afterwards, as jolly as anything about the pig being killed, when they came in sight of that bothering old place half a mile or more along the road. little dis¬ trustful of his own eyes ; and though he felt quite sure that Paddy was wrong in declaring that it was really an old woman with a wheelbarrow, he did not feel quite sure that it was not the butcher’s boy calling for o'rders; and when he made out the prints of the pony’s feet turning in at Jackson’s, the butcher’s yard, he felt not a little disgusted, though he resolved, firmly, that nothing should wring the humiliating confession out of him before Paddy ; and he was going jauntily back to school, as if nothing had happened, when Miss Pink accosted him with the question at the beginning of the chapter. * When are you coming to have breakfast with me again, Mr. Pat ? ’ ^ ^ When are you coming to have breakfast with us at Kelburn Lodge, Miss Pink? though you won’t have half such a jolly one as you gave us, I can tell you. Why, I haven’t had such a blow-out for years, and I’ve felt a better and a wiser man ever since ! How’s Boney?’ < Sadly, Mr. Pat; only sadly! He’s been a good deal put out lately because I’ve been altering the furniture, and he don’t take to a child, and he can’t abide music.’ Pat stared in amazement, and Miss Pink hastened to explain, — * ^ Ah ! there now, of course you don’t know, for it came about since Christmas ; and I haven’t seen you since you brought that splendid turkey from your aunt, Mrs. Keith, which I never thanked her half enough for, and roasted to a turn it Was, and never tasted a better or more tender; and that bit of mistletoe, you wicked, rude boy ! ’ And here Miss Pink laughed and shook her curl¬ papers in a very coquetish style. * Well,’ said Pat, ^ what’s turned up since then ? ’ * I’ve got a lodger. I didn’t much like the notion at first, not being used to letting ; and being single and unprotected, I thought people might say things ; with a gentleman, and a young one too : though, of course, being a widower with a little giii makes a difference.’ , ' Oh 1 that’s it, is it ?’ said Pat, not much interested. * He’s the new organist. Old Mr. Parsons got so deaf, there was no bearing him. He couldn’t even hear when he’d got his foot on one of the pedals, and it went on booming half through the sermon, though, some folk think it’s more temj^r than deafness, and that he did it just to put Mr. Prettyman out, which it did terrible. ’ So they got him to resign, and this Mossoo was staying at the George,” and he offered for the place.’ ^ He’s a foreigner, is he ? ’ <Well, he is and he isn’t. He’s very dark, and

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No. XII. , OHATTEBBOX. 91 wears no hair on his face, which gives a sort of out¬ landish look nowadays, though it used to he just the other way, and he talks some sort of gibberish to the child ; but he can speak English wlien he pleases as weU as I can, and he don’t eat frogs or nothing nasty of that kind.’ * Try him with snails. I’ll bring you a bushel out of our garden any day. But, I say ! shan’t I be late just about ? I shall teU old Kadley it was all your fault.’ * Get along, do ! ’ said Miss Pink. And off went Pat post-haste, charging up against a dark-faced man who was standing at the corner, and who, being innocent of offence, looked indignant at being addressed as, *Now then, stupid!’ by the offender.' Prayers were over, and the boys were in their places, and the first class had just begun construing. Pat marched in as bold as brass, with an apologetic glance at Mr. Hadley, and a defiant one at the rest of the world, and a skilful avoidance of Carol’s long leg, which was artfully stuck out to trip him up, and a general air of having been detained by important and serious business. It was not till he had dropped into his seat and begun telegi’aphing to Paddj for his books, that he noticed that his next-door neighbour was a stranger. But it was a minute or two before he could take a look at him ; and when he did, he met the gaze of two, big, dark eyes fixed on him with a good deal of curiosity — a look which Pat returned with interest, for there was something familiar in the dark face, though Pat could not a bit tell where, or if ever, he had seen it before. It was so perplexing to him, that when his turn came to construe jhe lost his place, and made a terrible bungle of it ; and it did not mend matters that, as soon as he began to read, the new boy turned to him with a start and a suppressed exclamation of surprise, ‘ as if,’ thought Pat, * he’d never heard a fellow make a muU of a bit of Livy before I Let’s see what he makes of it. Xihinc iunCj guh&i'nator ^ ignis via / ’ ^ But when the new boy began reading in a soft, girlish kind of voice, with a prim, formal tone in it, it was Pat’s turn to start and open his eyes wide in surprise. He would have known that voice among a thousand, conjuring up as it did in a moment the scene of a dark orchard, and the moon peeping now and then from behind thick clouds, and the gnarled, twisted trees, and the mistletoe hanging overhead, for it was the voice of Prince Mistletoe, the Ogre’s grand¬ son, Hay Carrington. CHAPTER XIV. The recognition between the two boys had been mutual, and in both cases it had been completed by the voice; and, slight as their previous acquaintance had been, it was enough to make them feel quite like old friends, as they sat side by side at their desks. Paddy, who had paid no attention when the names were called — and, if he had, would not have noticed the name Carrington, so as to connect it with Pat’s craze — stared wilh surprise at seeing Pat shaking hands warmly with the new fellow as if he had known him for years; and the Pies, who knew nothing of the Ogre and the mystery attached to him,^ concluded this Carrington to be a chum of the Brights, who would, therefore, certainly join the Lark party : but they also came to the conclusion that he was not an ally worth having, for, not being under the same fascina¬ tion as Pat Bright, or, perhaps, having less insight into character, they set him down as ^ a muff ’ from his girlish voice and the colour that flushed into his face when he was spoken to. It was a good thing for Hay Carrington that he had such a champion at hand as Pat Bright, for he was one of those nervous, sensitive boys, to whom school, at any rate for the first term, is a purgatory, and who provoke chaffing and 'bullying in other boys, and are galled and wounded by the rough handling which only calls out pluck in others, but which is not unlikely to make a coward and a sneak of them, and spoil their character for life. His life also, hitherto, had not prepared him for this sudden plunge into school life. He had lived very much between four walls, with no companions of his own age, quite con¬ tent, because he had never known anything different, and having every wish gratified, as far as money could do it. I do not think it had ever occurred to his mind that his life was different from other boys, tiU Pat’s sudden apparition that dark night, which came to him like a fresh breath of sea air to a hot-house plant, and set him wondering, and made him question deaf old Goody and crusty Cann, who loved the boy better than their own lives, and nearly as well as his grand¬ father did, which is saying a great deal; and this set them thinking and talking to one another, that 4t was terrible dull for the child,’ and that ^it’s not doing right by a boy, as will be a man some day,’ and ^ how will it be if the old master died ? ’ And then Hay caught a cold and was silent, and sub¬ dued, and listless, and seemed tired of his carpentering, and his books, and his cabinets of shells, and fossils, and butterflies ; and Goody fretted because he did not eat, and said he had a nasty cough, and was wasting away ; and Cann told her that she was an old fool with her fancies, and fretted himself worse than she did, and went at last to the old master, and roused him to the fact that while he was brooding over a bitter Past, and anxiously peering into the Future to prevent the repetition* of old troubles, he was blind to the Present, when the health and spirits of the boy, who was so dear to him, were failing in the unnatural seclusion of his life. And so one evening, as Hay sat hugging his knees on the hearthrug, and staring into the fire, thinking of Pat and the mistletoe, he suddenly felt that his grandfather was looking at him over his book with a searching, questioning gaze. ^ Are you happy, boy ? ’ ^Oh yes, grandfather! but the evenings are so long.’ ^ Would you like to go to school ? ’ The colour rushed into the boy’s face, and his eyes grew wide and bright with a sudden look of interest and animation that made the old man shrink almost with bodily pain. * Think it over,’ he said, ^ and tell me what you make of it. There’s a school in Mudford, I am told.’ (To he continued.)

Page 98

A STOLEN GLANCE AT GOOD THINGS POE TO-MOEEOW, Just like old Mother Hubbard: Only for fun, of course, and not Because I care a single jot. Dear me ! how thoughtful mother is I Such Mndness she has in her ! She’s hit upon the very things Bob most enjoys at dinner ! This pigeon pie will cheer his heart, And that delicious apple tart. There’s orange jelly ! mince pies, too I And cold plum-pudding, surely I Oh, dear ! to look at so much food Does make one feel quite poorly. Well, I must hope that sleep to-night Will bring a better appetite.’ M. H. F. Donnh, §AID Tommy, as he went to bed, * None ever called me greedy ; I would have surely punched his head, With punishment most speedy. It never could be said of me I cared for dinner, or for tea. But as to-morrow is the day When I shall be eleven (Although, of course, I do not think, Like little b^^ys of seven, About a jolly birthday treat, And pleasant things to drink and eat), I may as well go down and peep Inside the parlour cupboard, Par fun, before I go to sleep —

Page 99

The Pterodactyl.

Page 100

94 OHATTERBOX. No. XII. EXTINCT ANIMALS. ptebODACTTL. ^ all the strange creatures that \ ^^^ve ever appeared in the ^ world, perhaps the strangest Pterodactyl, or *' wing-fingered ’ reptile. It was not of the colossal size gigantic reptiles of the early ages, "being usually not 1 more than a foot in length, though some appear to have been larger. The remains of one have been found whose wings had a spread of twenty-seven feet, thus ex¬ ceeding in size the largest condor of the Andes. But it could fly in the air or walk on the ground, climb trees and rocks by means of its strong claws, and most likely it could swim in the water. Its wings consisted of a membrane extending from what we must call its fingers, all along the body to the hinder limbs, and from the size and form of these latter it is evident that it must have walked or perched in the manner of a bird, to which its long neck also gave it some resemblance. But it was a flying dragon, and had jaws like a crocodile’s, armed with sharp- pointed teeth ; and its eyes were very large, probably adapted for seeing at night. From its remains being found together with those of di’agon-flies and beetles, it appears to have lived mostly on insects, while the larger kind are supposed to have eaten fish, which they may have seized like the sea-gull whilst flying^ over the water. • The Pterodactyl has utterly passed away with the age in which it lived, and there is nothing fike it now in nature. In its time, it seems to have fiUed the same place in the natural economy that bats do now. But the Pterodactyl was a reptile, a flying lizard, while the bats belong to quite a different order of animals. A. R. Seeing, however, at some small distance a ruined castle, he asked if he might not pass the night there, as it seemed to promise a more agreeable lodging. The good people of the village told him in reply that no one dared go there after night-fall, beeause it was haunted by some fearful-looking spectres, whose ghostly faces none might see and live. Young Villars laughed aloud at this information. ^I would like to see these phantoms,’ cried he. And he ordered his servants to stay behind in the village, and taking his sword he went off alone to the castle. In the middle of the night a terrible noise was heard — shrieks, and howls, and clanking of chains. Villars drew his sword quietly, and put himself into a position of defence. N earer came the sounds, nearer and nearer. All at once there was a crash, as though an earth¬ quake had shaken the castle ; the door flew open, and a phantom of enormous stature, clothed in white, and followed by four furies with flaming firebrands, stalked into the hall. ‘ Rash and foolhardy mortal ! ’ cried the shape, in hollow tones ; ‘ thou, who darest to penetrate into this gloomy retreat, flee quickly ere thou diest ! ’ ‘Flee!’ exclaimed the Duke, indignantly: ‘I will show you if a Villars knows how to flee; ’ and with¬ out more ado he sprang forward, meaning to tian.^fix the ghost with his sword. But the ghost seeing this, turned hastily and rushed from the room; Villars followed as fast as the darkness would let him. Scarcely had the young man passed through two rooms, when the ground opened imder his feet, and he fell into a dark vault. When he had a little recovered himself, he saw to his horror that beyond the closed trap-door through which he had descended there was no possible means of escape. After spending a dreary hour in the greatest anxiety, he suddenly saw a faint light glimmer through a crack in the wall that separated the vault in which he was from the neighbouring one. In a few minutes he heard a distinct murmur of voices. Straining his ears to listen, he made out that the speakers were a number of desperate rogues, who were hotly debating how best to put an end to him. After much discussion he heard one of them say, ‘ It is too dangerous, I tell you, to kill him ; he is a person of importance, and to-morrow the whole castle would be searclied for him. We should then all be dis¬ covered. I advise you to let him out.’ Upon this Villars felt his spirits rise. ‘ Yes, indeed,’ he shouted to them, ‘ your crime would cost you dear. I have important letters on my person, that I myself am to carry to the king ; and my servants, moreover, are in the village at this moment. You could not conceal my death, and a speedy vengeance would overtake you. Free me, and I promise, not only to keep your secret, but to give you a reward worthy of Villars to boot.’ There was silence for a few instants. After a short consultation the men agreed to set him at liberty, first making him swear that he would tell no living being anything more than that he had heard and seen most terrible tilings; which, indeed, he could very truthfully declare. Some years went by, when one day, when the Duke was staying at his country seat with a great many THE HAUNTED CASTLE. From the Italian of Soave. ^NCE upon a time it was generally believed that U there were such places as haunted houses, and that great misfortunes came to those who dared to live in them. We na;sv know that ghosts and phantoms do not really exist, but are conjured up by people’s nervous imaginations. In past days, however, this belief in haunted houses was often encouraged by designing men, in order to deter any one from dis¬ covering the evil practices they carried on in old houses. It was therefore very often dangerous to sleep in a house which was said to be visited by ghosts. When the Duke of Villars was a young man, it hap¬ pened that the king sent him on important business to Germany. On his return journey, he was one day, late in the evening, overtaken by a violent storm, at a place where the only shelter open to him was in a small village consisting of a few miserable hovels.

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No. XII. CHATTERBOX. 95 friends, a stranger rode into the court-yard, leading two magnificent chargers by the bridles. ^ I bring you these horses,^ said the unknown, ' as a gift from the people of the haunted castle, whose secret you have so faithfully kept. They release you now from your promise, since they have quitted the country, and no longer run any danger of being found out.’ The Duke then told his friends of all that had be¬ fallen him on that eventful night in the castle. The five spectres were five coiners of false money, who carried on their unlawful work (with the help of con¬ federates) in the vaults of the ruin. Taking advantage of the credulity of the ignorant peasants they had managed to escape detection, and had in the space of some six or seven years made a large sum, and they had now left the country with their ill-gotten wealth, Oaklo Viti. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. {Continued from page 77.) THE MONK. * A monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie.’ ONSPICUOUS on his fine brown palfrey rode the monk; a manly man, a fair prelate, and fit to be an abbot. A great rider; you could hear his bridle jing¬ ling in the whistling wind as loud and clear as his own chapel bell. He cared for nothing but hunting. The rule of Maurice or St. Benedict was too strict and old-fashioned for him, so, letting old things pass, he took the world as he found it. He would not give a plucked hen for the text that said that hunters were not holy men; and the saying that a monk out of his cloister was like a fish out of water he thought not worth an oyster. Why should he study or make himself mad by always poring over a book, or work with his hands, as St. Austin bids us? How should the world be served? No! let Austin work if he likes; our monk, for his part, would enjoy the present life. So he had many a fine horse in his stable, and kept greyhounds as swift as fowls in flight ; for in riding and in hunting the hare was all his pleasure, and in that no cost would he spare. His dress was trimmed at the sleeves with costly fur, and his hood fastened beneath his chin by a curious gold pin, the larger end of which was fashioned like a true-love knot. He had fine boots, too. His bald head shone like glass, his face looked as though it were anointed with oil, and his deep-set eyes roUed in his head. He was not pale lilce a ghost, but full, fat, and in good point ; and his horse, which was as brown as a berry, was in grand estate. Our monk, also, was fond of good living, and liked of all things a roast swan. See how tastes change I No one now-a-days would think a roast swan a treat. We are content tm feed the swans instead of eating them ; but they used to be thought very nice, and were served up at the Lord Mayor’s banquet long after they had ceased to be a luxury of the table, though merely as a sign of the rights of the city of London over the swanneries in the river Thames. Now this hunting monk, who took life so merrily, was just asr epugnant to the ideas of people in those days as to what a religious man should be, as he would be to ours. Every one knew that hunting, hawking, and luxurious living, were opposed to all monastic rules, and strictly forbidden to the inmates of the cloister ; and therefore our host addresses the brave monk with very little reverence indeed. ^My lord the Monk,’ quoth he, ‘ be merry of cheer, and tell us a tale truly ; but, by my troth, I cannot tell your name — whether shall I call you my Lord Dan John, or Dan Thomas, or Dan Albon? I vow thou hast a full, fair skin; thou art not pale, like a penitent or ghost 1 Thou must be some master or governor when thou art at home, and no poor cloisterer or novice, but a right well-faring person. I wish con¬ fusion to him who brought you into the Church. Alas I why dost thou wear so wide a cope ? Were I the Pope, all such men as you should have wives and families. But be not angry, my Lord, if I play ; full oft have I heard a true word said in jest.’ The worthy monk took all this patiently, saying he would do his best to tell them, a tale — the life of St. Edward, if they cared to hear it; or else some tragedy, of which he had a hundred in his cell. And then explained that tragedies were stories in old books about those who, from prosperity and high estate, fell into misery and ended wretchedly; and that some were written in prose and some in verse ; and that when the verse was in a metre of six feet it was called * hexametron : ’ for all which information, or at least as much of it as he understood, our host was no doubt very grateful ; but when the gay monk had got through more than a dozen of his tales about the downfall of pride, beginning with Lucifer him¬ self, the Knight said, ‘ Ho ! no more of this ! What you have said is right true, I know, but it is painful to hear of the sudden faU of those who have been in great wealth and ease. Rather would I hear of those who from a poor estate had climbed up and risen to prosperity.’ * Yes,’ quoth our host, ^ ye say right. This monk hath clapped loud. He spake of a tragedy, as ye heard, but it is no use to complain or bewail that which is done, and it is a pain to hear of sorrow. Sir Monk, no more of this ; such talkin" is not worth a butterfly : therefore. Sir Monk, Dan Piers by your name, tell us somewhat else; for surely, but for the clinking of your bells that on your bridle hang on every side, I should ere this have fallen down from sleep, though never so deep the slough, and then your tale had been told in vain. Sir, say somewhat of hunting, I pray you.’ But the monk would tell no other story, saying he had no pleasure in play. He was most likely secretly vexed with the jesting at him, for, though a worldly man, he knew right well that his life was not in accordance with his monastic vows, or with the sacred profession to which he belonged. A. R. {To he continued.) 1

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The Monk. • A monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie.’ %

Page 103

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98 CHATTERBOX. No. XIII. n PEAS-BIiOSSOM. ti — r J? (Continued from p. ^l.) ND then Mr. Carrington ^ ^ -svent back to his book, Q ■though, as his eyes tra- ^ / 1 from line to line, ^ “words had lost their original meaning, and only expressed the gloomy fore- 1 bodings in his heart. ^ coming over ^ ^ ® V again — just the same story ! M Fresh interests, bad com- panions, evil influences, in¬ gratitude, dish onour ! ’ And when he glanced up now and then at Bay’s face, the smile on the parted lips, and the look of bright excitement in the eyes, were the very counter¬ part of a smile and a look that had long ago been the sunshine of the old man’s life, making the darkness that followed all the darker. And Hay did think it over— thought, indeed, of nothing else — and dreamed of it at night, and teased and worried Cann and Goody to get out all they knew of school life in general, which was little enough— and of Mudford School in particular, which w’as nothing at all. He was afraid to say an}i;hing to his gi’andfather till he mentioned the subject again ; and from his silence the old man tried to persuade himself that he had forgotten all abDut it, and was getting well, and strong, and happy again in his old occupations ; and he racked his brains to think of pre¬ sents he could make him to interest and amuse him. It had been one of Mr. Carrington’s greatest plea¬ sures to teach Bay, for he was a good scholar him¬ self, and he found an apt pupil in the boy, with ready attention and quick apprehension. But now all the pleasure was gone, though Bay was more than usually anxious to learn, and attentive, for he over¬ heard him say one day to Cann, — ^ I must learn as much as ever I can, for I should not like to be behind the other boys when I go to school.’ But at last Bay summoned up his courage: for New-year’s Day had come, and he was beginning to be afraid that the school mighty open again without him. He knew there were Christmas holidays, but how long they were likely to last he could not find out; and Cann said at the National Schools they only had a week. So he went to his grandfather one afternoon in the orchard and stopped him in his walk, noticing as a happy omen that he was standing 4 at the very place where he had first seen Pat. ‘ Grandfather,’ he said, ‘ you told me to think it over.’ ‘ Eh — ^what ? Think what over ? ’ ‘ Of going to school ; and I’ve been thinking of it ever since.’ ^Well?’ 'And I think — I’m quite sure — that if you don’t mind, I should like to go to school very much.’ Tlie old man sighed. ' Very well, boy,’ he said : ' I’ll see about it.’ And then he went on along the path, from which the snow had been swept into hillocKS on either side, and the frosty air sprinkled him, as he passed under the apple-trees, with glittering crystals, cold as Imman kindness seemed to his sad heart then. Bay stood watching him with his soft, young heart full of pity, without knowing how he had so wounded him ; and he w’aited tiU the slow steps of the old man brought him round the orchard path to him again, and then he caught hold of his arm with both his hands. ' Grandfather ! dear grandfather ! I don't wish to go to school if you mind it so much. I’m quite happy ; don’t trouble about it 1 ’ The sun was falling through the branches on the boy’s face, on his shining eyes and parted lips, and cheeks on which the excitement had called up an un- 'wonted glow. After all there was sometliing warm and bright left to the old man still in the cold winter w’orld of his age ; and he thawed for a minute, and putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders he looked tenderly into his face, and then gave him a little push away from him. 'So likel’ he said; 'so like! You shall go to school. Bay. Only,’ he added, almost fiercely, ' don’t deceive me ! I don’t mind anything else. Be true, boy I only be true 1 ’ Only be true ! There is the tug wfith many ®f us ; and as I have said, if Bay Carrington had not found Pat Bright at his right hand at school, he might soon have found truth a hard matter. Pat w^as quick to see breakers ahead wdfch regard to Bay; as, being Pat’s friend, and accordingly a Lark, the Pies were wide aw^ake to any peculiarities in the new boy ; and before the constrmng w'as over Carol had hit off such an exact imitation of Bay’s rather slfrill, girlish voice, that Pat, angry as he xvas, could hardly resist a smile ; and Millet was mimicking the way in which Bay nervously raised his eyebrow’s w^hen he was spoken to, and w^as not to be prevented by the most ferocious scowds from Pat. * You stick close to me,’ said Pat, wdien morning school was over and the dinner-bell rang. ‘Those fellow^s mean to make it hot and strong for you, and you’ll have to fhow fight ; but I’ll see you through.’ ' What do you mean ? AVhat fellows.^ ’ ' Now, look here,’ said Pat ; ' there’s a lot of slang that you don’t know, wdiich I’ll put yon up to by de¬ grees; but don’t you let any one see that you don’t understand, or they’ll roast you to within an inch of your life.’ ' I’ve done nothing to them.’ 'Not at present,’ said Pat, grimly ; ' but if they don’t mend their manners, you’ll have to lick them all round : or if you don’t, I shall.’ ' I shall speak to Mr. Badley if they behave badly.’ ' Oh, I say ! that w'on’t do at any price 1 ’ ' Why not ? he’s the master.’ ' Well,’ said Pat, puzzled how to define such a very simple piece of schoolboy honour, * it’s sneaking, you know^ ; and no fellow can do that. You’re not one of that sort, are you?’ and Pat looked rather doubtfully at his new friend. ' But come on — we shall be late.’ The roasting began in the passage leading to tho dining-room, where a group of Pies w^ere assembled. 'Stick close to me,’ said Pat, 'and hold your tongue.’ ' Well, Miss Lucy,’ began Millet, ' where 3 your pinafore, my dear ? ’

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No. XIII. CHATTERBOX. 99 * She’s Pat Bright’s sister,’ went on Carol. ^ Pretty dear, see how she blushes ! ’ * Get along, Carol, the young lady don’t like you. Take my arm, miss?’ ^ What big eyes you’ve got, grandmother ! ’ ' I say, young Squeaky, don’t open your eyes at me, or I’ll give you something to keep them shut.’ Bay’s face was crimson, and his eyebrows working nervously, and his eyes blazing; and when one of the boys gave a tweak to his hair behind, which was cer¬ tainly longer than most schoolboys, he wrenched his arm out of Pat’s friendly grasp, and sprang round, stammering out, — ' I’ll— I’ll - ’ ' Punch your heads all round for you ! ’ interrupted Pat, quickly, dreading the threat of telling Mr. Bad- ley, which would have been fatal. ‘ Come on, Car¬ rington.’ Happily, at dinner the new-comer’s seat was by Mr. Carr, and Pat managed to secure the next to him, and during dinner he contrived to instil a good deal of useful information for the guidance of this newly- launched bark on the troubled waters of school-life. CHAPTEB XV. It required all Pat’s energy and vigilance to take care of Bay Carrington, and he had to marshal the Lark forces in array to help him ; which was not easily done, as they did not take a fancy to the new-comer, who had a certain shy reserve about him which they set down as pride; and he had not the art of concilia¬ tion, which came by nature to Pat. But for Pat’s sake they formed a very efficient body-guard in de¬ fence of this new chum of his ; and woe to the Pie who raised a finger against him, though they were fain to own that ^ Miss Lucy,’ as the Pies had nicknamed him, was by no means a bad name for a fellow who blushed like a girl, and jumped nearly out of his skin if he was startled, and actually fainted one day when J ones’s nose bled, though that noble feature suffeied in his own defence. He could not play at foot-ball, or fives, or marbles, or spin a top, and tears were very near his eyes, ready to be called into sight by a word or a blow — a real misfortune to a schoolboy, and a great anxiety to Pat, who really got to look quite careworn and haggard during the first week of the term, so heavily did the responsibility weigh on him of being bear-leader to such an extremely sensitive animal. Paddy, as usual, took the position of aide-de-camp, grumbling violently all the time. ^ What’s he like ? ’ he would answer to Molly and Nora’s excited inquiries. * Oh ! I’ll tell you fast enough if you want to know — he’s a muff and a molly¬ coddle.’ (But all the same, he was ready to wreak vengeance on any Pie wdio ventured to express the same opinion.) ^ And whatever is the good of all the fuss and bother over his high and mightiness I can’t imagine. Why not let him fight his own battles and have it out with those bullies, the Pies, and have done with it ? There will be no end to it if Pat is always going to keep him in his pocket. And then it’s no fun, I can tell you, to keep up with that pony going home. I get so blown, it takes me till next morning to get my wind again.’ (To be continued.) • THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. VII.— MAGNA CHARTA ISLAND. Y LAVING Windsor behind us, we once J\ more see the beautiful Gothic chapel (0 J 1 College rising before us, while mark now and again various Etonians either walking on the banks, wearing the ^chimney-pot’ hats and round jackets which distinguish the scholars when in (to use their own term) ^ full fig ; ’ or in boating costume and outriggers ; or with no costume to 4$b speak of m the river, bathing. Sweet Eton ! Every old Etonian glories in having been an Eton boy. In Church and in State, in Army and Navy, in Art, and amongst writers, there are many of the best, who will declare they owe all their success to their early training at Eton. Now w’^e can see Salt Hill, so named because hero, for hundreds of years, on a certain day — that of the Eton Montem — the scholars, dressed in fancy costumes, were allowed to levy black mail, called ^ salt,’ upon all who came there. The money col¬ lected — frequently from 400/. to 500/.— was supposed to go to the captain of the school to support him at college. But usually it cost this young gentleman more than his ^ salt ’ to pay for the magnificent banquet given by him to the whole school and its staff. This curious, ancient custom, was very pro¬ perly aboli.shed in 184G, it being held that it was vulgar, and even shabby, for the son of a gentleman to accept money which, to say the best of it, was absolutely ^ demanded.’ At only one public school does this kind of tax remain — that of Westminster, where ^ cap ’ money is collected on the third and last performance of the Christmas Latin play. And now we reach Magna Charta Island, which lies towards the Bucks shore, being separated from it by a narrow rivulet. We are now seventy-seven miles from Oxford. Opposite the island is an extensive smooth stretch of land, which is Egham race-course ; and it is remarkable that possibly this spot, which takes so important a place in English history, has been a race-course from time immemorial ; for Bunnymead, as it is called, is simply a corruption of Running Mead, or meadow. Bunnymead and Magna Charta Island are for ever associated with the great scheme of English liberty. The idea of the Great Charter is supposed to be due to the patriotism of Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, who produced either a real or forged charter granted by Henry I., and which gave to the lords such liberty as their ancestors had enjoyed before the Norman Conquast. The great advantage to all Englishmen is this, that the liberties which the barons wrested from the king they passed on (in a great measure) to the people. Indeed it is the loyalty of the aristocracy tow^ards the people in all their dealings wdth the nation which has gained for the lords that high honour for which the nobles of other lands seek in vain. The barons having declared war against the king, were soon victorious in the noidh, and marched south.

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Magna Charta Island.

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A meeting was arranged to take place at Runnyraead. where the king and his array encamped, while tjie barons and their adherents halted in the island opposite, the river running between tlie hostile powers. The barons passed over with the parchment, which became the Great Charter, now in the British Minium, and King John signed with a willingness which seemed to intimate that wluit he was doincr took the shape of a mere form. It is, to this day, the bulwark of all our liberties, for the harons behaved nobly. And thus Magna Charta Island gained its name. The river at this point is very pretty and winding, while the island is decked with graceful trees to the very water’s edge. Buried in their shade are some clianning villas, whose owners might well be envied their charming homes. Let us rather congratulate their occupants upon the charm of their dwelling- places and surroundings. There is an old building, by the way, near the modern residences, which con¬ tains a number of the memorials of the Groat Charter. {To he continued.) LESSONS IN WORDS. Heroine is as strange a word as any in the lan¬ guage. The tioo lirst letters are male, the three first are female, the four first are a brave man, the xohole is a brave woman. Facetious and Abstemious contain the five vowels in their proper order. Speculation is a word that often begins with the second letter. ROBERT’S V-Q; TURNING-POINT. N the village of Wliitley w’as a coun¬ try-seat belonging to the Squire of the place, and surrounded by exten¬ sive grounds and plantations, all (f which were strictly preserved. The Squiie was very particular about his game; he spent a great portion of the year in London, but in the shooting season lie always came down to 'W’bitley, bringing with him a large party of friends. The neighboui hood abounded in poachers, and the preserves weie sometimes the scene of desperate night encounteis. Hence, the duties of the head- keeper wei e not only arduous but perilous. The person who occupied this post at the lijtie our story begins was a young man whose father had filled it before him, and whom, notwithstanding his early age, the Squire held to be one of his most trusty' servants. His name was George Dacres ; his pa’ents were beth dead, his only sif-ter married, and he lived in the keeper’s lodge, with no other company than that of his dogs and an old woman who kept liouse for him. The Squire was not singular in his legaid for George, evew one in Whitley respected him ; and the secret of this universal esteem lay in the honest straightforwardness of his characti^r. George had never been known to tell a lie, and he Avas as brave as he was true. It was not merely that he could face any amount of bodily danger Avithout shrinking ; his

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102 CHATTERBOX. No. XIII. f was the real courage, the cournge of the soul. He was not afraid of a sneer or a laugh ; he was not afraid of the opinion of men ; he was not afraid to stand forth alone in what he felt to be right. George was a true man ; a truly noble man'. One thing and one thing only he feared, and that was — offending God. It Avas evening, and he Avas pacing along the road accompanied by his dogs. He looked a fine athletic young fellow, his figure strong and muscular. Yet there Avas a troubled expression on his face as though he Avere not quite happy. After a time he came to a square Avhite house, with a pleasant garden in front of it and a farm-yard be¬ hind. A man of the name of Linton lived here, Avith his wife and only daughter. He had no son to succeed him, and tAvo years before this story ojjens he offered a home to an orphan nephew of Mrs. Linton’s, hinting that, if the young man behaved AA^ell, it was very pro¬ bable that the farm would one day be his. Robert Harris — this was his name — gladly accepted the invi¬ tation, and the hospitable couple received him, and henceforth treated him as their OAvn son. Janie Linton, the daughter, Avas a pretty girl of nineteen or twenty. George and she had always been tlirown much together ; in childhood he had been her champion and adviser, and noAv that childhood Avas gone Dy she looked on him in the light of an only brother. But George’s feelings towards Janie were of a very different nature. For a long time past, the chief joy of his life had been the hope of one day making her his wife. Ho had alloAved himself to become pretty confident that this hope woiidd be fulfilled. He had mistaken friendship for a deeper sentiment. Thus he had fallen into a pleasing di’eam, from Avhich he was rudely awakened. Repoi’t had for some time coupled the names of Janie and her cousin, Robert Harris, together. George Avas no gossip, and the idea had never entered his head till Mrs. Linton told him that Robert had asked for Janie, and that Janie had half promised to accept him ; but, as he had not been very steady lately, he Avas to wait six months for his final ansAver. As none, save God, had known Geor ge’s hope, so no one loiew what he felt Avhen he bade farewell to ^ Mrs. Linton that day, and turned aAvay fi om her door. Tlie old Avoman who kept his house prepared his dinner in vain. He did not appear until late in the evenii’g, when he came out of tire wood alone. She feared he Avas ill, for he refused her offer of food, and shut himself up at once in the room Avhero he slept. But the next morning he seemed outwardly the same as eyev. He had girded himself afresh for the battle of life, like a true soldier as ho AA-as. He Avould press on and do his duty just as manfully, noAv that his heart Avas heaAw, as Avhen it was free and light. Janie Avas standing at the garden-gate of the farm as he dreAA" near it on this eATuing. She was usually a bright and happy-looking girl, but now she seemed to be in trouble, for the traces of tears were on her cheeks, and her voice trembled as she returned George’s salutation. M^Tiy, Janie!’ exclaimed the young man, 'you have been crying ! I hope there is nothing Avrohg.’ J anie’s head dropped, and the tears bm’st forth afresh, but she made no reply. ' I can’t bear to see you unhappy,’ said George, after a pause. 'You used once to tell me everything. I don’t expect that noAv ; but I should like to knoAV if I can help you in any Avay.’ ' You are A*ery kind, George,’ replied the girl, sobbing, 'and perhaps you can help me. I d'-n’t knoAv, but I don’t quite like to tell you Avhat I’m crying about.’ ' It must be something to do with Robert Harris/ thought George to himself. After Availing some moments, Avhilst Janie stood nervously puckering the corner of her apron, she said at last, Avith deepened colour, ' You knoAv what mother told you, two months ago, about Robert and me ?’ ' Yes, I remember,’ answered George. The tone was low, but perfectly self-possessed, and Janie never saAv how tightly the hard broAvn hand Avas clasping the post of the gate. ' Well,’ she continued, ' I told Robert then, that unless he had grown quite steady by the end of six months I should be obliged to say “ No ” to him. But he promised he would turn over a new leaf, and begin at once to mend his ways, and for the first feAv Aveeks he seemed to be keeping Ins word ; for he did his Avork AveU, and never stayed out too long at nights. But, oh, George ! lately, he lias been going* aU Avrong again ! He and Will Bateman are always together, and you knoAv Avhat Will is better than I. I don’t knoAv Avhat to do. I haA^e talked two or three tamos to Robert, and he always says he^s sorry, and promises to do better. But he can’t bear to be ridiculed, and Will laughs at him, and says he is no man to bo governed by a girl like me, and so R»bert is led quite easily.’ ' Yes ; Bateman is a bad friend for Robert,’ said George. ' I know it ! Oh, George ! is there nothing you can do? You ha 'e great influence OA^er Robert, I think, and you are not easy and timid like he is. Won’t you try and help him to do AA'hat is right, and persuade him to go less with Will Bateman ? If you Avould but promise me this, it Avould be such a com¬ fort to me ! ’ George was silent for a moment, and his brow darkened. Bitter thoughts coursed rapidly through his mind. As Janie looked up into his face with her imploring eyes, he felt that she Avas dearer to him than life. And must he lose her ? and now Avas he called on to befriend the very man Avho had taken his hope aAvay ? He could not do it ; no 1 it was more tnan flesh and blood could stand ! Rather, he would leave Robert to take his OAvn way. Will Bateman AAmuld soon make him as e^ il as he was himself. Janie would give him up, and in a year or two forget him. Then George would be free to win lier, and perhaps after all he might, in the end, be as happy as he had dreamt in bygone days. But George looked up to the calm evening sky, and an earnest prayer sped to Heaven for strength and help. The struggle Avas sharp, but quickly over. True, Janie Avondered Avhy he was so long in ansAver- ing; but that ansAver, when it came at length, Avas accompanied by a smile — a smile so peaceful that it seemed to soothe her, and make her peaceful likewise. ^ Janie, by God’s grace I Avill promise you to help Robert, to do hjra good in Avhatever Avay I can. Without Ilis grace, Janie, I can do nothing.’

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N@. XIII. CHATTERBOX. 103 CHAPTER II, While George and Janie were talking together, Ilol3ert Harris and Will Bateman 'W'ere lounging on a low stone wall a little further down the road. Robert was a young fellow of two-and-twenty, well-inten¬ tioned, olever, and good-natured ; but he lacked de¬ cision of character, although he would have been angry with any one who dared to call him a coward : yet a coward he really was, for he feared his fellow-men. Will Bateman was a coward also, but in a different way4 lie was afraid to burst the bonds of his own evil will. He had allowed himself from boyhood to yield to his impulses, without thinking whether they were bad or good ; and so, by the time that he was a . man, he had become a slave to them. . \M11 was George’s most bitter foe. At the death of old Dacres, he, as well as George, had applied for the situation of head-keeper at the Park. When the Squire decided in George’s favour. Will’s anger knew no bounds. He vowed that he would be revenged on his rival as soon as a chance offered itself; and more than one person, since then, had advised the young man to take care : for Will, as many had good reason to know, was a dangerous enemy. But George was not afraid. As we have said before, he feared no one but God. Pursuing his way along the road, after leaving Farmer Linton’s gate, he soon came up to the two men on the waU, and crossed over the way to speak to Robert. * Robert,’ he said, while Will scowled at him from beneath his lowering eyebrows, ' I have a word or two to say to you when you can listen.’ Have you ? Then you had better bring them out . now,’ said Will ; ‘ some rare advice, and a little cant into the bargain, I’ll be bound !’ George made no reply, but continued looking at Robert, who, glancing uneasily at his companion, slid down from the wall. ^ I’m going on ; will you walk a bit of the way with me .^’ said George. Robert assented; and the two men started, leaving Will Bateman still sitting on the wall. ‘Robert,’ began George, ‘you and me were once friends. You don’t mind a little plain-speaking?’ ‘ No,’ said Robert, in a tone as if he would add, ^ what next ?’ ‘ Well, then,’ George went on, ‘ perhaps you won’t object to my saying that it will do you no good to be (50 much with Will Bateman. You know the old proverb, “Birds of a feather flock together ;” that will ]3e quoted to your harm if you don’t take care.’ ‘Why?’ said Robert, sulkily ; ‘what’s the matter with him? You may hear idle tales of everybody, if you choose to listen to them.’ ‘Will Bateman is no stranger to you, Robert: you can judge of him for yourself.’ Robert was silent. ‘ I don’t want to meddle,’ continued George, ‘ but you know Janie Linton and I are like brother and sister ; and her mother has told me of what is going on between you- Now, Janie could never be happy wdlh an unsteady husband. If you have no higher motive, Robert, you should try and keep right for her eake.’ ‘Janie is Very unreasonable,’ said Robert: ‘some one has been setting her against Will Bateman, and she goes so far as to say that she won’t have me if I am friends with him. Now, as Will says, if I’m governed by her at the fii'st onset, I may be governed by her for life.’ ‘ Oh, that’s it, is it ?’ said George. ‘ I thought as much ! So he has been putting it into your bead that it is unmanly to try and please Janie ? ’ ‘Not to try and please her — to be governed by her,’ said Robert. ‘ Well, Robert, I gave you credit for more wisdom. Why, you’ve only to look in Janie’s face to see whether she wishes to govern you ! But you know all about it very well 3'oarself, only you fear Will too much to own it.’ ‘ I say ! that’s rather too bad, George ! ’ cried Robert, angrily. ‘ Own what ? ’ ‘That Janie is right, and you are wrong! That she only wishes, in her gentle way, to help you in what is good ! That, if you desire to please either God or man, the proper course for you is to shake ©ff your evil companions and stand out boldly, without minding a laugh, in wli;it you feel to be right !’ Robert’s conscience told him that George spoke the truth; but Will’s sneering laugh rose up before his memory, and he answered nothing. ‘ Robert,’ said George, after a pause, ‘ you are on the wrong tack just now. Y^ou don’t see things as they arc. While you fancy yourself sticking up for your own rights, you are really cringing like any slave of them all. Trust me, the only way to be truly free is to ask God to make you free from self and sin. There were very few peoiDle wLom Robert would have suffered to speak to him as George was spealdng now. But he, like Janie, had in a great degree learned to depend on George, to respect his opinion, and to follow his advice. Lately, Will Bateman’s influence had lowered this feeling, but it now fuHy returned as he listened to the earnest words, which, though bluntly spoken, came from the heart. ‘ I’ll think of what you say, George ; I will !’ said Robert, as they bade each other good-night. How little either imagined the way in w’hicb they should next meet ! ( To he continued.') WATCHES. ATCriES are common enough now, any school¬ boy may carry one ; but in the early part of the seventeenth century they were sometliing of a rarity. At any rate, one Mr. Allen, a reputed sorcerer staying in Herefordshire, carelessly left his watch on liis bed¬ room window-seat, when the maids coming in to make the beds and hearing the strange thing cry ‘ Tick, tick, tick,’ concluded it was the gentleman’s familiar spirit, and so, taking it up with the tongs, threw it out of the windfi'w into the moat, to ‘ drown the devil.’ Happily a projecting branch of a tree near the moat caught the string of the watch and saved it from destruction ; but the maids only shook their heads, and were now sure the watch must contain something uncanny, since they could neither destroy nor silence it. H.A.F.

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yy5 No. XIV. CHATTERBOX. Robert getting out of the Window.

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106 CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. f EOBERT’S TURNING-POINT. (Contimied from p. 103.) CHAPTER III. OBERT’S mind was "busy forming good resolutions when he returned to Will. lie had caught some¬ thing of George’s spirit, and felt a praiseworthy desire to become like him. He determined to quit Win at once, and spend the l est of the evening with Janie. He approached the wall, half hoping to find his companion gone. But no ! there he w.as still. * So you’ve come back I ’ said he. ' I’m surprised to see you so soon! I thought that fellow’s sermon would last aU night. I suppose he’s been preaching finely!’ * He’s Seen doing nothing of the sort,’ said Kobert, coldly. ^ HoUa ! w^hat’s up ? ’ exclaimed Will, with a dis¬ agreeable laugh. ^ I see he’s succeeded at any rate in getting over you! But look here, Ilobert! if you’ll take my advice, you’ll beware of asking him often to old Farmer Linton’s. He has no dislike to that pretty Janie of yours.’ ^ What do yen mean ? ’ cried Robert, starting. * Mean ? I mean what I say ! It’s easy enough to see ! They’ve lived near together all thei.’ lives, of course ; call each other brother and sister, and so on. But don’t you be deceived by that sort of talk ; I’ve heard more people than one make the same remark. George will do his best yet to get her from you.’ ^ I don’t believe it,’ said Robert, but his heart sank as he spoke. He remembered the talks at the garden gate, tlie walks on Sunday . evenings, the books and Bowers exchanged, the looks and tones of confidence. All these things had hitherto seemed only natural tokens of friendship, but they now appeared to him as witnesses to the t nth of '\\'ill’s words. ^Believe it or not, as y^u like!’ said Bateman, ‘ but keep a look-out, that’s all.’ And with this he turned away ; coming back, however, for a moment to add, ‘ I’ll see you again to-morrow about the plan we were talking of ? ’ Robert uttered a grunt of assent and said ‘Good night,’ glad to be rid of his companion. He sat for some time longer on the wall, then walked home with a heavy heait. Always easily imposed upon, his jealousy was now thoroughly aroused. He orooded over Will’s insinuations until he felt certain that they were true ; and when he entered the farm-house kitchen, Mrs. Linton exclaimed in surprise at the gloomy exp ession of his countenance. ‘Where’s .Tanie?’ he asked. ‘ She’s gone to bed.’ ‘ Gone to bod at this time ! how’s that ?’ ‘ Why, it’s later than you think for : look at the clock ! I’m going myself directly. I don’t think Janie was altogether well to-night. She was at the gate for some time with George Dacres, and then she came in crying.’ ‘ With George Dacres, did you say ? ’ ‘ Yes ; and I saw her through the window, talking to him very earnest-like. I hope there’s nothing amiss. I’ve been too busy to ask about it yet.’ Robert stood silent for a minute, then took a candle and went to his room, in no enviable mood. What could be the matter with Janie? She ought, by rights, to go to him, not to George, for comfort in her troubles 1 But what troubles had she — what need for any comfort at all ? Could it be that she was deceiving him — that in her secret heart she loved not him, but George ? W’^hat if she and George were even now meditating how best she could escape from her engagement ? But no ! it was impossible! Janie w^as far too truthful. Still, without any wilful deceit, she might feel more for George than she cared to own. If George were really ti ying to win her heart away, it was &t at all impossible that he should succeed. It was long before Robeit slept that night. He had not yet discovered the secret of tiue repose. He lay tossing from side to side, blaming George and reproaching himself, longing for morning that he might see Janie, and leam the truth from her owm lips. At length morning came. Robert awoke from a troubled dieam, and rising, went out to his work. It was not till after breakfast that he could find time to speak to Janie alone. She was feeding the poultry when he came up to her, and said, — ‘ .Janie, what was the matter last night ?’ ‘The matter, Robert ? Nothing that I know of\ What do you mean?’ said Janie, who had recovered her cheei fulness. ‘ Why, your mother said you were out some time with George Dacres, and came in crying,’ replied Robert. ‘ Oh, I remember now ! ’ said Janie, flushing. ‘ It was nothing particular, Robert dear ; never mind.’ ‘ But I do mind, Janie. You seem to thinilv I have nothing to do with your affairs, but I should tliink I was as near to you as George Dacres, for all you make such a friend of him.’ ‘ Robert, why -do you talk so ? have I vexed j^ou in any w^ay ?’ exclaimed poor Janie, in surprise. ‘ You vex me by the way you treat me,’ said Robert, ‘ going and telling youi’ troubles to George, inttead of to me.’ ‘ I don’t, Robert.’ ‘Then what were you telling him last night? Was not that a trouble ?’ ‘ Well, it was rather ; but please don’t press me, Robert. I may tell you some future time, perhaps, but not now\’ ♦ At this moment Farmer Linton’s vo’ce was heard, calling Robeit, who went off in liigh dudgeon. Later in the day he made another attempt, av.d this time Janie and he had a downright quanel. He lost his temper, abused George most unjustly, and, when she ventured to reply, he accused her of fiL-kleiiess, Janie burst into tears. ‘ I’m sure, Robert, you’ve no right to say that. George and I were Fiends long before I knew you, and - ’ ‘I dare say!’ said Robert. ‘It’s a pity I ever came to break into such friendship! I am not the only one that talks about it. Otliers are m iking the

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No. XIV. CHATTERBOX. 107 same remark. I should not have paid any attention to their gossip, hut when I find you’ve heen crying with him, and telling him things you won’t breathe to me, I must say it’s time that I should interfere.’ If llobert had allowed himself a few moments for quiet thought, he would soon have seen tlie foolishness of his conduct. As it was, he was so earned away by passion that he scarcely knew what he was saying ©r doing. He left Janie in tears, and strode out of the house, intending to go in search of George. He had scarcely walked a hundred yards, however, when he met \Vill Bateman, who pstantly accosted him with, — ^ Well, lv )bert, my lad ! have you thought whether to agree to my plan ?' ^ What plan f ’ said Robert, who had forgotten for the time ever}i;hing that did not bear on the matter of George Dacres and Janie Linton. ^ Why, w’hat w'e were settling last night. Don’t you remember?’ and Will lowered his voice, — ^ Our little visit to the preserves.’ ^Oh, ayel’ said Robert, with a nod. 'I don’t quite know!’ And then he stood for a minute in silent thought. Bateman iiad frequently been fined for poaching, and if he had had his deserts, he would have been fined for it more frequently still. This was a further reason for his hatred of George. The shooting season was very near ; game was most temptingly abundant; and Will, with a friend, had planned a poaching expedition, and had invited Robert to join them. Robert w as of a daring nature ; the thought of such an adventure w^as delightful to him : stiU, under ordinary circumstances, he would probably have conquered the temptation. But his suspicions about Janie made him reckless. Like a spoiled child, who, when its wdll is thwarted, says, ^ I w^on’t be good any more ; ’ so Robert thought to himself, ‘ She’ll be sorry, perhaps, if I’m taken up and put in prison ! She’ll know it was she w^ho drove me to it. She’ll wish she hadn’t carried on so with George, perhaps, when she hears what it’s made me do.’ And with this he promised WiU that he would join him, CHAPTER IV. That night, when all was silent in Farmer Linton’s abode, Robert, his gun in one hand, swung himself down from his window, which was only a few feet above the ground. A figure stood waiting at the gate ; the moon was shining, and Robert at once saw Will Batfm.an. ‘ Hush ! don’t speak till we get away from the house ! ’ said Will, holding up his finger. Robert obeyed, and the two men walked on in silence until the corner of the road was safely passed. ^ Grainger can’t come, as he promised to do,’ Bate¬ man then said : ^ he has fallen down and sprained his foot, so there’s only you and me. You’d better give me your gun, and you take this bag : it’s not very large, but it will hold as much as we shall catch to¬ night, I reckon.’ ‘ Have you laid many snares ? ’ inq^iiired Robert. * Pretty middling. I hadn’t mucli time, you see. I went to lay them about sunset, and I was as near as possible caught. I heard footsteps, and crouched down under the cover, and that new keeper, Rogers, passed by as close as you are now.’ * I suppose they haven’t any of them got scent of what we are going to do P’ ^ I don’t see how they could ; there’s no fear of Grainger’s peaching. But if they should come on us, we must fight for it, that’s all ! ’ ^ Suppose we should be taken ?’ * Well, suppose we should ? Why, man ! ’ cried Bateman, wheeling round on his companion, ‘ you’re never going to turn coward at the last moment ? ’ M'Vho ever said I was?’ said Robert, angiily. But, even as he spoke, he wdshed himself free of the whole affair ; not from cowardice, as Will surmised, but from a sudden sense of all he sliould lose if he was discovered. His good name — his adapted parents’ favour — above all, Janie ! He was sure Farmer and Mrs. Linton would never let him speak to her again, if he were once put in prison. And, after all, how foolish he had been to fancy such things concerning her and George 1 It was as she had said, they were only like brother and sister. How foolish to pick a quarrel on such a subject ! And Robert wished, as every night of the year there are some to wish, that the pa>t day could be blotted out and the nimming begin afresh. But this Tvas impossible ; there was no retreat now ! A few minutes, and the two men had plunged into the depths of the copse-wood. {To be continued.) WOIlKmG- THE WITS. IF any of our readers would like to work their wits some winter evening, let them try how many anagrams they can find for the word ^Monastery.’ The editor of Old and Nexo offered a prize to the reader who sent in the greatest number of anagrams. The prize was won by a boy, wdio sent in the twenty- eight anagrams which are at the beginning of the list given below. But the editor gatiiei’ed out of the answers sent him no less than sixty-seven. All these sentences lie imbedded in the single word ‘Monastery.’ It would be good work for the wits of any readers of Chatterbox to try how many they can ferret out before they look at the list printed below : — * Store many ; ’ ‘ Roman stye ; ’ ‘ Yes, at morn ; ’ ‘ Tar my nose ; ’ ‘ Tory means ; ’ ‘ Mary notes ; ’ ‘ My treason ; ’ ‘ Mean story ; ’ * Army notes ; ’ ‘ Mary’s tone ; ’ ‘No arms yet ; ’ ‘ Yes, arm not ; ’ ‘ Rest on Amy ; ’ ‘ Rat my nose ; ’ ‘ Stone Mary ; ’ ‘On my tears ; ’ ‘ Money rats ; ’ ‘ As on me try ; ’ ‘ On my rates ; ’ ‘ Try same on ; ’ ‘ Set on Mary ; ’ ‘ Star money ; ’ ‘ My toes ran ; ’ ‘ Yon master ; ’ ‘ Tear my son;’ ‘Tars’ money;’ ‘Money arts;’ ‘Tom yearns;’ ‘No mastery;’ ‘Nasty Rome;’ ‘A}', monster;’ ‘Romans yet;’ ‘Moray nets;’ ‘Name story;’ ‘ Stone aimy;’ ‘Yon stream;’ ‘One St. Mary;’ ‘My one star;’ ‘Ye ran most ; ’ * 0 try as men ; ’ ‘ Morn as yet ; ’ ‘ Yearn most ; ’ ‘Say, Mentor;’ ‘Eton’s army;’ ‘Re A. Mostyn;’ ‘Oyster-man;’ ‘MarySeton;’ ‘ Yes, matron ;’ ‘ Or am¬ nesty ; ’ ‘ On ye smart ; ’ ‘Ye no smart ; ’ ‘ My senator ; ’ ‘More nasty;’ ‘Or mean sty;’ ‘No, Amy, rest;’ ‘On my aster;’ ‘Ye matrons;’ ‘Rate my son;’ ‘Say no term;’ ‘On me, stray;’ ‘Try one, Sam;’ ‘Yes, on tram ; ’ ‘No rest, May ; ’ ‘0, Mary sent ’ (me) ; ’ ‘ Storm, an ye ’ (will) ; ‘ Yes, Tom ran ; ’ ‘ ’Asy, Merton ; ’ ‘ Try sea, Mon ; ’ ‘ Mrs. O’Tyane ; ’ ‘ Mr. O’Nastey.’

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108 OIIATTER.BOX. No. XIV. I THE BOY WHO COULD NOT LIE. was once a young Viiginian, and* a princely boy w£» he, "Yet he sprang not from a princely line, nor was of high degree ; But the clear blood mantled in his cheek — the light hashed from his eye, And his presence was right noble, for he never told a lie. Now his home was near a forest, filled with lofty branching trees, And his wont had been to try his knife, boy-fashion, upon these. We may think that he, not seldom too, had snapped the brittle toy. Before his father found a hatchet and bought it for his boy. Who so proud as our young woodman now ? his soul is full of glee. He will try his keen-edged tool at once upon the nearest tree : So he hies him round his father’s house and waves his axe in air. Then, in evil hour, he spies a favourite pear-tree planted there. Oh I the mischief in that bold, bright eye ! the mis¬ chief in that arm ! For the noble tree is ruined ere he feels the least alarm. Yet no one saw the ruin wrought, and he soon can run away : He may cheke his fault in silence, light the burden where it may. But the boy was better than his thought. His father saw the tree : ^W’ho has done all that mischief there?’ with angry voice cried he ; His son struggled for a moment, — ’twas so easy to deny : Then, summoning true courage, said, * Sir, I cannot tell a lie.’ Oh, I wish all could see his father’s changing features now : He forgot his much-prized tree w’hen he read the boy’s brave brow’. Then he clasped him in his arms and said (fit words for son and sire), — * I w’ould rather lose a thousand trees than have my son a liar.’ So the fearless boy grew up to be a noble, fearless man ; Match his worth and great deeds for freedom as often as you can ! That will be a glorious age indeed which of patriots yields us one. Who achieved such lasting glory as heroic Wash¬ ington ! Home Book for Children of all uiges. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. {Continued from page 95.) THE FEIAB. ‘ A Fr^re there was, a wanton and a mery, A limitour, a full solempne man.’ A PLEASANT companion, and a merry, was our Friar Iluberd. In all the four religious orders there ^vas no one so fair of speech as he. Beloved by every one, and on familiar terms wdth the franklnins, or country gentlemen, he w’as a noble support to his order ; for, as he said himself, being a licentiate, he had a greater power o^ confession than a curate. He took it for a great sign of repentance when a ma«i gave liberally to his convent ; for, as he said, some men were so hard-hearted they could not weep and pray, therefore tliey ought to give gold and silver to the poor friars instead. Ilis tippet was always stuffed full of knives and pins to give away as presents. Well could he play on the rote, a kind of harp, and in singing he bore away the prize. He was as strong as a champion too. No beggar or lazar knew better than he where the good inns w’^ere in every town ; though he would have nought to do with beggars or lazai*s, for he held it was not becoming or advantageous to have dealings with such poor creatures. He was all for the rich, and the sellers of victuals ; for he was a * limitor,’ that is, a friar having a license to collect money and contribuiions for his convent within a certain district; and none could do this better than he, for wherever he thought any profit might arise there was he most courteous and serviceable. Yet this pleasant friar had done some good in his time, and made many marriages of young people at his own cost. There used to be a kindly custom of appointing a day for the amicible settlement of quarrels and grievances, and this was called a * love- day ; ’ and Friar Huberd was of great help in recon¬ ciling neighbours, and adjusting thek differences. There he was, not like a cloisterer or poor scholar in a threadbare cope, but like a master or a pope, in a semicope of double worsted, that was as round as a bell. In his wantonness he lisped somewhat, * to malce his English sweet upon his tongue ; ’ and in his liar ping, when he had sung, his eyes twinkled in his head h£e the stars on a frosty night ! Though not exactly the rightsoi t of person, perhaps, for the sacred profession, or altogether di interested, there were worse men than Fiiar Huberd; and he looked with indignation on the Summoner, who wa.s one of his fellow-pilgrims, and was a functionary who notoriously abused his office by extorting money from timid people. Ever and anon, as he rode along, he cast an angry glance at him, but from a sense of de¬ corum he refrained from speaking his mind ; but when the Wife of Bath had finished her tale he could con¬ tain himself no longer, and told the company that, if they pleased, he would tell them the story of a Sum¬ moner, who, as they might know by the name, was a man of whom no good could be said. Then spake our host : ‘ Ah, sir, ye should be civil and courteous, as befits your estate ; tell your tale, and let the Summoner be.’

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^Njiy,’ quoth tlie Summoner, Met him say of me wluit he likes; when it comes to ray turn I shall quit him every jvroat. I shall tell what a great honour it is to be a flattering limitoiir, and of many another crime that need not be rehearsed now.’ Our host answered, ‘ Peace! no more of this.' And eai I to the Friar, ‘ Tell forth your tale, mine own master dear.’ So the Frirar told how a Summoner, in his greed of gain, entered into partnership with the evil one him¬ self, and was carii jd off bo;lily by that personage to his own abode. And he ('ndeil by exhorti jg the company to lead go )d lives, and hoped that even the Suinmouer would repent of iiis wick 'dwess, and so avoid the fate that otherwise awaited him. In Chaucer’s time, French being very much u^ed, the friars were called ‘ freres,’ or brothers. A. li. {To he continued,)

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110 CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. PEAS-BLOSSOM. {Continued fromp. 99.) ON’T you ever get a ride ? ’ ‘ Oh, yes ! Carrington lets us get on as often as we like ; but, to tell the truth,^ said Paddy, in a burst of confidence, * it’s not so easy to keep on, for the brute is so jolly fresh, and wants to get home to his stable; and he’s as cunning as any Chiistian, and knows as well as anything when Pat or I are on his back. The Pies had "been up to some of their larks with him to-day Pm sure — put some pepper up his nose or something prickly under the saddle, for he danced about like a cat on hot bricks, and just as I got on, by the Cemetery, a bicycle came up, and the brute i'ust tossed up liis head and filing out his heels and off le went, and I .clung on for dear life to his mane, and shut my eyes, and wondered whether he was off to the moon or the North Pole ; and he took me to the Orchards, and shot me off in front of the doors as neat as if I was a sack of coals, and right at the feet of old Surly, the man there, who scowled at me as if it w^asn’t enough to be shaken into a jelly and bruised black and blue, but he’d like to finish me off entirely. It’s the last time I’ll liave any dealings with that brute, either the one on two legs or the one on four.’ * Does Pay keep on ? ’ ^ Oh, yes ! the pony knows him, and goes as steady as a dining-room table when he’s outside him : but it’s quite another pair of shoes with Pat and me.’ The girls got far more out of Paddy to satisfy their curiosity about ‘ Prince Mistletoe ’ than they did out of Pat, for Pat was in an unusually studious mood, and stuck to his books of an evening in a manner which alternately aroused admiration and irritation in the family. It had mattered very little to Pat, during the term before Christmas, what place he had in the class; in¬ deed, on the whole, he preferred the bottom, as being a more convenient position for seeing out of window, and also nearer the fire : and if Pay Carrington would have kept to the bottom also, Pat would have been quite content. But Carrington had an evident and troublesome tendency to rise. lie really knew a great deal more than any of the other boys. His grandfather had been no bad teacher, nor Pay himself a stupid or care¬ less pupil, and in that quiet house there was nothing to distract his attention ; so he had learnt solidly and thoroughly, and, when he got a little over his shyness and awkwardness among the other boys, his superior knowledge threatened to take him away for good and all from the snug corner by Pat. This would not do at all, as Pat felt when he saw the forlorn look that Pay gave him when an unluckily good answer took him up six places, and planted him between Millet and Carol, who took advantage of his unprotected position unmercifully. So there -svas nothing for it but to keep alongside of him, and if he would rise, to rise too ; and this was not to be done by agility or good fortune, which so often stood Pat’s friend in the playground, but only by real woi*k, and this was a severe test to Pat’s friendship. It was much more to his taste to stick by Carrington in the playground and exchange volleys of chaff on his account with the Pies, and to frustrate their plans, which were fresh - hatched every day, for getting Carrington into their clutches, and frightening and worrying the sensitive, thin-skinned boy, who, being the weak point of the Lark party, was constantly attacked. ‘ If only Pay had a little more pluck ! ’ Pat would complain to himself, though he never owned the want to a living soul. But it kept him on thorns constantly lest a burst of passionate tears should be the finale of some of the scenes in the playground, or he should run to com¬ plain to Mr. Padley of the conduct of his enemies. One day when something of the sort seemed immi¬ nent, by a sudden stratagem he got Carrington off outside the school into the narrow passage leading up to the church, where he managed to quiet him down, and assure him that it Avas only their chaff, and that it Avas because they saw it put him in a way that they kept on so. His Avords seemed to produce a wonderfully sooth¬ ing effect in an unusually short time, for the crimson colour died aAvay from the boy’s cheek and the fierce light out of his eyes, and his lips ceased to tremble, and his hands to clench and unclench. But Pat soon found that this Avas no compliment to his eloquence. * Listen ! ’ said Pay, holding up his hand to silence Pat. ^ Listen ! ’ The church door stood a little open, and from within poured out the full, rich tones, of the fine old organ, nsing and falling in grand, stately harmony. * Hullo ! ’ exclaimed Pat ; ^ that’s the neAv organist ! It’s not service time. Come on, we’ll go in ! ’ But Pay stood spellbound, and he field Pat’s arm so tightly, that he Avas forced to stand there with him, though he AA Ould dearly have liked to seize the chance of exploring the church with the hope of reaching the belfry, Avhere jackdaws abounded. Nor must fie speak, for Pay’s fingers squeezed his arm like a vice if fie opened his mouth, and the eager listening look in his face Avas quite painful to see in its intensity, and quite frightened Pat, who left off fidgeting and stood quiet, thinking, — ‘ He really is the rummiest chap I ever came across ! ’ They must have stood like this for full five minutes, and then Pay Carrington draAv a long breath, and let go of Pat’s arm, and Pat became aAvare that the music had stopped. * Are Amu so aAvfullv fond of music ?’ asked Pat. * Yes,’ said Pay; * that’s just it. There’s something awf 111 about it. I feel it all over me to the tips of my fingers : but I never felt it so much as this before.’ * It is jolly ! ’ said Pat. * Ymu should hear Aunt Bell sing, though — that is stunning ! And Molly doesn’t play badly, when she doesn’t count too loud.’ * Bo you know grandfather hates it ? I must not hum a tune, or even whistle in his hearing, or it up¬ sets him for cA’er so long : and he Avas quite angry one day because I played a tune on some glasses with water in them.’

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No. XTY. CHATTERBOX. Ill * Haven’t you got a piano ? ^ * Oh, no ! I don’t think I’ve ever seen one except in a shop; and one day when an Italian came with a harrel-organ, grandfather sent Gann out to threaten to send for the police, or to let the dogs loose, if he did not go away.’ ^ lie can’t help hearing it in church,’ said Pat. He never goes to church,’ said Ray ; ' and I fancy it is because of the music. And he doesn’t like my gouig to Mudford Church, but sends me to Wooler, which is further off, and where they hardly sing at all ; but once or twice I have persuaded Goody to come here just for a treat: but I never heard any¬ thing like this, even here ! ’ Just then a man came out of the church and shut the door heliind him, turning the heavy key in the lock. lie had a little child with him, who held with one hand to his coat, whilst with the other arm she grasped two or three shabby, dilapidated dolls. ^It’s the new organist!*’ said Pat: ^Miss Pink’s lodger, and his little girl,’ The organist looked curiously at the two boys as he passed, and so did the little gi\’l, both of them with very large, dark eyes.’ ^ He’ll know us when he meets us again,’ said Pat, though he had certainly returned the stare himself, with interest. CHAPTER XVI. The next day Pay was in a fidget to be off directly after dinner to listen for the organ in the church, and Pat was willing enough to humour him, as he saw there Avas some jplot brewing among the Pies for his persecution, and he w^as glad to get him out of the w'ay, though Paddy considered it w^as mean and cowardly to sneak off no one knew where, and threatened to turn Pie again, and cut Pat’s con¬ nexion altogether. He also declared that it was against the rules to be lurking about in the church¬ yard, and if old Padley found it out there Avoiild be a jolly shindy. Put Pat replied that Mr. Padley should not find it out ; and if he did he "would not mind, as it was only a rule for the Pies, and did not in any way affect the Larks. And Paddy, still in¬ dignant and unconvinced, nevertheless nobly agreed to distract the attention of the enemy wdiile Pat and Pay escaped. All was silent wdien they got outside the school, but the church door was open, and Pat, beckoning to Pay to follow him, made straight for it. It was a large church, wdth high, narroV pews. The most striking object in the church "was the lofty pulpit, fro^yning dow’n in all its glories of dusty velvet and bullion fringe on its shorter brother, the reading-desk, on the other side of the aisle. There "were galleries on either side, and a smaller one at the 'west end under the tower which w*as devoted to the organ. The church seemed to be quite empty, and the boys were proceeding to explore further, when a sharp, harsh voice, like the turning of a key in a rusty lock, made Pat stop, and Pay start violently. ' Hillo ! ’ said the voice ; * I thought as you "wasn’t coming, and I’d more than half a mind to be off.’ • And then from the stairs up into the organ gallery a queer, deformed figure, came into sight, with a big head set deep between his shoulders, one of which was higher than the other, and a shuffling, uneven way of walking, dragging one foot as he went. Pay was inclined to beat a retreat at the sight of this strange apparition, who certs*iffly looked uncanny in the dim light under the tower. ‘Put Pat said to him, — * It’s only Jesse, the man that blows the organ and sees to the stoves. He’s not quite all there. Come on.’ The boys had come in at the north door, so they were some way from the man, who did not see clearly with those odd, deep-set eyes, and it was not till they were close to him that he found out it was not the person he expected. ‘ IPllo ! Why it’s not you after all 1 ’ ^ Yes,’ said Pat, ^ it’s me right enough.’ * There ! Don’t tell me. I’m not so silly as that comes to. If it’s you, why didn’t you come half an hour ago ? It’s not often as a chap has a nice bit of boiled pork and greens for dinner that he need spoil ’em by being late.’ * Have you got to blow the organ ? ’ * Plow the organ ! I’ve a-done it in my mind pretty often, I can tell ye. Come at one sharp,” says he, ‘'^and I won’t keep you long.” So I teUs tlie old gal I’ll be in by two, and it’s close upon that now.’ * Perhaps he’s not coming.’ * Oh, he’ll come sure enough, sooner or later, and when he once gets his fingers on them blessed keys he don’t think of a chap’s tea, let alone dinner. People make a mighty piece of work about his fine playing ; but, bless you I it wouldn’t be nothing if I didn’t blow. It’s really the blowing as does it, though no one doesn’t think it.’ ‘All!’ said Pat, ‘they are uncommonly lucky to get hold of such a blower as you at Mudford. I’ve heard what good music they have here, and now I’m not sui’prised.’ Jesse nodded his head with pleased vanity. ‘ Well,’ he said, with assumed modesty, ‘ it isn’t I as should say it, but they won’t beat me in a hurry.’ And then his injuries and the pork returned to his mind with rene-wed poignancy. ‘Poiled to rags!’ he said; ‘ all of a stew, I’ll warrant ! ’ ‘ Look here,’ said Pat, ‘ you cut away home to your pork and greens, like a good ’un, and I’ll blow the organ.’ Jesse scratched one ear reflectively. ‘If /hb find it out ? pointing a thumb over one shoulder. ‘ I’ll make it square,’ said Pat. And, much relieved, Jesse shuffled off, and the two boys made their way up to the organ-gallery, where Kay gazed with reverence, not unmixed with awe, at the great silent pipes, and the rows of mys¬ terious stops, and the yellow keys and dusty pedals, and the heaps of old, time-stained music-boolcs at the side ; while Pat, with greater experience, looked about for the bellows, which was to be his part in the performance. He found them at last in a nook behind the organ, and he was busy explaining to Kay how they acted, and how the little bit of lead showed when the bellows were full, when a step on the gallery stairs announced that the organist had arrived. {To be continued,)

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112 CHATTERBOX. No. XIV. He tossed up his bead, and off he went.

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No. XV. CHATTERBOX. 113

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114 CHATTERBOX. No. XV. peas-blossom;. {Continued from p. 111.) ESSE are you there?’ said a voice. Pat answered with a grimt as much like Jesse’s rusty voice as he Tvas capable of producing. ‘I’ve kept you waiting, I’m afraid, hut I’ll let you off early to-day to make up.’ ‘All right,’ grunted Pat again. A pattering of small feet had followed the others, and now there were some quick words in a foreign language, and a child’s voice answering in the same, and then came drawing out of stop.s, and Pat bent to his blowing, and the music pealed out. It was not a good position for hearing, the puffing of the bellows, and the creaking and rattling of the stops and pedals were too audible, and the bass overpowered the treble, so that the general effect was spoilt ; but Eay did not seem critical, but sat contentedly among the cobwebs and spiders of that dusty, little corner, drinking it in with those thirsty ears of his. Pat’s arms and back were beginning to feel a little tired with his labours, and he was wondering how the time w'as going, and if they should hear the school bed through all this jolly row, for so he irreverently termed Handel’s ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ in his mind, when a sudden pause came, and voices were to be heard at the bottom of the gallery stairs, one of which Pat recognised as the Hector’s solemn and pompous ut¬ terance, with which he had made acquaintance at the distribution of prizes at the Grammar School, while the other was the child’s, speaking English now, but in a hesitating way, with a strong forek-n accent ; and Pat, creeping to" a point from which he could get a peep, saw a strange scene. The Eector, Canon Peters, was a tall, stout man, Vv’ith a red face and wldte hair and whiskers ; and he had come into the church while the ‘ Hallelujah Chorus’ had been proceeding; and after taking a survey through his gold e}' e-glasses of the scene of his Sunday labours under its aspect of week-day repose, with a severe inspection of sundry nut-shells and bits of orange-peel in the free seats, which re¬ mained in evidence against some of the school children, he turned to the gallery to say something about the chants to the organist. But here an unexpected obstacle met him. On the lowest step of the gallery stairs sat a little girl of four years old, with the darkest of dark seripus eyes, which returned his gaze as unabashed a ^ if he were not six-feet-two, rector of the parish, and canon into the bargain ; and on the step above her sat a row of dolls in various stages of dilapidation, also staring at him, some with one eye, and some with two, and some with empty eyeholes. ‘ AYhat are you doing here ?’ said the Eector, with a voice raised in natural indignation. ‘ H'sh I ’ said the child, holding up one small, brown finger. ‘ What are you doing here, you naughty little girl?’ ‘ H’sh ! Mustn’t speak so loud in the church.’ It w^as just then that Pat g»t a peep at them, and he said it was just like a game bantam cock showing fight to the great turkey cock, to which stately bird Canon Peters certainly bore a likeness. ‘ Take those things away !’ said the Eector, pointing with his walking-stick to the row of dolls. The little girl interpreted the movement as one of assault on her beloved dolls, and rose with Hashing eyes, and her whole little person quivering with emotion to defend them. ‘Go away, you naughty, bad man, or father w'ill beat you ! ’ Never had the reverend Canon been so treated before. But while he was seeking words of sufficient weight and dignity to express his feelings, some one came hastily down from the organ-loft above, caught the child up in his arms, quieting her with a whisper, and then turned with grave apologies to the outraged Canon. ‘ My little girl has been rude. I am sorry, sir. Piccola mia, say you are sorry.’ But the little girl shook her head and closed her lips firmly, and only locked her arms- tighter round her father’s neck, and pressed her round crimson cheek to his hollow dark one, looking all the time at her antagonist with great, dark eyes, big witli unshed tears, more of anger than of sorrow. ‘ She is a very naughty little girl,’ said the Eector; ‘ and you ought to punish her for such rudeness. “ Spare the rod, spoil the child,” Signor, is a well- known rule, no doubt, in your country, as in ours.’ The Signor bowed slightly in a formal manner that w^as certainly polite, and yet did not encourage the Rector in giving further advice ; so to Pat’s infinite relief, who was on thorns to get away, the Eector cut the interview” short, gave his message about the chants, and went slowly aw'ay, wdiile the Signor sat down on the steps among the dolls with the little girl in his arms, drying a>vay the tears that w^ere now flowing apace, and soothing the sobs with fond, en- deaiing words in that sweet mother-tongue of hers. ‘ There’s the bell ! ’ cried Pat. ‘ Come on, Eay ! we must cut and run for it I ’ CHAPTER XVII. ‘Pickles is a queer name for a girl,’ said Pat; ‘ and she’s the rummest little heggar I ever c.ame across. I thought I should have split to see her giving it to old Peters.’ ‘ I wish he kad not come in just then,’ said Eay, ‘ in the veiy middle of the music. I say, Pat, you’ll come again to-morrow^, won’t you ? I don’t see why w'0 should not blow the organ regularly instead of that stupid Jesse.’ ‘ Hum,’ said Pat, dubiously, not sure wdiether organ- blowing was altogether such an amusing occupation in the long run, and being stiff in his arms from his ex¬ ertions. ‘ I don’t know what old Eadley w ill say if w'e are alw^ays loafing about in the church ; it’s against the rules. It’s all very w'eU once in a w^ay, hut it won’t do too often.’ But Pat w'as not proof against Eny’s persuasions, though Paddy did all in his power to counteract them, and tliough the whole Pie party w'ere drawm up in force to prevent their escape from the playground, and though, after fighting their w'ay thi'ough that

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No. XV. CHATTERBOX. 115 gallant array, Mr. Carr caught them at the door and asked them where they were going. Mr. Carr, as I have said, had no liking for Pat, who carried too many guns for him; and he extended his dislike to Ray, as being under Pat’s protection, though inoffensive in himself. * All right,’ said Pat ; ^ we’re going out.’ ‘ Don’t you know that it’s against the rules, sir ?’ ‘ Sorry to hear it,’ said Pat. * I shall speak to Mr. Radley.’ ‘ All right. Speak away ! ’ ‘ You’re the most impudent young monkey in the school, sir ! ’ ^ You forget yourself, sir,’ said Pat, with a strong emphasis on yourself, which gave a sting to the other¬ wise inoffensive words ; and then he dodged through the door before Mr. Carr could stop him, and was off after Ray, who had gone ahead. He got to the porch out of breath with running and laughing. ^ Oh, I say ! ’ he gasped out, ^ Pve gone and put my foot in it again with old Juggernaut! lie is in a wax, poor old beggar ! Hullo ! I beg your pardon. I thought it was Carrington.’ It was the organist who was sitting in the shadowy porch, and whose dark face and brown eyes were certainly at first glance not unlike Ray Carringten’s. /Who ? What name did you say ? ’ ' Cariington. Ray Carrington — one of our fellows. I was looking for him. Ah, here he is ! Hullo, Ray 1 wherever had you got to ? ’ ^ Ray Cariington 1 ’ said the organist, thoughtfully. ^ It’s a curious name.’ ^ Do you think it is ? ’ said Pat. ' Why, I know lots of fellows with queerer names than that. Your little girl’s is queer enough.’ ^ My little girl ? ’ ^ Yes. Isn’t she called Pickles, or something like that?’ The oiganist laughed. ‘Not quite. I call her Piccola ; it’s Italian, you know, for little girl.’ ^ Oh, that’s it ! ’ said Pat. ^ We were in the church yesterday when she gave it to old Peters.’ ^ Were you there, too ? ’ said the organist to Ray. He had been watching the boy curiously ever since he came up, while he was tallting to Pat, and his intense look had called up the ready colour into the boy’s cheeks, and the sudden question made his eye¬ brows twitch nervously. ^ Yes, I was there,’ Ray answered ; and then added abruptly, ^ Are you going to play again to-day P ’ ‘•’I meant to; but Jesse, tne man who blows, has not come. I kept him waiting yesterday, so I sup¬ pose he’s paying me out.’ ‘ I don’t mind blowing a bit,’ said Pat, magnani¬ mously. ^ You see, Carrington here thinks such a lot of the music, and we’ve had bother enough in getting here, and if old Carr makes a row about it perhaps we shan’t get another chance.’ ^ Are you so fond of music ? ’ ^Oh, I don’t care about it particularly. I like a good, jolly song, with a chorus, or a military band ; and I like plenty of hymns in church, you know. But I get lots of it and to spare at home. There’s always one or other of them tuning up ; but Carrington never hears a note at his place. But come on ; if I’m to blow, we must look sharp, or that jolly old bell will ring.’ So in they went; and while Pat worked away at the bellows, Ray drank his fill of music. The Signor did not say much to him — at least not in words — but, through the music, the man’s heart was speaking to the boys with that strange, subtle sympathy that rniisic gives to its lovers; and when from time to time he turned to look at the boy’s face, or stole a glance at him in the little dusky mirror over the keys, he knew that he was understood, and that the boy’s whole nature was vibrating in harmony with his. It is curious the likeness that similar feelings call out in different faces, and those two that the little organ mirror reflected were strangely alike : and Pat was struck by it as he came to tell Ray the bell was ringing for school. The wind in tlie organ was soon exhausted, the sound died away with it under the fingers of the organist, silence succeeded the full, rich chords, and Ray got up, rubbing his eyes in a strange, bewildered way, like some one roused suddenly from sleep. ^ Come on, Ra^, there’s the bell ! ’ ‘ May we come again ? ’ stxid Ray. ^ Whenever you like.’ 'Not much chance,’ said Pat; 'for we’re in for a gale of wind as it is.’ ' I shall be here,’ said the Signor. ' We will come,’ answered Ray. ' Thank you : good-bye I ’ 'Good-bye, Ray Cai’rin.gton,’ said the organist, lingering over the name ay if he liked the sound. As Pat had predicted, there was a gale of wind in store for them. Mr. Carr had gone straight to Mr. Radley, with Pat’s impudence rankling, and re¬ ported how Bright and Carrington set the rules openly at defiance, and were hiding about in the church, evidently up to some mischief; which Mr. Radley was fain to confess was not unlikely, if Pat were one of the parties concerned. So, to the Pies’ great delight. Blight major and Carrington were called up and reprimanded, and ordered for the future to keep within bounds, and to write out a hundred lines each, and to stop in tlie next day. So the Signor looked out in vain for the two boys, though he went earlier to the church, and remained later than usual, and irritated Jesse almost beyond endurance by his obliviousness of meal-times; and the organ seemed to give him less satisfaction than usual without that eager listener of the day before; and he could not forget himself or his troubles in his harmonies, but kept glancing over his shoulder through the red curtains towards the north door, and fancying he heard the boys’ steps along the aisle. Ray was in despair at being cut off from the music, and Pat racked his brains to think of some way of evading Mr. Radley’s ^order without open disobedience, and even condescended, for Ray’s sake, to do what he would have scorned on his own account, and that was to try and work the oracle through Mrs. Radley. But Mrs. Radley was not to be won over by Pat’s blarney : having once interfered on Pat’s behalf suc¬ cessfully, she was unwilling to do so again, and she unjustly suspected Pat of having designs on the jack¬ daws in the belfry, and to be speaking one word for

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Cariington and two for liimc't lt ; und .-U* <lid not at all appreciate Pat’s disintorested friendship and Kay’s strong musical nature, which was all the more ]»ower- ful for having been suppressed and discouraged. So Pat could only suggest to Kay to go to his grandfather and get him to write to Mr. Kadley and ask leave for them ; and he could not understand why this was impossible. {To be continued.) THE THAMES FKOM SOUBCE TO MOUTH. No. YlII. — ITiOM GHEKTSEY TO HAMPTON. CHEETSEY BEIDGE. mwo miles below IMagna Charta Island may i seen, facing the river, ' London Stoiae,’ which is inscribed with the entreaty, ' God preserve the City of London, a.b. 1280.’ This stone marks the limit of

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Cheitsey Bridge.

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118 CHATTERBOX. No. XV. the Lord Mayor’s jurisdiction as conservator of the Thames above London Bridge. Another mile and we reach Staines. The name is generally allowed to be derived from the Saxon ‘ Staine/ now ^ stone.’ It possibly refers to the stone above mentioned. Here, at Bancroft House, Kir.g John slept, or tried to sleep, on the night following the day upon which he signed the Great Cliarter. Four miles’ further we reach pretty Chertsey, with its solid, high-shouldered stone bridge. Here, in the celebrated Chertsey Abbe}’, was buried Henry \I. ‘ Poor key-cold figure of a holy king, Pale ashes of the House of Lancaster.’ Thus writes Shakespeare an e|>itaph upon the founder of Eton — the kindest, most upright, and, it must be said, most wi’ong-headed man who has reigned in England. Murdered in the Tower «f London by crafty but far-seeing Bichard HI., the assassinated king w'as brought iiere amongst the monks wdiom he loved deeply, and was interred by them with all the pomp which they dared display. Three miles below Chertsey Bridge w^e^ reach Shepperton. Here the Wey joins the Thames, up which the boating-man may pull into the Arun, and thence to Little Hampton, on the Sussex coast. A mile below is Ilalliford. Here Julius Csesar crossed on his invasion of Britain, at a point called Coway (that'is to say. Causeway) Stakes. The river was then fordable at this point, and the name is derived from the oaken stakes, huge branches, which were fixed in the banks, and pointing to the river, to impede, if not prevent, the passage of the Homans. Until quite recent years it is possible that some of these stakes existed. There can be little doubt that they caused a mud-bank to form at this point. Indeed this rampart is another argument in favour of the belief that the Britons whom Cassar encountered, when he crossed the Channel to our land, were not the mere painted .savages which even our best historians assume them to have been. Savages do not complete engineering works which, to' some extent, last nearly two thoii.sand years. A mile below Coway Stakes we reach Walton, 'where, beyond all question. Queen Elizabeth did in her early days reside. In the church here (of all places in the parish) is still preserved and shown a ‘ brank,’ or ^ gag,’ which, after due trial, 'W’as put upon the mouth of a Walton shrew, as a punisliment, and a practical means of making her keep the king’s peace and be silent. Another four miles bring us to Hampton, which must not be confounded with Hampton Court, a place farther down the river. On the Middlesex side (for •we have reached the county in which London stands) may be seen the house which is still called Garrick’s Villa. It was built by that great actor of the last century, who was a credit to the^ stage and to society, for he lived an honourable and noble life, was a good husband, the friend of some of the best characters of his time, and, above all, he was an honest man. And now, passing under the new bridge at Hampton Court, we moor our boat below^ the gaidens of the celebrated Palace, which is, after Windsor, more associated with English history and the English people than any otlier royal demesne in the kingdom. {To be continued.) HOBERT’S TURNINa-POINT. {Continued from page 107.) HE same night George could not sleep. Indeed, this was often the caue witE him. Mdiile bu.sy in his work his mind had no leisure for sad thoughts. But when left in darkness and soli¬ tude, Janie’s face seemed always be¬ fore him ; he could not banish it, try how he would. Hard and bitter were the .*itruggle3 that George had to sus¬ tain, but he had learned to master himself in little matters ; hence, -svlien greater trials came, he was prepared to meet them. On this particular night he rose from Iils bed, and dressing hastily, rushed out into the cool night air. Scarcely aware of wdiat he was doing, he strode rapidly along the road, and never stopped until he reached a gate leading into a plantation, the same plantation which Will and Kobert had lately entered. ^ Here he stood still, and leaning his elboAvs on the rails, buried his face in his hands. All around was calm, and very quiet; scarcely a sound stirring. Only a gentle breeze was rustling among the leaves of the trees, and a little brook close by gurgling softly, as it trickled on its way. ^ By degrees, the outward peace began to breathe itself into George’s spirit. He looked up to -svhere myriads of stars were twinkling in the cloudless sky, while the autumn moon shone brightly, yet serenely, in their midst. And as he looked, lie thought of the Home where all weary spirits who trust in God shall sooner or later find rest. • ^ ^ After all,’ said George, ' with, such a hope at the last, we can sm’ely manage to bear up now for a •^vhile.’ And there came into his mind a little verse, 'vdiich he had learned years before as a boy. He had not cared for it then, but now it seemed full of comfort to him as he repeated it, — * Faint not, pilgrim ! one brief day Hold on thy way ! Let not things which perish all Thy soul entluall ! Short the present ; to thy home Soon tiion shalt come ; With thy Father thou shalt find All to thy mind ! ’ 'Ah I’ thought George, 'it was surely God AVho joined together the being wdth our Father and the having all to our mind. If everything went smoothly here while we are away from Him, I suppose we shouldn’t so much care to go up there, where we can be with Him. What I want most now is patience, to be content to wait till He calls me.’ As he spoke, George opened the gate and entered the plantation, resolving, before returning home, to go through it and see that all was right. The branches of the trees cast dark shadows across the path, and the moonlight gleaming through, was rellected in all kinds of fantastic forms. Among these George walked, stopping at interval i to listen, but for some time no suspicious sound was heard. When he had gone about half way, liowever, he thought that some distance before him he heard a crackling noise, as of some person breaking through

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No. XV. OI-IATTERBOX. 119 the bushes. He stopped again, and found that his ears had not deceived him ; but as he lii.tened the sound ceased. He began to make his way to the place whence it proceeded, wallting as cautiously as possible; but his foot.=5teps were heard, and a voice, which he knew to be Will Bateman’s, called out — * Come a foot further, and I’ll shoot you !’ But George was not to be so easily frightened from doing his duty. He continued to move on, and the next moment, the moonlight falling full on their faces, there rose up from the thicket two men. George had just time to see that Will Bateman was in the act of poin ing a gun, and that Robert Harris, with a pale, horritied face, waj tr^dng to stop him, and crying * Oh, Will ! d(s)n t lire ! don’t kill him, for mercy’s sake ! ’ All this, with the rapidity of a flash of lightning, assed before George’s eye. Another moment, and e was lying white and motionless across the shadowy path, CHAPTER V, Will Bateman had thrown down the gun and made his escape, calling to Robert to follow ; but Robert, starting from the attitude of horror in which he stood tran.sflxed, hastened to George’s side, and kneeling down called his name. ‘George!’ he exclaimed. But there was no an«^wer, and a great awe came over Robert. He feared to look towards the ashy face turned up to the sky ; he only chafed the cold hands, and tried to stanch the blood which trickled from the wounded side. He stuffed his handkerchief into the wound and set off in search of help : but he had only gone a short way when footsteps came running behind, his arm was grasped; and looking round he saw Carnall, one of the underkeepers, ‘ So you thought you could make off with yourself! but you’re mistaken,’ said the nian. ‘ You’ve done for poor Dacres,’ I reckon.’ ‘ It was not 1 1 I never touched him ! I was going for help !’ ciied Robert. ‘ I dare say ! don’t tell me 1 You come along with me.’ ‘ I’ll come, you needn’t be so rough,’ said Robert, as the keeper dragged him on by the arm. And Carnall, finding that he was inclined to be quiet, used less force, and they walked rapidly along. ‘ Is George really dead ’ asked Robert. ‘ From what I can see, he is. How^ever, as soon as I’ve got you safe, I shall go back to him with the doctor.’ * I hope you’ll lose no time,’ said Robert. Carnall bade him mind his own business ; and in a short time they arrived at the police-station, where Robert w^as left, to wait in custody until the morning. He was too much agitated to think; he seemed lost in a horrible dream, from which he was at length only awakened by the policeman’s voice, telling him that it was eight o’clock, and the gig was waiting to take them to Mr. Bunbury, the magistrate. Robert, with handcuffs on his wrists, stepped in, and was driven through the village : past the fields where Farmer Linton’s men were working, stopping to stare after the gig and exclaim at its inmate ; past the white farmhouse, where Janie stood on the step; who, seeing her lover borne by in such a manner, fell to the ground as though she were dead; past the wall where Will and he had sat, hatching the plot which had proved so disastrous ; past George’s cot¬ tage, Tsdiere the blind drawn down wits flapping in the breeze; past one familiar place after another, each adding to Robert’s shame, until at last the horse drew up at Mr. Bunburv’s door. This gentleman was about to sit down to breakfast, but he consented to hear the cate at once; and the party was ushered into hi.s study. Carnall was there to give his evidence, and this done, Robert underwent a close examination. He confessed to having gone to the wood for poaching purposes, but declared that his gun was not then in his own possession, as he had lent it; he would not say to whom. He also refused to state whether or not he w^as alone ; but pleaded ‘Not Guilty’ to the charge of murder in most emphatic tones. ‘ I am sorry to say the evidence is very strong against you,’ stnd Mr. Jiunburv. ‘ The petty sessions take place in three or four driys. I will, therefore, remand you till then ; ; nd in the meantime you must be kept in close confinement. Carnall, is Dacres really dead ? ’ ‘ No, sir; but he is not conscious, and rfie doctor says the chances are that he may die before he w^akes.’ ‘ Poor fellow 1 Well, if he should recover consci¬ ousness perhaps we may hear something from him. Every effort must also be made to discover whether the prisoner’s statement about his gun be true, and also whether any other person was in the wood at the same time.’ The policeman promised obedience. Robert was driven away to the nearest town, -where he w^as put in prison. A few hours afterwards AYill Bateman shared the same fate. Some men in an opposite field had seen him enter the plantations with Robert ; and, lured by promise of reward, Grainger confessed that he and Will had for some days been planning this poaching expedition. Will denied the charge, but it -was in vain ; and before ev ening he was confined in the next cell to Robert. The real state of the case was this : — When they were concealed behind the brushwood, Will and Robert heard George’s approach ; they were loaded with game, and w^ere in the very act of taking up a snare. At the same time escape was impossible; it was a moonlight night; he was close upon them, and the brushwood was in that spot so tangled, that running was out of the questi. n. Only two comses were left to them, either to fight it out or to frighten George by threatening 1 o shoot. Will cho? e the latter plan, secretly hoping that, under pretence of defending himself from detection, he might be able to gratif}^ his long-cherished hatred. ‘ I only want to maim him,’ he whispered to Robert. When arrested next day, AVill inwardly decided that nothing could be lost by denying ever^Thing. If in the end he was compelled to make a clean breast of it, the worst he expected to befall him was a com¬ mittal on the charge of manslaughter. {2'o be continued.)

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120 CHATTERBOX. No. XV. Car nail in pursuit of llobert.

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The Mercluiiit.

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122 CHATTERBOX. No. XVI. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Continued from page 109.) THE MERCHANT. ‘A Marchant was ther with a forked herd, nottelee, and highe on horse he sat.’ [IE character of the English merchaiit stood very high indeed in Chaucer’s time. He often attained to great wealth, and was much re¬ spected ; but in those days the different classes of so¬ ciety were far more dis¬ tinctly marked than they are now. The Knight was wholly devoted to chivalry and feats of arms. He frequently wasted his substance in making a splendid display at the tournament ; but however straitened his means were, he never thought of improving them by entering into trade or any mercantile transactions whatever ; whilst the merchant was as completely absorbed in his business, and in maintaining ^ his integrity with the foreign nations he had dealings with ; and no more dreamt of following the Knight’s way of life than he would of imitating his dress, or riding in the lists at the tournament. Commerce was iiis vocation, and warfare that of the knight. And be it remarked, that whilst Chaucer is very severe on the faults of his fello^v-men, he has never a word to say against the merchants of London. A very worthy representative of his class was the good citizen who rode with our pilgrims to Canter¬ bury. He sat high on his horse, had a forlced beard, and on his head was a Flemish beaver hat. He was simply dressed, according to his station, in a suit of motley, or different colours, most likely those of the guild of merchants to which he belonged ; and his boots were neatly clasped. A full solemn man, he spoke gravely, and was ever thinking of how he should increase his gains. He would have the sea guarded at any cost between ^ Middleburgh and Ore well,’ for he traded to the Low Countries, and Middleburg was the capital of Zealand, and had a considerable commerce. As most of the English exports in his day consisted of wool, o»r merchant was probably a wool-stapler. He could exchange money light well ; and so steadfastly did he manage his bargains and agreements, that no man could say he was in debt ! Truly he was a worthy man, but his name our author did not know. Now this good merchant, though he was such a clever man of business, had made a mistake in mania ge, and had got a wife that was not suited to him. She had rather a shrewish tongue ; and it may be sus¬ pected that it was not altogether piety that took him to Canterbury, but partly a wish to escape from domestic cares for a while. Anyway, his mixd was so embittered by his own experience, that when called on by our host to tell a tale, he tells one against wives, which it is to be hoped was not true. In some of our ancient churches there are beautiful monuments to the great merchants of the olden time. They usually consist of a sheet of brass let into the pavement of the church, bearing on it the effigy of the merchant engraved in durable lines. There the old worthies lie, clad in their citizens’ dress, and with their hands folded in prayer! The inscriptions to them contained not only tlieir names, but the mono¬ gram or merchant’s mark, which they appended to their documents, or inscribed on their bales of goods, and of w'hich they were as proud as the knight was of his shield and crest. A. R. (To he continued.) PEAS-BLOSSOM. (Continued from p, 116.) I’D go to my governor in a jiffey,’ said Pat ; ^ but he has sucli a lot to bother him that we don’t worry him about things if we can help it: but I suppose grandfathers are different.’ * Yes,’ said Hay, ^ very different.’ And then a minute or two afterwards he added, — * Pat, if you wanted to do something very much, and your governor’ (he was learning to speak in the vulgar tongue, under Pat’s guidance), did not like it, what would you do ? ’ ‘ I should not do it,’ said Pat, very decidedly ; and then truth compelled him to add, ^ that is, if I remem¬ bered : but I’ve a shocking bad memory.’ There seemed no help for it, and Hay resigned him- • self gloomily to circumstances, while Pat very soon consoled himself with a sort of tennis, which one of the boys had introduced, and which so engrossed the attention of the Pies that Ha}’- was left very much to his owm devices. A week passed away in this manner, and Hay had given up all hope, wdien help came in a most unex¬ pected shape, and from a most unexpected quarter. It was in the shape of a very ragged doll, with one eye and no wig, and the quarter it came from was the window in Miss Pink’s house overlooking the play¬ ground, from whence it was followed, as far as they w^ould reach, by two fat, little brown arms, and a burst of rapid and vehement lamentations. CHAPTER XVIII. A DOLL suddenly descending in the middle of a playground full of boys may be compared to a bun thrown into a bear’s den, or a nut into a cage full of monkeys — not, of course, on a Bank Holiday, or two or three days after, wlien the animals are so over¬ whelmed with the attentions of the public that they loathe their natural food — but on ordinary occasions, when the monkeys’ cheeks are not bursting with their stores, and the bears are not too languid even to open their mouths. But to the distracted owner of those brown arms, from which the doll had fallen, the matter w'as far more tragic; and her feelings may be compared to those of a mother whose baby had been thrown to the wild beasts before her very eyes. More than once Pat had seen Piccola’s black eyes peeping out at that window, and sometimes the or¬ ganist’s dark face was there watching the boys at

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No. XVI. CHATTERBOX. 123 their phaj ; but the window had always been closed till to-day, when this shocking catastrophe happened. Now I must confess that Molly and Nora’s dolls had often sulfered severely at Pat’s hands, that waxen noses had been exposed to undue heat, and kid arms and calico bodies reduced by letting out their bran lifeblood, to mere flabby ghosts of their former selves; and one flaxen-haired beauty may still be seen at the very top of one of the fir-trees at Kelburn Lodge, where Pat, at the peril of life and limb, took it one day, and was forbidden by father on any account to go up and fetch it down ; so there it remains to this day, though it is doubtful whether either flaxen hair or beauty have survived the ravages of wind or weather. So who would have thought that Pat would have appeared in the character of champion of Piccola’s lost treasure, which Carol pounced on at once, and held up to universal derision by one long, limp leg ? Whether it was that this forlorn object or Ihccola’s heartrending lamentations appealed to Pat’s chivalry, or that it was merely oppo.sition to the Pies, I cannot undertake to say; probably it was a mixture of feel¬ ings that sent Pat forward with a bound and a quick snatch at the doll, and tucking it inside his jacket, he set his back against the wall and defied the world to take it away from him. This action by no means com¬ forted the little girl, who did not discern Pat’s friendly intentions, and she redoubled her outcries, now that the doll had disappeared altogether from her sight, and stretched so far out of the window that it did not seem unlikely that she would follow the doll down into the playground. Pat shouted, ^ All right ! I’ll bring it back safe after school ; ’ and then his attention was altogether taken up with defending the doll from the attack o.f. the Pies, who flung themselves upon him in a mass, and both the doll and Pat disappeared from view in a confused mass of struggling legs, and arms, and bodie.s, from which Pat emerged when the school-bell rang, battered but triumphant, without a button left on his jacket, but with a pink kid arm visible from underneath as a token of victory. Piccola in the meantime had disappeared from the window', having been rescued by Mias Pink and drawn back into safety, and the window shut on her sobs and Miss Pink's shrill attempts to comfort her. Kay had seen nothing of the affray ; he had leave to stop in the schoolroom during the play hour, and preferred to sit in solitude there wdth a book rather than be exposed to the Pies in the playground ; so when Pat, in the middle of the class, showed him a simpering wax face under his jacket, he only laughed and w'ondeied what the joke w'as, and he w'as also puzzled to know wdiy Pat was in such a hurry to be off directly school was over, and he felt Iiimsolf rather ill-u.-^ed when Pat da.'^hed off, leaving half his books behind him, and without w'aiting for him. The pony was put up in Jackson’s stables, and Pat alw’ays went up with Kay to fetch him after school ; but to-day Pat was off and out of sight, and Paddy could give no account of him, having forgotten all about the doll. Paddy, too, was going off wdth Wilkinson to .<306 some pup^.ies, so Kay set off up Paul Street by him- Belf, feeling rather loft in the lurch by his friend, when he heard a shout, and, looking round, saw Pat beckoning to him from one of Miss Pink’s upper windows. Ho was half inclined not to go, but, catching a glimpse of another face behind Pat, he altered his mind and went across, and in at the open door, and then he hesitated. ‘ Come on I’ shouted Pat’s voice from the top of the stairs. ^ Step up,’ said Miss Pink from the kitchen, ^ and I’ll bring up tea at once.’ So Kay went on, feeling shy and nervous, and again lingered on the landing outside the open door. ^ Come in,’ said the organist; * you are very w^elcome, Ray Carrington.’ It was a small room, barely furnished wdth old« fashioned furniture ; but it looked pleasant and cheerful enough with a good, big fire burning in the high grate, and a picture hanging on the opposite wall of a lady, whose lovely smiling face seemed to reflect the brightness of the fire; and so did little Piccola’s face, too, as she sat on the hearthrug hugging her restored treasure, and lavishing all, sorts of endearments and soft, fond, Italian diminutives, upon it. Pat seemed quite at home there, ensconced in one of the arm-chairs by the fire with Boney on his km e ; but Kay could not so easily lit himself to circumstances, and he looked and felt constrained and awkward. ' Your friend is going to have some tea with me and my little girl,’ said the Signor ; ^ won’t you do the same ? ’ ^ Yes, do ! ’ said Pat : ^ there’s a brick ! ’ * Thank you,’ said Kay, formally, ^ but gViP.ndfathor will expect me at home.’ ^ Oh, bother ! ’ said Pat ; ' we shan’t be long. Miss Pink promised to bring up tea in a jiffey, and we’ll make Dumpling gallop all the way home.’ ^ Here comes tea,’ said the Signor, and a clatter vf cups and saucers confirmed the truth of his words. But Kay still held out, and the Signor laid his ha? A • on a strangely-shaped box on the side-table. ^ Won’t this tempt you ?’ he said. But Kay did not see anything tempting in that, and did not know what it contained. ‘Thank you,’ he said; ‘you are very kind, but I must go.’ And then the Signor opened the box, and, taking out his violin, drew the now across the strings in a long, soft, vibrating note. ‘ A fiddle ! ’ exclaimed Pat. Boney leapt off Pat’s knee and bolted out of the room, and Kay sank down on the nearest chair, and made no further objection to remaining. Indeed, an hour later it was Pat who suggested that it was time to go- home, and that Kay’s grandfather would be sending the town-crier after him. They had had tea — at least Pat and I’iccola had, for the Signor and Kay seemed wafted above such earthly matters as bread-and-jam and cake, and Pat had to take an active part in dispensing those luxuries to himself and the little girl; and when they had done full justice to them, and Piccola was sadly dabbled with jam, they vv'ent off to find Miss Pink and Boney, leaving the other two bound with the spell of music, with the sweet, bright face of the picture on the wall smiling down on them.

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The Doll in the PLay^-oiiucl. When Pat came hack to remind Pay that it "vvas time to go he found him with the violin in hi^i hands, holding it reverently, while the Signor explained some of its mysteries, and showed him howto hold the bow. ^ You must loirn,’ he said. But the boy shook his head hopelessly as he laid the \iolin softly down. * Whv not ?’ * It’s impossible.’ ^^Not at all. Come in every day after school, and I'll give you a lesson.’ Again the boy shook his head. ‘ You are very good, but my gi*andfather would never consent to pay for lessons for me.* A flush came into the organist’s face, and a curious contraction of the lips. ‘ I do not want any payment.’ Pay was quick to see that ho was hurt,

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No. XVI. OIIATTERBOX . 125 Kobert in Prison. • ‘ I beg your pardon/ he said. ‘ I was rude ; but I knew you gave lessons in Mudford, and I thought - ’ ‘ Yes, of course! 1 am paid for suffering two hours a-week from listening to Miss Wilkinson strike out ‘ The Blue Bells of Scotland ’ with wooden fingers on a cracked piano, with neither time nor tune ; but I would not take payment from ym. Don’t you see,’ he added quickly, as if to explain the strange softening of his voice as he ended, ^ you have music in your face, and music in your hands, and teaching you would be a pleasure, and not weariness and pain ’ ‘ Come on, Ray/ said Pat ; ‘ it will be getting dark.’ ‘Come to-moiTOw, at any rate/ said the Si^or, ‘and if you do not like it, you need never come again. Good-bye.’ And then the two boys ran off to Jackson’s yard to fetch the pony, who, no doubt, had been wondering at the delay. ‘ You had better not wait for me/ said Pat ; ‘ but just cut home as fast as you can, or you may get into a shindy.’ So Ray jumped into the saddle. ‘ l*at/ he said, as he rode off, ‘ what shall I say if grandfather asks where I have been, and why I am so late r'’ ‘ Say ?’ answered Pat ; ‘ why say that you’ve been to tea at the organist’s and playing on the fiddle, to be 8ui;e. Where s the difficulty?’ So Ray rode home, not feeling quite so clear what he should say if he were (questioned; and he felt greatly relieved to find that his grandfather was out, and that no one made any remark on his late return. (To he continued.) A STREET-ARAB’S REVERIE. a poor ragged lad of the streets — iic They call me an ‘ Arab,’ I know ; I’ll sit on this door-step, and think If it’s cruel to nickname me so. I wonder what ‘ Arab ’ can mean ? It’s something not very polite ; I know I am dirty and poor. But I like to be called what is right. I’ll stretch myself out in the sun — It will warm me, and dry my rags too. I wish I’d a home, and some food — Oh ! I wish I had something to do ! My father and mother — poor souls ! — Never troubled me mucn with their love ; I’m sure if I’d died they’d have said, ‘ He’ll be far better off up above.’ Up above ! in the sunshine and warmth, Where the sun is so bright and so clear I Can I go in my tatters and dirt, . And find there’s a Home for me there ? I cannot tell why I was born. Nor how I live year after year; The world must be twisting away. For I know I’m not wanted down here. I should like to be king of this land — I would sit in my great golden chair, And I’d think of the poor ‘ Arab ’ lads That the good God had left to my care. (Page 126.)

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126 CHATTERBOX. No. XYI. I’d "build a great house for them all, I’d feed them, I’d clothe them — aud then ? Wliy, I’d make them aU work for their bread, And teach them to be honest men. ROBERT’S TURNING- POINT. (Concluded from p. 119.) CHAPTER VI. ^ return to George. The doctor summoned by Carnall found him still alive. He carefully dressed the wound, and then had" him re¬ moved from the plantation to his cottage, where the doctor left him still unconscious. The next morning found him in the same condition ; motionless and speechless, with his eyes do. ed. Neighbours began to call at an early hour ; the rumour of the night’s proceedings had spread like wildfire. Eveiy one was curious to see George ; and the old woman, his housekeeper, was quite bewildered by the incessant coming and going. But all passed unnoticed by George himself. Hour after hour he lay, and many said that he would wake no more, but only glide from that deep sleep into a sle^ still deeper. Early in the afternoon Mrs. Linton arrived, and declared that she had come to nurse him. He had always been like a dear son to her, and she would act the part of a mother by him. She would never believe her nephew Robert "to be guilty of so foul a deed. It would soon be found that he was innocent — she had no doubt of that. Her first proceeding was to clear the patient’s room of the busybodies who crowded it, blocking out air and light. She then seated herself betide George. ^ The clergyman of the parish, ]\Ir. Morris, on calling for the second time that day, found her thus occu¬ pied, and took a seat near her. She had stepped aside to reach something from the table, when a motion of the clergyman caused her to cast a hasty glance to¬ wards the ]jed. George had opened his eyes. ‘ Where am I ? ’ said he faintly. ^ What has hap¬ pened ? ’ 33ut the next instant he remembered all. He closed his eyes again; but Mrs. Linton was ready with a cordial, and summoning all his strength, he strove to raise his head. ^ Sir,’ he said, looking towards Mr. Morris, ‘ my time is short — I have great need of your prayers; but is any one accused of my death ?’ ^ There are two men in prison on suspicion,’ said Mr. Morris. ^ Have you any reason for asking ?’ ^ Yes : I fear lest any one should be punished un¬ justly. I know who shot me, so I can tell you if either of the two prisoners be he. But, sir, it was not a deliberate murder. I freely forgive him, and believe that he only wished to keep me from stopping his escape.’ ‘ You shall tell me the story in as few words as pos¬ sible, my friend,’ said Mr. Morris, kindly. ^^I will take it "down on paper as you do so. It is your podtive duty to mention the guilty person’s name, in order, as you say, to prevent the punishment of an innocent man.’ Thus admonished, George told what had passed in the plantation. * Remember,’ he said earnestly, as Mr. ISIorris folded up the paper, ^it was not Robert ! Robert tried to prevent it : he had nothing whatever to do with it.’ < I will remember,’ said Mr. Morris ; ' and now you must let yourself rest.’ ‘ Yes, sir. I shall rest soon— for ever,’ murmured George, dreamily. ' Mrs. Linton, are you there ? ^ Yes, my boy, yes,’ cried the gooa w’oman, weeping bitterly ; ‘ I am" here : what have you to say to me ? ’ ' Y’'ou have been very kind to me all my life — you and the farmer — and I bless you for it. Now I must say good-bye to you. I should have liked to sjiy it to Janie, too, but you must do that for me ; and tell her that I hope she will be very happy with — ^^vith — Robert.’ Even then a passing pang contracted his features as this thought crossed his mind ; but vanished in a moment, and he went on more weakly, — ^ < Perhaps the farmer will be angry with Robert after w^hat passed last night ; but wnU you tell him that, as my last request, I beg that he may be for¬ given ? And tell Robert, I hope he w ill keep right for the future ; and be a good husband to Janie.’ His voice sank low'er ; speech fajled him, and he signed to Mr. Morris to pray. Only once more George, w^hispering, spoke, — * With thy Father thou shalt find All to thy mind ! ’ Soon afterw’ards, like a tired child, he sank to rest. CHAPTER VII. Robert sat alone in his cell, his head bowed on liis hands. He was thinking over his past life, as he had never thought before. For Robert had made up his mind to meet the w'orst: he knew nothing of George’s testimony in his favour ; it was quite out of the question, he thought, that \M11 should confess ; aiM it seemed to him utterly impossible for his inno¬ cence to be proved. At the thought of death he shuddered. And then he wished that he could but recall his w’^asted life, and live it over again. He had never yet made his peace wdth God; he had never tried to serve Him. And now, perhaps, he would be cut off in the morn¬ ing of his days ! George, so Robert pondered, w^as happy now — yes, dead or alive, he w^as happy 1 for George had chosen the good part which coidd never be taken away from him. And then Robert thought that it might not be too late for him, even yet. He knelt dowm on^his knees and poured out all that he felt before God. Confessing his sins, his ill-spent life, he begged humbly for pardon, through the Lord Jesus Christ. He felt more peaceful wdieu he rose from his knees, though his heart, as he thought of Janie, was still heavy. He feared that, even w'ere he proved iimocent

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No. XVI. CHATTERBOX. 127 of murder, Farmer Linton would refuse to receive him as his son-in-law. When the day of the petty sessions came the court was almost tilled by Whitley people. Farmer and Mrs. Linton were among the witnesses ; as also were Carnall, Grainger, and the clergyman, Mr. Morris. When the prisoners made their appearance. Will was bold and defiant; Bobert was pale and downcast, with a look as though years of suffering had been com¬ pressed into the last few days of his life. Carnall was first examined. He described his discovery of George, much as we have already re¬ lated it. Farmer Linton was next called forward. He said that ^ Bobert had gone to his room as usual at bed¬ time; that the following morning he was missing, and the next the farmer saw of him was as they drove him past the house in handcuffs. He had always been friendly with the deceased, and the farmer knew of no reason why he should wish to take his life. The gun was then produced, and identified as belonging to Bobert ; after which, one or two other witnesses of minor importance were examined. And now Mr. Morris appeared, a paper in his hand. This, he said, was tne deposition of the de¬ ceased, given upon his death-bed, and witnessed by himself and Mrs. Linton. It was read aloud, amid breathless silence. Mrs. Linton, when summoned in her turn, corro¬ borated the statements of Mr. Morris. Other witnesses were next examined, proving the grudge Will had had to George, together with many threats and vows of vengeance which he had been heard to utter. The trial over, the magistrates consulted together ; but they did not consult long, for they were all of one mind. Mr. Morris’s evidence had settled the question. Bobert was discharged, and Will Bate¬ man was committed to the county gaol, there to lie until the next assizes, to be tried for wilful murder. CHAPTER VIII. Who can describe the feeling of heartfelt thank¬ fulness with which Bobert left the court? Friends pressed round him, and — could he believe it ? — Farmer and Mrs. Linton were foremost of them all. ' The gig is waiting, my lad,’ said the farmer. ^Now come, and let’s drive home to poor Janie.’ ^ But, uncle,’ exclaimed Bobert, hesitatingly, ^lave you forgotten about the poaching ? I thought - ’ ‘ No matter what you thought! I have no doubt this will be a lesson to you; and some of poor George’s last words were to ask that you might be forgiven. You’ll begin afresh from this day forward, and we’ll say no more about the past. What do you say, mother?’ Mrs. Linton’s only answer was a clasp of Bobert’s hand ; and, pulling his cap over his eyes to hide the tears which lie was unable to control, he hastened to mount to his seat in the gig. Meanwhile, Janie had been vainly trying to settle to her work. Her eyes were red with weeping, for in addition to her grief about Bobert, the death of George had been a heavy trial to her. She at last went into the little sitting-room, and leaning her head against the window, strove to quiet her mind by repeating favourite hymns and verses of Scripture. The quiet came before she looked for it, and her head dropping on lier arm she fell asleep. How long she slept she did not know ; but when she opened her eves some one was standing near her, watching her. It was growing ‘ dusk ; she was only half awake, and started up fearfully, thinking herself in a dream. But Bobert — for Boliert it was — put his hands on her shoulders, and looking down on her said, ^ Janie, don’t you know me ? ’ The next moment Janie was in his arms. Though the thought of poor George’s fate still cast a gloom over the houi-ehold, yet tea that evening was a happy meal in Fanner Linton’s family. As for Bobert, he could scarcely realise that the danger he had so much dreaded was all past, and he safe at home once more. After tea, Mrs. Linton excused Janie from her usual duties, and she took a walk about the garden with Bobert. They had much to say to each other; Janie recounted the details of George’s death, and Bobert gave Janie the story of his imprisonment. * By God’s help,’ he said, am resolved from this day forth that I will be a new man. I have learned such a lesson in the last few days as I shall not easily forget. Y'ou see, Janie, what the difference must have been between George’s way of living and mine. Why, there was he, (uiite glad to die; and I — I never wish to feel again Avliat I felt when I first thought that I might be hanged.’ ^We will help each other, Bobert — won’t we?’ Janie said, gently. * We will try to be true and stead¬ fast like George, and spend good, useful lives ?’ ^Yes; fearing God, and God alone,’ said Bobert. And so they returned to the house. The next day all went on as usual, and tlie months rolled quickly and happily by. Bobert did not forget his good resolutions, and Janie’s smile seemed brighter every week. Good had grown to them from their trouble, and fruit was springing out of George’s grave. Will Bateman was tried at the winter assizes. He was sentenced to transportation for life, and narrowly escaped being hung. Few pitied him, but among those few was Bobert. ^If I had not been stopped in time,’ he said to Janie, ‘I might have come to the same end.’ It was a bright morning in May when he and Janie stood at the altar, and plighted their troth to each other as man and wife. The sUn was shining, the flowers were peeping forth, the birds were singing, and all things seemed to rejoice. And George, where was he ? From his place among the angels, could he look down on the sight, which, had he been still on earth, would have made his heart so heavy ? W’e cannot tell. The bridal party passed his grave on their way from church, and Janie observed it, and said to Bobert, ^ Oh, Bobert, if George could but be here now 1 ’ Ah 1 she did not know his secret, or she would not have wished it. One Who did know — One AVho had removed him in mercy, saw it to be better as it was.

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128 CHATTEKBOX. No. XVI. The bridal party passing George’s grave.

Page 135

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180 CHATTERBOX . N0.XYII. PEAS-BLOSSOM. {Continued from p. 125.) CHAPTER XIX. FTER that first visit to 8ignor Cherita it hecame a regular thing for Ray and Pat to turn in there after school. Pat was still such a prime favourite with Miss Pink on account of his gal¬ lant rescue of Boney, and such a hero in the eyes of little Piccola on account of the adventure with Biondina, her doll, that he always found a warm welcome, and they vied with each other in making much of him ; and as to Kay, the little room upstairs with the Signor and the violin seemed to him an earthly paradise. There was such a fascination to him that he could not pass Miss Pink’s door in Paul Street, and when he was once there he became oblivious of time and place, and conscious of nothing but the exquisite pleasure the music gave him, soothing his jarred nerves after all the rough, discordant noises of school- life. At first the Signor played to him all the time, but after a few days he would not indulge him, but began a regular systematic course of instruction, which, even with all the boy’s wonderful talent and wish to learn, was often wearisome and disheartening, and it needed all the Signor’s patient encouragement to prevent Kay giving it up altogether in despair. These lessons seemed to give the Signor quite as much pleasure as they did his puyjil, and it very rarely hap¬ pened that he Avas not at home for that half-hour in the afternoon, though his engagements rapidly in¬ creased as his musical talents became appreciated in Mudford and its neighbourhood. Canon Peters’ daughters learnt of him (though I do not think the reverend gentleman ever quite forgave Piccola’s behaviour), so did Mr. Grinder’s, the"^lawyer’s children, and Miss Popham engaged him for her young ladies, besides Miss Wilkinson, who had been his first pupil in Mudford ; but with all his .engafirements he generally managed to keep the time free 'for the pupil who paid him nothing except by wonderful progress, and "when he was out he left the violin with strict injunctions what was to be practised, and directions to Miss Pink to go up and turn the boy out at five if Pat did not do it. But as every day increased the fascination that the music had over Kay, and made it more impossible to resist indulging in it, so every day increased his nervous dread of his grandfather finding it out and putting a stop to his visits and lessons. He had not meant to make a secret of it at first, but as no questions were asked he said nothing; and he had not Pat’s habit of going home open-mouthed and retailing everything that happened to him to any one who cared to listen. Pat could not keep a secret try his very hardest, and the girls used to say if he held his tongue the secret ran out at the ends of his fingers; but Kay was more reserved, and as Mr. Car¬ rington tlid net notice that he was late in coming home, he did not do anything to call his attention to it. Goody w'as the only person who noticed it. ^ They keeps you longer at schocl^ she said, ' than they used to at first. I’ve no faith in keeping boys so hard to their books, though it don’t seem to be- doing you no harm, Master Kay. Bless- you ! you look twice the lad you used to.’ And Kay only laughed and said nothing;. So Kay’s first term at school passed awny, and all the roughs and rubs of school w'ere amply made up for by that soothing half-hour of perfect happiness that every day brought him ;: and wiien Easter came with its week’s holiday Kay wondered however he could have endured the life before ho went to school, and why all the other boys were so delighted when holiday time came. Pie had not any excuse for stealing away to Mudford, though he tried to invent some petext, for he would have been well content with holidays if he might have spent them with Signor Cherita and his violin. Pie had not even Pat’s society, for though he received a; warnii and pressing invitation to come to Kelburn Lod^e to spend the whole week, with a share of Pat and I^addy’s bed — (^There’s lots of room when Paddy sleeps at the bottom’) — Mr. Carrington would' not agree to his going there even for an afternoon, and Kay knew it was useless to propose that Pat should come to the Orchards, for though the boys always went to and came home from school together Pat had never been inside the Orchar(is since that evening of his trespassing. So lUy had to endure the holidays as best he could, and he set off to school on the fii’st day of tho term with such a radiant face that old Goody de¬ clared she never did see such a boy for school in. all her bom days. ' It weren’t so when I was a girl, and my father bad to fetch the stick to my young brothers to drive them to. school, and even then they played truant as often as not ; but Master Kay must terrible fond of his book.’ iVnd Cahn guessed as how it were the- games in the playground with tho other young gents as Master Kay liked, as there was always one or another with him as he came home, and one of them as impudent a young rascal as he ev.or came across. But they neither of them guessed that it was neither books or play or school-fellows that were the attraction, and that all through the djgr he was longing for school to he over to he. off to his music. ^ Signor Cherita seemed as pleased to seo him again as he was to come hack, and tliough he was afraid he should have forgotten all he had learnt, such was not the case, and his master declared that there was a decided improvement and that he must have been practi.sing hard all the week. ' If I had only the chance of practising ! ’ sighed Kay. ' Why not ? * ' My grandfather hates the sound of music.’ ' Doesn’t he play the violin himself ? ’ Kay laughed. ' He play ? What a strange idea ! Why, he hates the very sound ! What made you think of such a thing? ' Oh, how should I know ?’ said the organist care¬ lessly. ' Many people do, and I thought you might have inherited your taste for it.’ ' No, he cannot bear it. It makes him quite angry if I even whistle a tune, and I do it sometimes without knowing what I’m about.’

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No. XVII, CHATTERBOX. 131 Cricket began after Easter, and cricket had almost as great charms for Pat as music bad for Pay, and in spite of his long walk home he could rarely resist a visit to the cricket-field when anything was going on. The consequence of this was that ho did not go so much to Miss Pink’s, and Ray was generally gone home before Pat could tear himself from the cricket- field. One afternoon in the beginning of May Pat was later than usual. It was the day of the matoh between Mudford and Wellow, and all the Grammar- school hoys were deeply interested, and Mr. Radley had let them out of school half an hour earlier, and had seen them all set off as straight as an arrow for the cricket-field — all hut Ray Carrington, who went off with quite as much alacrity in the opposite direction. It was past six o’clock before the stumps were drawn after a hard-won and glorious victory scored by Mudford, and as Pat and Paddy went home exulting as much as if they had been Mud- fordians horn and bred, they never thought of looking in at Miss Pink’s, concluding that Ray had got* home long before. They were deep in the discussion of Grinder’s won¬ derful round-hand bowling, and a peculiar ^ twister ’ he was mas*ter of, which Pat declared would have puzzled Solon himself to resist — taking it for granted that cricket was one of the accomplishments of ancient Greece — and have got him out before he could say Jack Robinson, which I do not fancy was a common Greek ejaculation. So they were quite startled when some one crossed the road from the Cemetery gate, and stopped them. * Are you Grammar-school boys ?’ It was Mr. Carrington, and it made Paddy open his eyes to their widest to find himself addressed by that mysterious person ; and even Pat, audacious as he was, was a little awed by the old man, and could not summon up any of the impudence which gene¬ rally came so ready to hand. ^ Yes, sir.’ ‘Do you know Ray Carrington?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘ What time did you come out of school?’ ‘ About half-pi\st three.’ ‘ Did he come out at the same time ? ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Where is he?’ Pat was getting indignant at this cross-questioning, and was much inclined to say ‘Find out ;* but instead he said, — ‘ You see we’ve been at the cricket-field. It’s the match between Mudford and Wellow, so - ’ He was going to add, ‘I’ve not been with Ray,’ when the old man interrupted him, letting go of his shoulder with a sigh of relief. ‘ Oh ! that’s it ! Foli.<h boy not to tell me!’ And he turned and walked away before Pat could finish his sentence and remove tlie false impression he had given. Paddy laughed. ‘ Oh, I say, Pat, that w’^as coming it rather strong. Fancy Miss Lucy playing cricket ! He would not know w-hich end to lay hold of the bat by, and he’d cry if a ball came within half a yard of him.’ ‘ I was going to tell that old lunatic I hadn’t seen him,’ said Pat, rather puzzled and imcomfortable. ‘ Shall I just cut after him and set it right ?’ ‘Oh, no! come on!’ said Paddy. ‘There’s Ray coming along like a house a-fire. lie can have it out with old Fee-fo-fum. What a duffer the fellow is to keep it all so close ! ’ Pat too was feeling rather vexed with Ray in his heart, but he would not hear any one else abuse him. ‘It’s that old villain that’s the duffer; he leads Rav such a life at home wdth his cranks that it’s not hkely he should tell him anything.’ Meantime Ray had met his grandfather with tho feeling that now it must all come out. He Imd stopped on and ©n, never thinking of the time, and now he must give an account of himself and pay tlie penalty, but to his great surprise Mr. Carrington met him w’ith a smile. ‘ Well,’ he said, ‘ and who won,?’ Ray stared and stammered, ‘ Won ?’ ‘ Yes : ymu see I know all about it. You need not make any secret of it.’ The colour came and went in the boy’s face. For the moment he thought his grandfather had realh" found out aS about Signor Cherita, and w^as not angry. ‘ You don’t mind, then, grandfather ? ’ ‘ Mind ? Why should I ? Why are you so afraid of me, Ray ? It will do you good in body and mind. I was very fond of it myself as a boy.’ ‘ You, grandfather? Were you really ? And you hate it so now ! ’ ‘ Well, I don’t hate it exactly ; but you see, Ray, I am getting too old to play.’ ‘ I don’t think I shall ever feel too old,’ said Ray, with such enthu.dasm that the old man smiled. ‘ Wait till you are as old as me, my boy.’ ‘ I am so glad, grandfather ; so very glad that you do not mind, and perhaps — — ’ the boy hesitated a little, ‘ You'd let me practise a bit at home ?’ ‘To be sure, Ray, as much as you lilce. In the orchard, I suppose?’ ‘ Yes,’ said Ray. ‘I suppose it would distui’b you if I did it in the house ? ’ The old man laughed; he was quite gay that evening, perhaps f;’om the relief of finding out so harmless a reason for Ray’s lateness, which had been increasing ever since Easter. Ray also was as happy as possible. ‘ It would not be very nice in the house, certainly,’ said Mr. Carrington. ‘ I’m getting on,’ said Ray, ‘ and Signor Cherita says he thiidvs I shall play very well some day.’ ‘ I hope you will,’ said the old man, ‘ and be a first- rate player in time. I suppo.se this Signor, whoever he may be, is quite a master of the subject ? ’ ‘Oh, th$^t he is, I can teU you! it’s quite won- derf fi!’ Ray’s eyes were shining with enthusiasm for cis master’s talent, and to the old man, who set it down as having to do with cricket, it appeared highly amusing. Rut the next words he spoke opened Ray’s eyes to the m'stake that had been made. ‘ I had no idea you were such an enthusiastic cricketer, Ray.’ ‘ Cricketer I ’ ‘ Yes : or do you not aspire to the dignities of the name yet P I suppose you are merely a looker-on at present, or allowed now and then to long-stop or field

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for tlie more accomplished cricketers. Ah I you see I have not forgotten all about it yet.’ Kay’s heart had sunk very low after its momentary elation, hut he had not the courage to speak out and set the matter right, so all the evening the conversation turned on cricket, and the old man talked more and more cheerfully than he had done for a long time, describing cricket matches in his youth, and the wonderful bowling he had seen long ago, and he even promised to take Ray up with him some day to see the Oxford and Cambridge match at Lords, or Eton and Harrow. And all the time Ray was trying hard to avoid telling any downright untruth, and yet to conceal his entire ignorance and want of interest m the game ; and he was quite thankful when bedtime came and he could get away to his room, hoping in¬ tensely that his grandfather would have forgotoen about it in the morning; and he dreamt all night that he was trying to play a tune on a cricket-bat, and that his grandfather told him it was only to be done by round -hand bowling. {To he continued^

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Hampton Court Palace.

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134 CHATTERBOX. No. XYII. ESCAPE OP PETER THE GREAT. The stroll" desire of power and riches has often led men to commit fearful sins. The brother has poisoned the brother; the son has said of his father, ‘ Oh, when will this old man die ?’ Every throne is more or less foul with blood. There are stains on that of England, though dark with the length of years, like Eizzio’s blood on the floor at Holyrood Palace, near Edinburgh. The Eussian throne has had its horrors. The poisonous breath of cruelty and crime has dimmed its splendour, and made it terrible. A certain Russian Emperor, natned Alexis, was twice married, and had two families. By his first queen he had two sons, Theodore and Ivan, and four daughters, one of them being the wicked, but clever. Princess Sophia. By his second wife he had one son, the famous Peter the Great, and one daughter. Now when the good Alexis died, after being one of the wisest rulers that ever sat on the Russian throne, his crown descended to Theodore. Unfortunatel}'-, Theodore was very delicate, and did not live long. On his death-bed he named Peter as his heir, passing over Ivan, because Ivan was weak in intellect, and had fits. When Sophia heard of this arrangement she was bitterly disappointed. She had hoped, when Theodore was gone, Ivan would be crowned, and she would be I’qggnt. But when the dying Theodore took the pen in ms failing fingers, and set his name to the State paper w-hicli made Peter the ruler of Russia, Sophia vowed a fearful vengeance on the innocent boy who blocked her way to power. She easily bribed, or persuaded by her arguments, many of the Russians to take her part. She showed them how unjust it was in Theodore to pass over Ivan. She made as little of Ivan’s feeble mind as she could ; and the end of it was that the people rose up and made Peter and Ivan joint-sovereigns; and Sophia w'as named recent until they were capable of reigning without her help. During this tumult many murders were committed, and the place is shown at iloscow still. Peter himself had a very narrow escape. His mother fled with him in the height of the storm to a. convent near Moscow. The boy and his mother were pursued, but they managed to reach the chapel and sink down on the altar steps. Here they breathed freely, for the Rus.-'ians have a very deep reverence for holy places. However, one ruffian, sword in hand, strode to the altar, and would have struck off Peter’s head, had not another ruffian, more religious or more pitiful, put aside the uplifted w-eapon, saying, ‘ Com¬ rade, you must not shed blood in this place V When Sophia had gained her end, so far as to reign in the names of her brothers, she was so wicked as to try and ruin Peter’s health and shorten his days by puttin" him into bad company, who led him into hard drinking. But nothing could veil the brilliant qualities vvhich God had given to Peter. Ivan soon died, and Sophia was kept in life-long confinement; and Peter, now sole ruler, ^changed the manners, customs, and laws of the Russians, and he liv^es in their memory as the Father of his country.’ G. S. O. THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. rX.— FROM HAMPTON TO HAMPTON COURT. ‘ The Kiuge’s Court should have the excellence, ^ But Hampton Court hath the pre-eminence.’ wrote John Skelton, in lines which prove him to have been the great car¬ dinal’s enemy. Hampton Court is a lasting monument of the vanity of . human hope when it is wholly selfish. Wolsey built him this palace for his living-place, he erected a chapel within the avails of Windsor for a burial- place, and he even superintended the making of the marble sarcophagus in which he was to he buried. And with what result ? His palace he gave up to the king, in order to prevent any inquiry into the means by which he raised the treasure which he lavished upon his palace. Nor was he more fortunate in his burial. The chapel he designed for his last home remained empty until recently, when its very name — for it w^as called the Wolsey Chapel — was taken from it, and that of the late Prince Consort given to the building. Even the huge sarcophagus which w^as to contain the cardinal’s body lay untenanted until the remains of the great Nelson were brought home, when it w'as used as a fitting receptacle for all that remained of the patriot ; and it can now he seen in the crypt of SC Paul’s, en¬ closing the remains of a far worthier Englisliman than the Lord Cardinal Wolsey. WeU might he cry on his death-hed, ^ Had I served my God as faithfully as I have the king. He would not have forsaken mo in my old age.’ A satisfactory answer to the question ns to where he obtained his enormous wealth has never been obtained. He, however, was a liberal man ; he founded Christ Church College, Oxford, and benefited Mag¬ dalen College, of which he was treasurer, and where, in the gi-eat hall, is to he found a fine likeness of the powerful cardinal. He had completely contrelled King Henry VHI. for twenty years, and from the very beginning of his reign, when the king suddenly turned upon him. At once he gave up Hampton Court, the site of which liad been chosen for the cardinal by the best doctors in London, as the most healthy spot within twe'nty miles of the metropolis. Not more than half the palace reared by Wolsey remains, the portion pulled down being now occupied by the great quadrangle of red brick seen so readily from the Thames, and which was built by William III., who found in the fiat landscape about Hampton Court a pleasing resemblance to that Holland, his native land, wliich he loved so well. This king also cut the diverging canals which give the grounds of Hampton Court an appearance which, though common enough in Holland, is unique in England. Tliis, the most modern portion of the palace, occupies eight acres of ground. It was designed by Sir Christopher Wren, who built St. Paul’s. It is a lovely red-hrick building, and the state rooms on the first fioor contain a very fine collection of paintings, together with 'some good porcelain, splendid state bedsteads, and other wonders. It should be re-

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Fo. XVII. • 'OIIATTEI?,BOX. 185 marked how the various sovereigns favoured the ^ little^ rooms, and avoided living in the great ones. In the corridors and passages about Hampton Court the visitor will note little brass plates with important names on the doors. They belong to ari¬ stocratic pensioners of the Crown, the relatives of dis¬ tinguished public servants, who here iind a peaceful refuge for their last years. In the delightful grounds of Hampton Court may be found exquisite avenues ; in the canals some ©f the oldest chub in England — perhaps several more than one hundred years old ; also a wonderful black ^rape-vine, , one of the finest in the world ; and a remarkable laby¬ rinth, or maze. 'J'he river terrace, reaching almost as far as Thames Hitton, is a charming spot. Here the visitor wiU mark a pavilion (overlooking the river) which was much frequented by her Majesty’s father, the Duke \ of Kent, when he was ranger of Hampton Court Park. The Duke equally liked smoking and the Thames. He could enjoy them both in this pleasant summer-house. But most visitors are chiefly attracted by that portion of Hampton Court built by Wolsey which , yet remains as he left it. Here is the great tapestried haU, scarcely large enough to receive the many visitors of his eminence. Beyond is the cardinal’s private room, while in another direction is to be found the chapel whither the cardinal repaired daily to pray. This portion of the palace has much the ap- peai ance which it must have had when Wolsey gave a 1 up to his tyrannical master. Here, in the great ’ hall, it is nearly certain that some of the plays of Shakespeare were performed before Queen Elizabeth, who neglected Hampton. She preferred that other point on the opposite bank of the Thames occupied by the palace at Greenwich. (To be continued.) DRIVE THE HAIL. the nail aright, boys, Hit it on the head ; Strike with all your might, boys, Ere the time has fled. Ijessons you’ve to learn, boys — Study with a will ; They who reach the top, boys. First must climb the hill. Standing at the foot, boys, Gazing at the sky ; How’ can you get up, boys, If you never try ? Though you stumble oft, boys, Never be downcast; Try and try again, boys, You’ll succeed at last. Always persevere, boys, Though your task is hard ; Toil and happy trust, boys, Bring tlioir own reward. Never give it up, boys ; Always say you’ll try ; You will gain the c;own, boys, Surely, by-and-by . DOHALD CAMEROH OP LOCHIEL. \ he attempt made by Prince flB pjy Edward Stuart in V y ® to win back the crown of his ancestors, is one of the I striking of all the ro- ? * \ ''jM Sl mances of history, for ‘ Bon- Prince Charlie,’ as the J /[ • Scots fondly called him, iu- V i vaded Great Britain, having ( & landed at the head of no more than seven followers, Y with the bold design of over¬ turning the established Government, which had at its back large armies and great resources. Romantic it was in its achievements also, for a few thousand hardy Highlanders, and some brave Irish¬ men, who followed the Prince’s desperate fortunes, took aU Scotland into their keeping at a rush, and twdce overthrew the forces sent against them, sw^ept down from their northern hills upon England, ,and actually marched over 180 miles, halting only at Derby, within 127 miles of London. An incident relating to Lochiel during this famous march sho\vs how the English Hanoverians tried to excite strong prejudices against them. One even¬ ing, when the chief of the Camerons entered the lodgings assigned to him, his landlady threw her-^ self at his feet with uplifted hands and tears in he?"‘' eyes, and begged him to take her life but to spare her two children. ^The gentle Locluel’ was much astonished, and, thinldng that the 'woman could not be in her senses, he asked her to explain her meaning. Whereupon she told him that it was asserted everywliere that Highlanders eat children for their ordinary food. Lochiel assured her that he would not injure her or her children, or any pei’son wdiatever. She looked in his face for some minutes, and then called aloud, — ‘Ciome out, children! the gentleman won’t eat you ! ’ And going to a cupboard she set free two young¬ sters who had been hidden there. DR. JOHHSOITS MEMORY TOOTHING was more remarkable in Dr. Johnson IM than his great powers of recollection. These he had from his childhood. It is said that when hut a little boy in petticoats his mother one day gave him the Prayer-book, and told him to learn the collect for the day by heart. Having done this she went up¬ stairs. But before she had reached the second-floor he was heard following her. ^ What is the matter ? ’ .said his mother. ‘ I can say it,’ was the answer. And to her sui prise he repeated it correctly, although there was not time for him to havei'ead it more than twice. Whilst at school a gentleman once recited to him eigliteen lines of poetry, and these, after a short pause, Johnson repeated, word for word, excepting the alteration of one word, whereby a line was im¬ proved. A. B. B.

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136 No. XYII, Donald Cameron of Lochiel,

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138 CHATTERBOX. No. XVIII. WHITE MICE. HESE pretty little animals are generally very tame, and may be freely handled without fear of their biting. With a little teaching they will perform vai ious tricks. I have had some which were great pets. One in particular was ver}^ clever : he would lie as if dead, when told to do so ; run up a stick with a small hag in his mouth, leave it on the top, and then run dowm again. The best food for keeping them on is bread and milk, wheat, nuts, and sometimes a few oats. They should never be kept in cages that have a wheel that they get into and turn round. Such cages are very cruel, as the poor little mouse is obliged to keep turning whether he likes it or not. There are several varieties of what are teimed fancy mice. I have had black, white, and black- and-white, yellow, yellow-and-white,grey-and-white, and once a tortoiseshell-colour one. They may gene¬ rally be purchased at the shops of bird-dealers. PEAS-BLOSSOM. (Continued from p. 132.) CHAPTER XX. HE next day Ray did not go to his music lesson at all, but came straight home ; all the quicker because he had had his first quarrel with Pat, who had felt rather uncomfortable in that odd thing he called his conscience, for having taken in the Ogre without in¬ tending it; and he relieved his mind by giving it to Ray, whose conscience was also uneasy, and who had no one to bio me but himself. ' I tell you what it is,’ said Pat, *I don’t like sneaky, hole-and-corner sort of ways, and I’ve a great mind to go and tell your governor all about it.’ ‘ It’s no business of yours,’ answered Ray ; * and I’ll thank you to leave it alone. It’s all very fine of you to talk about sneaking, and then go carrying tales to my grandfather.’ * Well, then, tell him yourself.’ * There’s no harm in going to Signor Cherita.’ • * Then why make such a jolly secret of it ?’ * Oh, it’s ail very well for you, Pat Bright, to talk, for you can do just as you like.’ And with that Ray rode off in a huff, and Pat quarrelled with Paddy all the way home, declaring that Ray was ill-used and tyrannised over, and that Mr. Carrington was an unreasonable old man, and Ray was quite right not to tell him if he did not choose. And all the time the ill-used, tyrannised-over boy, was fretting and fuming about the house and garden by himself, while the unreasonable, pig-headed old monster, was in a large shop in London choosing with the greatest care, and with no regard to ex¬ pense, a bat that poor Pat would have given his head for, and a ball and wickets all complete. And late in the evening he arrived at home, a good deal tired with his unusual exertions, but much pleased, and even excited, with his investment ; and, though Ray had gone up to bed in an access of restless ill-temper, Mr. Carrington could not put off iill the morning the pleasure of giving liis present, but went up to his room, whei’e Itay, on hearing his step, rolled himself in the bed-clothes and pretended to be asleep. * Ray,’ said his grandfather, ^ I have brought you a present, and it is a great pleasure to me to give you what I know will afford you such gratification and amusement.’ And then Ray sat up, and with trembling fingers and a very sinking heart began tugging at the string and undoing the thick browm paper of the parcel on the bed, while his grandfather w^atched with expectant eyes to see the rapture that wf^s likely to ensue. But he was fairly puzzled when Ray, having half drawn the bat from its blue-baize bag, revealing its fair, polished wood and goodly proportions, pushed it almost violently away from him, scattering at the same time the wickets and bails by the side of the bed, and sending the ball rolling pnder the chest of drawers, and buried his face in the pillow, sobbing and almost in hysterics. Mr. Carrington tried to soothe him in vain, or make out the indistinct wmrds that he sobbed out ; and at last came to the conclusion that he was overcome with pleasure, and that this was his way of showing it. So he collected the scattered things, and put them by the side of the bed, and came away with a sigh. ^ He is a strange boy — a very strange boy ! * Ray Ccame down to breiikfast next morning with such a white face and heavy ej^es, that Mr. Carrington forgot all about his strangety accepted present in his fear for the boy’s health. He wished him to stop at home from school and let Goody doctor him ; and indeed, the boy "svas not at all well, for he w^as naturally delicate and morbidly sensitive, and had worked himself almost into a nervous fever by his remorse ^nd fear; but he declared there w^as notlnng amiss with him but a little headache, that fresh air would soon take away, and he went off to school as usual, meeting Rat at the gate, anxious to make up for the little misunderstanding of the day before. ^ I shall •never feel uneasy again,’ said Mr. Carring¬ ton to himself, * when Ray is late from school. I shall know he’s at the cricket-field. It’s a good, hone.- :, manly game, and I am glad he has taken to it. Th:.: boy I spolie t« had an open, trutlifiil face, and if Ra;/ must have friends, he could not do better — at least if one may trust to appearances.’ * I shall never feel uneasy again,’ Mr. Carrington had said, and yet as the evening drew on and no Ray appeared, he certainly -was not very comfortable in his mind, and when six o’clock came he got up and went out, though he had resolved that he would not do so, lest the boy should think he 'was being watched. For more than an hour he paced up and down the road by the Cemetery, though a slight rain w’as

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No. XVIII. CHATTERBOX. 139 falling. No trencher-caps oame in sight, and when he asked a passer-by if there was a cricket-match going on in Mudford, he said he was a stranger in those parts, and did not know. It was beginning to get dark, and at last he thought he must have missed l?ay i»n some curious way, and that he was at home all the time ; but when he got back to the Orchards he found the tea still ready and waiting, and Goody’s temper growing hotter as some tea-cakes grew blacker and drier, and Gann loitering about in the garden, evidently’ sharing his master’s uneasiness. Shall I just step down to the school, sir, and see if the young master is there ?’ Late that night — at least it was late for Kelburn Lodge, for the clock had just struck one, which any member of the Bright family could tell at once meant ten — there was a loud knocking at the front door. Nurse did not hear it, being a sound sleeper, as she had a right to be after her tremendous exertions all day; and the little girl from the school, who helped in her labours, went home at night to sleep. Every one was in dreamland, and the knocking was often repeated before it penetrated into Honor’s dreams, calling her back from Sorrento, where Brian and she were together. It was a long way to come back aU of a sudden, and the girl started up, confused and bewildered, in the dark bedroom. There it was I again, getting very impatient. Was it fire P It could I not be thieves; every one knew there was nothing j worth’ stealing, and thieves would not come knocking / at the front door. I So Honor threw a shawl round her and opened the ‘ window, and, in as firm a voice as fhe could command, inquired who was there and what was wanted ; and as she asked, a sudden panic seized her that something might be wrong with father or Brian, and it was quite a relief t® hear a surly voice answer, — ^ I thought as I w'as never going to make any one hear ! Is Master Carrington here ? ’ * Master Bay Carrington ? No, he’s not.’ ^ He came home with Master Pat Briglit ? ’ * No. There’s some mistake — he’s not here.’ * Beg your pardon, miss, for I take it that it’s Miss Bright, would you ask the young gents about it? They’re up to their games sometimes, and maybe they’ve got Master Carrington there without your knowing, mist.’ ^No,’ Honor persisted; ^ I’m sure he’s not hero. But rU go and call Master Pat, and he’ll tell you the same.’ * You see, miss, the old gentleman is in a terrible way about the lad, he has never been home, and they don’t know nothing of him in Mudford, and one of the young gents at the school said as he’d Seen him along of Master Ptit Bright : so Mr. Car¬ rington bid me take the pony and ride over and make inquirement.’ So Honor went and called Pat, hoping with all her heart that this 'svas no new scrape of her mad-cap brother, and looking anxiously at the disordered bed, fearing to see a strange head on the pillow beside Pat’s. But those two rough, curly mops, were cer¬ tainly Pat’s and Paddy’s; not, however, on the pillow, but half-way down, in the middle of the bed. It was a work of time to wake Pat, w^ho was inclined to resist with free use of legs and arms, concluding in his sleepy young min'd that it was that odious time, ‘ Time to get up!’ and that the aggressor, with designs on his comfort, was nurse, who might proceed to pull the clothes off, or to the further extremity of a corner of the towel dipped in water, generally known as ^ Cold pig.’ But when at last the idea penetrated through the sleep to his brain he was out of bed like a shot, and downstairs unbarring the front door, and standing bare-footed on the door-step in the damp night air, with notluRg on but his night-shii t, utterly regardless either of cold or appearances. Don, that brave defender of the house, who had, like his young masters and mistresses, been sleeping with a soundness insured by a good conscience and a good sunper, now appeared on the scene, and asserted himself loudly, and by his barlung roused all the re.^t of the household ; so thei'e was soon a row of rough heads and a flutter of w^hite garments at the top of the stairs, while Pat told all he knew of Eay Car¬ rington. He had been very quiet and down in the mouth all day, (md when Pat asked him if he would be long at the S:gnor’s after school, he ,said that he was never going again, but should just run in for one minute to thank the Signor and say good-bye. * You’ve said that before,’ said Pat. * I mean it this time.’ Pat had to go to a shop to fetch something, and promised to call for Eay in a few minutes, and he was not much longer, but when he reached Miss Pink’s house she told him that Eay had come and gone. ^ The Signor was out,’ she said ; ^ and he. would not go up, though the Signor had put down on paper just what he was to play, and told me he Avould be in very soon.’ *He might have waited for me/ grumbled Pat. ^ What an impatient chap he is ! ’ And he set off home, expecting every minute that Eay would over¬ take him on Dumpling*, but he had not done so ; and this was all he knew of him, part of which he told to the man. * Whatever can have come of him ?’ said the man. ^ I’m most afeard to go back and tell the old gentle¬ man that he’s not here. Mr. Cann he tells me the lad seemed queer and out of sorts this morning, and I fancied whether he and his grandfather may have had words, and the boy run off, as some of them will. But there ! No one Imows nothing of the folk at the Orchards ! A queer lot altogether 1’ ^ There’s that ’orrid river,’ suggested nurse, who had now come to the door, jumping at once to a tragic conclusion. ‘ 1 always said it would be the death of some one, as is enough to drown any one twenty times over with no railing, or Humane Society’s drags, or nothing to keep folk out.’ Pat seemed to have had enough of the subject, and perhaps was sleepy, for he turned away and w’ent up¬ stairs again ; and the man, after a little more con¬ versation with nurse, bid her good night, and mounted the pony. But while she stood looking after him through the darkness, some one came down staii’s in three leaps,

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Mr. Carrington tried to soothe him. and dashed past her before she could catch hold of him, and was after the pcny, who was already out of sight. ^Master Pat, come back directly! Come back, I say ! ’ * All right ! ’ was shouted back. ^ I’ll take care of myself, and come back when I’ve found Ray.’ (To he continued.) I BATTLE ABBEY. T is an autumn day, and the woods are almost leafless. In the dewy glades the red deer looks about him with a peering, startled gaze : but he need not fear to-day. The royal hunter has some higher work on hand than shooting stags to-day. Look out of the forest, where it opens there to the south, and you will see a large building, on which the clear, faint,

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Batfle Abbey. November sunshine is falling. From its appearance YOU would call it a church or abbey ; from its white¬ ness it is plainly new. The chimes sound soft and pleasant. Let us go and see why they sound at all. It is not Sunday, but it is a holiday of the Church : it is St. Martin’s Festival; and as Martin was a soldier (the hind soldier who once cut his cloak in two with his sword and gave half of it to a shivering beggar-man), so the greatest soldier of the age is about to consecrate a new abbey on St. Martin’s Day. Who is this greatest soldier? Come and aee^ AsVe draw near to the new building we ol^rve, it stands on a gently rising hill, with higher wooded, hills on either side, and in front a sweep of meadow* lands and coppices, reaching out to the sea. This is Battle Abbey ; and the great soldier, who wen the fight at Hastings several years ^o, is about to have it consecrated to-day. It is said the altar stands on the very spot where the unfortunate Harold sank on the blood-stained earth, after performing

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142 CHATTERBOX. No. XVIIL deeds of valour equal to any done by Hector or Achilles. Stand here, and let us see the warrior King of England enter his new abbey. How does ho feel ? Does he sorrow for having spilt so much blood? Has he built the Abbey to make up for it? But here he comes, followed by his Norman knights. What an array of brave men and famous names ! They have left their chargers outside the Abbey grounds, which extend three miles from the walls on every side, and they walk in full armour to the great west door, and so up the nave to the choir and altar, where stands Odo, William’s half-brother — a fighting bishop, who, lance in hand, marshalled the Norman cavnlry at the great battle. Odo wears no coat of mail to-day ; he is in his sacred robes, and ho waits the ariival of his brother and the proud lords of Fiance who escaped the di-eadful English battle- axes. Nearest to the stern Conqueror come his sons, Bobert, WilMam, and Henry; then step out those lucky warriors who had flocked to his standard from Maine and Anjou, from Poitou and Bretagne, from Aquitaine ai».d Burgundy, from Piedmont and Italy. There go Bobert b itz Ernest, WTlliara Fitz Osborn, Hugo de Montford, Bobert de Todcni, Gilbert de Lacy, and Hugh d’Avrauches, who soon after earned the unpleasant nickname of Hugh the Wolf. There go the de Vitrys, the de Veseys, the d’Omfrevilles, and many others, whose names have been written on a long roll of honour. The King of England (by conquest) when he reaches the steps unbuckles his sword — his victorious sword — and hands it to his brother. Bishop Odo, who places it on the altar. The Conqueror then unfastens a golden brooch, glittering with gems, which keeps his magnificent coronation robe in its place. The purple robe, heavy with embroidery, would have tallen, had not two squh’es held it. They fold it to¬ gether, and the King, talring it from them, offers it to Odo, who lays it on the altar. Then one of the highest of the Norman knights offem William the famous. roll of names, which he hands to his brother to be deposited in the altar. Tlie service goes on, and the Abbey is consecrated; and around the choir in their oaken stalls we see the sixty brethren who have here found a home. They nre all Norman monks, brought over from Marmon- tier, and their head is a mitred abbot. The monks are dressed in loo.'=^e black coats or gowns, reaching to their heels, and on their heads are cowls or hoods made of the same stuff. Under their black gowns they have another dress, made of white flannel. These mowks are employed now to keep up in Battle Abbey a perpetual service of prayer and song. They must pray for the souls «of those who expired where they kneel, and for the hapjiness and long life of those who survived that bloody day. The Abbey is also now a sort of inn, where every belated tra¬ veller can have a supper and a bed for nothing. The Abbot is a great man, and he enjoys one tingular privilege, — Every condemned thief he happens to meet, jis he rides out on his sleek pidfrey, is ^tt once restored to life and liberty. G. S. O. GEOPFBEY CHAIJCEB AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Continued from “page 122.) ^THB CLERKE OF OXENFORDE. clerk ther was of Oxenforde also. That unto logike hadde long ygo.’ XENFOBDE, or, as it is now called, the University of Ox¬ ford, w'as a famous seat of learning long before Chaucer’s time. It is said to have been founded by Alfred the Great, about the year 890, and he is supposed to have endowed University College; but there was probably a school there before that period. During : the middle ages, Oxford was only second in celebrity to the University of Paris for the study of Aristotle. So great was the love of learning in England during the fourteenth century that at one time there were , 30,000 scholars in Oxford — a number far exceeding any that has since been known. But tlie life of an Oxford student was very different then from what it is now, and the difficulties he l ad to contend with can scarcely be imagined by our young scholars in these times. There were a few colleges with endow- . ments for the support of poor scholars, but about - 300 inns, or balls, where the students lived, under the direction of a doctor or master of their own : choice, and chiefly at their own expense. And there were no luxurious rooms there ; nothing but narrow chambers, k^jrely furnished, and without even fire¬ places ; so that the poor students had to keep them¬ selves warm during the piercing cold of winter as best they could. No magnificent libraries to consult, but a few manuscript books which could only be pro¬ cured at great expense : and of these nearly aU were in Latin, for Greek books were at that time so rare that even our clerk’s copy of Aristotle, though it may have been in Greek, was much more likely to have been the Latin version by Thomas Aquinas. Indeed, as all Western learning and all communica¬ tions between scholars were in those days carried on in that language, our clerk’s life must havs been a continual Latin exercise. However, he had one advantage over us, perhaps, in these dars of general information, that what he did know he knew thoroughly. The Clerk* of Oxenforde — whose acquaintance Chaucer made on his pilgrimage — was a studious man, who had long ago given himself up to logic. His horse was as lean as a rake, and he himself was not right fat, but looked rather hollow. Hia short cloak was very threadbare, for he had as yet no benefice, and was not worldly enough to hold any office ; for he would rather have at his bed’s head some twenty volumes of Aristotle's works, bound in black and red, than rich robes, or a fiddle or harp. Yet, with all his philosophy, he had but little gold in • At that time all learned men wore called clerks.

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No. XVIII. CHATTERBOX. 143 his chest ; but all that he could get from his friends he spent on books and learning ; and earnestly would he pray for those who gave him the means of attend¬ ing school, for of stiid^r he took most care. He spoke briefly, usin^ no word that was not needful, and all was said with modesty and propriety, and full of good sense ; and gladly would he learn, and gladly teach. Now, as this scholar rode thoughtfully along, our host turned to him jestingly with — ‘ Sir Clerk of Oxenforde, ye sit as still and coy as doth a maid. This day I have not heard a word from your tongue. I trow ye study about some sophism. But Solomon saith there is a time for everything. Come! be of better cheer; this is no time for study. Tell us some merry tale, for when a man has entered into a game he must assent to it. But don’t preach us a sermon; tell us some merry string of adventures ; keep vour terms and figures till such time as ye write in high style, as men do to kings. Spealc, I pray you, so plainly now that we may under¬ stand w’hat ye say.’ ' The worthy clerk gently answered, — * Host, I am under your rule. Ye have the governance of us now ; therefore I will do your obedience. He then told how the Marquis of Saluces, or Saluzzo, in Italy, having married a poor village girl, whose name was Grisildis, or Griselda, resolved to try whether she would really obey him cheerfully in all things, as she had promised to do. And, telling her that his people were discontented and murmuring at him for his marriage, he took away her little daughter and son from her, letting her think they were killed; but she concealed the anguish of her heart, and still continued loving, and patient, and submissive. But the children w’ere secretly sent by the Marquis to his sister at Bologna, where they were carefully brought up ; and years after, not satisfied even yet, he wickedly told his wife that his people were more unruly than ever, for they said it was a shame to them to have to obey and honour her, who was only the daughter of a poor man ; and that to preserve peace in his state the Church had granted nim a dispensation of his marriage with her, that he might have a wife of suit¬ able rank. And poor Griselda humbly submitted to ^ pleasure, and, divested of her rich robes and jewels, left the palace and returned to her father’s cottage. The Marquis then gave out that he was going tfc> be married ag^n ; and, sending for his children from Bologna, he pretended that the girl, who was’ now grown up and very beautiful, was his intended bride. He then sent for Griselda to come and wait on her, which she instantly did; and when he asked her what she thought of the young bride, she praised her beauty in spite of her suffering, but begged of her lord not to subject his new wife to the dreadful trials he had made of herself. And the hard-hearted Marquis at last told her that the new bride was her own daughter, and that she only was his beloved and faithful wife. And poor Griselda, fainting with joy, embraced her children, and had peace and happi¬ ness at last. The clerk did not obey our host literally, for he certainly did not tell ‘ a merry tale.’ It was probably _ _ _ the first time that the famous story of the patient Griselda had been heard in the English language, and it was told very beautifully, and at great length. Our clerk says tliat he heard it from Francis Petrarch, ' the laureate poet,’ at Padua. The story was originally written in Italian by Boccaccio, in his Dccamen^on ; and was translated into Latin by Petrarch, that those might read it who did not under¬ stand Italian ; and it was doubtless from Petrarch’s own lips that Chaucer heard the story when he was in Padua. A. B. (To he continued.) SCBAPS OF BIOGRAPHY. rpHE study of biography shows us that some of Jl^ the greatest inventions have been made by men quite apart from the trade to which their discoveries applied. Naval tactics are said to have been the in¬ vention of a clergyman; and Sir William Armstrong, whose great guns are famed throughout the world, was brought up to the law. The reaping-machine also has for its inventor a clergyman. Pettitt Smith, a farmer, is thought by most to have invented the screw-propeller.^ Paxton, the architect of the huge glass-house which contained the first Exhibition in Hyde Park, was gardener to the Duke of Devonshire. Kichard Arkwright, who invented the twisMrame, to supersede the use of finger-and-thumb in spinning, was a barber. The inventor of the stocking-frame, whereby these useful articles are woven, instead of being made of cloth and buttoned, as in the davs of ; Queen Bess — was the Rev. William Lee of Notting¬ ham. A draper has been known to build a light¬ house, and a commercial traveller to invent a valuable method of dyeing calico. Clearly, then, the old proverb warning the cobbler not to go beyond his last does not always apply. The character of the child does not always show what the man will be. Joseph Addison, who so en¬ riched our literature with his papers in the Spectator ^ may certainly be called one of the gentlest and most quiet of men ; and yet w^e are told, that in his school¬ days he took the lead in a rebellion against the master and fell into deep disgrace. It is also said that he ran away from school, hid himself in a wood, and for some time evaded pursuit, satisfying his hunger with berries, pd sleeping in a hollow tree, Dubinq the last years of the great Duke of Marl¬ borough, an attendant used to read to him the history of the wars in which he himseif had commanded the British army. At times he would raise himself in his chair and ask, with admiration, ‘ Who com¬ manded ? ’ A somewdiat similar instance of absence of mind is recorded of Sir W' alter Scott. Entering a room one day, he found a friend reading a volume of poetry aloud to some ladies. lie sat down and listened for some nioments. At last a tear was seen stealing down his cheek, and, rising from his chair, he crossed the room and looked over the reader’s shoulder to see the author’s name. Imagine his surprise at dis¬ covering the poem to be nis ovvu! i

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Page 151

Signor Cherita finding Ray in the Church.

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146 CHATTERBOX. No. XIX. PEAS-BLOSSOM. (Continued from page 140.) CHAPTlEB XXI. he Orchards looked very differ¬ ent that night from its usual aspect. The garden -gate stood wide open, and inside you could see the house- door also open, and a candle on the hall-tahle flaring and guttering in the draught. ^ Pat marched holdly in, and, after exploring one room after another, hglited upon Goody in the kitchen, with her apron over her head, deafer than ever with her grief; and from hpr he made out that Mr. Carrington had gone into Mudford to see Mr. Hadley, and to speak to the police, though it was nearly twelve o’clock. So Pat went on after him, hut instead of going to the school-house he made straight for Miss Pink’s: The church clock struck out midnight as he came up Paul Street, and all the windows at the little milliner’s were dark, and everything still as death; and, for some minutes, Pat’s knockings and ringings produced no response, hut at last a window very high up was opened, and Miss Pink’s cracked little voice inquired if it was fire ? ‘ No, it’s me — Pat Bright.’ ‘ Thatch alight ! Where ? ’ It was some minutes before he could assure her that it was neither fire, mui’der, nor thieves, nor, what was almost equally terrible to her, a telegram ; hut at last she tooK in that it was Pat Bright, and that he wanted to speak to the Signor ; and a few minutes after (which seemed endless to Pat) the Signor him¬ self opened the door. ^ What is it ? ’ he asked. ‘ What is the matter ? ’ ‘ Is Carrington here ?’ ‘ Ray Carrington here ? No ! Is an;^hing wrong with him ? What is it ? Tell me, quick ! ’ The organist’s face was white and agitated, and he drew the hoy into the passage, and held the candle to throw its light full on his face', as if he would have read what was the matter quicker than the words would come. ^ Are you sure he is not here ?’ Pat had been per¬ suading himself all the way as he came along that I^y had taken refuge with the organist, and was hiding there from his gi’andfather. ‘No. I have not seen him all day. Tell me what is wrong.’ And tlien Pat told as much as he knew, and Signor Cherita sat pondering for a minute. ‘ I think he and his grandfather had a row in the morning, he looked so queer, and he said he was never coming here for his music-lesson any more, and he was terribly down in the mouth all day. Bo you think he has - ?’ Nurse’s suggestion of the river crossed Pat’s mind, and made him shudder, hut he fnished the sentence with, ‘ Run away ? ’ ‘ We’U find him, never fear,’ said the organist, and then he pondered again, and suddenly a thought seemed to strike him, and he got up and, taking the candle from the candlestick, put it into a lantern, and reached a key from a hook in the wall. ‘ It’s just possible,’ he said ; ^ we’ll go and see.’ ‘Where?’ ‘ The church was open this afternoon, and it’s just possible he may have been locked in.’ So they went out together to the church. The gas in Mudport is all put out at eleven, and it was a dark, cloudy night, so there was no light but the lantern which the Signor carried, which threw a dim ray here and there on damp pavement, or mossy headstone, or tangled grass. They both listened as they caine to the porch, but there was nothing to be heard but the ‘ drip, drip,’ from a watershoot, and as the organist unlocked the door, and raised the heavy latch the sound echoed far and wide in the stillness. Pat was not nervous by any means, but he was glad to keep close to the organist as they entered the church, it was so pitchy dark ; and when the Signor raised the lantern high above his head, the darlmess seemed to swallow up the feeble, little rays before they reached any distance. It was so dark ! and yet Pat fancied he could see moving shapes ; so silent ! and yet every now and then ho thought he heard a crack, or a rustle, or a whisper ; so still 1 and yet there seemed a mysterious stir and movement ; and once he fancied something touched his shoulder. ‘I should not like to be here by myself,’ he thought, and yet Pat was no coward. They went along the aisle towards the organ, the Si^or peering in one direction and another through the darkness. ‘ He can’t be here,’ said Pat ; ‘ he would have seen us come in and run to. meet us.’ But even as he spoke his foot struck against some¬ thing,- and he gave a cry, and the next minute Signor Cherita had pushed the lantern into his hands, and was lifting up tenderly some one who lay extended face downwards at the foot of the gallery-stairs, ex¬ claiming, ‘ Oh, Ray ! my poor boy ! ’ ^ The figure looked so lifeless as he raised it, and the arm fell so limp at his side, and the lantern showed such a ghastly face, with a smear of blood on the forehead, that Pat nearly dropped the lantern with the sudden fear. ‘ He’s not - he’s not - ? ’ ‘ No,’ said the Signor, quickly, answering the ques¬ tion before it was finished ; ‘ he’s only fainting. Come quickly, Pat, we’ll take him home.’ ‘To the Orchards?’ said Pat, following the quick stride of the Signor as fast as he could. ‘ No ; to my house.’ So Ray, still insensible, was carried to Miss Pink’s, and upstairs, and laid down on the Signor’s bed, by the side of which, in her little crib, Piccola was slewing, with Biondina clasped in her arms. Tlie Signor sprinkled the boy’s white face with water, and forc^ a little brandy between his teeth, and chafed his hands, whiW Pat sat at the foot of the bed hugging his knees and staring vacantly, while Miss Pink hovered about all of a tremble, with her rustling curl-papers, and suggesting various re¬ storatives, which were quietly ignored by *the Signor, who seemed to see and think of nothing but Ray Carrington. At last his efforts were successful : the long lashes quivered on the pale cheek, and the dark eyes opened,

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No. XIX. CHATTERBOX. 147 and, with a sobbing gasp, the boy came back to con¬ sciousness. ^Hooray ! ’ cried Pat, much relieved, ^ Grandfather ! ^ said Ray, not recognising the organ¬ ist’s anxious face bent over him. ^ Grandfather ! ” ^ You had better go and find his grandfather,’ said the Signor to Pat, ^ and tell him he is here.’ And off Pat set, tumbling over Boney and nearly upsetting Miss Pink on the stairs as he went. He had not far to go, however, for as he came out into Paul Street, a carriage came along it, and a voice from inside called to the driver to stop at the sight of Pat. It was Mr. Carrington himself, who, after a fruitless interview with Mr. Radley, who knew nothing of Ray, had gone to the police station, where the united efforts of himself, Cann, and the driver, had hardly succeeded in rousing the sleepy inmates ; and when, at last, a yawning policeman made his appearance, it was a still greater difficulty to impress anything on his drowsy mind, and the old man was coming away disheartened and worn out when he met Pat. ‘ Here he is ! ’ cried Pat. ^ He was locked into the church, and fainted ; but he’s getting as right as a trivet, and was asking for you when the Signor told me to cut off and fetch you.’ So the carriage pulled up at Miss Pink’s door, and Mr. Carrington followed Pat in, and straight up to the Signor’s bedroom, where Ray in the meantime had still further recovered, and had recognised the organist, and was trying to explain how it was tliat he got shut up in the church, though the Signor bid him lie still and be quiet. The bedroom led out of the sitting-room, and the old man hurried through without a glance at the sheets of music scattered about on the table, or the violin, or the smiling picture on the wall. He did not spare a look either when he reached the bed¬ room at little Piccola in her rosy sleep, or at the or¬ ganist, who at the sound of his step drew hastily away from Ray, and stepped back into the shadow of the bed-curtain, where he stood silent and un¬ noticed, looking with strange intentness at the old man’s bent, grey head, and worn, sad face. It was Ray alone that the old man saw ; and Ray had never half realised till that evening the love his grandfather had for him. ‘ Oh, Ray ! my poor boy ! ’ the old man said, using the very same words that the organist had done in the church — ^ My poor boy ! ’ And Ray clung to his grandfather with greater demonstrations of affection than he had ever shown before. They both of them forgot all about the Signor, and when after a few minutes Ray was able to sit up, and even to stand, and they were talking of taking him home, they found that the Signor had slipped away and was nowhere to be found, and it was only Pat who caught a glimpse of him, watching from a dark corner as the party went downstairs with Ray, who was still very tottering and weak, sup¬ ported by his grandfather’s arm, and Cann behind, ready at a moment’s notice to give more substantial aid, and Miss Pink fussing and fidgeting on in front. Mr. Carrington and Cann were both entirely ab¬ sorbed in providing for the boy’s comfort, and the boy turned faint again as he got into the carriage ; so they drove away in a hurry, leaving Pat standing on the doorstep in the rainy darkness, and Miss Pink decidedly irate at their conduct. ( ^ word of thanks to any one ! ’ she said, when one has been frightened out of one’s wits, and one’s night’s rest broken ! But I didn’t want thanks for mvself. But there’s the Signor, as couldn’t have been kinder to the boy if he’d been his own son : and not even to offer you a lift. Master Pat, to help you home ! ’ ^ ^ Pat ! ’ called the Signor’s voice from the top of the stairs, ^come up, and we’ll find you a corner to turn in for what’s left of the night.’ But Pat preferred to make his way home, where he arrived cold and wet, and tired and footsore, just as the dawn was growing grey in the east, to find nurse waiting for him with a large fire, and hot coffee, and dry clothes, and a warm bed, and plenty of scolding, aU of wliich he found very consoling. {To he continued.) THE FIRST GENTLEMAI^* OF HIS FAMILY. CHEVERT was as proud of the obscurity of his birth as many are of the nobility of theirs. A person one day went to him and begged him to use his influence for him at Court, declaring that he was a relation of his. ^ Are you a gentleman by birth ? asked Chevert. ^ Certainly, sir.’ 'Then you cannot be a relation of mine, for I am the first and only gentleman of my family.’ OUR HAVY. YERY English boy must like to know something of our Navy, of the wooden walls of Old England, her brave defenders for so many years. You see before you a view of Devonport, which once went by the name of Plymouth Dock, but is now a large and important place, with a spacious natural harbour called the Ha- moaze, and her dockyard is one of the finest in the world. As their town grew in im'portance, the good people of Devonport thought it had a right to a name of its own, and in 1824 Devonport, or the Port of Devon, was fitly chosen. England has four other dockyards for the accommodation of her many ships of war and transport, viz. Chatham, Sheer ness, Portsmouth, and Pembroke, where every¬ thing necessary for ship-building is contained, such as dry docks, slips for building, foundries, machine- works, and rope-walks. We have also store-yards at Deptford and Woolwich; but of all our naval arsenals Devonport is the chief. We talk of the wooden walls of Old England, but she has iron walls now as well, and very useful and

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Devonport. powerful they are. For a long time it was thought that iron would not float, and therefore could not he so used ; and then came the fear that oak might run short; and what would be done then, if there was nothing with which to build more ships ? But at last it was proved that iron would float, and now, besides more than four hundred ships of all kinds, several steam gun-boats, and flve magnificent vessels for taking troops to India, we have no fewer than fifty-four ironclads. It takes a great deal of money to build and keep up these grim defenders of our shores. Half a million has been paid for a single ironclad, and the Inflexible cost three quarters of a million. The weight of the vessels of the present day is tremendous. In the seventeenth century a ship weighing 1500 tons was looked upon as a wonder, but our famous Great Edstern weighs 22,500 tons, and many of our ironclads more than 11,000 tons. M. H. F. Donne.

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Orleans House

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150 CHATTERBOX. No. XIX. THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. X.— FEOM HAMPTON COUET TO TWICKENHAM. OAHCELY have we left Hampton ^ Court behind us than we come upon Thames Ditton. Here re¬ cently died that gi’eat lawyer, Lord St. Leonard’s, being nearly a century old when he died. The wit Theodore Hook visited this veteran many years since, and when the nobleman was Sir Edward Sugden. Hook thus wrote of Thames Ditton ; — ‘While sultry suns and dusty streets Proclaim town’s winter season, And rural scenes and cool retreats Sound something like high treason, I steal away to shades serene, Which yet no bard has hit on. And change the bustling, heartless scene, For quiet and Thames Ditton.’ Quitting this placid spot a smart pull brings us to Kingston, or Kling’s Town, a beaui^ul and healtliy spot, chiefly celebrated for its stone, which is to be found railed in and on the high road, near the centre of the town. This is the stone upon whicli the An^lo- Saxon monarchs of Wessex were seated when they were crowned — of course at this place. A mile down stream is Teddington, and its celebrated lock, which blocks off the tide from being felt higher up the river than this point, and secures some depth of water above Teddington where there would otherwise only be mud at low tide. Most Londoners insist upon believing that this place derives its name from Tide-end-town ; of course because here the first lock on the Thames stops the farther up-stream action of the tide. Learned people, however, say that the spot was called Totyngton before the weir and lock were built. The fishing here is delightful at any point of the outspread river. Only steam-launches and tiny steamers of special build can get through Teddington Lock, which is very narrow. There is a steamer which starts every Monday morning in summer-time from London Bridge for Hampton Court, and the trip by it is one of the most charming which the metropolis affords. It is at Teddington ‘Where silver Thames first rural grows.* The first lock at Teddington was built in 1811 ; the present one, in 1857. It will now be seen that the Danks of the T^mes offer the qnpleasant sight, when the tide is down, of wide banks of mud. When your boat has passed through Teddington Lock, Twickenham, with its many associations, is soon reached. Now Eel-pie Island is seen; but all the j)ies have been eaten, and there are very few eels left with which to make them. There are some very fine trees on the banks here. Indeed, it was here that originally grew in England the lovely weeping 'willow, the first of w^hich was planted by the poet Pope. Here, too, is Orleans House, easily recognised, and, as seen in our engraving, by the handsome balustrade decorated with vases of flowers, situated on the river bank. The place takes its name from the French princes of the house of Orleans. Here King Louis Philippe resided for some time, and here died his brother, the Duke de Montpensier, while the ex-king himself expired not far away, at Claremont House, which was lent him by the Queen. The octagon room in front of Orleans House (now a club) was erected for the pleasure of the queen- consort of George H. It should be added that Louis Philippe, while living here, was very generous to the poor of Twickenham; In the church may be found the epitaph on Pope’s monumental stone, which very vainly begins, — ‘ Heroes and kings your distance keep, •In peace let one poor poet sleep.’ Pope’s celebrated Twickenham ^ 'villa’ is practically destroyed, but his grotto, or rather subway, which passes under the road to a garden, still remains. In a cell on one side 'was kept some time since a cast of Pope’s head. Not far a'w^^ stands Strawberry Hill, the residence of the late Frances, Counte&s "W aide- grave, a modern Gothic building erected by the cele¬ brated Horace Walpole. Twickenham is celebrated for its aspens, of which there are several in the gardens of Orleans House. (To he continued.) SCRAPS OP BIOGRAPHY. The mental powers of Dr. Johnson in his boyhood were sufficient to make him a kind of monarch amongst liis school-fellows. To his favourites he gave assistance with their lessons, but he exacted certain duties in return. His indolence was such, that every morning three of the boys would come to his home and carry him off to school. He sat upon the back of one, and was supported by the others at each side, in this way making a triumphal entry into the play¬ ground. His eyesight was always so weak that he could not join the boys in their games ; but in the 'wdnter his chief amusement was to be dragged over the ice by some one strong enough to tug big Master Johnson along. Gentil Bellini, a Venetian artist, was engaged by Sultan Mahomed H. to paint a picture representing the death in prison of J ohn the Baptist. When the painting -w^as finished and shown to the Sultan, he found fault with the manner in which the wounded part was treated. To show the faults of the repre¬ sentation, he di’ew' his scimitar and cut off the head of the slave standing by. Bellini, 'we are told, set sail for Venice at the* first opportunity. PniNCE Henry, the son of James I., who died at the early age of eighteen, gave promise of one day being a wise and valiant king. To his kindly nature, high spirit, and love of pleasantry, we owe the many anecdotes about the young prince which have been preserved. A liking for arms soon showed itself in him. The trumpet was his favourite instrument, and though he could dance with grace he took more de-

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No. XIX. CHATTERBOX. 151 light in manly exercises. He learned to handle and toss the pike, and bear himself in the style of a soldier in those times. But freedom of action was always greatly to his taste. * Men could never be good soldiers,^ said some one in his presence, ^ unless they kept true order in marching ! ’ 'What must they do, then,^ said the Prince, 'when th^ wade through a swift-running s^eam ? ’ On being told by his physician that he rode too fast, he asked, — ' klust I ride by rules of physic His tutor, Adam Newton, was free from anything like servility, and seems to have treated his pupil ■^th some severity, not sparing the rod. On one occasion, when Prince Henry was lifting a stick to strike his ball, some one exclaimed, — 'Beware, sir, that you do not strike Mr. Newton !’ the boy drew back and said, with a smile, — ' Had I done so, I had but paid my debts ! ’ Tutor and prince oftentimes engaged in harmless bickerings, which show the irritability of the one no less than the humour of the other. They were playing at shuffle-board together, and Newton, blaming the Prince for changing so often, took up a piece and threw it on the board. He missed his aim, and the boy said, smilingly, — ' Well thrown, master 1 * On this the other, a little put out, declared that he ' would not strive with a prince at shuffle-board.’ ' Yet,’ said the Prince, ' you gownsmen should be best at such exercises, which are not meet for men who are stirring.’ ' I am meet for whipping of boys ! ’ said the tutor. • ' You vaunt, then,’ answered Prince Henry, ' that which a ploughman or cart-driver can do better than you!’ With all his gaiety of manner the young Prince showed unfeigned piety, and England never lost a rince of greater promise than this son of Bang ames. Sm Chbistopheh Wben, the architect of St. Paul’s Cathedral, had a great horror of swearing and profane language. Whilst the cathedi'al was in building he caused notices to be fixed to various parts, declaring that ' Ptofane swearing shall be a sufficient cause to dismiss any labourer.’ All masters who had men engaged on the work were made responsible for bad language on the part of their apprentices. Al¬ though these evil habits are not so wide-spread now as then, one would, at least, like to see Wren’s ex¬ ample followed in building places for the worship of God. A. K. B. A VEGETABLE THAT GIVES LIGHT. rpHE fungus ' Khizomorpha,’ which grows in dark X mines, far from the light of day, has wonderful phosphorescent properties. In some of the coal-mines of Germany the roofs, walls, and pillars, are covered with this remarkable fungus, which emits a beautiful and dazzling light, and gives to the otherwise dark and dismal places the fanciful appearance of en¬ chanted castles. THE CHEIROTHERIUM, OR HAND-ANIMAL. ERHAPS 'the most wonderful proofs of the strange animal life which existed in the early ages of the world are the footprints preserved in slabs of the rock known in geology as the New Bed Sandstone. These impressions have been found in various parts of the world, some ef them being plainly those of four-footed animals, whilst others have been made by birds. When this hard stone was the sloping shore of an ancient sea or lake, the ani¬ mals coming down to the water left the marks of their feet in the soft wet sand. After countless cent¬ uries the sand hardened into stone, yet still pre¬ served, with all the sharpness of a plaster cast, the shape of the animals’ feet. The sea went back and the sandy slope became the side of a hill. At length man came upon the scene, and quarrying into the rock revealed slab after slab of stone, all bearing the impress of creatures whose very species have long since vanished from the earth. The strangest of these impressions bear a startling resemblance to a human hand; from which the animal that produced them was called the Cheiro- therium, from the Greek words for hand and animal. Slabs bearing these imprints have been found both in England and Saxony. The incline of the slabs shows that the shore on which the animals walked must have been very steep; and it appears to have dug its fore-feet firmly into the bank in descending, as the impressions are much deeper in front, whilst in the ascending tracks those of the hind -feet are the deeper. The hind-feet are eight inches in length by five in width, and are twice the size of the fore¬ feet. ■ They resemble a clumsy hand with very thick fingers, and the thumb on the wrong side. The creature .which made these impressions is supposed to have been of the same kind with an animal whose .remains have been discovered, and which was called the Labyi’inthodon, from the complicated structure of its teeth. It seems to have been something like a huge toad. A slab of sandstone bearing the hand-like imprints is in the geological collection which has re¬ cently been removed from the British Museum to South Kensington. The largest foot-prints of birds which have been found are those in the New Bed Sandstone of the valley of Connecticut. Some of the impressions being fifteen inches in length, not including the longest claw, which is two inches. When we remember that the foot of the African ostrich, the largest of known birds, has a foot measuring ten inches, we can form some idea of the stupendous size of the bird which made these impressions. It must have been half as large again as the great ostrich, which is nine feet high ! But, happily for us, the creature itself has vanished, and has left nothing but the prints of its footsteps to show that it ever existed. A. B.

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Cheirotherium, or Hand- Animal.

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“ Glen ” swimming across Loch Lochy.

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154 CHATTERBOX. No. XX. LOCHABER— A DOG SWIMMING LOCH LOCHT. • BLACK-AND-TAN coUie, of the name of ^ Glen/ 2helonging to Mr. H. E. Cameron of Clunes, lately left home with his master, V who had to cross Loch Lochy on a visit to Belford House, a distance from Clunes of more than two miles. On arriving at the shore he ordered the dog home before entering the boat, but the dog had no intention of going home, and sat howling on a hillock, some distance off, till the party in the boat lost sight of him. Scarcely, however, was Mr. Cameron seated in the house when ^ Glen ^ entered, dripping and shivering, and began to manifest his delight at having found his master. In crossing the loch the dog had a stiff westerly breeze to contend with, but the long swim was made in less than half an hour. Some hot milk having been given him, he returned with the party in the evening by boat none the worse. PEAS-BLOSSOM, (Continued from page 147.) CHAPTER XXII. AT always set down Bay^s being shut up in the church as a manoeuvre of the Pies ; but I am inclined to acquit them of the matter, and to think that it was an unfortimate accident. When he came out of Miss Pink’s, on finding that the Signor was out, and not daring to ' trust himself alone with the violin, a boy told him that the organist was in the church, and he went there at once, and finding the door open went in and made his way to the organ-loft. Signor Cherita was not there; but the organ was open, and the music lying about as if he were coming back, and Bay sat down to wait for his return. As I have said, he was not well, and had had a sleepless night; so he dropped asleep, and never heard the door shut, or awoke till the church was quite dark. He did not know where he was at first ; but when he made out his situation, and realised that he was locked into the church, a sudden terror came over him, being a sensitive, nervous boy, and his imagina¬ tion called up all sorts of ghostly and mysterious eights and sounds round him in the darkness. He tried to call for help, but his tongue refused to give any sound ; and when he began to grope his way to one^ of the doors he stumbled, and struck his head against a sharp corner, and at last from the pain and terror sank down and lost consciousness at the foot of the gallery stairs, where the Signor had found him. Pat was fast asleep and snoring when Paddy started for school next morning, and nurse would not let him be roused, and she and Honor agreed that he would be better in bed than at school after his night’s adventures ; and he slept on soundly till dinner-time, when he got up, not seeming any the worse, and de¬ clared his intention of going that afternoon to see how Bay was. ^ I don’t expect he will be up for school for a day or two,’ he said : * he looked awfully bad last night. But I’ll just look in and see how he’s getting along; and if you girls want a walk I don’t mind your coming, too. But you mustn’t come in at the Orchards, you know : I don’t expect old Carrington would like it And you needn’t stop about for me ; for I may be asked to stop to tea.’ ^ Oh, Pat ! I expect the Ogre will never forget your finding Bay, and will let you go into the Orchards whenever you like.’ ^ Perhaps he’ll wish to adopt you, and bring you up with Bay.’ ‘ Or perhaps he’ll leave you all his money.’ ^ Or send you to Cambridge.’ ^ Or give you a gold hunting-watch, like Colonel Wilmott did to Brian.’ ^ Ho you think we might peep into the garden when you go inP We won’t bother, Pat, indeed we won’t ; but we should so much like to see inside that wall.’ So all the way to the Orchards Molly and Nora were indulging Ml sorts of brilliant imaginations of what the Ogre’s gratitude would do for Pat; and Pat himself, though he pooh-poohed all that the girls said, built little castles in the air on his own account, and at the very least never doubted that the Ogre’s castle was free and open to him in future, as it had been the night before. So he rang calmly at the bell, and stood waiting for the door to be opened, with his legs rather apart and his hands in his pockets, with the air of being master of all he surveyed, and Molly and Nora watched from a respectful distance. But he could hardly believe his senses when Cann opened the door just a little crack and looked out with as surly and discouraging a face as ever. ^How is Master Bay?’ Pat inquired, with a sudden diminution of the swagger he had assumed, and a wish that the girls were out of hearing. ^He’s better:’ with no offer of opening the* door farther. ‘ I’ve come to see him,’ ^ Have you?’ said Cann, with a grim smile; ‘then you just won’t do nothing of the kind.’ ‘ You don’t know who I am,’ said Pat, swelling with anger and the sense of base ingratitude. ‘ You may be the Prince of Wales or the Emperor of Booshia for all I care.’ ‘ Will you tell Mr. Carrington that I should like to speak to him ? ’ ‘ Now look here, young gent, whoever you may be, it’s not a bit of use, we don’t see no visitors here, and it’s as much as my place is worth to let any one in.’ And with that Cann shut the door with a bang, leaving Pat outside, very crest-fallen and very angry, and inclined to find the girls’ sympathy as irritating as their ridicule. He found a ready sympathiser next day in Miss Pink, who thought the Ogre’s behaviour atrocious,

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No. XX. CHATTERBOX. 155 and abused him in no measured terms. But Signor Cherita would express no opinion on the matter, though both Pat and Miss Pink felt that he was the most sinned against, and though he seemed very anxious to have news of Pay, and walked every morning to meet Pat to hear if he had gleaned any tidings of his friend. Pat and the Signor grew great friends in those days, and Pat used to go in to see him after school, nearly as regularly as Pay had done, only the violin was not taken out of its case, and the time passed in talk instead of music ; for the Signor liked to hear all Pat’s chatter of home, and father, and brotliers, and sisters, and of old days, when they were better off and lived in London, and of Brian, who was in Italy. The Signor had travelled a good deal, and had had many adventures which Pat found deeply interesting ; and these talks with the Signor and games with little Piccola in some small degree consoled him for Pay’s absence ; for day after day passed by and Pay did not make his appearance at school, and Mr. Padley told Pat that he was ill, in a low, nervous condition, that made his friends very anxious. ^ Pat made two or three further efforts to get to him, but with no more success than the first ; and he spent the whole of Saturday afternoon lurking about the Orchards trying to waylay the Ogre himself, but he never came out. ^ Perhaps if you went,’ he said to the Signor one day, ^ the old ruffian would be more civil.’ But the Signor shook his head. All the same that very evening, long after Pat liad gone home, and when the May twilight was gathering* darkly round. Signor Cherita walked out to the Orchards, and rang the bell. He had pulled his broad-brimmed felt hat low over his face, and wore a comforter twisted round his neck and covering his mouth, in a manner curious enough on such a warm, mild evening ; so it was no wonder that old Cann looked curiously at him when he opened the door. * How is Master Pay Carrington ? ’ Ay?’ ^ o . The old man jjeered closer when he heard the voice, muffled as it was by the comforter. * How is Master Pay Carrington ? ’ * Much the same,’ was the answer ; ^ he^s not no worse, to my mind,’ ‘No better?’ ‘No, nor better. Who shall I say asked for him ? ’ ‘ Tell him Signor Cherita asked how he was, and hopes to hear soon that he is better.’ ‘ Ah ! ’ said old Cann, ‘ it was your house the lad was took to.’ ‘ Yes ; I took him there.’ ‘ All right ! I’ll remind the master.’ ‘ You will tell Master Pay ? ’ ‘Yes, yes.’ And the door was shut again ; and the Signor turned back, wondering what Cann had meant by reminding the master. What he meant was clear enough next morning, when an envelope was left at Miss Pink’s, directed to the Signor, containing a 10/. note, and ‘ Mr. Carring¬ ton’s thanks for the kindness shown to his grandson.’ -Miss Pink was all in a twitter to find out what the letter contained which Cann left ; but she was never able to discover, though the Signor came to her in the afternoon and asked her to direct an envelope for him to ‘ P. Carrington, Psq., the Orchards,’ which she did, wondering all the time why he could not have done it himself. But she would have wondered all the more could she have known that it contained the 10/. note, returned without a word, while the envelope, with the old man’s trembling, shaky writing on it, was carefully put away among the Signor’s valuable papers. Pat, too, wondered, when he was asked to di’op the letter into the box at the’ Orchards as he went home. ‘ You know,’ he volunteered, ‘ the old fellow can’t bear music ; so if this is one of your circulars it’s not much use.’ The Signor laughed. ‘It is a sort of circular, he said; ‘but I have not many like it.’ And Pat was puzzled. Pat had long ago described to the Signor his first visit to the Orchards, and his climbing the palings in pursuit of mistletoe ; and this evening the Signor referred to it again. ‘ How should you like to pay your friend a visit again in the same way ? ’ ‘ What ! over the railings ?’ . ‘Yes-.’ ‘ How would I get back ? ’ ‘ If any one was there with a short, light ladder, it would be easy enough.’ Pat rose to the idea with a bound. ‘ Oh, I say ! ’ he exclaimed, ‘-that would be a lark 1 I know where Pay’s bedroom is, and I’d get up there in a jiffey if I was once over. But where’s the ladder to come from ? ’ ‘ I know of one,’ said the Signor. ‘ Oh, I say, you are a brick ! But I suppose you wouldn’t - ? No, of course not ! ’ ‘What?’ J Help me over. You see Paddy is game for any¬ thing, and as plucky as can be ; but he’s so short, and those railings are so thundering high.’ ‘ I don’t mind, said the Signor. ‘ I want to know if the boy is really ill or only fretting, and you can find out. I’ll get the ladder, and help you over, and be there to help you back, and you must do the rest.’ ‘ Done ! ’ cried Pat ; ‘ done along of you ! ’ ‘You must watch Cann out ; and if Mr. Carrington is out so much the better. And then the coast is pretty clear ; for Mrs. Cann is as deaf as a post.’ • ‘ So she is,’ said Pat. ‘ But what a lot you seem to know about them ! ’ ‘ What a lot you have told me about them ! ’ said the Signor. ‘ When shall it be ?’ ‘ To-morrow,’ said Pat. CHAPTER XXIII, To-Momiow was Saturday, and, accordingly, a half¬ holiday ; but Pat told Honor not to expect him home to dinner, and persuaded nurse to make him some sandwiches, which article of food is very different, according to the Bright recipe, to the three-cornered mouthful at an evening party, or the fossil remains at railway refreshment-rooms, by which we are taught that the ancient Britons had invented mustard. The

Page 162

Signor Cherita and old Cann. ' ^ ' S. » ■ Bright sandwich was a bulky affair with crusts, and so thick that you must open your jaws to their widest to take a bite, and you have to beware lest you pull all the meat out at the first hite^ hut the best French cook in the universe could not concoct anything half so nice as those sandwiches, if you came to them with the appetite Pat did that day after school, sitting in the soft, springing grass, under a hedge newly clothed with living green, with a hole in it, through which he could keep a watchful eye on the door of the Orchards. He felt a httle uneasy about the Signor, whether he would keep his part of the agreement, for he could not even get in without some one’s help, much less get out again. By-and-hy he saw a fly drive up to the door, and, after waiting a few minutes the Ogre himself came out, got in, and drove off ; and not very long after¬ wards Cann came out with a basket on his arm, and

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Pat’fi second visit to the Orchards. set off trudging towards Mudford, followed by all three of the dogs. Pat could hardly resist three cheers all to himself in the thick grass, but the fear that the Signor might play him false sobered him down. He got up to reconnoitre, and, sure enough, there was the Signor coming leisurely along, as quiet as if he were not just going to assist in an act of house-breaking. * But where’s the ladder ? ’ asked Pat. The Signor beckoned him to follow into the clover- field by the side of the Orchards, and showed him a ladder laid among the grass. ^ That is jolly ! ’ said Pat. * And now suppose we are caught ! ’ said the organist. * Don’t you think it will look very much like burglary ? ’ ^We shan’t be caught,’ said Pat. ^Come on I who’s afraid.'^’

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158 CHATTERBOX. No. XX. 'I may be getting you into a bad scrape/ went on tbe Signor, doubtfully. ^ It won’t be the first,’ answered Pat, ^ or most likely the last. And, I say, if any one comes up while I’m inside, and begins humbugging, just you skedaddle and leave me to scramble out somehow. I generally fall on my feet, and it won’t do me half as much harm if I’m caught as it will you ;’ which was certainly a wise reflection of Pat’s. They found a place quite out of sight of the road, and covered from observation on one side by a high hedge, and here they planted the ladder; and the Signor, producing some pincers, soon reduced the number of nails at the top of th(^ fence. Then he fastened a rope to the top rung of the ladder, by which Pat lowered himself easily from the top of the railings, and found himself in the orchard, as he de¬ scribed it, ^ as easy as eggs,’ without any damage to his clothes or person. The orchards looked very different now from what they did at Pat’s first visit. The trees were covered with masses of pink and white blossom, through which the May sunbeams played hide-and-seek on the mossy grass, which was strewn with snowy petals, for the west wind of the night before had been rough and blustering. The bees were busy over their pleasant toil, and the air full of fragrance, and, as Pat stood balancing at the top of the railings, he could see down into a thrush s nest, built in the fork of an apple-tree, where lay snugly four blue-spotted eggs, warm from the speckled breast of the shy-eyed mother, who had flown off and surveyed the intruder from a neighbouring branch. But Pat had no time for pro¬ longed observation. ' Don’t be long,’ said the organist. And off Pat set towards the house. Luckily there were no dogs to bark, and Goody was very deaf, so no notice was taken of a flower-pot upsetting on the path, or the latch of the back-door , making an extraordinary rattling, or a crealdng of the wooden stairs. There was no one in the ytchen, or in either of the rooms on the ground-floor ; so Pat went quietly upstairs. The first door he came to was a little open, and he cautiously peeped in. Yes, there was Kay lying on the sofa, among his pillows, looking white and wan ; and near him, with her back to the door, sat Goody, knitting ; and the click-click of her . needles' was the only sound that broke the stillness, except ^he fall of a cinder on the hearth, or a weary sigh from Kay as he turned his head listlessly on the pillow. It was a pretty, bright room, with flowers, and pictures, and books, and every comfort and luxury money could buy; and yet as Pat looked at it, the thought of the bedroom that he shared with Paddy, that had no carpet or curtains, and only Dne chair, and a tow'el-horse that had to be propped against the wall, seemed a veiy pleasant, lively place in comparison. Kay was lying with his eyes partly shut, and his face turned away, so all Pat’s telegraphic signals were in vain, and he was afraid to venture on much noise so close to the old woman’s ear ; but just then he noticed that the click of the needles grew slower and slower, and Goody’s cap gave a lurch backwards and forwards, and then the knitting fell into her lap, and her head heeled over against the back of the chair, and a long breath, approaching to a snore, announced that she was asleg). Kay also heard this announce¬ ment as well as Pat, and turned his head fretfully, and opened his eyes to look at the old woman, and having once opened them, opened them wider and wider, for close behind her, grinning from ear to ear, and gesticulating violently to impress silence on his friend, stood Pat Bright. Kay was sitting up in a minute, all languor gone, and a look of life and interest on his face, with a mix¬ ture of fear and amusement. ^ However did you get here ? ’ ^ Much as I came before,’ whispered Pat. ^ Is she sound ? ’ A stir from the old woman answered the question in the negative, and Pat drew back, and Kay dropped down on his pillow and closed his eyes. Tne needles clicked again for a few minutes and then again stopped. ^ Look here, Pat ! ’ said Kay, ^ creep into that cup¬ board there, and I’ll wake’ Goody, and pretend I want something to eat, something that will take a long time to make. Make haste.’ So into the cupboard Pat slipped, and Kay began calling Goody. His voice was very weak and low, but when she was once awake. Goody could hear every word without difficulty, being so well used to his voice, and loving it so. ^ Soup, my dearie ! Bless your heart ! it’s nice to hear you fancy anything, though it’s only half-an- hour ago as I took down that basin as you couldn’t touch. I’ll warm it up in a minute.’ ^ I don’t like that,’ said Kay ; ^ it was too strong, or salt, or something, and I’m not in a hurry. I’d rather wait half an hour and have something different.’ ^ Well, well ! I’ll see to it. Master Kay. You was asleep, my dear, and I nearly dropped off myself, only I can’t ever close my eyes of a day.’ Kay did not attempt to contradict this statement, and the old woman bustled off, leaving Pat free to emerge from his cupboard ; and you can fancy how the boys talked. Kay had to tell how he got shut up in the church, and how iU he had been ever '.since, while Pat described all that had happened at school, and how anxious Signor Cherita was on Kay’s account, and how he had helped him to pay this visit. ^ He’s awfully anxious to know what’s the matter with you,’ said Pat, * and if you are really bad. Have you had a doctor ? ’ ^ No,’ said Kay. ' Grandfather is half a doctor himself, you know, and he gives me something to take, and Goody is always after me with some mess or other ; but I don’t seem to get much better. Do you know, Pat, what I think would do me more good than all the medicine, and the broth, and the jelly in the world ? ’ ^What?’ ' Just ten minutes with the violin, or to hear the Signor play one air.’ ^ Why not ? ’ ^No; I’ve troubled grandfather quite enough, and he’s very good to me.’ ^Make haste and get well, and come back to school.’ But Kay shook his head, and just then a clatter

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No. XX. CHATTERBOX. 159 of china on the stairs announced that the soup was coming. ^ I must be off/ said Pat, ' or the Signor will leave me in the lui’ch. Send her down for something, and I’ll slip away while she’s gone for it.’ So Pay asked for some pepper, and while Goody was gone to fetch it Pat made his escape. ‘ Good-bye, Pay. Keep up your pluck, old chap ! ’ * Bless my heart ! Master Pay, you do look a sight better — quite a colour in your cheeks! But what a draught there is ! the bacK-door must be open ! ’ (To he continued.) GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. ( Continued from page 143. ) THE SEEJEANT OF LAW. ‘ A Sergeant of the Lawe ware and wise, That often had yben at the parvis.* Ther was also f ulriche of excellence.’ FIT associate for the noble knight and the worthy franklain was the Serjeant of the Law, or, as we should now call him, Sei’jeant-at-Law. For he was wary and wise, and of great reverence, and seemed very dis¬ creet, so wise were his words. He had ®ften been justice of assize, and his science and high renown gained him plenty of fees and rich robes. Nowhere was there so busy a man, and yet he- seemed busier than he really was. He knew every case and judg¬ ment that had befallen since the days of William the Conqueror, and had them all in terms ; and could dictate a matter so that no man could find a flaw in his writings, and knew every statute clearly by heart. He was plainly dressed in a ^medley/ or parti¬ coloured coat, and wore a silk girdle ornamented with small bars. Now as the pilgrims were riding along, after the cook had told his story, our host, though he was not deeply learned, concluded ‘from the position of the sun in the sky, and the length of the. shadows of the trees by the wayside, that it was ten o’clock ; and suddenly he turned his horse about. ^Lordings,’ quoth he, 'I warn you all that the fourth part of this day is gone. Now lose no time, for loss of goods may be recovered but loss of time ruins us, for it wiU never come again. Let iis not moulder thus in idleness. Sir Man of Law teU us a tale anon, as your promise is.’ ' Host,’ said the Serjeant, ^ I assent ; it is not my intent to break my word. I can tell a thrifty tale, but Chaucer, though he knows but little of metre or ryming, hath told them all in such English as he could, long ago, as many a man knows ; and if he hath not told them in one book, he hath in another. Ne’er theless, I care not a bean, tho’ I come after him * Parvis, a porch or portico ; most likely that of St. Paul’s, where the lawyers may have met in conversation after dining at . tho Inns of Court. with hauberk. I speak in prose, and let him make rymes.’ After giving his opinion, natural perhaps to so wise and discreet a ^ purchaser,’ that poverty was the greatest of aU evils, and that if we were poor no one would respect us, and our own neighbours despise us, and bidding us beware that we did not come to poverty, the Serjeant of the Law began- his tale. He told how the Sultan of Syria loved Custance, the daughter of the Emperor of Rome ; and how he consented to be baptized, and give up his belief in his prophet ^ Mahoimd,’ * that he might marry her. And she set out for Syria with a great retinue, and when she arrived there, the old sidtana, the mother of the Sultan, pretending that she also would become a Christian, invited them to a feast, and had them all murdered but Custance, whom she put alone into a ship, and the poor princess was tost about on the waves till the ship drove on the English coast, where Alla, king of Northumberland, married her. But his people were pagans, and her stepmother hated her ; and whilst the King was away warring in Scotland, the wicked woman caused Custance and her little baby, the king’s son, to be put into the ship again, and the poor princess was once more left to the mercy of the ocean. And a Roman senator, re¬ turning victorious, from Syria — the Emperor having made war on the Sultan to avenge the massacre of the Christians — met her ship driving before the wind, and finding Custance and her little child all alone in it, took them home with him to Rome. . And years afterwards. King Alla, who, when he found out his mother’s cruelty, had Idlled her in his rage,’ came on a pilgrimage to Rome; for he had become a Christian, and repented of his sins. And there he was once more united to his beloved wife, whom he believed to have been drowned in the salt sea, and had never ceased to lament ; and there was an end of all poor Custance’s sufferings, and their son Maurice became Emperor of Rome. Tne Serjeant-at-Law was at first a servant of the king’s for th-e management of his law affairs, and derives his name from the Latin, serviens ad legem ; just as there was a Serjeant-at-arms, serviens ad arma. Serjeants-at-Law are still ^ware and wise,’ but their dress is very different from what it was in Chaucer’s time. They wear grand wigs now, and black sillc gowns ; whereas they used to cover their heads with an odd sort of cap, that was fastened under their chin, and called a coif ; and wore a long parti-coloured robe, and about their shoulders a cape with a hood on it, and furred with white lambsldn : for though lawyers, are of such great antiquity, their awe-inspiring wigs are more modern. If you have ever been into a court of law, you may have observed some of the learned gentlemen with a little round patch of sillj: on the crown of their wigs. These are the Serjeants-at-Law, and the little piece of silk represents the ancient coif. In bur own time Serjeants’ Inn has been abolished ; and perhaps in the next generation the very title of Serjeant-at-Law, that has lasted so many centuries, may be a thing of the past. A. R. (To he co7itinued.) * Mohammed.

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160 CHATTERBOX. No. XX. The Serjeant of Law.

Page 167

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162 CHATTERBOX. No. XXI. 1 PEAS- BLOSSOM. (Continued from ‘page 159.) CHAPTER XXIII. AT made his escape from the Or¬ chards as easily as he had made his entrance. The Signor was on the look-out for him, and the lad¬ der was pushed over the palings, and he climbed it as leisurely and comfortably as if he had been f oing upstairs at Kelburn Lodge, t was almost too easy and un¬ eventful, and Pat almost regretted that there was no hair’s-breadth escape or sudden alarm to make more of an adventure. He told the Signor all that Kay had said, and how he looked and expressed his opinion that there was not much the matter, but that he was just moping. ^ ^ It’s the music he’s worrying after. He says it would do him more good than all the messes they dose him with to hear a tune on the fiddle.’ The Signor thought a minute. ^ Which way is his window ? ’ ' In front.’ ‘ Near his grandfather’s ?’ ‘No. I think the Ogre’s den is behind somewhere.’ ‘ Is Kay’s window ever open ? ’ ‘Yes; it was open just a crack this afternoon, though he had a fire.’ Pat’s visit had produced, as Goody noticed, a marked effect on Kay; and when Mr. Carrington came home he was much pleased to see the brighter look and increased life and energy about him. But this did not last, and a reaction followed, and on Monday he was so depressed and restless that there was a talk of sending for the doctor from Mudford. But towards the evening he improved again, and none of them guessed the reason. For that afternoon, as he was tossing about on the sofa, he suddenly lay still, and held his breath, and listened ; for through the open window came a long soft note of music, and then another, and then an air that he had heard many a time in the little room at Miss Pinli’s. Goody did not notice it, being deaf and intent on a dropped stitch in her knitting, and Mr. Carrington was shut up in his own room behind, and Cann was out ; so only the ears for whom they were intended received those notes, which came dropping like rain upon a parched soil. Surely, to no fair lady in her bower did ever a serenade sound so sweetly. Kay listened with grateful tears welling in his eyes. ‘ It is the Signor ! ’ ne said. ‘ He has not forgotten me.’ And when the sounds died away he turned on his pillow and fell asleep. After that never a day passed that Kay did not hear the music that he longed for, just for a few minutes each afternoon, and Goody wondered at the boy’s fidgety wish to have the window open, even when it was showery or gusty. Blit though he had got the medicine that he thought would do him such good ho did not make rapid progress to recovery, and the feverish days and restless nights were telling on his strength. Pat made up his mind to pay him another visit, and see for himself how he was getting on, and he had persuaded the Signor to help him again. But the very day before the proposed visit, or trespass, whichever it may be called, as they were on their way to school, Pat and Paddy were overtaken by Cann, who asked them if they knew where Dr. Combes lived. He was not half as surly as usual, but looked anxious, and Pat, guessing that he was in search of a doctor for Kay, lost this opportunity of taking revenge on his old enemy by sending him on a wild-goose chase into every part of the town but the right one. So, after directing him to the doctor’s house, Pat asked, ‘ Is he worse ? ’ There was only one ‘ he ’ in all the world for Cann just then ; so he did not pretend to misunderstand Pat’s question, but nodded and hurried on, and Pat in great distress rushed on to the Signor’s to persuade him to come and help him into the Orchards that very afternoon instead of waiting till the next day. The Signor seemed quite as sorry and anxious about Kay as Pat was, and promised to go round to Dr. Combes when he came back from the Orchards, and find out exactly what was amiss with Kay, and make out some good plan of action while Pat was at school. I am afraid Pat made a poor business of Latin and Greek and arithmetic that day, and would have done even worse but for a wholesome fear that he might be detained after school hours ; and directly he could get free he was off like an arrow to Miss Pink’s. But to his great disappointment, when he charged up into the Signor’s room a strange gentleman was there, round whom ^little Piccola was circling with one smaU finger in her mouth, looking with great, round eyes of wonder at the long, curly, brown beard that adorned the- visitor. ‘ Where’s the Signor ? ’ Pat burst out, too anxious to remember manners, and the gentleman rose and bowed to him with great politeness. ‘ Signor Cherita,’ he said, in a bland, rather affected, mincing voice, ‘begged me to tell you that he would be unable to accompany you to the Orchards this afternoon.’ ‘ Why ? ’ said Pat, unable to conceal his vexation and disappointrhent. ‘ He promised faithfully he’d be ready when I came out of school.’ ‘ Accidents will happen,’ said the stranger, in tones of apology. ‘ Perhaps he was called out unexpectedly ; but if I can take his place - ’ ‘ JTou I ’ said poor Pat, with more expression than politeness. But just then little Piccola reached up one of her hands to stroke the stranger’s beard. ^ How funny you look, little papal’ she said; and the stranger looked across at Pat with his very dark eyes, and laughed. It was the Signor himself, disguised in that brown beard and a wig to match beyond all recognition, and Pat gave a shout of surprise and delight. ‘ It’s the Signor ! ’ ‘Not at all, Master Pat,’ was the answer. ‘It’s Mr. Burt, Dr. Combes’ new assistant, who is going to call in at the Orchards to see a certain young gentle¬ man there who is ill. Have you never heard of me before P I can’t help that, nor can I wait any longer while you are staring at my beard.*

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No. XXL OHATTEK^BOX. 163 ^ Does Dr. Combes know ? ’ asked Pat, as they went along Paul Street, where they met two or three of the Grammar-school boys, who all stared their hardest at Pat’s companion. ^ No. I went to see the old man after he had called at the Orchards, and managed to find out that Ray has a low, nervous fever, but is not dangerously ill. He said he had promised to call in again in the afternoon, as the grandfather was so terribly anxious about him ; but that he could not manage it, as he was called out to a case a good way in the country, so he should send the medicine. I said I was going out that way and would not mind leaving the medicine at the Orchards as I passed ; and he said he should be very much obliged, as his boy was run otf his legs, which really means that he plays at marbles in Church Lane half the day. However, it was all the better for me, so I pocketed the medicine bottle, and when I got home turned into Mr. Burt, the new assistant.’ ^ Is the ladder there ? ’ ^ No, I don’t want it. Doctors don’t go into houses by a ladder over the palings. I shall go in by the front door.’ ^ But I can’t,’ said Pat. ^ No, I’m going instead of you to-day. You can go another time, if you like.’ So Pat was left outside, much against his will, and heard the Signor ring the bell and tell Cann, in a quietly authoritative way, that he had come from Dr. Combes to see Master Carrington; upon which he was at once admitted, and disappeared from Pat’s sight. Ray was in bed, and unusually fretful and impa¬ tient ; for to-day, for the first time, he had listened in vain for the music, which had never failed him be¬ fore. So he turned away impatiently Avhen Goody brought in Dr. Combes’ assistant, and would hardly look at him or answer wheti he asked him how he felt, though he did glance up at the beard when the doctor took his hand to feel his pulse, for the doctor’s hand trembled strangely. ^ He’s a strange sort altogether,’ Goody said after¬ wards, ^ and I hope Dr. Combes won’t send him often, as he didn’t seem to know what to say, but stood staring at the boy, as if staring would do him good, and brought his hat into the room, as no proper doctor thinks of ; and then all at once, Go and fetch ine a glass of milk,” he says, as if I hadn’t been coaxing and worrying the boy to take it all day, as can’t abear it.’ When he had got rid of the old woman the doctor’s voice altered suddenly. ^ Ray, my boy ! don’t y@u know me ? ’ And Ray started up in bed at the sound of the voice, and saw the dark eyes of his master smiling at him through that disguise. ‘ How good of you ! how good of you ! ’ he said, holding the Signor’s hand in both his hot, thin ones. ^And it was you who played to me every day? I think I should have died if it hadn’t been for that.’ ^ Die! don’t talk of dying! You are going to get well and come back to school and your music-lessons.’ ‘No; not that! I’ve been thinking as I lay here that this illness is a punishment for deceiving my grandfather. He never knew about it, you know ; and sometimes I think I'll tell him all about it : but somehow I can’t. I’m not like Pat Bright, who’s not afraid of anything. He tells his father everything, and never has a secret from him. Were you like that when you were a boy ? Did you ever hide anything from your father ? ’ The boy’s great, hollow eyes were fixed on the Sig¬ nor’s face, which turned red and then white under his gaze. ‘ That’s so long ago,’ he answered in a strange, hard voice : ‘ days beyond the memory of mortal man, pretty nearly, forgotten and done with. Never mind that ; make haste and get well, and we’ll make up our minds then about the music-lessons, whether they are right or wrong. There’s Mrs. Cann coming back, and I must go.’ The Siraor shook up the piUow, and smoothed back the boy’s hair from his forehead very tenderly. ‘ Keep a brave heart, Ray, and get well as quick as you can, for your grandfather’s sake — and for mine.’ ‘ Do you care about it ? ’ said the boy, the feverish colour lighting up in his cheeks, and making his eyes look large and bright. The Signor said nothing, but bent and kissed the boy’s forehead, and then turned quickly away, in his haste running up against Goody at the door, and spilling the cup of milk she held all down the front of her best afternoon gown, leaving her grumbling as she wiped it up. ‘ A pretty sort of doctor ! He’ll kill more than he cures at this rate ! ’ (To he continued.) THE FERRY-BOAT. HEIGHO ! heigho ! it’s very slow This waiting here the live-long day. Were I a gent, I’d be content • If nobody ever came my way ; But I want brass for my poor lass. And my small bairns can’t live on air, I’m able and willing to earn a shilling. But what can I do if I get no fare ? I’ve had no trade since the bridge was made — Such things as bridges I call crimes ; That bridge you see has ruined me. Heigh-ho for the good old times ! When father’s pole took a mint of toU As he ferried all sorts in his boat across — A buxom lass, a coster’s ass, A sporting gent on a muddy ’oss. Or ditto and gig, or a squealing pig. Or a blind old fiddler and his cur. Or a lavender swell who paid us well If we took him for a ‘ hossifer.’ Such good times now don’t eome nohow. And here odd days I have to wait A'n hour or two with nought to do. But smoke my pipe and watch my bait. But avast ! avast ! here comes at last A Imrvest day ! ‘ Step in, good wife.' ‘ Room, sir, for your ’osses. I make good all losses. I’m just the man to insure your life.

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t'‘ 1 The Ferry-Boat. You won’t be drowned, for a thousand pound.’ ^ Eight over across is shoal, mum, shoal.’ * You might wade, sir, across on the back of that ’oss, If it wern’t for one deep plaguy hole.’ ^ Lawk, man, does he shy, that tall horse ?’ ‘ Why ?’ ^ Why, man, indeed ? We’re tightish pack’d. And if he should rear behind the weir We’ll all go down the cataract.’ ^ Pray, ma’am, don’t squeak, my boat don’t leak ; She sits, I say it, as firm as a swan. And cares no more for the ocean roar Than she does for the wash of the Mary Ann, Sit still, please, ma’am, we’ll take no harm, Whatever’s atop she’s bound to swim ; My old dad said it, and he was a credit — Ferrymen all thouf^rht much of him !’ G. S. O.

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llichmond Hill

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166 CHATTERBOX. No. XXL THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XI. TWICKENHAM TO BICHMOND. COUPLE of miles from Twickenkam and we are at Richmond. This part of the river is made attractive by the many snowy swans gliding upon the clear water. Spenser, more than three hundred years since, thus sang of these fair birds, — ‘ See the fair swans on Thamis’ lovely side, The which do trim their pennons silver bright ; In shining ranks they down the waters glide : Oft have mine eyes devoured the gal¬ lant sight.’ The swans are under the especial protection of the Lord Mayor, who goes — or who should go — accom¬ panied by certain citizens, up the Thames once a-year swan-hopping, or rather ^happing;’ that is to say, * catching,’ when the swans are marked in some pecu- har way, so that, if stolen, they may be identified. From Richmond Hill is to be seen one of the finest views over the valley of the Thames. The terrace here is a beautifully shaded wallr, on the fringe of Richmond Park. This is one of the finest parks near London, and is remarkable for the number of deer which range its glades. Richmond, which once stood at the foot of one of the highest Surrey hills, but which now stretches to the very brow of the height in question, has been asso¬ ciated with the royal family of England for many centuries. Edward III., however, chiefiy brought Richmond, then called, very apprcmriately. Sheen, into court fashion. It was Henry Vli. who conferred the nitme Richmond upon this place, and of course in remembrance of his own title, Duke of Richmond, before he obtained the throne. Richmond Green is situated in the oldest part of Richmond, and here the visitor will find an old gate¬ way, all that remains of the palace of Richmond. There the kings and qiieens of England, from Edward IH. to Charles II., lived at times. There died Queen Ann, wife of Richard II. The Inng, who loved her, let the palace fall into decay. Some say he destroyed the building. It was in the pile raised by her grandfather. King Henry VH., that Queen FKzabeth died. An oak-tree planted by that royal lady was blown down some few years since. The remains of Elizabeth were brought to London by way of the Thames. Concerning this drear journey a fiattering poet wrote : — ‘ The queene was brought by water to Wliitehall, At every stroke the oares teares let fall : More clung about the barge, fish under water Wept out their eyes, and swome blind after. I thinke the bargemen might with easier thighes Have rowed her thither in her people’s eyes, For howso’ere thus much my thoughts have scanned, She’d come by water had she come by land.’ By the way, it was at Richmond that the great * gnat fight’ took place. Stowe says the two fighting bodies darkened the air, while the number of dead was such that they were swept up with brooms. The plac^, again, is celebrated for its ballad. The Lass of Richmond Hillj said by some to have been written by George IH., and which begins, — ‘ On Richmond Hill there lives a lass, More bright than May-day morn, Whose charms all other maids’ surpass, — A rose without a thorn.’ Richmond church and graveyard contain the monu¬ ments of many persons of note, especially that of Thomson, the charming poet, erected by his friend the Earl of Buchan. From the promenade on Richmond Hill, on a clear day, it is possible to see Windsor Castle and Forest. Indeed, no part of the Thames is more lovely than that about Richmond. Well may we endorse the words of the poet, — ‘ What a goodly prospect spreads around, Of hills and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, And glittering towns, and gilded streams.’ {To he continued.) A YOUNG INVESTOR. A HOT summer afternoon in June; not a cloud in the sky, nor a breath of air moving through the trees. Where the high boundary wall of a school playground casts a welcome shadow three boys are lying on the scanty grass, and busily talking. Through the playground gates a fourth is commg towards them. ^ The very fellow we want !’ said Bob Holman, sitting up. ^ Come and sit down here and listen a moment. Make room, Tibbings.’ Tibbings, a rather sleepy-looking boy, slowly did so. He never did anything in a hurry, and there was a rumour in the school to the effect that once upon a time he had fallen asleep in the coiu’se of mopping up the contents of an ink-pot which he had upset. The new-comer, Charlie Graves, took his place. The others, reclining upon their elbows, were all attention, but Tibbings closed his eyes. ^Charlie,’ said Bob, 'have you heard the news ?’ ' What news ?’ ' Why, Thompson has got the scholarship, and the school is to have a holiday to celebrate the event !’ ' Well done Tliompson !’ said Charlie. ' And,’ continued Bob, ' we three have just hit upon a good way of enjoying it ; and, of course, you will come too.’ ' I am not certain of that,’ said Charlie, with some¬ thing of an air of mystery. Upon this Tibbings opened his eyes, but, seeing Bob about to begin, closed them again. ' This is wdiat we thought of doing. The four of us can pull together very well now, so w^e will take a boat and row up the river to Symond’s Cliff, have our dinner under the old oak close b}^, and come back again in the evening. I have counted up the cost, and wo can do it all for a shilling a-piece. Little J ones will steer, and Tibbings is wiHing to give bis word that he will not fall asleep.’

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No. XXI. CHATTERBOX. 167 * But I cannot come/ said Charlie, in a tone of disappointment. ^ Not come ?’ said all three. ^ No ; it is quite impossible !’ * How is that ?’ said Bob, indignantly. ^ You Imow there is no one else in the school who can join us, and you half promised to row up to Symond’s Clilf some day!’ ^ I know that,’ said Charlie, ^ but I cannot come this time. To tell you the truth I can’t afford it.’ ‘ Why, we have only been back a fortnight ! You don’t mean to say you have got through all your money by this time ?’ ' No, not quite all, but most of it.’ * Spent it r” * Hardly that,’ said Charlie with a smile. ^ I have invested it.’ ^ Invested it ?’ said Bob in amazement. * Invested it ?’ echoed the others. ^ But can’t you get it again ?’ asked Bob. ^ I know I shall some day, but the time is uncertain.’ ‘ Charlie wants to be a rich man and marry Par¬ kins’ daughter,’ said one. ‘ Or go up to London, become Lord Mayor, and not ask us to his banquet,’ said Tibbings, whose thoughts ran very much on food. ^ Or be an old miser like Levi, and go about buying old clothes, with a stocking full of sovereigns hid away at home.’ ^ But, Charlie,’ said Bob, ^ you surely are not going to put us off like this ?’ ^ I must,’ said Charlie. 'Then all that I can say is that it is a great shame 1’ ' He is afraid,’ said the third boy. ‘ Of what ?’ asked Charhe. ' How should I know ?’ replied the other. ' Was I afraid when I pulled your brotker out of Tabby Pitt’s pool ?’ ' No,’ said the others, rather ashamed. ' But I should like to know about this investment,’ said Bob. ' And I,’ said the rest. ' I should like to see it,’ said Tibbings ; ' that is, if it is not far to go.’ ' Do you mean it ?’ ' I do,’ said he, sitting up. ' ' Then I will show you what there is to be seen.’ ' I am coming too,’ said the others. . So the whole party left the playground, and soon began talldng on another subject. Their way led them to one of the chief streets of their town, but presentl}" Charlie guided them down a narrow lane leading towards the Docks. They were now in a poor quarter of the town. The houses were old and uncared for. Dirty children played about the gutters and side-paths, and groups of men were lolling about the corners of the lanes. Presently Charlie stopped before a house, the lo'wer window of which was clean and tidy — quite a strange sight amongst those houses. He entered a dark passage, and knocked at the door on the right. A weak voice said ' Come in,’ and all entered. Bob and his companions found themselves in a small square room, with hardly any furniture. Upon an old bedstead in a corner lay an aged woman, and a young child of three or four years was sitting at the foot of the bed. Bob was forgetting all about the investment in the novelty of his position. Charlie had taken the sick woman by the hand, saying,— ' I have brought three friends of mine to see you, Mrs. Daws.’ ' Thank j^ou, sir,’ replied the sick woman. ' I shall never be sorry to see you or friends of yours. But for God sending you to help me I must have starved before now, and little Harry too.’ ' Never mind that now, Mrs. Daws,’ said Charlie. ' Let me read a few verses from the Bible.’ ^ And whilst he reverently read from the Sacred Book there came into Bob’s mind some words he had often heard in church, — ' He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.’ ' Now I understand about the investment,’ said he to himself ; ‘ and I’ll never think Charhe Graves mean or cowardly again.’ They did not make a long stay, but were soon waUdng back to the playground, looking four very thoughtful boys. Nor had the journey to Symond’s Clilf to be given up after all : for an uncle, some days afterwards, placed in Charhe’s hand a coin which enabled him to propose the journey to Bob again. And when the day came off we may be sure that none enjoyed themselves the less because of the money which had gone to cheer the poor and lonely. A. B. B. GENEROSITY OP BONAPARTE. APOLEON’S conduct towards the Prince of Hatzfeld was generous in the extreme. The Prince of Hohen- lohe, or Holach, by marching and countermarching, was enabled to keep the field with his troops after the battle of Jena for some dajs subsequent to Bonaparte’s entrance into Berlin. Previous, however, to his surrender, the Prince of Hatzfeld, who was permitted to reside in the city under the im¬ mediate protection of the Emperor, was detected in carrjung on a secret correspondence with the fugitive commander. A letter was intercepted, by which the Piinco treacherously intended to convey intelligence to Hohenlohe of "the movements of the French army. Hatzfeld, in consequence of this discovery, was immediately arrested and placed in confinement. The Princess, his consort, ignorant of the Prince’s breach of confidence, sought an interview with Napoleon, which was readily granted. Robed as she thought with the mantle of innocence, the wife made a powerful appeal to his feelings in behalf of her husband. The Emperor listened to her quietly, and then handed to her the Prince’s letter. Confounded at such evidence, the astonished princess feU on her knees, but without daring to further urge her suit. Bonaparte, softened by her manner, good-humouredly raised her from the ground, saying, ‘ Put the paper in .the fire, madam ; there will then remain no proof.’

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Page 175

'r.*

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170 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIL DOGS IN CHURCH. ^HERE was a custom in Scotland, which may still continue, of dogs going with their masters to the Idrk, in country districts. About this many strange stories are told. Amongst others it is said that in one rural church the dogs used to occupy a small gallery over their masters’ heads, and were always well behaved. But one Sunday a strange dog, which had been put with the otJiors, caused a general uproar amongst them. It ended by the stranger jumping over the front of the gallery down into the church, and dashing out at the door, with all the dog congregation in chase of him. It is also said that a clergyman from Edinburgh, when taking a service in a country church, to which the congregation brought their dogs, was much surprised at the people not rising as usual for him to pronounce the blessing. He waited some time, and at last the clerk bawled out, ‘ Say awa’, sir, it’s joost to cheat the dawgs.’ They had found, that when the people stood up the dogs thought it a sign of departure, and by whining and barking showed their pleasure. The people therefore kept their seats, and the dogs were quiet. A. B. AVARICE PUNISHED. Frcuh the French. A WELL-DRESSED tnan, of about forty, was trying to make his dog bathe in the Seine ; but the animal appeared to have little taste for aquatic exercises. When, after much hesitation, it refused to enter the water, he seized it by the neck, and threw it into the river. The dog quickly swam to the shore, but as the bank was at that place bounded by a steep wall, aU its efforts to get over it were in vain, and his master, in reaching over to help him, lost his balance, and fell into the water. Two watermen hastened up, held out a pole to him, and succeeded in drawing out both ma^er and dog safe and sound. No sooner on land, instead of manifesting his joy at being- rescued from death, he showed marks of great despair. On being asked the reason, lie replied that when he was leaning over the wall to help his dog up his purse had fallen out of his coat-pocket, and disappeared under the water. A boy offered to go in and find it. ^Go!’ said the gentleman; ^you shall be well re¬ warded.’ The boy took a header, dived several times, and at last, after having roused the anxiety of the bystanders by his long disappearance, he showed himself, drip¬ ping with water, holding in triumph the lost article, which he brought to its owner ; but, before giving it him, he stopped and held out the other hand. The gentleman had confided to those present that his purse contained 850 francs. A murmur of indig¬ nation, therefore, arose when they saw him take one franc from his pocket and offer it to the lad. He might, perhaps, have accepted it, had not a bystander called out, — ^ He offers you twenty sous ; I will give you forty, if you will throw it back into the water aerain ! ’ The owner of the purse darted forward, but before he could seize it the boy had thrown the pui*se back into the Seine. ^ How much will you give now to have it picked up again ? ’ the gentleman who owned it was asked. ^ Five francs ! ’ ' That is not enough. Give fifty ! ’ After some disputing the bargain was concluded, the boy dived again and brought back the purse, amid the shouts of laughter and cheers of all present. The miser, much vexed, had then to perform his part of the bargain, but not without many grimaces and much grumbling. J. F. C. PEAS-BLOSSOM. {Continued from p. 163.) CHAPTER XXIV. the 18th of June is Pat’s birthday, in the very golden glory of midsummer and haymaking, -when the bright fingers of the dawn nearly touch the rosy heels of the sunset ; so there is no dark to speak of — the time of ^ Barnaby bright, all day and no night,’ who Peter thought must be a relation of theirs, since he had the same surname. But Barnaby bright has another old rhyme tacked on to him : ‘ On Saint Barnabas, cut the first grass.’ And so, as in duty bound, every one set to work to make hay ; and in all the broad meadows round Kelburn Lodge, far and wide, you could hear the sound of the scythe from earliest morning to latest night, and could see the brown -armed mowers moving like clock-work, and turning the waving grass, over which the heat at midday quivered and twinkled, into thick swathes of new-mown hay. Troops of women with rakes on their shoulders, and sun-bonnets tilted down over their noses, passed and repassed; and great loaded waggons lumbered by, leaving tokens of their passage on hedges and elm- trees as they went. It was such splendid haymaking weather that the wild roses in the hedges opened their yellow eyes in surprise, and blushed rosy with pleasure; and the honeysuckles tossed their yellow bugles hither and thither, and as they could not proclaim the beauty of the season with sound, did their utmost with fra¬ grance. So altogether it was very natural that Pat should suggest to his father, on the Sunday before his birth¬ day, that they ought to begin haymaking at Kelburn Lodge. The scene of action was to be in the paddock close to Kelburn Lodge, though the grass might have appeared unpromising there to an experienced eye, as no persuasions could prevent the pig from

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No. XXIT. CHATTERBOX. 171 walking about in it, and Molly’s and Nora’s effort to drive him out did not improve matters. The ducks, too, waddled about, leaving tracks in all directions ; and one of them was unjustly suspected of having a nest somewhere down at the end, which led to con¬ stant voyages of discovery; always, of course, without success, as the suspected person was a drake. All this did not improve the grass; but Pat, who no doubt was a judge of such matters,- assured his father that there was an uncommonly good crop. ^ Very well,’ said Mr. Bright ; ^ Ave had better see about moAAWS, and a tossing and raking machine, and an elevator for putting up the rick. No, Pat,’ he went on, don’t know much about country matters, but I knoAv pretty well what amateur haymaking comes to. It means half-a-dozen lazy fellows sitting under a hedge drinking beer in large quantities and doing nothing, and half-a-dozen more helping them, which goes on till the rain comes and spoils the hay, and Avhen all is paid you find you might have bought really good hay at less than half the price, and saved yourself all the trouble and vexation. Now if you like to cut the grass with a pair of nail-scissors, and carry it in the coal-scuttle, you are welcome to do it ; but I won’t pay a farthing toAvards it, so I tell you.’ This might have discouraged any one ; but Pat was not easily discouraged : and, besides, there was John Keith, Avho Avas a great resource in an emergency — and he Avas more inclined to be jolly than ever ; for there was a little scarlet scrap at home, Avrapped up in flannel by Aunt Bell’s side, that Molly declared Avas the dearest, darlingest little baby in the Avorld, Avhich Avas to be taken to church and called John Brian when he had numbered a feAV more days of his young life. So John Keith Avas more inclined than ever to be kind to the children, noAv that he had that Avonderful little baby of his very OAvn, not sharing Pat’s fear that John Keith the younger Avould groA\" up just like Avhat he was now — scarlet, and Avith a face like an old man’s, but capable of all sorts of strange and mysterious contortions, Avhich eA^en noAv^ the blinded parents Avould not allow to be altogether hideous and horrifying. ^ Haymaking ! ’ he said, Avhen Pat poured out his story to him on the Avay horn® from church. ^To be sure, you bught to do it yourselves.’ ^ If I could lay hold of a scythe,’ said Pat, ^ I’m sure I could do it first rate ; or there’s your moAving- machine, if you’d lend it to us for a day ? ’ ^That Avon’t do. The moAving-macliine Avill only do on a laAvn Avith short grass, and I don’t expect Mr. Bright Avould feel comfortable at the idea of your moAving off your legs, or other people’s, Avith a scythe. Noav look here, Pat, here’s an offer. I’ll moAV the field myself — I’m not a bad hand at a scythe — if you and the rest of them Avill do all the haymaking; and Ave’ll have Mrs. Wick’s donkey- cart to carry it, and Ill shoAv you hoAV to thatch the rick afterAvards.’ * Stunning ! ’ said Pat, Avith much expression. Purther details Avere soon arranged. Wednesday being Pat’s birthday, Mr. Bright con¬ sented to ask Mr. Badley for a holiday on that day for Pat and Paddy. J ohn Keith Avas to mow the grass on Tuesday, and Wednesday was to be devoted to regular hard work ; and if the Aveather would only keep fine, it Avas to be carried that evening. No one Avas to have any hand in it except the children them¬ selves ; and they Avere to be under John Keith’s orders, and to Avork, Pat said, ^ like blacks.’ The girls Avere quite as delighted at the prospect as the boys, and even Honor threAv herself into the plan, and suggested that they should have all their meals out-of-doors, like regular haymakers, and that they should have a great brew of lemonade and cold tea in big stone bottles, like those the beer is usually kept in. The only guests Avho were to be invited to join the party in the afternoon Avere the Signor, and little Piccola, and Miss Pink, Avho had promised to come over to Kelburn Lodge ever since Pat and Paddy had breakfasted Avith her before Christmas. Of course CA^erything depended on the weather, and there was great anxiety felt on that score ; but ^fortune favours the brave,’ and the 18th of June was a glorious day, from the early morning, Avlien the children Avere up and dressed by fiA^e, to the late evening, Avhen they Avent up to bed sunburnt, and so tired, that not even Pat could say that he should like the Avhole day to come over again without a niglit’s rest in betAveen. John Keith had been as good as his word, and though he had found the trodden, uneven grass, a tough job, he had got it all down by evening, and as he coiild not undertake to be on the scene quite as early as the children, he left orders that the swathes were all to be raked up into Avind-roAvs and tossed before he came. He ventured to suggest, also, that five Avas almost too early to begin, as the dew would be still on the ground; but this notion was scouted as merely an excuse for idleness, and at five they all mustered in the Idtchen, Avhere nurse provided them with a cup of warm milk and a slice of bread and butter, to keep them going till breakfast-time, Avhich AA^as at seven. They looked most business-like, certainly : the girls had large print sun-bonnets, tied on severely, Avithout any attempt at the picturesque, and their skirts pinned up inside-out; and not ev^en Honor ventured to suggest gloves, Avhich, indeed, Avoiild have been a case of shutting the stable-door when the horse Avas stolen, for the sun had done his Avorst already to hands, as well as to necks and faces. Pat and Paddy Avore their cricketing suits, and Peter complained bitterly because his knickerbocker suit did not alloAv of his discarding as many of his outer garments as his brothers. They were all pro¬ vided Avith cabbage-leaf linings to their hats. Don, of course, Avas reckoned as one of the haymakers, though, I am afraid, the only share he took Avas a large one in the refreshments. The}' Avorked in the most conscientious way ; and Farmer Blossom, jogging by in his gig, pulled up his fat grey mare to Avatcli the very energetic hay¬ making, and chuckled at their proceedings, and war¬ ranted that they Avere Avorking by the job and not by the day ; and offered to take them aU on to Avork doAvn in his tAventy-acre, if they’d a mind.^ There Avere a feAv digressions: as, for instance, Avlien the pig required chivying out of the field ; or when Honor lighted upon a Avild-eyed young liaAvk,

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Chivying the Pig. who had had his wing hurt, and who received all the children’s caresses with sharp responses of beak and spurs. Their energy a little abated as the sun got higher, and they were none of them sorry to see nurse coming through the garden with breakfast for them, and to throw down their rakes and make an encamp¬ ment under the hedge; and vvhen they had just done breakfast, the old postman came up with birthday letters for Pat from father and Brian; and they ottered the old man a bit of breakfast, much to Don’s dis¬ pleasure, who eyed his feeble gaitered legs with sus¬ picion, and watclied every morsel that found its way to the old man’s mouth. They returned to their work afterwards with re¬ newed energy, and it was quite a pity that John

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Tarantula, Centipede, and Battlesnake. Keith did not make his appearance then, when they were all raking in an orderly row, Pat giving the time at the head : for when he did come, about ten, they had become demoralised. Honor was lying flat in the hay, watching with dazzled, dreamy eyes, a lark high up in the air; while the others were burying Don, much against that creature’s will, and the’hay was left to make itself wdth the help of that king of haymakers, the sun. (To he continued,)

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174 CHATTERBOX. No. XXII. ! I i THE ADVENTURES OF A YOUNG HALF-CASTE INDIAN. Related by Himself. ^ HE following narrative is the actual experience of a haK -breed Indian, who belonged to the Cherokee tribe. His name was Charlie Mott, but he was better known as Therokee Charlie.’ Late in the year 1864, two of us boys, Charlie Conseane, aged 17 , and rnyself, aged 15, left our home in the Cherokee territory to seek our fortunes in Mexico, as trappers for beavers, otters, and wolves. We were well mounted on hardy mustang ponies, and were each well armed with a Winchester rifle and a pair of six-shooter pistols, and a bowie-knife, and were fur¬ nished each with a good lasso, and with traps for beaver and otter. On leaving home, our first aim was for Caddo, a town in the Choctaw nation, from which place the United States Government keeps up a constant flow of teams loaded with stone for the Witchita reserv¬ ation, about 140 miles further west. Our route lay along the ridge between the Wachita river on the north and the Ked river on the south ; and here began my first experience of rough life. The soil is so strongly alkaline, that the water cannot be used for drink, except the little which may be disguised when made into coffee, of which we could not drink more than a very little without being made sick. In many places the alkali is so thick that it whitens the surface of the earth, and can be scraped together with a knife. Of course, where there is no drinking water there is no hunters’ game, for deer and antelopes are as nice as we are in what they drink. But as the soil was sandy, it made up for its lack of game by furnishing the greatest abundance of centi¬ pedes, tarantula spiders, and timber rattlesnakes. Rattlesnakes, you know, are not pleasant companions, whether they be large or small; for one bite from any of them is usually enough to satisfy a man for his lifetime. Fortunately for us, these timber rattle¬ snakes, although very numerous and spitefid, are neither very large nor very venomous. But we had to be always on the look-out against them; for I suppose it was not possible to walk a quarter of a mile in any direction without coming across a nest of them. Bad, however, as all rattlesnakes are, we were even more afraid of the tarantula spider, for although its poison is not so rank as the rattlesnake’s its very look makes you shudder. I am almost afraid to describe it to you, lest you sliould think I am telling a traveller’s tale. I will only say, that if a dozen of your largest and most horrid-looking spiders were moulded into one, it would not equal an ordinary tarantula of the plains, with its body as big as a hen’s egg, covered with short brown hair, like that on a newly-hatched chicken, and moving on eight strong legs, whose largest joint is often the size of a wheat straw. It has a very vicious look; and, what is worse, the creature, instead of moving out of your way, like ordinaiy spiders, rears itself up as you approach, and prepares for fight. But of all dreaded things in that savage wilderness, the most dreadful is the centipede. You have some of the family in Georgia, little things, about two inches long, ugly enough, and vicious-looking too, with just poison enough to make its bite unpleasant. But the centipede of the plains and of Mexico varies in length from eight to ten inches, and is venomous in proportion. The largest one I ever met was nine inches long; it is now in Washington city, in the National Museum. The centipede is a kind of flat worm of perhaps half-an-inch broad, made up of twenty-one tough joints, each of which has a pair of short legs, making forty-two in all, and having a wicked-looking head, surmounted with long feelers, and armed with a pair of sharp, venomous nippers. It is a loathsome thing to look at, but a far worse thing to feel ; for each of its forty-two legs ends in a point as sharp as a needle, and loaded with poison. It has a great fancy for hunting its way under your clothes and creeping along next your skin. Whatever may be its motive, whether the comfortable warmth of the human body or the softness of the skin we do not know, but we do know that whatever pleasure is felt is all on the part of the centipede. Now, if you will only let it have its own way, and allow it to crawl wherever it chooses without inter¬ ruption, it will most likely find its way back to the open air by the same route it came, without doing you any injury. But it makes one’s flesh creep to feel it on the skin, that scarcely even an Indian can stand it, although he can stand being stuck fuU of splinters and burned to death by a slow fire. Yet the moment you disturb it, it strikes its pointed legs into your flesh, so deep that you cannot remove it except by tearing off its legs and leaving their poisonous points in your flesh. I can testify to having seen one man killed by them ; at least he was awaked from sleep by feeling a centipede crawling in his bosom; he thoughtlessly smashed it, and it stung him, and he was a dead man in less than an hour. Perhaps some may say he was scared to death. I do not pretend to decide what killed him, I only Imow that he was stung by a centipede and died a few minutes afterwards. Our road, as I have said, led us for 140 miles • along this awful ridge ; and we had to spend many a night there, travelling at the team rate of fifteen miles a-day. Now you may naturally ask how we managed to sleep at all ; for night is the favourite time for the moving of both centipedes and tarantulas. It was thus : each one woidd sweep a spot of ground as clean as he could for his bed — so clean, at least, as to be sure i there were no centipedes in it. Then he would lay down his blankets, and outside of that he -would coil his hairy larat in a circle : no centipede, tarantula, or snake of any land will dare cross a rope made of horsehair. And yet, when I remember how many nights we spent on the ridge, and how many of these venomous creatures we must have passed, it seems to me almost a miracle that nobody was hurt. The Witchita reservation covers fifty miles square of territory, and is inhabited by about 1500 Indians, chiefly Witchitas, Caddos, and Keechies, who are a good-natured race, living in peace -with the whites,

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No. XXII. CHATTERBOX. 175 but always at war with some of the wandering tribes of the plains. At Witchitawe — that is, Charlie Conseane and I — remained only one night, being hospitably entertained by Caddo George, a firm friend of mine, and a chief who keeps his people under fine control. This good man was kind enough to advise us boys to change our route ; for the Comanchee Indians, he said, were on the war-path, and would give trouble to anybody going to Mexico. We therefore resolved to turn our faces northward, and to make for Fort Arbuckle, which was a military agency of the United States on the Big Blue river for the Comanchee, Kiowa, and Apachee Indians. These Indians, at that time, had no definite territory assigned to them, but were living at large, and drawing their supplies from the United States Government. Fort Arbuclde was a stockade fort (that is, made of timber set upright in the ground); it was large enough to allow a handsome little grove in its enclosure, and to accommodate five companies of soldiers in its barracks. It was situated about twelve miles from the Big Blue river, on the dividing line between the prairies and the timber lands, having a tongue of beautiful timber running up to it from the river. We remained there two days to recruit and lay in supplies for our trapping, and then we went to work at our business on the river. The rich timber bottom of this river abounds with deer, antelopes, otters, and, of course, with wolves too, because the deer furnished them with food. In selecting a place for our camp, where we expected to remain for weeks, and perhaps months, there were three or four things which it was necessary for us to keep in mind. First, plenty of the right sort of game for our eating. Next, plenty of game for our traps. Then plenty of grass for our horses and of water for ourselves ; and then lastly, concealment from enemies, who might rob us of all we had, if they did not also take our lives. (Concluded in our next,) GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Continued from page 159.) THE FRANKLAIN. ‘ A Frankelein was in this compagnie ; White was his berd, as is the dayesie.’ ^jN old times the rich country gentle¬ men, or large freeholders, used to be called ‘ Franklains.’ They \vere next in rank to the knights and esquires ; and there was this difference be¬ tween them, that whilst the frank- lain’s influence was owing to the ex¬ tent of his possessions, the knighfs rank was the same, whether he were poor or rich, and his position de¬ pended on his deeds : for many a knight, Avho at first owned nothing but his horse and armour, made for himself a famous name ; but a knight without either horse or armour was in a bad way indeed ! A wealthy Franklain -was amongst the pilgrims, who was so rich, and of such influence, that at ses¬ sions he was ' lord ’ and ' sir ; ’ and had been sheriff, and ofttimes knight of the shire. Nowhere was there such a worthy landlord. A great householder, and very hospitable, his house was so stored with all sorts of good things — his fish, flesh, and fowl, and bread, and ale, and wine, were so plenteous, that it snowed meat and drink ! and his great table in the hall stood ready covered all the long day. He loved well a sop in wine in the morning, and changed his diet according to the dainties that were in season ; for he was Epicurus’* own son, and to live in delight was ever his way. And woe to his cook if his sauce were not sharp, and everything in proper order ! He was of a ruddy complexion, and h ad a beard as white as a daisy; wore an anlace, or da^er, and at his girdle hung his silk purse, as white as new milk. Yet this prosperous gentleman, though surrounded by all the pleasures that wealth could give, was not happy, for he was afflicted with a graceless son ; one who, instead of being a comfort to his good father, was a weary pain to him, and who, by his evil ways, would some day, perhaps, bring ruin on the ancient house, and see the broad fields and richly-stocked dwelling of his ancestors pass away from his name for ever. So when the worthy man heard the young squire tell his tale, he was struck with admiration at his well- chosen language and noble address, and thought with sorrow how different his own son was from this gallant young gentleman. ^ In faith. Squire,’ quoth the Franklain, ^ thou hast quit thyself gentiUy and well ; I praise thy wit. In my judgment, sir, considering thy youth, there is none here who will equal thee in eloquence, if tliou but live. ^ Heaven give thee good chance, and send thee continuance in virtue ! I have a son, and I would rather than twenty pounds’ worth of land that he were a man of such discretion as ye be. Fie on possession, unless a man be virtuous withal ! I have snubbed my son, and yet shall I, for he has no liking for virtue, and cares only to play at dice, and so lose all that he hath ; and would rather talk with a page than commune with any gentle wight, from whom he might learn gentillesse.’ ' Straw for your gentillesse ! ^ quoth our host. ^What, Franklain ! well thou knowest, sir, that each of you must tell a tale or two, or break his promise.’ ^ That know I well, sir,’ said the Franklain. ^ I pray you have me not in disdain though I speak a w’ord or two to this man.’ ‘TeU on your tale without more words,’ quoth our host, who was growing impatient. ‘ Gladly, Sir Host,’ said the other ; ^ I will obey your will. Now hearken what I say.’ But even then the old gentleman did not tell his story straight off ; but in the course of a preamble asked the com¬ pany to excuse his rude speech, for he was only a layman, and had never learned Cicero, and knew no colours of rhetoric ; the only colours he knew being those that grew in the meadow, or such as men paint or dye with : but at last he told a tale about Bretaigne, or Brittany. A. E. (To be continued.) ♦ Epicurus was a celebrated Greek philosopher, who lived three hundred years before the Christian era, and was errone¬ ously supposed to have placed tho hoigrht of human happiness in eating and drinking.

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176 CHATTERBOX No. XXII.

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No. XXIII. CHATTERBOX. 177

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178 • CHATTERBOX. No. XXIII. THE BLACKBIRDS. C^HREE thievish blackbirds had perched on a tree, ^ They were as merry as merry could be, For the cherries were ripe — there was no one to see. ‘ I think,’ cried the first, ‘ that this cherry-tree Was uncovered on purpose for you and for me, The rest are all netted as close as can be.’ Said the second, ‘ I know that here is no one. There is nothing to hinder our excellent fun ; We will come every day till the cherries are done.’ Said the third, ‘ I think it by far the best plan To use well the present time — eat while you can ; I will back my digestion against any man.’ Now along came the gardener scowling to see The havoc these rogues had made in his tree. ‘ I will gather the cherries to-night,’ said he. Then mth a wild whoop, and a ringing hurrah, He startled the. three roguish blackbirds away, ^ We have eaten enough for a week,’ said they. A’*. PEAS-BLOSSOM. {Continued fromjo. 173.) CHAPTER XXV. HEN a little pony-cart drove up to Kelburn Lodge in the after¬ noon, containing the Signor, Piccola, and Miss Pink, the hay¬ making had made wonderful progress. The hay had been tossed and tumbled and roUed about, and was now got up into large cocks, or pooks as they call such things in Devonshire, and Paddy and Nora had gone off to fetch Mrs. Wick’s donkey-cai’t, while the others were preparing the place for the rick. The carrying was not to begin till after tea, which festival was to take place at four sharp ; for when you have dined rather before twelve, exhausted nature demands tea early, even though it is supported by draughts of lemonade. None of the party but Pat and Paddy Imew the invited guests, except from description, of which they certainly had had plenty; and even John Keith was curious to see this friend of Pat’s, of whom he had heard so much, having come to the conclusion in his own mind that he was a disreputable foreign adventm-er, and ihatmuchintercour.se between him and the young folk at Kelburn Lodge had better be discouraged. But the first five minutes made him alter his opinion. Signor Cherita was certainly a gentleman, and the only foreign thing about him was his name ; and he was an educated, well-read man, with whom it was pleasant to talk ; and as to the little girl, J ohn Keith fell in love with her on the spot when he lifted her out of the little carriage, and she laughed up in his face with those dark eyes of hers, and put her arms round his neck and kissed him, being no doubt eg^ually taken with John Keith’s kindly face, and the love for httle children in general that over¬ flowed from his love of that red baby at home in particular, and was very plainly to be seen in his eyes. Miss Pink was rather too flustered at first to enjoy herself thoroughly, what with the novelty of having tea with real gentlefolks, and of having been seen by the curious eyes of Mudford driving out rin a shay’ with the lodger, and the overwhelming consciousness of having on a glorious new bonnet adorned with pink ribbon and white lilac and dewdrops ; and what with the heat of the day, and her parasol having a painful habit of shutting up unexpectedly of its own accord. But she recovered by degrees, and Pat was so atten¬ tive, and Honor took such pains to set her at her ease, that she declared she had never enjoyed anything so much in her life. As to Piccola, she was like a little mad thing, rolling and tumbling in the hay ; and she so infected the other children that they were no longer the sensible, hardworking haymakers, who had been at work .since five, but gave way to folly, and made nests in the hay and buried each other, and pelted and chased one another, and played liide-and-seek, and tossed little Piccola from one to the other, and carried her pick-a-back, and brought her back to her father with a wild wreath of honeysuckle and roses and convolvulus on her curly head, and garlands of the same round her waist, and a long rush sceptre in her hand — a very summer queen. Then tea was brought out, and all the children assisted ; even little Piccola must carry a cup or a plate, trotting along by Nora’s side, who was so taken up with fear lest the little thing should stumble or drop the plate, that she forgot all about her own business and let an avalanche of biscuits descend on the gravel-walk, of which Don took unfair advantage. The tea was spread under the walnut-tree near the garden hedge, and was not kept so strictly to a regular haymaking meal as had been done at break¬ fast and dinner, for a cloth was spread and the tea-tray was brought out, and there were large dishes of strawberries, and Pat’s birthday cake with an iced top. These iced birthday cakes w^ere a tradition in the Ih’ight family, and Avhen it w^as hinted that now they were poor a plain cake should do for a birthday, nurse declared that she would rather pay for it her¬ self than the dear children should go without their iced cakes. They were just sitting down to tea when the sound of light wheels coming along the lane attracted their attention, and before any of the others had made out who it was Pat leapt Jo his feet, dropping the knife wfith which he had just begun cutting the cake, and rushed across the field and over the gate, followed by Don barking in a wild state of excitement, and in a minute or two he came back \vith a boy walking by his side, a boy taller and thinner than Pat, with a dark pale face and languid movements.

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No. XXIIT. CHATTERBOX. 179 ^ Whoever is it ?’ said Honor, pausing with the tea¬ pot in her hand. ‘ Who can it he ? ’ asked John Keith, in wonder. ' It is Kay Carrington,’ said the organist, quietly. Yes, it was Kay Carrington ; and he had come there by no plot of Pat’s, as every one suspected, but by accident. He had been slowly getting better since that day when the Signor came to see him, but he was not strong enough yet for school ; and since the line weather came in his grandfather had got a little carriage in which he could drive Dumpling, and sometimes he went with Kay himself, and sometimes Cann or Goody went with him. But to-day, as ill luck would have it, neither of them had been able to go, and a boy, who sometimes went on errands or weeded in the garden, was sent with Kay instead ; and, under his directions, Kay found the way to Kelburn Lodge. He had no idea of going in or even seeing Pat, as he knew the summer holidays had not yet begun, and he concluded that tlie boys would be at •school. But he thought he would drive by just to see the house, which always seemed to him the happiest and merriest in the world ; and then, all at once, Pat himself came bolting over the gate. ^ Hurrah !’ he exclaimed, ‘ we’re just beginning tea!’ And before Kay could object he was hustled out of the carriage ; and Pat told the boy to draw up in the shade and he should have some tea sent across to him. It was rather an ordeal to a shy boy to walk across the field under the fire of eyes directed full on him ; but when he saw the Signor’s familiar face he plucked up courage and bore well the inspection of the Bright family and Pat’s rather trying intro¬ duction. ^ This is Kay Carrington that I’ve told you such a lot about,’ Pat said. ^ And that’s Honor, pouring the tea all over the cloth as usual; and that’s MoUy with my hat on, and Nora with a smudge on her nose. You know Paddy. And that’s John Keith ; he’s a brick, I can tell you ; and that’s all except Peter and Don, who don’t count. And here’s your doctor : didn’t he look a howling swell in that long beai’d ?’ Kay was glad to sink into a quiet corner between John Keith and the Signor; andiPat was so busy cutting the cake and dispensing strav/berries that Kay had time to recover himself, and to tell the Signor of his getting better, and of his happening to come that way to-day. He still looked very delicate, but he declared he was much stronger and should soon be all right again. ^ Have you forgotten all your music ? ’ asked the Signor. ^ I wish I could,’ sighed the boy. ^ Oh, I say ! ’ burst out Pat, who had caught the word music. ' The Signor’s brought his fiddle, you know. I asked him to, for I thought the girls would like it; and he’ll play a tune before you go.’ ‘ I must not stop too long^’ said Kay. ^ And we must npt be long over tea,’ said John Keith, ^ if we are to carry all the hay to-night. That donkey will have eaten half of it if we don’t look sharp.’ So strawberries and cake were despatched in haste, and the carrying began with much fun and noise : Peter and Piccola reigning in the donkey-cart, in con¬ stant peril of being poked by prongs or knocked by rakes, or lost for good and all in the hay, or jolted oft by the donkey, who got quite frisky with so much hay and cheerful company. And the pooks disap¬ peared one by one from the field, leaving the grass looking bare, and shaven, and shorn, while the little rick grew apace with Pat and Paddy on the top, as only John Keith and nurse, who had joined the hay¬ makers, were tall enough to throw the hay up to them. Miss Pink had untied her bonnet-strings and pin¬ ned up her skirt, and turned to with a rake in a mas¬ terly style, and never thought whether haymaldng was altogether genteel work. They were aU so busy they hardly noticed the music, though Pat sometimes joined in ‘ Tum-ti-tum,’ when he thought he knew the tune ; and they did not know that Kay had gone, till the Signor came to join the haymakers at the rick. ^ Hullo ! where’s Kay ? ’ ^ He was obliged to go home, and he asked me to say good-bye, as he saw you were all so busy.’ The sun had set before the finishing touch was put to the rick, and some straw laid on the top in case it should rain in the night, and Piccola had fallen asleep in a corner, with Don curled up close to her, and had been carried off by nurse into the house, where Miss Pink had soon followed, having too great experience . of ^ rheumatics ’ to care for dewy grass. The Brights regarded the rick with honest pride, and Paddy even declared it was as large as some of Farmer Blossom’s ricks — or very nearly so. And they resented John Keith’s suggestion that it would sink a 'good deal in the next day or two, as an insinuation against their haymaking and rick-building. ^ You will have to tuck it and thatch it next,’ said John Keith. ‘ We can do that on Saturday.’ ^ But if it rains before that ? ’ said Pat. ^ Molly and Nora must bring out umbrellas and hold over it, and spread the family water-proof and goloshes : or perhaps the largest dish-cover would do, if nurse can spare it.’ Upon wliich ensued a violent rush on John Keith to avenge this insult, and a race after him all round the field, as if they had not been haymaking aU day, over the grass where the dew lay thick and sparkling in the light of the moon that was peeping over the trees ; and when they came back, breathless and laughing, they found the Signor putting the pony in and Miss I’ink wrapped up, ready for the start. ^ And we haven’t had time for any fun I ’ said Pat, as if they had had anything else. ^ We wanted you to play a whole kit of tilings to us, and to hear us sing “Three Blind Mice 1 ’” ^ I can assure you,’ said John Keith, ^ that you have had a happy escape. I thought I should have been deaf for life after the last performance.’ The girls were urgent that Piccola, who was still asleep, should be left to pass the night there ; and Pat and Paddy undertook to bring her home safe and sound next day. But the Signor bundled her up, and stowed her away like a roll of shawls by Miss Pink’s side, and they drove away. ‘ We have had a very pleasant day, and thank you very much for it,’ said the Signor. And Miss Pink

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Piccola reigning in the Donhey-cart. declared she had never enjoyed anything so much in her life. •, o -r^ i ^ i 'Have you got the violin all right?' Pat shouted after them. ' All safe 1 ’ shouted the Signor back. But he did not mention that it was not in the car¬ riage with him, but hidden carefully away at the back of the large cupboard in Kay Carrington’s bed¬ room. {To he continued.)

Page 187

Chiswick.

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182 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIII. THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XII. FEOM EICHMOND TO CHISmCK. OON after leaving Eichraond be¬ hind us we see on the Middlesex bank the massive, square man¬ sion, known as ^ Sion House.’ It is the property of the Duke of Northumberland, and is not only interesting as containing a mag¬ nificent collection of paintings, but as an historical pile. It oc¬ cupies the site of a nunnery, a few portions of which, it is said, still remain. At the date of the Reformation Henry VHI. took possession of the place, and here he imprisoned his unfortunate wife, Katherine Howard, until she was beheaded. Sion House lost its masters by way of the block several times before it was, in 1604, given to Henry Percy, Duke of Northumberland, who built the man¬ sion much as it is now. Charles I. came to see his children when they were imprisoned here. The last royal occupant of Sion House was Queen Anne, when Duchess of Denmark. The gardens of Sion House are remarkable. And now, on that same left bank of the river, we come to Brentford, of which place Gray observes : — ‘ Tedious town, For dirty streets and white-legged chickens known.’ On the other side of the river lies lovely Kew. Quitting our boat, a short waUv round Kew Green brings us to the handsome gates of the Botanical Gardens. When within the grounds we soon see the fine gables and rich red chimneys of Kew Palace. This place was purchased by George III. for his con¬ sort, Queen Charlotte, who was so attached to the place that she never left it without reluctance, and indeed she died there in 1818. As to Kew Gardens, it would be impossible to find more lovely grounds than these. The variety of the trees is only equalled by their beauty. The palm-house is the finest conservatory in England or elsewhere. Here we may find all the wonderful palms of the East, from the common cocoa-nut palm and the sago, to the wax, palm and the india-rubber tree. Scattered about the grounds are many hot¬ houses and green-houses, in one of which may be found that empress of water-lilies, the Victoria Regina. Beyond the noble flower-gardens the visitcn* will find the pleasure-grounds, where Nature is allowed lier own way. At the extremity of the grounds stands the Chinese pagoda — a hideous building, but very pleasing to Queen Charlotte, at whose request it was erected. To the same lady’s peculiar taste we owe the curious little temples about the grounds, and wliich, fifty years since, were much more numerous than they are at present. Dropping down stream we reach Chiswick Grove, with its noble cedars, some of the finest in England ; while Mortlake, in Sui’rey , comes in view. This place is interesting as being the point at which the celebrated Oxford and Cambridge boat-race finishes. Here at one time lived the Archbishops of Canterbury ; here, also, Oliver Cromwell had a house. At Mortlake, also, there was once a flourishing tapestry manufactory ; it was for this establishment that Raphael’s Scriptural cartoons were purchased. These wonderful pictures were until recently exhibited at Hampton Court. Quaint old Chiswick and its ^ Eyot,’ or little i>land, now come in view. Here, at the ^Dove’ inn, the Queen’s uncle, the Duke of Sussex, had a smoking- room — so partial was this member of the royal family to watching the life and movement upon the Thames. The church and its graveyard here are interesting, as containing the graves and monuments of several great Englishmen ; especially of Hogarth, the satirist of the last century. The epitaph on his tomb was written b}^ his friend Garrick, that honourable play-actor of whom we spoke when floating past Hampton. The last lines run as follows : — * If genius fire thee, reader, stay ! If nature move thee, drop a tear ; If neither touch thee, turn away. For Hogarth’s honoured dust lies here.* (To 1)6 continued.) THE ADVENTURES OF A YOUNG- t HALF- CASTE INDIAN. {Concluded from page 175.) ^E soon found a beautiful place on ^ the left side of the Big Blue. It was a httle v alley about half a mile long by a quarter of a mile broad, abounding with grass and deer, and within easy reach of a good many beaver ponds and otter slides. By an otter slide I suppose you know that we mean a sloping place on a water-side, where the otters slide down into the water after their visits to the land. These animals live mainlv on fish, which they catch with great ease, and of whicli they prefer to eat only the head and shoulders. They live much on land, and it is their habit to return to the water by the same slide. IGiowing this habit of theirs, we trappers take advantage of it. We set a steel trap in the shallow water in their passage, and bait it with a nice fish fastened to the trigger. The trap is simply a paiv of steel jaws fiirnif lied witli sharp teeth, so acted on by a strong steel spring that, although the jaws will lie flat open upon the ground when the pressure of the spring is removed, and will look very harmless too, yet the moment any un¬ fortunate animal treads upon the trigger and sets the spring at liberty the jaws come together with a crash, catching the leg of the animal, and never slackening its grip until the spring is pressed back. (lur traps for beaver and otter are always set, if possible, in shallow water on the edge of deep water, and loaded with about two pounds weight of iron, besides the weight of a chain five or six feet long, fastening it to a root of stake under w'ater :

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No. XXIII. CHATTERBOX. 183 the reasons for which are these. The trap is set in shallow water simply for concealment. It is fastened hy a chain to prevent its being dragged away by the animal. It is placed near deep water to enable the animal to plunge in there, and to be kept down by the •weight until it is drowned. We prefer to drown it for two reasons : drowning is a very easy death for the poor thing to die ; and then it does not injure the skin or fur, as would be done by shooting or clubbing it to death. Moreover, this drowning saves the trapper from many a hard fight when he comes to get his game ; for these animals are full of pluck, and will fight to the last gasp, and seem to care less for protecting themselves than to do all the harm they can to their adversary. My partner, Conseane, one morning found a live otter in one of his traps, and before he could club it to death the poor beast sprang upon him and gave him so terrible a gash as almost to cost him the loss of his hand, which was a long time in healing. I also received a wound, of which I bear the mark to this day. We set the trap in shallow water for another reason also, otherwise the creature on being caught would set to work and gnaw off its leg, which it cannot do under water. Trapping for otter and beaver is done in the same way, in shallow water, and by the use of the same traps, the chief difference being in the bait. For otter, as I have said, we bait with a fish fastened to the trigger ; but for beaver we use a rod of cotton¬ wood or birch, or some other wood on which they feed, and arch it over the trap in such way that when the beaver rises on his hind legs to gnaw the wood it treads on the concealed trap and springs the trigger. If ever we trap for raccoons, which sometimes we do when other game is scarce, we set the same trap, but bait with a piece of shining tin or other metal, about an inch square. This piece of metal we hang by a thread directly over the trap. Eaccoons, like children, love shiny toys. If their attention is once attracted by this pretty piece of metal they are almost sure to go up and play with it, by giving it a pat with their forepaws, so as to make it swing more, but in so doing they are apt to pay dearly for their sport by springing the trap concealed below. When wolves are very abundant or troublesome we trap for them, too, but on a Avholly different plan : we poison them with strychnine, and there are two ways of doing so. One way is this. We kill a deer or antelope and reserve the quarters for the bait ; then we make deep gashes with a knife into the fleshy parts, put in the strychnine, sew it up nicely so that the gashes will not" be noticed, and then lay these poisoned pieces where the wolves will find them. Tlie next morning, on visiting our bait, we generally found our wolves dead within a few steps of it ; for strychnine, you know, does its work very rapidly. But wolves are very suspicious, and oftentimes wiU not touch bait prepared in this way. Then we try another plan ; we bore holes about three inches deep with a 2-inch auger into a tree or post, two or three feet above ground. These holes we fill with buffalo tallow or with deer suet, well mixed with strychnine. Wolves are very fond of tallow, and will rise upon their hind legs and lick it from these holes as far as their tongues can reach, if they live long enough ; but I need not tell you that, with strychnine for the poison, the}^ do not lick long before they lie dead on the ground within a few feet of the baited place. Perhaps you would like to know how we prepare our skins for market, and what price we get for them. Otter skins are the most valuable, and readily bring in market from $4.00 to $5.00. Beaver skins are next in value, and bring from $2.00 to $3.00. The skins of the large grey wolf bring from $1.60 to $2.00, and of the cayote from 50 cents to 75 cents. In curing these sldns for market, especially the beaver and otter, we strip them from the body as nearly -ivliole as possible, nipping them only at tlie head and legs. Then each skin is turned inside out, and stretched upon a board forced inside, to which the cut edges are tacked. A wedge also is driven in between the board and the skin to increase the stretching, and also to aid in detaching the skin after it is cured. The drying and curing in the pure air of that region does not usually occupy more than a week, after which the sldns are taken off from the stretching-boards, and put in a pile with the others ready for market. During our three weeks^ trapping on the Big Blue we used to catch as many as six, eight, or ten beavers or otters of a morning, which made a big pile of skins when cured — I suppose as many as 150 or more, and worth from $300 to $600, or from $100 to $200 a-week. Pretty good pay for us boys. But we lost aU our labour at one dash, as I shall now proceed to tell you. Our traps were set at different points on the river, not more tlian a mile or two from our camp. We alwaj^s went to them on horseback, early in the morning, carrying our arms and ammunition ready for a fight, if need be, and returning home usually about mid-day. After having spent about three weeks in this way, and gathered a good pile of skins, Conseane and I returned home as usual, but found no camp awaiting us ; it was gone, and so were aU our beautiful skins and the provisions we had left at home that morning. Our camp had been visited by thieves, who had taken all they could lay hands on. The Cheyenne Indians had turned out on the war¬ path, and had made us this visit. Our only course was to leave that neighbourhood and seek a safer, one. We therefore got our traps together, and packed up what was left us, and pushed without an hour’s delay for another trapping-ground on the Canadian Eiver, distant about sixty-five or seventy miles. We had scarcely gone more than half that distance, however, before we saw a party of five or six Indians approaching us. Not Imowing who they were, we retreated behind a knoll and concealed ourselves in a buffalo wallow, and prepared the best we could for fight. The Indians proved to be Cheyenne, and they soon showed their spirits by dashing upon us with a terrible war whoop, riding up within 100 or 150 yards, shooting at us, and then turning off. They had not done this more than two or three times before Conseane’s gun had laid one of their warriors low, and had killed the horse of another. This repulse put' an end to the attack for the present. The Cheyennes went off for reinforcements, carrying off their dead warrior ; and we used our chance to push for the Agency, which was only about nine miles distant, and' which we reached without further adventure.

Page 190

r V

Page 191

No. XXIV. CHATTERBOX. 185 Gi'andfathev destroying Ray’s Violin.

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186 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIV. PEAS- BLOSSOM. (Continued from p. 180.) CHAPTER XXYI. VI / 1 /flTv CaiTington persuaded M uHIMlB !/ / the Signor to let him take back n violin with him, it was with X Vv V lii\^ (? intention of practising at home unheard by his grand- K father. He had made up his il j that he would tell him 7 v\ iT!L intense love for music ^ A& longing to learn, and he ^ ^ \9 had made all sorts of plans for breaking the subject ; but when he came to the point was always afraid to begin. But that afternoon at Kelburn Lodge the idea had flashed into his mind, that if he could go to his grand¬ father wuth the violin in his hand, it would be easier to introduce the matter, and he 'svould draw^ courage from the very touch of that beloved instrument. He was afraid the Signor wmuld altogether refuse to trust him with the violin, and he was quite sur¬ prised 'svhen he agreed to do so, and added, — ^ Do you know. Bay, I think it is a happy thought of yours? ^ ‘ Do you really ? ’ ^ Yes. I have been told that your grandfather had not always such a horror of music : that he was quite fond of it, and even that he played himself.’ ^ Who told you that P It can’t be true ! ’ ' Never mind who told me : but perhaps the sight of the violin may have some effect on him.’ So Bay went home -in high spirits and hope, and found courage to tell his grandfather how he had met Pat Bright, and had tea in the hayfield at Kelburn Lodge, and how much he had enjoyed it, and was pleased to find it Avell received. Mr. Carrington asked a few questions about Pat and the rest of the Brights, and even said that in the holidays he might ask Pat to take some drives with him, if he liked, or go out fi.shing with him. Several times in the evening Bay stole up to his bedroom to look at the violin, half inclined to bring it down then and there ; but each time came back without it, resolved that to-morrow would be better. But to-morrow came and w^ent, and two or three days passed, and still the violin lay concealed in the cupboard, and the explanation had not been made. Once wdien Mr. Carrington and Cann were both out and Goody -was in the garden, he ventured to get it out and draw the bow across the strings cautiously, but he did it in fear and trembling, and was too ner¬ vous to get any pleasure out of it. Nearly a -week passed in this way, and at last one day Bay nerved himself to the effort, and resolved to delay no longer. He took the violin out of its case for a mo¬ ment, and rested his cheek on the polished surface, as if it w^ere a living thing, and could feel, and comfort, and encourage him. Just at that moment Cann called to him from the garden. ‘ Master Bay ! Master Bay ! Here’s a queer sort of moth as I’ve never seen anything like ! He’ll be gone if you are not quick.’ And Bay put down the violin on the table in his room and ran down to the garden. . It was certainly a remarkable moth, and he had not one like it in his collection, and he was anxious to catch it wdthout injuring its soft, dowmy wings; but this was not easily done, as it fluttered from one flower to another, and at one time threatened to go over the wall. So more than half an hour slipped away before Bay had his prize safe, and it Avas only as he carried it back to the house that he remembered with sudden terror how he had left the violin, and he hurried upstairs. The door of his room was open, and on the table still lay the violin and bow ; but standing looking at it was Mr. Carrington. Bay stood at the door watching, but his grandfather appeared quite un¬ conscious of his presence. There was a strange look on the old mans face that w^as almost agony, and Bay watched in breathless suspense to see what would follow. He took the violin gently in his hand, and the boy saw at a glance that the Signor was right ; for that was no ignorant hand that raised it to his shoulder and touched the strings, and he held the bow as naturally as if it were never out of his hand. Wonder, hope, and fear alternated in Bay’s mind as he looked on, and his ears were strained to catch the first note ; for the bow was hovering over the strings, and the old man’s face was turned up, as if seeking inspiration, with a soft look in the eyes and about the mouth that Bay had never seen before. But in a moment all was changed : the look turned to one of fierce anguish; he th^ew the violin down on the table, as if its touch burnt him, and before Bay saw what he was doing he heard one loud dis¬ cordant wail after another as Mr. Carrington cut the strings with a penknife that lay open on the table, and then, bending the violin acrjDSs his knee, snapped it as one might a common fagot of wood, and cast the poor splintered wreck away from him on the ground. It was a moment’s work, done before Bay could dart from the doorway and seize his arm ; and when it was done he sank down into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. ^ What have you done? What have you done?’ gasped Bay, breathless with terror and surprise ; but the old man only groaned and rocked himself back¬ wards and forwards on his chair. Bay collected the scattered pieces, and with trem¬ bling hands tried to fit them together, as if any skill coilld ever set it right again, or bring music from it any more. It had seemed like sometliing living half an hour ago, when he pressed his cheek to it ; it was dead now, and he laid the pieces hopelessly down again. ^ What have you done ? ’ he sobbed. ^ You have broken my heart ! ’ ^ Bay,’ said the old man, ^ listen ! My heart was broken long ago. I have never spoken to you before of your father. He was my only son, and I loved him as fathers love only sons, and I was proud of his talent — his wonderful talent for music. I loved music myself only second to him in the world, and I was proud to teach him all I knew of it, not knowing what it would bring on us both. His talent brought much notice and admiration, and I was more pleased than he Avas Avith it aU.’ Mr. Carrington stopped

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No. XXIV. CHATTERBOX. 187 • often, as if every word gave him the keenest pain, and went on again with an eif ort. ‘ It led him into had company, and bad habits, and I did not find it out till too late. He married against my wish, and then came debt and disgrace ; so that I was glad to leave my house, and get away from all my friends, to hide my shame and broken heart. Then I had you, and tried to comfort myself. You were given over tome altogether. No one was to lay claim to you or inter¬ fere with you, and I made a vow that you should be kept from the temptation that ruined your father, body and soul. I have tried my best to shelter you, and have failed it seems. But it's not too late yet, Kay. You are young, lad, very young yet, and you will forget all about it, and be happy again.’ ^What shall I say to the Signor ? ’ sobbed Kay. ^Who?’ ^Signor Ckerita.’ And then, at last, Kay told his story of the organist and all his kindness, and of the music that seemed to open another life to the boy, and that filled and satisfied the cravings of his heart, lie told everything ; what use was concealment now that there was nothing to hope? Pat’s visit, the Signor coming to see him as the doctor, the music that had cheered his illness, the unexpected meeting at Kelburii Lodge — it all came out by degrees, told sadly, wearily, over the fragments of the violin, while Mr. Carrington listened intently, asking a ques¬ tion now and then about the Signor and liis little girl, as if every detail were of interest to him. ^ Kay,’ he said at last, ^ I will explain everything to Signor Cherita, and make good his loss, and you must try and forgive your poor old grandfather, and believe that he is trying to shield you from some of the trouble he has known himself.’ But Kay was by this time worn out with grief and distress, being still very far from strong; and Mr. Carrington left him to Goody’s care while he went to find Cann in the garden. There was a long talk between master and man, at the end of which Cann set otf to Mudford, and took up his position in a little shop in Paul Street, just opposite to Miss Pink’s, where he waited for nearly half an hour, when the organist and his little girl came out, and, as luck would have it, crossed the road, and stood for some minutes looking at some sugar pigs that were hung in the window of the shop. Piccola was chattering away and pointing, and the Signor smiling down on her ; and Cann stood watch¬ ing, first one face and then the other, with strange earnestness. ^ How altered ! ’ he murmured. ^ How* like ! ’ ‘ What did you say, sir ? ’ said the woman of the shop, who had been puzzled at the prolonged visit of such a surly customer. ^ Good morning, mum ; nothing more to-day.’ And off Cann went to the Orchards. ^ Well ? ’ said Mr. Carrington, who had been wait¬ ing anxiously for him. ‘ It is him, sir, sure enough ; and he looks - ’ * That will do ! ’ the old man said, sternly. ^ That is quite sufficient 1 ’ And he went into his study, and wrote the following note : — ‘If Mr. Carrington’s grandson is further interfered with or molested, steps will be taken to let Signor Cherita’s patrons know the character he has borne.’ He bid Cann deliver the note in the evening, and tell his wife to pack up his and Master Kay’s clothes, as they should start the following morning for the Continent, and might be away some months. {To he continued.) ODOACER. GOOI) old hermit once lived in a rude and lowly cell by the banks of the great river Danube. It was a wild place, and it was a wild time. When he closed his clumsy door at sunset he heard the wolves and bears, and from his narrow window he could see their dark forms on the snowy ground, when the moon shone down through the naked branches. ^ Severinus, for so was the hermit called, lived thus by himself, for the world was rude a*nd wicked, and he thought he could best serve God if he spent his days, like St. .John, in a wilderness. People admired him, loved him, feared him, and went to him for advice, for his prayers, for his blessing. And none went empty away. For Severinus had a Book on which he spent most of his time ; and out of that Book he brought wisdom and comfort for all. One morning he was surprised by a visit from a man of majestic stature. The visitor was so tall, that he had to stoop as he entered the hermit’s humble cell. The holy man could not help admiring the grand form and noble face of the stranger, and he gazed at him with much interest. ^ Who art thou ?’ he asked, at length. ‘ My name is Odoacer,’ replied the giant. ^ And why dost thou come to me ?’ said the hermit. ^ For advice,’ replied Odoacer. ^ I am a hunter, and I know not how to quail at wolf, or bear, or bison. Biit I am weary of such sport. I wish to command men — I wish to be a king. I am first in Noricum at every kind of manly exercise, but ah ! I’m sick of these woods, and wilds, and roaring rivers. I have dreamed of a brighter land. I have heard it harped and praised. Its plains are sunny. Its skies are blue. Its men are heroes. Its maidens are fair. Its cities are of marble, and full of splendid shows. I long to go there, and make myself a great name. Even if I die in doing it I shall be content. Last night I was in the banquet-room, and the cup went round, and the tale and song; l3ut I sat silent and down-hearted, and I knew by their signs, and nods, and whispers, what they thought. They think Odoacer is mad ; and some rejoice at the thought : but I am not mad, good father, I have a pin;pose here in my bosom. I wish to rise to better things — to be something more than a mere hunter of beasts and eater of great flesh simpers. If I go to Italy, shall I do well ? I wish to know.’ The good man sighed as he looked at the resolute face of Odoacer. ^ 0 that he had come to spend his strength and courage in the cause of Heaven !’ said he to himself ; ^ but softly ! it may come to that. Here is another Saul come to another Samuel.’ And then the old hermit smiled at his own wit. All these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, and he answered Odoacer’s question almost immediately : —

Page 194

r ^ Go, my son, and prosper. I cannot, indeed, divine tlie future, but I shall be much surprised if thou dost not succeed as well in Italy as in Noricum. I believe thou wilt soon cast off those skins of thine, and put on robes such as great men wear ; and thy gallant soul, which fears not wolf, nor bear, nor hunter of the woods, will carry thee on to victory in many a hard- fought field.’ The stranger thanked the hermit for his cheermg words and took his leave. ° Soon after he enrolled himself among the Emperor’s guards, and after a time he headed tnose guards in an insurrection against Orestes, whose son, Augus- tulus, was the last Emperor of Home. Orestes fell, and Odoacer was chosen, as by one voice, to succeed him. After he had ruled Italy for upwards of fifteen j^ears with honour and credit he fell, in his turn, before another adventurer. It was, however, no child that overthrew Odoacer. It was the great Theodoric, truly a king of men. G. S. O. Odacer, the First King of Italy.

Page 195

Gibraltar. THE MONKEYS OF GIBRALTAR. F in class the question he put, Where is Gibraltar, and for what is it remarkable ? the answer will most likely be something like this, — A fortress in Spain, belonging to Great Britain, remarkable for its wonderful galleries cut in the solid rock to hold cannon, and also for its being the only place in Europe where monkeys, or, properly speaking, apes, are found in a wild state. We most of us know something more about this celebrated fortress, which was captured from Spain early in the reign of Queen Anne by the British fleet, under Admiral Rooke and Sir Cloudesley Shovel, once a cabin-boy. And I don’t doubt that many of you have read about the great siege, the wonderful floating batteries supposed to be proof against the heaviest shot from the British guns. But strong and cleverly constructed though they were.

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190 CHATTEJRBOX. No. XXIV. they were totally destroyed by the terrible red-hot cannon-balls fired 'by the English artillerymen. In England there is, I think, a very general im¬ pression, that when you arrive at Gibraltar and anchor in the bay the first things you see from the deck of the steamer are the galleries frowning over the water’s edge, with cannon bristling from the embra¬ sures thicker than plums in a Christmas pudding, while the monkeys gambol over the rocks in troops. If this is your idea of what Gibraltar is like you are quite wrong about it. In the first place you cannot, without the aid of a good glass, distinguish the embrasures of the galleries at aU from the bay ; for at a distance they look like blackened rabbit-holes, not arranged in tiers or rows, but scattered here and there over the grey face of the rock, and do not give the impression of war¬ like power and grandeur. While as for the apes, you may remain upon the rock for years without seeing one ; if you merely land for an hour or two from one of the P. »& O. steamers your chance of seeing them is small. The most likely place I should fancy is the stony ground about Willis’s batteries. The apes like to be sheltered from the wind, and so you may make pretty certain on what part of the rock they will be ; but from their colour being so like that of the grey limestone rock it is difficult to discover them, even Avhen keeping a sharp look-out. I had been on the rock about two months, keeping an anxious look-out, without success, and I had be¬ come really somewhat doubtful as to their existence at all. But one morning, feeling inclined for a walk, I directed my steps towards ^ Monkey Cave Battery,’ wliicli is on the Mediterranean side of the rock. While passing over Windmill Hill Flats, as the high ground above Europa Point is called, I walked up to a gun, from which I could see down on to Monkey Cave Battery, and the narrow point near to it. AVhile there I fancied I saw a greyish lump upon a small patch of turf move shghtly; just then a young soldier, who was leaning over the low wall, looking in the same direction as myself, cried out, ^Look there, sir! there’s one o’ them monkeys'!’ Presently the grey lump scuttled off the grass on to the cliff. The lump was an ape some four feet high. Looking closer I saw two more monkeys sitting on the low wall which runs alongside the narrow foot¬ path to Monkey Cave Battery. I then walked down the path, and was in the miiLt of a troop of fifteen before I thought I had come within fifty yards of them. They are not shy, and allowed me to come within thirty feet of them, and even then it was hai d to distinguish them from the grey stones scattered about, so closely does tlieir colour resemble that of the limestone. They appeared to be busy in digging for roots. The number of monke3’'s on the rock varies very much, having gone down as low as three and up as high as one hundred, or some¬ what over that number. At the upper signal station, which is on the top of the rock, a book is kept recording all their movements, as observed by the artillerymen in charge of the ‘station; and whenever a baby-monkey juakes its appearance the event is duly announced in the columns of the Gihi'aUai' Chronicle. They are most carefully protected ; no one is allowed to throw even a stone at them ; while the artillerymen place pails of water for them to drinlv from. This, of course, renders them much tamer than they would otherwise be. In size they vary from that of a small terrier to some of the big fellows who stand, I sup¬ pose, over four feet high. They are of the same species as the Barbary ape found across the Straits. There are several theories as to how Gibraltar be¬ came possessed of its apes. Some persons with strong imaginations maintain that an underground passage exists beneath the Straits of Gibraltar, across to the African coast, and that the apes travel through this when they feel inclined, in the same way as you or I might travel on the underground railway in Lon¬ don. This idea, however, is quite absurd. The fact is, that they have been imported on to the rock from time to time, as the supply got low. Once a great number were, it is supposed, poisoned by some one, in revenge for their robberies of his garden. An old document in the British Museum refers to the importation of a number of these apes on to the rock in the year 1740. They were subjected to a poll-tax. One rather strange thing is, Wliat becomes of their dead bodies It is an exceedingly rare event for the corpse of a monkey to be found, although, just before I left Gibraltar, one was discovered. Some people think tliat the survivors bury their dead comrades. I do not, however, think this very prob¬ able. M}’’ own idea is, that when they feel their mortal sickness has come upon them, and instinct tells them they are about to die, they crawl away into some of the numerous holes or caves of which tlie rock is full, and there die. Of course the body would either gradually rot and deca}^, or else the foxes or birds of prey would soon destroy it. There are foxes and a number of haK-wild cats on the rock, and the eagle builds its nest on the crags below the signal station. Bernabd Johnston. BRAVE SOLDIERS IN TIME OF PEACE. EAT and disastrous floods took place in Italy during the autumn of 1878. The streets of Rome were complete!}" flooded and navi¬ gated by boats, while in some parts of the South the waters were more destructive, many poor persons losing their all, some even their lives. The vale of Avellino was visited with most disastrous floods. On the 13th of October and all through the night of the 14th the rain fell in torrents, till a brook called the Torrione rose to a height that, overflowed a large block of buildings on the slope. It was pitch-dark by the time the poor tenants were aware of their peril, and agonizing shouts of ^ Aid !; help !’ rang through the roar of the waters. The Carabineers and a detachment of the 62nd^ infantry, and the authorities civil an'd" military of the district, were promptly at their posts, lending what assistance they could. The Carabineers behaved with much coolness and

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No. XXIV. CHATTERBOX. ■ 191 courage. Up to the shoulders in the swift current they formed a line, along which they passed the res¬ cued inmates of the flooded and dismantled houses. They had landed nearly the whole of them, when a poor woman implored them to save her infant, which had been left behind in its cradle. A fugleman of the 62nd infantry, Koger Corbucci, struggled through the water, entered the house, dodging as best he could the pieces of furniture that were floating past him, he caught hold of the cradle; but, sad to relate, its little tenant was gone, floated out by the torrent. He was maldng his way back when other cries fell on his ears, and joined by a comrade, called Michela, they crept outside and along the reeling wall of the house, and reached a sort of a ladder and staircase, down which the cries came. Up Corbucci clambered, Michela steadying the steps from below, and gained an apartment, only to find that the appeal came not from human lips, but from a poor she-goat, whose voice, heard through the din of the torrent, was not to be distinguished from a child’s. He saved it, however, and got back to his comrades, who had given him up for lost. Other deeds of heroism were performed by the same detachment. Sergeant Cavaletti rescuing a woman and two children, when another minute would have made his return impossible. But not every one was equally successful, the moon yielding but a fitful light, and the flaring torches not visible very far in the driving rain, while many a call for help must have been drowned in the rush of the torrent. Next morning eleven persons were found dead, many were still missing, and a large number of animals, horses, sheep, goats, and other cattle, lay dead on the sides of the valley. J. F. C. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Continued from p. 175.) THE AETISANS OE LONDON. * An Haberdasher, and a Carpenter, A Webbe, a Deyer, and a Tapiser, Were alle yclothed in a livere, s Of a solempne and grete fraternite.’ HOUGH London is so greatly changed since that April morning when the poet Chaucer saw the nine-and- twenty pilgrims ride out from the Tabard at Southwark, the principal districts still retain the names by which they were then known; and most of the great City companies were even at that time in ex¬ istence, their title-deeds ex¬ tending as far back as the beginning of the thirteenth century. Five wealthy citizens of Londfiii — a haberdasher, caxpenter, weaver, dyer, and tapistry maker — all of them memba's of great Companies, were amongst our pilgrims. Skilled artisans, or ^ craftsmign,’^ as they used to be called, were highly esteemed in those days, and these were all men of consequence. They were clothed in the liveries of their several Com¬ panies, and all their appointments were spruce and new. Their knives, girdles, and pouches, were mounted and ornamented with well-wrought silver, and not* with brass. Each of them seemed a fair burgess, worthy to sit on the dais * in a Guildhall, and fit to be an alderman, for of goods and property they had enough. And their wives, too, would well agree to that, or else they were much to blame ; for it is a fine thing to be called ^ MadamC,’ and go first to vigils,t and have a mantle royally carried for them. In" early times the Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs and Aldermen of London were not merchants or trades¬ men at all, but were chosen from the great feudal families ‘who owned estates within the walls of the City. These were the ^Barons of London.’ They were quite independent, and within their own lord- ship, or ^ soke,’ as it was called, they had the power of life and death ; and on their seals appended to deeds which are still in existence these old aider- men are represented clad in armour, in baronial fashion, or, with hawk on wrist, following the sports of the field. But all through the thirteenth tientury there was a violent struggle going on between the aristocracy and the commons of the City, which ended in the power remaining with the traders, though to this day the names of some of the great families are preserved in streets or districts of the City. Basinghall Street was where the man¬ sion of the Basiiigs once stood; Farringdon Ward marks the lordship of the Farringdons; and the once powerfid family of the Cornhills have left their name in one of the main thoroughfares of London. The citizens did not wear swords like the knights and squires, but carried at tlieir girdle an anlace, or short knife ; and the apprentices, in times of tumult, armed themselves with clubs. Many of the artisans were of foreign extraction, and a colony of Flemish weavers was introduced into this country by Henry the First. Any one who has walked through London must have neticed that many of the streets bear the names of trades, such as Ironmonger Lane, Shoemaker Row, Stonecutter Street, and many others. This is because it used to be the custom for the membei^ of any trade or craft to live together in particular places, and the street w:as named from the occu¬ pation carried on in it. For instance,, all the black¬ smiths dwelt in what is now Ironmonger Lane. A. R. (To he continued.) IN ICELAND. We are so used to banks, that it is strange to read that the public funds of Iceland are kept in a lar^e iron chest at the Governor’s house. This chest is secured by a double lock, to which there are two keys, and before it can bo opened to add to or take away from the contents, both the keys have to be procured from the Governor and Treasurer, who have the care of them. A. R. B. * Tho raised part of the floor at the upper end of the hall, t The eve of a Church festival.

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No. XXV. Piccola go with Father.’’

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194 CHATTERBOX. No. XXV. PEAS-BLOSSOM. {Continued fromp. 187.) CHAPTER XXVII. AT was not long in noticing an unusual air of emptiness about tlie Orchards. Kay^s window, at which he always managed to get a peep on his way to school, was wide open at that unusually early hour, and the pretty chintz cur¬ tains were taken down. ^House-cleaning!’ said Pat to himself ; ‘ poor Ray ! ’ know¬ ing by experience the discom¬ fort that rAgns at such periods in all well-ordered establish¬ ments. A day or two later the green door stood open, and whitew'ashers’ pails and ladders were being carried in ; and when he met the boy who had driven with Ray to Kelburn Lodge, that youth informed him that the master and the young gentleman were gone — o’oodness knows where all — and were not coming back till next never-come tide ; and when Pat asked further questions, that impudent boy put his tongue in liis cheek, and told him to find out if he wanted to know: which caused Pat to be late for school, as such behaviour demanded a thrashing, not only for its impudence but for its ingratitude, as Pat had taken him a hunch of cake and a cup of tea with his own hands, only a week before, at Kelburn Lodge. He told the news to the Signor, who did not seem so much surprised as he expected, and said he hoped the change would do Ray good; but Pat noticed that he did not seem very lively just then, and that he never heard the sound of the violin or the games of play with little Piccola. •It’s the hot weather,’ he said to Pat, when he asked him if anything were wrong; ‘it makes a fellow feel lazy and good for nothing ; and this Mud- f urd is such a wretched, close hole of a place, I feel as if I wei e stifling.’ ‘ Come back and have tea with us,’ said Pat ; ^ Paddy and I Avill carry little Piccola between us.’ And so two or three times the Signor walked back with the two boys after school, a merry party enough, vith Piccola riding in triumph on a sedan-chair formed of Pat and I’addy’s crossed arms, with a small, brown arm clasped round each neck. There was nothing stifling in the pleasant home- atmosphere at Kelburn Lodge, where the little tea- table was set out under the mulberry-tree in the garden ; there was nothing grand or elegant, no bril¬ liant parteri’es or velvet-shaven lawns ; the grass was lung, and rough, and trampled, and the flower-beds were sadly wanting in trimness, for there were so many young gai’deners there with different designs and ideas on the subject, w^ho were only alike in the sublime ignorance and the intermittent energy which the}^ devoted to the matter. Then, too, the hens would come in and scratch and dust their feathers in those beds, and Honor objected to raids being made to drive them out in the very middle of lesson-time ; and evxm the pig, now and then, came on a voyage of discovery frorn the yard, when Peter left the gate open. But in spite of these drawbacks, sweet, common flowers — mignonette, sweet-peas, and stocks— grew and flourished, and filled the air with fragrance, and helped to make Kelburn Lodge seem a very pleasant place to the tired or¬ ganist, as he came in from the dusty road and was welcomed by Honor, with her quiet, old-fashioned sedateness, and more boisterously by the others, wdio came rushing to meet them, or ran off to the kitchen for fresh plates and cups, and more bread and butter. And in the evening, wdien the sun had set and the stars were coming out one by one, the Si^or wTilked back to Mudford, carrying sleepy little Piccola in his arms, and stopping often to rest and breathe the sweet night air; and he would stand for several minutes in front of the Orchards, looldng at the higli garden wall, shutting it all in like a proud reserve ; and the dark, silent windows beyond, wdiich gave no answer back to the longing in the watcher’s eyes. ‘ Piccola,’ he said one night, as he stood thus, ‘ if father had to go away, and should bring you to live in this beautiful house, would you be happy, my darling ? ’ And little Piccola sleepily clung round his neck and murmured, — ‘ Piccola go with father I’ Breaking-up day came in the middle of July, and the summer holidays began ; and jolly as the Christ¬ mas holidays had been, the summer ones beat them into fits, the children said. ^ There was Ashing, cricket, picnics, lawn-tennis, pea-picking, harvesting in Par¬ mer Blossom’s fields ; there was the harvest-home and the school-treat; and, best of all, father’s holiday, a whole sunny week in August, when the tired, worn- out man could be, as he said, as lazy as a cat, with all the children dancing most devoted attendance on him. To many men, the constant chatter of the children, one or other always pouring their confidences into his ears, might have seemed anything but quiet and rest, but fathers think differently. Of course, father had heard plenty of Ray and Mr. Carrington, and the Signor, and little Piccola ; and one day he intrusted his life and limbs to Pat’s tender mercies, and let him drive him into Mudford in a certain old four-wheel, called the ‘ shandrydan,’ drawn by a mild white horse with long ears, who was quite used to breaking his knees, and had a tendency to stop every now and then and think, unless reminded of ’the presence of something behind him by a touch of the whip, when he would switch his tail over the reins and amble quietly on. Pat pointed out the mysterious Orchards to his father, and then they went on to the Grammar School, w'here they found that Mr. and Mrs. Radley were away — no doubt enjoying the holidays quite as much as the boys, and that white-washers and plasterers reigned in their stead; and then the shandrydan pulled up at Miss Pink’s door. It was father’s suggestion that he should like to see this friend of Pat’s that reminded the children how long it was since they had seen the Signor, so quickly do the golden days of summer holiday-time slip away. He had been out once to see them since holidays began; but nearly three weeks had gone since then, and they had heard nothing of him.

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No. XXV. CHATTERBOX. 195 Miss Pink met Pat in the passage as he made his usual free and easy entrance. ^ You’re quite a stranger ! ’ she said ; 'and glad I am to see you, for the Signor is terrible mopy, and vou’ll cheer him up a hit. Pie were only saving how he missed you, the other day. And this is your father ? Dear ! dear ! this is an honour ! ’ But Pat cut Miss Pink’s politeness short, and, leaving her courtesying and smoothing her apron at the bottom of the stairs, went on to the floor above, followed by Mr. Bright. The door was open, but the Signor had not heard their steps, and sat at the table, sunk in deep thought, leaning his head on both hands, with some oj^en letters lying before him, and his face looking so worn and sad, that even Pat’s ready tongue hesitated from its gay greeting. But Piccola saw them, and ran to meet Pat with a cry of pleasure; and then the Signor looked up, and some of the cloud cleared from his face as he saw his visitors. 'I hope we are not intruding ?’ said Mr. Bright. 'Not a bit,’ said the Signor, 'for Pat never in¬ i’ udes go where he will : and I am sure you are his father.’ ' We have come to fetch you back to tea,’ said, Pat. ' Look sharp, Piccola, and get your hat on, or they’ll have gobbled up all the greengages.’ 'I hope you will come,’ ndded Mr. Bright. 'I have heard so much of you from the boys ; and I am sure a little fresh air will do you good.’ ' Thank you,’ said the Signor ; ' I am sure it will. Piccola, ask Miss Pink to smarten you up.’ ' Oh, bother the smartening ! ’ said Pat ; ' the girls will do all the tittivating when we get home.’ So off they went in the shandrydan, and Mr. Bright formed as good an opinion of the Signor as John Keith had done; only, having been tlirough much trouble himself, he could see that this man had also seen much trouble, and that he had now anxieties and worries pressing on him, though he tried his best to shake them off. While they sat at tea Aunt Bell and John Keith came in and joined the party under the mulberry- tree on the lawn ; and before five minutes were over Hccola was on Aunt Bell’s lap, chattering to her as if she had known her all her life, as children were apt to do with dear Aunt Bell. The Signor lingered that evening later than usual at Kelburn Lodge, after Aunt Bell and John Keith had gone home, and after nurse had expressed an opinion that 'folk didn’t ought to keep folk out of their beds so late.’ It seemed as if he found it hard to tear himself away from that pleasant home circle and Mr. Bright’s genial presence. ' You must come arid see my young folk whenever you can spare time,’ Mr. Bright said, and was surprised at the Signor’s answer, — ' You have not heard that I have lost my situation as church organist ? ’ 'Indeed? I am sorry! But you will not leave Mjidford on that account? You have other engage¬ ments ? ’ 'I do not know. I have not made up my mind. I only received notice from Canon Peters this morning, and I was answering him when you came in.’ ^ Mr. Bright did not ask any questions ; but the Signor went on : ' He gave no reason for my dismissal; only gave me a month’s notice, and said he should no longer require my services.’ ‘ Very strange ! ’ said Mr. Bright. 'Can you account for it ? ’ ' I think he must have been set against me. Put I must be going now. Come, Piccola. Thank you, sir, most sincerely’, for all your kindness.’ Pat went a little way with him down the road, and when they came to the corner the Signor stopped and looked back. Mr. Bright was walking along the path in front of the house, with Molly and Nora hanging on his arms, and Peter walking backwards in front of him, while Honor and Paddy followed close behind. And here the Signor shook hands with Pat and would not let him come any further. 'Good-bye, Pat. I think this is the last time I shall come here.’ ' The last time ? Why?’ ' Never mind ; good-bye. And, Pat,’ he added, ' you have^ a good, wise father, who loves you. Thank God for him, Pat, and don’t let ever anything come between you.’ (To he continued.) IVAN THE TERRIBLE. ^ENGHIS KHAN was the founder of the great Mongol Empire, or the Empire of the Mongol T<ar- tars, and at his death, in the earlier part of the thirteenth cen¬ tury, his dominions were divided among his four sons. One of them, who bore the title of Khan of Kiptschak, included Russia in his possessions. The Mongol Tartars had an encampment on the Volga, which they called the Golden Horde, from the golden hang¬ ings of the khan’s tent, and for two hundred years they cruelly oppressed the Russian peasantry. Even the princes were subjected to every kind of insult, and when the khan’s messenger came to deliver his master’s commands they were compelled to receive his orders upon their knees, and to hand him a cup of mare’s milk as he sat on horseback, licking up the drops that fell upon his horse’s mane ! When Ivan III. came to the throne he drove out the Tartars, in the latter part of the fifteenth century, took the title of Czar, or Great King, and laid th^ foundation of the Russian Empire. lie was a pxlnce; who did what he could for his people, but Ms leeble son Vasili undid his good work, for he allowed the Tartars to regain possession of Moscow, We now* come to Ivan the Terrible, and it is of him thafeir wish to tell you, though the 8toJ^y of his evill is a ^ sad and painfid one^ He rivalled. Bluj^ Beard in his cruelties, though he had not so masny wives. But we must do justice, eyen to this wretch, and re^ member that he was only three years old when, his father died, leaving him to the ca?^ of his wicked I t f

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mother, Helena; and when she died in 1538 the council of hoyards or nobles, who assumed the government of the country, proved very bad guardians for the young prince. You know how true it is that the schoolboy who has been bullied is too apt to become a tyrant. So it was with those Kussiaus long ago. They who had smarted under the Tartar yoke de¬ lighted in bullying those among their own people who w'ere weaker than themselves. Thus Ivan was taught from his earliest childhood to be cruel and tyrannical. When yet a boy one of his chief pleasures was to ride 1 through the streets of Moscow at full gallop, and trample on every one who came in his way; and when on one occasion Prince Schnisly^ one of the council, spoke to him angrily, he was condemned to be torn to pieces by dogs. So terrified were the people at the prospect of having tliis young tyi’ant to rule over them, that when at eigliteen years of age he : was crowned Czar they set the city on fire, and when I Ivan awoke the next morning he found himself sur- 1 rounded by flames. The monk Sylvester, taking i advantage of the incident, came to him with the Bible The Czar Ivan kills his son in a fit of passion

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The Houses of Parliament.

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198 CHATTERBOX. No. XXV. in his hand, and denounced the vengeance of Heaven on his head if he did not repent. Whether he was thoroughly fiightened by what had happened, or over¬ come by better feelings, I cannot say ; certain it is that a mighty change came over Ivan from this time, and he gave himself up to the work of reform; re¬ vised laws, reorganized the army, and raised it to 300,000 men; and finally, in the very depth of winter, marched against the Tartars, completely routed the enormous army sent against him by the Turkish Sultan, Selim II., and drove the Tartars out of Russia. Everything now went well, as the Czar devoted himself to the good of his people. Printing-presses were established, and various improvements pro¬ gressed. But, alas ! this happy change did not last long. Anastasia, the virtuous wife of Ivan, was taken from him by death, and when her presence was withdrawn his evil passions broke out with fear¬ ful violence. He banished his best councillors and put to death all who dared to remonstrate, and when Prince Kurbsksky wrote to him reproaching him for his crimes, he struck the innocent messenger who brought the letter with his own sceptre, wounding him severely. Yet, strange to say, this horrible tyrant still kept his hold over the minds of his people, and when on a threat of invasion by the Poles and Tartars he suddenly left Moscow and hid himself in Alex- androosky, a fortress situated in the depths of a forest, they actually looked upon his disappear¬ ance as a misfortune, crying out, ‘ The Czar has for¬ saken us, and we are lost ! Who will now defend us against the enemy ? What are sheep without a shepherd ? ’ Making known his retreat he was per¬ suaded to return, and was received with acclamations. The latter part of his reign was marked by cruelties almost too horrible to relate. He seemed possessed by the thirst of a demon for human blood, and his only pleasure was in inflicting pain. Better to be torn in pieces by the fierce hyena or the blood-thirsty tiger than to fall into the hands of Ivan the Terrible ! On returning from Alexandroosky he pretended to be afraid for his own safety, and established a guard of one thousand men, called the Opritchnina, or Select Legion, in later times known as the Strelitz. These men carried at their saddle-bow a dog’s head and a broom, signifying that they worried the enemies of the Czar and swept them from the face of the earth, and they murdered all of whom they had the least suspicion. After plundering Novgorod, and leaving sixty thousand dead bodies in its streets, he returned in triumph to Moscow, where he caused two hundred prisoners to be hung upon gibbets, or boiled alive in a huge caldron in the market-place. He then marched against Plescow. As he rode up to the city the bells were ringing for service, so halting, he sent a present to the hermit Nicholas, who lived near, begging for his blessing. In return Nicholas sent him a piece of raw meat, and when the Czar reminded him that it was Lent, he fearlessly cried out, ' Evasco ! Evasco ! thinkest thou that it is unlawful to eat a piece of a beast’s flesh in Lent, and not unlawful to eat up so much man’s flesh as thou hast already .P ’ (Evasco was a familiar form for Ivan, as Jack is for John.) And pointing to a dark thunder-cloud overhead, he threatened him with instant destruction if so much as a single hair of a child’s head was touched. This aroused Ivan’s super¬ stitious fears, and he left the city. He also turned the fortress of Alexandroosky into a monastery, calling himself abbot and his guards brothers, wore a dark habit over his gold-embroidered dress, and went so far as to practise the most rigid austerities : but there was little reality in his devotion. He used to keep bears in a half-starved condition, and when he saw a group of people talking pleasantly together, it was his delight to let the bears loose upon them, and gloat over their terror and efforts to escape. One day a boyard came to pay his respects. ^ God save thee, my dear boy,’ said the Czar ; ' thou deservest a proof of my favour.’ And taking a knife, he cut off one of the boyard’s ears ; who, thanking him, wished him a lon^ and happy reign ! In spite of all his wickedness his subjects regarded him with a kind of veneration as w^ell as fear, and seem to have looked upon him as something super¬ human. He was well aware of how much reason his people had to hate him, for he once asked our Queen Elizabeth if she would let him take refuge in England if his subjects ever drove him from his throne. Cowardice and cruelty always go hand in hand, and during the latter part of his life all his natural courage forsook him, and when the gallant Stephen Battori challenged him to single combat he declined in mortal fear. But his reign of terror and bloodshed was drawing to a close. One day his eldest son Ivan came to ask him for some troops to relieve a city besieged by the Poles. The Czar, ever ready to suspect treachery, exclaimed in a passion, ^ Rebel 1 you are leagued with the boyards in a plot against me 1 ’ at the same time striking his son with his iron sceptre : but when he saw him lying on the ground, remorse and anguish seized him, and he cried out in agony, for, wretch though he was, he loved this son witli all the devotion of which his nature was capable. ‘ I die,’ said the dying prince, ‘ an obedient son and faith¬ ful subject,’ and four days \fterwards he expired. The wretched father dragged out a miserable exist¬ ence, but not for long. Towards the end he seems to have wished to do something to make amends for all the misery he had caused, for he appointed good men to take charge of his son Feodor and pardoned all criminals except those imprisoned for capital offences. The astrologers had already predicted his death, for which iie had threatened to roast them alive ; and now for the last time the spirit of cruelty blazed up within him, for on the day on which they had said that he would die he ordered them to bo executed, but he was reminded that the day was not yet over. He went to sleep, and on waking asked for the chess-board ; but as he tried to set the men his strength failed him, and exclaiming, ^ I cannot make the king stand,’ he fell back dead. M. II. F. Donne. A VEGETABLE’S LOVE OP LIGHT. POTATO was left in a cellar which had only a small aperture to admit light. It first shot out a runner twenty feet along the ground, then it crept up the wall, and so on until it reached the opening through which the light came into the cellar.

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No. XXV. CHATTERBOX. 199 THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. Xin.— CHISWICK TO HOUSES OF PAELIAMENT. APPOSITE Chiswick is breezy Barnes, where you W may find perhaps the healthiest common within a score of miles of London ; and then we reach Putney, whence the Oxford and Cambridge boat-race is started on its course of between three and four miles to Mortlake. Above picturesque Putney, about a mile up the hill, is Wimbledon Common, once, in worse days than ours, a celebrated spot for duels, but now more honourably the summer nead-quarters of the rifle volunteers. Opposite Putney aristocratic Fulham^ may be seen. Here the Bishops of London have in succession resided since the Conquest. Here, also, in the parish church, have been buried, with one exception — that of Porteus — all the Bishops of London since the date of the Reformation. Now the heights of W^andsworth appear on the Surrey side, and Battersea Church, with quaint green copper spire. When we have ^ shot’ the narrow arch of old Battersea bridge we find the picturesque out¬ line of Cheyne Walk on the Middlesex sjde, where hved the old philosopher, Thomas Carlyle. Then we see the dignified outline of Chelsea Plospital. What Greenwich has been to the Navy, Chelsea Hos¬ pital has been and is to the Army — the resting-place after life’s more active work is over. It is said that the idea of forming this military hospital was due to a favourite of King Charles II., one Mistress Gwyn. It is the most pleasant memory we have of her. This king laid the foundation-stone in 1682, on the site of a religious college founded by James I. in 1610. No walk in London — for we have now reached the metropolis — can be more pleasant than one amongst the gardens, terraces, and walks of Chelsea Hospital. The friendly pensioners, of whom there are about five hundred — it need not bo said, all old soldiers — readily enter into conversation with visitors ; and they have a collection of little garden patches, whence they will cull you, each man from his own patch, a nosegay of London-growing flowers. In their quaint old red coats and strange hats the pensioners are a sight. These ancient warriors, together with many pleasant non-resident pensioners, receive from three shillings to a guinea per week — those in resi¬ dence, of course, having their lodging provided for them in the Hospital. Opposite Chelsea is Battersea Bark, which at some points successfully vies with Kew in loveliness. Landscape gardening is here beautifully represented, while the sub-tropiciil garden, at its best iu July, is without a rival in all England. The smoke of mighty London is now before us, and almost the first great building we see as we enter the metropolis is the London home of the Archbishops of Canterbury, known as Lambeth Palace. Here the Archbishops have resided almost since the date of the Norman Conquest, and here were imprisoned the first sufferers who declared for the Reformation. The first Protestants here in England were called ^Lollards,’ and to this day the portion of Lambeth Palace in which they were imprisoned — the oldest part of the building, and that nearest London, is called the ^ Lollards’ Tower.’ By an old custom, now discontinued, the barge of the Stationers’ Company of the City of liondon was, on Lord Mayor’s day, moored off the Palace, when the Stationers sent a Bible to the Archbishop, who was prepared to receive it, and who in return for¬ warded a barrel of ale to the Stationers. Our boat is now abreast of the Houses of Parlia¬ ment, which are comprised in a fine pile of modern Gothic. The g; eat west tower — that which we first pass — is the ^ Victoria ; ’ and it is here that the Queen quits her carriage when she opens Parliament. The tower in question is, therefore, nearer the House of Lords than the House of Commons. The latter lies towards the other, or great Clock Tower, wherein ^ B^ Ben ’ booms the time of day over the vast city. Hie present Houses of Parliament replace those which were burnt down in 1834. They are situated between the river and noble Westminster Abbey. The Houses of Parliament constitute one of the noblest ranges of modern Gothic buildings in the empire. They were designed by Sir Charles Barry, the first stone being laid in 1840, and they occupy eight acres of ground. The principal front is to¬ wards the river — a splendid fa9ade 900 feet in length. The whole pile is divided into five principal compartments, splendidly decorated with the richest tracery, statues, and armorial bearings of Great Britain and Ireland. The river front is considered to be very fine. The old practice of ei^amining the cellars underneath the Houses of Parliament, which took its rise at the time of the Gunpowder Plot, is still continued, the investigation taking place some hours before the arrival of Her Majesty. Adjoining the Houses of Parliament stands Westminster Hall, where the Coronation Banquet of a newdy crowned sovereign takes place, and which is used throughout the year as the waiting-room to the various courts of law sitting at Westminster. {To he continued.) BLIHD JACK. ^LINB JACK was once a fisherman Who on the sea did roam. To earn his bread by catching fish For us who stay at home. But one sad day he lost his sight From bursting of a gun ; Now he can only sit and net All day long in the sun. When Dick is coming home from school. He likes to stop and hear From poor blind Jack his wondrous tales Of things both far and near. Of tiny beasts that shine at night Lilve glow-worms in the deep, Of fish that fly, and birds that dive, And porpoises that leap. Dick hopes that when he grows a man He, too, shall go to sea ; He gives Jack’s faithful dog a coin, And then runs home to tea.

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I

Page 207

No. XXVI. CHATTERBOX. 201

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202 CHATTERBOX. No. XXYI. BETTJAMIW FRANKLIN. * One of the most remai'kable men certainly of our time as a politician, or of any age as a philosopher, was Franklin.’ — Lord Brougham. . ENJAMIN FRANKLIN was horn in Boston, in Noith America, on the 11th of January, 1706, being the youngest, save two girls, of a family of seventeen children. His father had emigrated from England about twenty-eight years before. At ten years of age Benjamin was taken to help at his father’s business, which was that of a tallow-chandler and soap-boiler, and his employment was to cut wicks for the candles, fill the moulds for casting candles, attend the shop, and go on ei rands. Ills father dreading lest he should go to sea, resolved to place him with his brother James, wlio was a pi inter. To him Benjamin was apprenticed in his twelfth year. He teUs us that so great was his relish ff r reading, that he spent every penny he could get in buying books, and that a merchant who came to the printing-office took notice of him and lent him such books as he chose to read. When only sixteen, he chanced to meet with a treatise recommending vegetable diet, which he adopted from its cheapness. ^ This,’ he says, ^ was an additional fund foi- buying books. Having disagreed with his brother, he sold his books to raise a little money, and embarked in a ship for New York. Here he sought employment in vain from the only printer likely to give him work, but he advised him to go to Philadelphia, where he had a son who needed an assistant. After a disastrous voyage he at length ariived in safety, and gives the following striking picture of his adventures : — ^ I was in my working dress ; I was dirty from being so long in the boat. My pockets were stuffed with shirts and stoclrings I knew no one nor where to look for lodgings. I was very hungry, and my whole stock of cash consisted of a single dollar and about one shilling in copper coin. I bought three pennyworth of bread, and having no room for it in my pockets, walked off with a roll under each a’ m, and eating the other. Thus I went up Market Street as far as Fouith Street, passing by the door of Mr. Read, my future wife’s father, when she, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward and ridiculous appearance.’ After remaining some time in Philadelphia, he found means to go to London. On reaching that city he presented certain letters (as he supposed) of credit and recommendation given him by Governor Keith, on which he had relied to procure him patron¬ age and employment; but he was completely deceived, as he learned from a friend that the governor was in the habit of making promises w'hich he never intended to keej3. Thus deceived, Franklin found himself with¬ out friends or money in a strange country. After some time he was employed by a printer in Bartho¬ lomew Close, and afterwards with Mr. Watts, Lincoln’s Inn Fields. After remaining a year and a half in London he retuimed to Philadelphia, and engaged himself as a clerk in a mercantile house. After many reverses and disappointments, in the twenty-fourth year of his age he found himself with a prospect of well-doing before him as a stationer, and the following year he married a lady to whom he had been engaged laefore he left England. It was a happy union. From this p. int Franklin’s career was most successful : he devoted himself to literature, and established the first circulating library known in America. Ilis political career began in 1737, wffien he was appointed Clerk to the General Assembly of Pennsylvania. As a philo¬ sopher his name is linked with the histo: y of electricity. One day his attention was drawn to a kite which a boy was fi}nng, and it occurred to him that here was a method of reaching the clouds. Soon after a thunder¬ storm he went, accompanied by his son, to a shed, where, having raised his kite, he fastened a key to the lower . extremity of the hempen string, and then he insulated it by attaching it to a post with a piece of silk. At length Franklin observed some loose threads of the string rise and stand erect. He presented his knuckles to the key, and drew from it the well-lmown spark, lie died at the age of eighty-four years in April, 1790. TWO BRAVE CHILDREN. From the French, VERSAILLES newspaper relates, that among those who came forward at the end of the year 1877 to receive prizes from the humane society of Bie department was a little boy of six, Eugene Emile Levi, who saved the life of his sister, aged two years and a half. On the 28th of April these two children were playing togethe’* in a garden, wffien little Marie fell head foremost into a cask about tliree feet deep, which was sunk into the ground, and filled with water fiowing from a laundry, to the edge of which she had ventured to gather flowers. Instead of running aw^ay or hiding himself, as children often do on such occasions, little Eugene, understanding the danger which his sister ran, made the most intelligent efforts to drag her out, first by her feet, which protruded above the water, but his hands being too small, he seized her by her petticoats, then by her head, which he succeeded in keeping above the water till the arrival of his father, whom he had ^ent another child to look for. Dragged out of the receptacle of dirty water by her father, the poor little girl had lost all consciousness, and when her brother saw this he began to cry and to embrace her, covered wdth mud as she was. In a similar circumstance this brave boy had pre- %dously given proof of a rare intelligence. Two years before, the daughter of one Binot, in the same town, having fallen into a rain-water cask, Eugene had has¬ tened to inform her father, who, thanks to this warning, was able to save his child from a certain death.*

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No. XXVI. CHATTERBOX. 203 The Journal de Monthrison narrates a similar act of heroism in a little girl. On the night of June 23, 1877, a fire broke out in the house of Antoine Ber- lande, butcher, at Monthrison. It had already made great progress before the alarm was given. Berlande saved himself by getting out of a window, and by help of a ladder he carried off his papers and valuables. Ilis wife had aroused her children, who, with the exception of a little boy of four years old, all slept on the second floor. They were already in the street when Claudia Berlande, aged thirteen, saw that her little brother had been ieit in a room on the first floor. This brave girl did not hesitate ; she rushed into the house, hurried up through the midst of the flames, seized her brother, whom she carried, supporting herself with one hand against the burning walls. Half suffocated, she mistook her way, and ran into the kitchen, where the fire was fiercest. At last, by an heroism unparalleled in a child of such an age, she succeeded in saving her brother, and reached the street breathless, exhausted, with all the lower part of her body covered with burns, from the effects of which, after several weeks of great sufferipg, she expired. J. F. C. GERARD THE LION -KILLER. ^HO is this Gerard ? ' He is a man who for some time excited much attention in France by his marvellous courage. He was called Gerard the lion- killer. Gerard, since his childhood, was always fond of arms : sabres, swords, and guns were his play¬ things. When he grew up, tired of having nothing to do, he begged of his mother to let him enlist. The mother consented, and on the 23rd of June, 1842, Gerard enlisted in the third regiment of Spaliis, then garrisoned at Bona. He was at that time a young man of twenty-four, with a frail and delicate body, but with a bold heart which shone out of his clear blue eyes. He had small white hands like those of a woman, of which he took great care. Perhaps he had chosen the regiment of Spahis because of the elegance of their costume. Gerard, who in a black coat and tall hat was a man like all other men in the picturesque costume of his regiment, w^as a charming young fellow, full of grace and elegance. Gerard in France and in his travels had only hunted the game of Europe : hares, stags, and some wild boars. Of all the wild and savage animals, the lions of the Atlas alone remained in Algeria — the most terrible of all beasts, as the hunters of India would tell us. Hardly had Gerard arrived in Algeria when he disdained all other kinds of hunting ; he wished to chase the lion. In the meantime he hunted the Arabs, and twice he had been sent as a specially brave man on an important mission. All of a sudden, whilst he was at Guelma, the report spread that an old lion had descended from the chain of the Atlas, and was ravaging in the country of the Archiona. Twenty-four kilometres only separated Gerard from his terrible adversary, for whom he had come to search in Algeria. Some messengers arrived, who demanded, the first, for a huntsman j the others, for an avenger. When the first came, the lion had only carried away three oxen; between that and the arrival of the others, he had killed two men. The messengers came to ask if any of these Frenchmen, who would face anything, would face a lion. it was then that the vocation of Gerard revealed itself. His colonel passed by. He stopped him. ^ My colonel,’ said he, ^ wiU you permit me to go and kill the lion .P’ The colonel was a tall, stalwart man. He looked at Gerard, a mere stripling. ^ You wish to go and kill the lion ? He will gobble you up like a fly I’ ^ We shall soon see, my colonel, if you will grant me your permission.’ ^ Have you good arms ? ’ ^ I have my double-barrelled gun, with which I have hunted in France.’ ^ You have eight days’ leave. Go, and take care you do not get eaten up.’ Gerard departed with the messengers and his great dog, which bore the name of ^ Lion.’ He crossed the plain of Guelma; and whilst firing at a covey of red partridges he broke the riglit barrel of his gun. He had then only one barrel to tire with. He did not think it worth while to return to Guelma for that. There had been before in the country of Archiona a lion-hunter. He was a Turk, -who was called Arsen. Only he hunted the lions, sometimes by climbing up a tree, sometimes by croucliing in the cavities of rocks, or in the thickets. He had thus killed eleven lions. One evening he was walldng with his mistress, — ^ Do you hear the roar of the hon, Arsen ? ’ asked Fatma. ‘ Yes,’ answered Arsen ; ^ I hear him.’ ^ I want his skin to make a carpet of. But you must not wait for this one, either up in a tree or behind a rock ; you must attack him in his own lair, face to face, the man to the lion.’ ^ Very well,’ said Arsen, who took his gun and departed. Three days passed without anything being heard of him. The young men of the village went to look for him. They found his bones at the bottom of a ravine. The messengers told this story to Gerard, and urged him to climb up a tree, or to lay in ambush. Gerard shook his head. ^ I have come to fight the lion,’ said he ; ^ not to assassinate him.’ He obtained information, departed, his gun under his arm, and his dog smelling before him, as if he were going to shoot larks. For two days, or rather for two nights, he beat about without seeing anything in the neighbourhood of the village. At last, on the 8th of JuJy, towards

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204 CHATTERBOX. XXVI. nine o’cloclv in the evening, a terrible roaring was heard. * He who has not heard the roaring of the lion,’ says the Arab, ‘ has not heard thunder." One loiows what are the nocturnal noises of the forests and the mountains ; but at the voice of the lion all other voices are silent : the tiger shudders, and the panther hides himself. Gerard stopped short. It was the first time that he had heard this noise, and it alarmed him for a moment. He imagined that he was separated from the lion by a little wood. Gerard crossed the wood. All of a sudden, at the moment when he arrived at its edge, he saw the lion move, thirty paces from him. He was crouching upon his belly ; he was lashing the sand with his tail ; he was tearing the ground before him with his claws. He looked at this man, this pigmy, who was coming up to him, and with his jaws open he sent forth the smoke of his breath, like the dragon in the fable. ^ You are too far olT,’ said Gerard to him. * Come to me and we shall see.’ The voice of man has a strange power over animals. At the voice of Gerard, the lion, in fact, arose, and with a bound of twenty paces approached him. But hardly had he touched the ground when the shot was fii'ed — the one shot, the only one Gerard had to fire. The ball struck the lion between the two eyes and Irilled him. Gerard returned to the village at the same pace that he had left it ; and with the same voice with which he had said, ^ I will kill him,’ he said, — ' He is dead 1’ C. S. C. PEAS-BLOSSOM. (Gontimied from p. 195. ) CHAPTEB XXVIII. ^HE Sunday morning after the Signor had been to Kelburn Lodge a letter came to Mr. Bright, which gave him some uneasiness and caused great grumbling among the chil¬ dren, who did not know its contents, but who saw that he was troubled at the hardness of father’s short holiday being spoilt by bothersome letters. The letter was from Canon Peters, and was written in that gentleman’s most pompous and solemn style. The substance of it was, that hearing that Signor Cherita was often at Kelburn Lodge, and intimate with Mr. Bright’s children. Canon Peters con¬ cluded that Mr. Bright was unaware of the serious reports that were current in Mudford about that person’s character and history — reports which had caused him to put an end to his engagement as organist at the church. Now Mr. Bright had an honest horror of scandal, and of the petty gossip of country towns, and on finst reading this letter he was much inclined to snap his fingers politely at Canon Peters and his serious reports, but looking at the children round the breakfast-table. of whom Honor was the eldest — and she only fifteen, and very childish in most things for her age — he felt that he could not afford to treat the matter with in¬ difference, and putting the letter in his pocket he resolved to talk it over wdth his old friend and coun¬ sellor, Aunt Bell. So after church, on the way home — which way home from church was always through the Grove Gardens, he gave Aunt Bell the letter to read, and asked what she thought of it. The children were very dear to Aunt Bell, none the less because John Keith the elder and John Keith the younger shared her heart with them ; and she had felt some uneasi¬ ness long before this at hearing of this friend of Pat’s being introduced at Kelburn Lodge, who might be a ivolf in the fold ; but she had been disarmed first, as John Keith was, by little Piccola, and then by the sad dark face of Piccola’s father. And now as she read Canon Peters’ letter her mind was distracted between pity and anger — at condemning a man unheard on the strength of mere vague rumour, and fear for that young party at Kelburn Lodge, who were so happy, and gay, and thoughtless now, ^ If I had more time I would sift matters,’ said Mr. Bright. ‘ He told me he had lost his situation as or¬ ganist, and he told Pat ho did not think he should come to Kelburn Lodge again.’ ^ Pat is very fond of him.’ ^ Yes, and I don’t think he is likely to do Pat any harm ; and I should have a mutiny in the camp if I tried to put an end to that friendship. Perhaps the safest thing would be to teU Pat not to ask his friend over here unless I am down, or you can be in the way.’ As Mr. Bright fully expected, Pat flared up vio¬ lently, even at this very moderate suggestion; and nothing would serve him but to go off the very next morning to Mudford, to visit this much-maligned and injured friend, and to pull the nose of Canon Peters and of any one who dared to say a w^ord against the Signor. By doing this he missed a cricket-match and came back rather crestfallen, having found that the Signor and Piccola were out for the day, and Miss Pink too much wrapped up in her own troubles to pay any attention to l\at’s fiery wrath. So Pat was obhged to listen to a long story of a certain sister Mary Ann, who had a long family and a short income — the one growing longer as the other grew shorter — and a scamp of a husband, who had gone off now to America, leaving her with eleven children of various degrees of helplessness, from two months upwards. ^ And she w'ants me to go to her, poor thing ! ’ said Miss Pink. ^ And trouble don’t make folk more thoughtful for others, though it may for themselves ; for how can I leave my business, and my lodger, and all at a moment’s notice, and travel to Liverpool, when I haven’t been ten miles from Mudford for years ? I declare to you, Mr. Pat, the very notion has set me all of a quake, I’m that nervous 1 ’ Pat gave as much sympathy and advice as he could muster, but left her still in a distracted condition. He fully intended to come in next day to see the Signor ; but that waUi into Mudford for nothing had rather damped his ardour, though he would not confess it ; and he was persuaded to come into the harvest-field

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Pat lighting the Fire. instead of tramping those dull five miles; and aftei' •that, every day brought some engrossing occupation till the holidays were over, without his having lieard or seen anything of the Signor, or even knowing how Miss Pink had decided the difiicult question of her journey. As they vrent to school that first day, Pat and Paddy looked with much curiosity at the Orchards, wondering if they should see Kay’s pony come out. But though the house looked inhabited no one came out, and Kay Carrington’s name was not called among the others at school. This was a great disappointment to begin with, and when, after school, Pat made off to Miss Pink’s and saw the shutters up in the downstairs room and the door shut, he felt altogether blank. ^ Miss Ifink has been gone this thiee weeks,’ they told him at the little shop opposite, ^ and we donx know when she may be home.’

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206 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVL ^ And tlie Signor ?’ asked Pat. * Oh, they have a new organist at the church.’ But here customers came in, and the woman left Pat to attend to them: and Pat, after waiting a minute or two, went out and looked forlornly at the opposite house, where he had once been so welcome, and which was now closed and silent. But as he looked he saw something on the window-sill of one of the upper windows, and he gave a little cry of pleasure. It was ^Biondina,’ Piccola’s doll, sitting calmly there, taking the air and simpering pleasantly on the world of Mudford as it passed along Paul Street. * They must be there still,’ said Pat, decidedly ; ‘ they never would have left Biondina behind.’ So he crossed the road and knocked. No answer: so he knocked again and again, and at last was coming to the conclusion that the house must be empty, and was turning /iway with a sense of the faithlessness of human nature, exemplified in the deserted Biondina, when a little noise inside attracted his attention, and he knocked again. * Who’s there ?’ said Piccola’s voice sure enough. ' It’s me — Pat !’ ' I’ll open the door ; but I can’t reach : wait a bit.’ And Pat heard the dragging of a chair, and then a prolonged fumbling with the handle. But presently the door opened triumphantly, and Piccola jumped from her chair into Pat’s arms. But what a dirty little Piccola ! Miss Pink’s care was sadly wanted to wash that dirty little face, with tear stains round the dark eyes, and smears round the mouth, and to comb the tangled curls that hung matted over her forehead. Her pinafore was torn and ragged, and she had only one shoe and sock on. Pat had not fancied that Miss Pink had so much to do with keeping Piccola tidy. ^ Where’s father he asked, while the little thing clasped him tightly round the neck. ‘ Upstairs,’ she • said. ^ Father s ill, and Piccola wants her tea.’ So Pat went up carrying the child, and stood at the door a moment pity-struck. The roem was in confu¬ sion ; unwashed cups and plates were piled on the table, mixed with books and Piccola’s dolls and pinafores. Piccola’s crib, with the clothes tumbled and untidy, stood on one side of the fireplace, and in the armchair on the other sat the Signor, unshaved and unwashed, with a blanket round him, cowering over the fireplace as if he did not know that the last spark had died away in the dead grey ashes. The only bright thing in the room was the sweet face which still siniled down from the picture. ‘ Piccola wants her tea,’ sobbed the little girl, ^ and father does not take no notice.’ Ill ! Pat knew little of illness. But there was no mistaking it here, in the Signor’s wan face, and the lustreless dim eyes that he raised when Piccola spoke, and then dropped, as if he did not see Pat. There was a lump in Pat’s throat, and a feeling that he would like to run away and fetch Aunt BeU, and nurse, and father, and aU of them : but he conquered himself with an effort, and, setting Piccola down, he stepped across the room to the fireplace and spoke much in bis usual cheerful voice. * Hullo, Sir, you are seedy to-day I’ ^ Pat ! ’ said the Signor, trying to rouse himself ; ^ is it you ?’ ‘ Yes, it’s me ; I ought to have come a long time ago, only I’m such a wretched duffer at remembering. "What’s wrong ?’ * I’m not very well, and Miss Pink is away. I’m afraid it is all in a horrid muddle ; but I’m not up to much to-day.’ ^ All right,’ said Pat ; ^ I’ll straighten up a bit and get tea. Never you mind about it — it’s a lark for me and Piccola.’ So Pat set to with a will, and soon got things more shi])-shape, foraging about downstairs among Miss Pink’s belongings with the coolest audacity, while Piccola trotted about after him and helped as well as she could. He lit up the fire, and cleared away the heaps of ashes from underneath, and set on the kettle, and then made a clean sweep of all the dirty china off the table, and had a grand wash up in the kitchen. Plis eyes were dim now and then with tears, and his hands trembled, and the lump came up in his throat ; and you may be very sure he did not do his work any the w^orse for that, but rather the better. From Piccola’s chatter he gathered that when Miss Pink first went a woman came in every day to do for them, but after a few days the Signor told her he could manage without her. ^He gives no lessons now,’ said Piccola, 'never plays the organ ; and he never smiles or plays with me ; and he was too tired to get up this morning till ever so late ; and Boney upset the milk, and I cried, and father did not seem to mind.’ Pat’s heart was very sore as he listened ; but nQ?ie the less did he bustle about, and laugh and talk to Piccola, as if aU were a capital piece of fun. He found a loaf and some treacle, but there was nothing else. But Pat’s pockets contained a few pence, thanks to its being the first day at school, and with these he bought some milk and a little screw of tea at the shop opposite, laying out his money with a sagacity that would have won nurse’s admiration could she have seen; and he felt proud himself when tea was laid, and he had made the tea and toasted some bread for the Signor. All was ready, and Piccola was anxious to say grace and fall to; but Pat did not feel quite satisfied with her appearance, and coaxed her into the bed¬ room, Avhere he rummaged out a clean pinafore and found her other sock and shoe, and gave her face a wash with much Hgorous opposition on her part, and even attempted to comb her hair, but gave it up as a bad job. The cup of tea seemed to revive the Signor a little, and he told Pat he had been very ill, but was getting better. 'I’ve often been ill like this before, and I always pulled through. It’s no use having a doctor. I know as much as any doctor can tell me ; and, besides, I can’t afford to pay one. All my pupils have fallen off one after another, since I lost my situation at the church, and when Miss Pink left I meant to go off and try my luck elsewhere ; but I’ve not been up to the move, and she said we could stop on as long as we liked. She’s a good little soul as ever lived, and stuck by us, and would not believe a word of what they said against me.’

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No. XXYI. CHATTERBOX. 207 ‘ Nor did we ! ’ burst out Pat ; ^not a word !’ * Then you have heard it ? I thought you would. Pat,’ he added, eagerly, ^ you had better go home, lad. Your father wouldn't like your coming, and I wouldn’t come between you for worlds.’ ‘Father thought it was just spiteful gossip, and he said I could come to you as much as I liked.’ ‘ You had better not, all the same. You had better keep clear of me, Pat.’ ‘Why?’ ‘ Do you know that they say I am a bad fellow, living by my wits; that Pve often been in debt and low company, and more than once in prison ; that I married a play-actress, and am living under a false name ? ’ ‘ Do you think I believe a word of it ? ’ said Pat. ‘I should like to punch their heads all round, who¬ ever said it.’ ‘ Wait a bit, Pat — don’t be in a hurry ; for these good, respectable people of Mudford, have it on the best authority ; and it’s all true.’ ‘ True ? ’ ‘ Yes. I told you that you had better keep clear of me, Pat.’ He turned his head away, and closed his eyes ; but opened them again in a minute, and saw Pat still sitting before the fire, hugging his knees. ‘ Why don’t you go ? ’ he said, fretfully. Pat jumped to his feet. ‘ What do you talfe me for ? ’ he said. ‘ I don’t care a snap what they say, or if it’s true or not.’ The Signor stretched out one of his thin, hot hands, and laid it on Pat’s. ‘ They know a great deal about me, Pat,’ he said. ‘ My wretched story is all at their fingers’ ends ; but there’s one thing they don’t know, and that Pve never told any man, but I’ll tell it to you.’ ‘What?’ ‘ That I’m sorry.’ {To be continued.) HOW GOUNOD BECAME A MUSICIAN. From the German. WHEN Gounod was at the school of one who was called the good Papa Pierson he was con¬ stantly scribbling musical notes. One day the school¬ master sent for him into his study. ‘ Your parents complain,’ said l-^'erson. ‘ They do not wish any musician in their family. You must be a Professor.’ ‘ Never ! ’ ‘ Your only choice is between Greek and Latin.’ ‘ But I will be a musician,’ said Gounod. ‘ You will ? Give it up, I say: it is no profession at all. However, we will just see what you can do. Here’s pen and paper. Compose for me a new air to Joseph’s words : “ A peine au sortir de I’enfance ! ” ’ It was the recreation hour. Before the bell sounded for the studies to begin again, Gounod came back with his paper completely covered. ‘ Already ! ’ cried Pierson. ‘ Well, sing it, then ! ’ Gounod sang and accompanied himself, and so deeply affected poor Papa Pierson, that with tears he pressed him in his arms, and exclaimed, — ‘ Oh, my dear boy ! Henceforth they may say what they Hke, but a musician you shall be, and nothing else.’ J. F. C. GEOFFBEY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. {Continued from page 191.) THE COOK. * A Coke they hadden with hem for the nones,* boile the chickenes and the marie bones.’ HE five rich London citizens brought with them their own cook, a clever fellow ' called ‘Hodge,’ or Roger, ‘ to boil the chickens and the marrow-bones, and powder- marchant tart,’ wdiatever that may have been — per¬ haps something nice that we know nothing about now; and ‘galingale,’ or sweet cyperus. Well did he know a draught of London ale, and roast and boil and fry and broil ; and right well could he bake a pie. Now this Cook of London was so delighted with the Reve for the story he told of the knavi.' h milkr, who got so w^ell served for his roguery, that for joy he clapped him on the back. ‘ Aha ! ’ cried he, ‘ this miller had a sharp conclu¬ sion. Never since I have been called Hodge of Ware heard I of a miller better set to work. But if ye vouch¬ safe to hear a tale from me that am a poor man, I will tell you as well as I can of a little jest that befell in our city.’ ‘I grant it thee,’ said our host. ‘Now tell on, Roger, and look that thy tale be good ; for thou hast let blood for many a pasty, and hast sold many a J ack of Dover t that has been twice hot and twice cold. And many a pilgrim has fared the worse for the parsley they have eaten in thy stubble-goose, for many a fly goeth loose in thy shop. Now tell on, gentle Roger by thy name ; yet be not angry, I pray thee, for a man may say fuU truly in sport and play.’ ‘ Thou sayest true,’ quoth Roger ; but “ true sport is bad sport,” as the Fleming saith ; and therefore be not thou angry, Herry Bailly, though my tale be of an hosteler. But, nevertheless, I will not tell it yet, but ere we part you shall certainly be quit ! ’ And so, laughing and making good cheer, the Cook saved his tale about an hosteler, or host, for another occasion; and instead of that, told one of an idle London ’prentice, who spent all the time he should have been minding his business in amusements, till, making free wdth his master’s cash-box, he got turned out of his situation. But what the after adventures of this scapegrace were we shall never know, for all but the beginning of the story is lost. A. R. {To be continued.) * For the occasion. t Some eatable, but of what kind is not known.

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Page 215

“ The old woman sighed and shook her head.”

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210 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVII. He came back a fort- PEAS-BLOSSOM. {^Continued fromp. 207.) CHAPTER XXIX. 'he Signor was very ill; and thoiigk every dav lie declared that he was better and should soon be all right a^ain, it was easy to see that he was growing weaker, and that the cough that shook and tore him to pieces got no easier. At Pat’s persuasion he agreed to have the old woman again to clean and cook for them ; but he _ _ would not consent to have a doctor or to part with Piccola, though Pat begged and entreated to carry her off to^ Kelburn Lodge, and brought endless messages of invitation from the rest of the family every time he came. These messages were not the only things that Pat brought with him. Small as the resources at Kelbuin Lodo'e were, they were never so small that thing could not be spared for poorer people, though they never gave away any of father’s hard-earned substance without some corresponding sacrifice on their own parts. But even so nurse had sometimes to interfere with the children’s generosity, and in this case she would not allow them to give up meat al¬ together in order to keep the Signor supplied with beet tea, and she would only permit self-sacrifice in the matter of puddings, sugar, and jam, and such-hke luxuries, which the children willingly resigned ; and nurse skilfully managed that there should be no dif¬ ference in the weekly bills, in spite of the httle basket that Pat carried every morning into Mudford. Aunt Bell was a great resource, too, and was always readv to supply jelly and all sorts of invalid delicacies, which Pat was delighted to convey to the Signor ; but he always fancied that the things nurse made were reaUv the nicest when they were made at some small sacrifice to himself. . And the Signor accepted Pat’s presents as simplv as they were given. Once he said, ‘ I did not think I should come to depend on charity. You are very good to me, Pat. How can I thank you ? But Pat got so red and uncomfortable, and was so hurt in his mind about it, that the Signor said no more. Pat went there as mucli as possible. He came half an hour earlier to school, and managed in spite of rules to spend the hour after dinner there, and after school stopped till it grew dark. ^ Often the Signor was dozing, often drowsy and disinclined to talk, lying on the sofa in the sitting-room, watchmg the picture that smiled down on him in the Octtmer sunshine, or in the dusk, or in the firelight ; and then Pat would play with Piccola, or sit by silently ; and sometimes the Signor liked to hear him talk, and then Pat would spin out long yarns for his amusement of home doings. . , o.. u ^Tell me of your father,’ the Signor would say; and Pat was always eloquent on that subject. One day he mentioned Ptay Carrington, and the Signor asked if he were still away. ‘ Yes,’ said Pat ; ‘ I found out from the boy that he was away at school abroad somewhere. * And his grandfather is away, too ? ’ ^ No ; he is at the Orchards, night ago.’ ^ Are you sure ? ’ ‘ Y'^es ; I saw him yesterday.’

‘ I shall come as early as I can on Monday morning, he said wistfully, as he was going away. ‘ I wish to-morrow was not Sunday.’ < t ‘ Don’t worry about me,’ answered the i shall be well enough, though I will not say I shall not miss 3"OU, Pat.’ . , 4. But the Signor did not miss Pat s company next dav, for as the church bells at Mudford were ringing and the congregation making their way up Church Lane, Pat came springing up the stairs and into the room, with a face as bright as October sunshine on the ruddy autumn woods. ‘ Oh, Pat, vou should not have come. ‘ It was father sent me, and he said he would have come himself, only his legs are not so young as they were, and he didn’t think he could manage the hye miles here and back. Oh, he’s such a bnck the governor is, you don’t know ! I don t think any fellow ever had such a father as he is.’ ^ ‘ I had once,’ said the Signor. His voice was so weak and low that Pat’s spirits, which had been raised by his walk through the fresh, bracing air, subsided, and he sat down by the fire silently, waiting to see if the Signor were inclined to talk. ‘ \V here’s Piccola ? ’ he asked at last.

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No. XXVII, CHATTERBOX. 211 ^Mrs. Welby offered to take ber to church and I told her to go. Poor little soul ! it’s dull work for her.’ The bells had stopped, and presently the Signor asked Pat to reiid to him. There were a few novels in yellow covers lying about, and Pat took them up one after another, and read their titles doubtfully. ^ What shall I read ? ’ ^ Oh, anything ! ’ ^ You see father doesn’t like our reading these sort of books on Sunday.’ ^ It doesn’t matter,’ said the Signor. ^ Shall I just go down and see if Miss Pink has anything in her room that’s more the sort of thiiiff P ’ ' If you like.’ So Pat went down to look round, but found only some small volumes of sermons bound in dark brown, with long s’s and queer spelling, which Pat would not have liked to undertake to read aloud, having opened at a page about ^ silly soules ’ which he set down as ibberish. There was a Bible and Prayer-book and e brought these up wdth him, feeling rather shy and not liking to propose reading out of them. ^ What have you got there ? ’ ‘ Oh, only a Bible. Miss Pink has such a queer lot down there.’ * Well, read away.’ ^ What shall I read ? ’ ' Anj^thing.’ So Pat found out the Psalms and Lessons for the day and read them, fancying that the Signor was not paying any attention, as he lay with his eyes shut scarcely moving. But when he had done reading the Signor said, ^ Are you a good hand at looking up texts, Pat P ’ ^ Yes, pretty fair. I can turn up most, sooner or later, if I set-to at it.’ ^ See if you can find out I will arise and go to my Father?”’ ^ ^ Oh, I kmow : that’s the Prodigal Son.’ So Pat found and read that most beautiful parable, and when he had finished the Signor said, ^ There’s another verse somewhere about Esau, I think : “ He found no place for repentance.” It was in my head all last night. That’s how it is with mo.’ He was speaking more to himself than to Pat. Pat did not know how to answer, and hardly liked to look at the eyes with the dark rings round them that were looking so earnestly at him, so he bent over the little Bible again, and read out the text his eyes fell on first. Likewise I say unto you, There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one siunei that repenteth.” ’ CHAPTER, XXX. ^Is he better,’ Pat asked next morning, meeting Mrs. Welby at the door, with her bonnet on. * Better ! not he ! he’ll never be better in this world. I’m going to fetch the doctor; it’s no use shilly-shallying any longer. He ought to have had the doctor long ago — not as any doctor could save him, as any one could see he was took for death when he first come here.’ ^ Is he going to die ? ’ gasped Pat. ^ Die, child ! don’t look so skeard ! W’e all go sooner or later : it’s as God pleases.’ Pat stood for a minute in the passage after the woman had left him, pressing his hands over his eyes and trying to steady the trembling of his lips and the beating of his heart, trying to persuade himself still that it was only the croaking of an old woman, and nothing to be really frightened about. He thought he had got himself in hand at last and went up, but one look at the white drawn face, with the strange, solemn, eager look in the eyes, upset his composure, and he threw himself down on the foot of the bed in a burst of grief, sobbing out, ^ You are better ! say you are better ! ’ Don’t, Pat ! don’t, lad ! you have been such a friend to me, Pat — done me more good than I can tell, and I want you to do one thing more for me. My head is so weak, I wander sometimes and don’t know what I say or do : but I must keep it clear for this, and if you cry I get so confused. There, that’s right — wait a bit.’ Piccola was sitting on the bed by her father, half- dressed, holding one of his thin transparent hands tightly in her little fat brown ones. He was silent a few minutes,^ fiyhig to get his breath, which came so hard and difficult, and Pat wuTing his hands together and bit his lips to keep in his tears. ^ Pat, I want you to take Piccola to my father.’ ^ Was he wandering?’ Pat wondered; ^ what did he mean ? ’ ^ You must get her into the house somehow : don’t let them shut her out — she has a message. You know the message, Piccola ? ’ The child nodded. * Only get her into the house and let her go alone to her grandfather ; and I think— I believe— it will be all right. Will you do it, Pat ? ’ Pat’s brain was in a whirl, it was all confusion. Was this the wandering of delirium, or was there some strange meaning ? ‘ I don’t understand quite,’ he said. The Signor looked disappointed. ‘I thought I could count on you, and Piccola will go with you and not any one else. I thought, if they would not let you in you could get over into the orchard, where you did that day I helped you.’ As the exhausted words came slowdy from the sick man the clouds were slowly clearing from Pat’s mind, and he gave a sudden cry, and looked up at the smiling picture on the wall. That was Kay’s face that looked down on him, smiling in youth, and health, and beauty from the wall, and when he looked back at the bed it was again Kay’s face under another aspect, ale, and worn, and hollow-eyed, that looked up at im from the tumbled pillows ! ‘ I will go,’ Pat said. ^ I understand ! Come, Piccola.’ ^ Not now,’ said the Signor. ‘ You must go to school, and come in after dinner. It will be a better time then, and Piccola shall be ready. I don’t mind now. I think I shall be able to sleep. I was so afraid that I might lose my head altogether, and not be able to make you understand. Ah, there comes the doc¬ tor ! I don’t care now ; he ma}^ say what he likes, and I know pretty well what he wiU say : but don’t forget, Pat, and if I am unconscious when you come, or asleep, or if they won’t let you come in, just call Piccola and go. God bless you, Pat, my friend I ’ {To be continued,)

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Dryburgh Abbey. SIR WALTER SCOTT. ALTER SCOTT, the poet and novelist, whose writings have fired many a young imagination, was born at Edinburgh, on the loth of August, 1771, and received his educntion in the same city, first at the High School and afterwards at the University. He was a great reader, delighting in history, poetry, travels, and romances ; and amongst his schoolfellows was extremely popular, for, as his friend James Bal- lantyne says, ^ his stories appeared to be quite inex¬ haustible.’ Burial-place of Sir Walter Scott. His first literary venture was a translation of two stories, Lenore, and the Wild Huivtsinaiij from the German of Burger. It was published in 1796. From that time until 1814 his pen was chiefly occu¬ pied with poetry. The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, and the Lady of the Lake, were written during this period. He also tried his hand at bio¬ graphy, publishing the Life and Works of Dry den and of Dean Swift. But his fairest laurels were yet to be won. On the 7th of July, 1814, appeared the first of that brilliant series of novels which are still

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Somerset House.

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214 CHATTERBOX. No. XXYIT. the delight of young and old. Waverley met with complete success, and was quickly followed by other volumes equally fascinating; but it was not until the year 1827 that Scott publicly aclmowledged himself to be the author of these popular works. Before this he had passed through the greatest joys and greatest sorrows of his life. In 1797 he had married Margaret Carpenter, a lady whose father had perished during the horrors of the French Revolution. The young couple settled first at Lasswade, after¬ wards at Asliiesteel on Tweed, and finally removed to Abbotsford in 1811. At Abbotsford, and at his house in Castle Street, Edinburgh, most of Scott’s novels were written, four or five hours a-day being regu¬ larly devoted to this favourite pursuit. George TV. created him a baronet, and until the death of his wife, which took place in 1826, and the failure in the same year of his publisliers. Constable and Bal- lantvne, liis path was one of ease and happiness. This failure was a terrible misfortune to him. Not only was all his own money lost; he was also left responsible for a debt of 117,000/. In order to pay this off honourably he toiled without ceasing, sending forth volume after volume to delight the world, but wearing out his brain and wrecking his health with excess of labour. In 1830 he was struck with paralysis, from which he never fully re¬ covered. Week by week he lost strength, both of mind and body. Change of scene was recommended, and he spent the winter of 1831 in the south of Europe. On his return through Germany in the fol¬ lowing summer he had another and more alarming seizure, and after some delay reached Abbotsford in a state of extreme prostration. There he died, on the 21st of September, 1832, and w'as buried by the side of his wife in the old Abbey of Dry burgh, whose grey walls, rising among the yew-trees, formed a part of tlie beautiful Tweed.side scenery which from his earliest days he had so dearly loved. H. L. T. THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XIY.— FROM WESTmNSTER TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. HE Thames Embankment, which, as we descend the Thames, is first seen at Chelsea on the Middlesex side, then at Lambeth on the Surrey side, now ceases at Westminster Bridge; and it is now again the Middlesex side of the river which is embanked. This bulwark again.st the fiooding of the Thames, called the Victoria Embankment, has vastly improved the shores of the river, but it has necessarily swept away many of the ancient landmarks. One of these was White¬ hall Stairs, the point of embarkation patronised by the Royal Family of England when they used the riv^er. It was also here that the Lord Mayor disem¬ barked on the ninth of November, when he went by water from London to Westminster to pay his respects in W^'estminster Hall to the Lord Chief Baron, who represented the sovereign. Whitehall Stairs was a favourite spot with King James I., who, by the way, had a quarrel with the City, in which the Thames was oddly involved. The IHng wished to obtain money from the City, which the authorities of London were not willing to find. Thereupon the IHng threatened to ruin London by removing the Court from the metropolis to Oxford or York. W’^hereupon the Mayor replied, ^ So it please your Majesty to remove the Court wherever your Majesty wills, but our merchants Nvill find this com¬ fort, that your Majesty cannot carjy off the Thames.^ Here, above AVhitehall Stairs, stood Whitehall Palace, or rather collection of palaces, all of which were burnt down in 1698, except the beautiful Ban¬ queting Hall, before which Charles I. was beheaded. A statue of James II. now stands on the spot. This building now faces Parliament Street, and is used as a Chapel Royal. There Henry ATIT. married Anne Boleyn, the King having wrested the place from Cardinal Wolsey, in whose time it was called ‘ York Place.’ The name was changed by Henry. ‘ For since the Cardinal fell that title’s lost ! ’Tis now the King’s, and called Whitehall.* "We now come to Hungerford Bridge, 'which has seen many changes. Hungerford was the chief river- market and commercial centre above London Bridge, and was the favourite spot for aquatic Londoners to show off their prowess. The site is now occupied by a huge railway station. It was at this point on the river that, early in the last century, the notorious pleasure-barge, called the Jh^olly, 'was anchored. It was illuminated most evenings in summer-time, and concerts and balls took place on deck. No doubt the fresh breezes blowing on the river were very pleasant after the stifling and badly-kept London streets of the last century; but the ‘Folly’ was put down by the authorities as a greater evil than advantage. Here, moored in the shadow of the bridge, is the first plunge-bath ever erected on the Thames. Continuing down river, we see on the Middlesex side the celebrated obelisk, Cleopatra’s Needle, with which the eye is already familiar ; and on the other side a couple of tow^ers, whicli awaken the curiosity of most observers, until informed that they are shot manu¬ factories. The melted lead is poured tlirough sieves at the top of the building, and most of the drops in falling not only become round but sohd. The atoms are then, for a time, rolled round and round, togetlier 'with blacklead, in huge cyhnders, and by this means the shot obtains not only a jet-like blackness but a high poli.sh. And now we approach Waterloo Bridge, named in honour of the last English victory over the French, in 1815. This fine structure is perfectly level, a peculiarity wliich distinguishes it amongst bridges. Russian engineers declare it the finest worlv of its kind in the world, and, indeed, one has to go many journeys before he finds any structure to equal it. As we approach Waterloo Bridge we could see, until very recently, the square tower of the Chapel of the Savoy, all that remains of an extensive palace and a fine church. The Rev. Henry White, chaplain of the Savoy, has recently written a book, in which he shows that it was probably in the gardens of the

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No. XXVII. CHATTERBOX. 215 Savoy Palace that the first roses which hloomed in England were grown. Passing under the bridge we find ourselves abreast of Somerset House. Named after that Duke of Somerset who was uncle of Edward YI., and whose ambition cost him his head : the site had long been the property of the Government when the present splendid building was erected. Somerset House is chiefly used for those government offices where the business of stamps, licenses, and legacy duties is carried on. sen APS OP BIOGRAPHY. UFFON, the French naturalist, was by nature indolent. At length he resolved to rise early every morning, and promised his valet a crown for every day on which he made him rise before six. The servant tried many means, but in vain ; until he came one morning into the room with a basin of cold water and flung it into the bed. His master rose at once, and this plan never failed. Du. Johnson delighted in argmnent and debate. If he failed to convince, or saw that he was in the wrong, he would often try to ^roar his adveisiry down !’ After once behaving rather rudely to Dr. Percy, he said to Boswell the next morning, — ^ sir, we had fine tallt last night.’ * Yes, sir,’ said Boswell; ‘ you tossed and gored several persons !’ The great Mogul received from England some mastiffs as a present. Their size and courage made him treat them with strange honours. In order to feed them with his own hand he had a pair of silver tongs made. When the dogs took an airing each was carried in a palanl^een by two slaves, whilst two other men walked on each side to fan off the flies. The Duke of Wellington, as a soldier, is said only once to have failed. This was at the siege of Seringapatam, when he was ordered to make a night attack on a ' tope,’ or grave. His men were repulsed ; but when morning came and the soldiers saw clearly the obstacles in theiPway the position was taken. Felix Neff, like many remarkable men, had a most retentive memory. His mother relates that, when a very young child, he one day said, — ' Take up your pen, and let me see if I can remem¬ ber the stanzas I read at the fountain of Stanislas a week ago !’ And to her surprise he repeated the twenty-four stanzas as correctly as if then before his eyes. It was once a custom with learned men to change their names. The Reformer who is known as Me- lancthon had for his real name Hertz Schwartz (black earth), which he thought more elegant in a Greek form. Metastasio, the great Italian poet, was born with the vulgar name of Trapasso. Erasmus called himself so in preference to his proper name of Gerard, which in Dutch means amiable. The name the poet Mallett is a softened form of Mallock,and that of Macklin, the actor, is a form of MacLaughlin. To such an extent did this habit once grow in Rome, that the reigning Pope found it desirable to imprison some persons for using affected names. A. R. B. GALILEO AND THE TELESCOPE. WHEN the great Italian astronomer was on a visit to Venice in 1600, he heard that Prince Maurice of Nassau had been presented by a Dutch¬ man with an instrument which had the curious power of making distant objects seem near to the observer. Galileo at once set to work with the object of making such an instrument. Two spectacle glasses, both plain on one side, but one having its other side convex, and the other that side concave, were fixed one at each end of a metal tube. On placing his eye to the concave glass he saw objects magnified and brought nearer. His instrument only magnified three times, but when shown in Venice it created great interest. Crowds flocked to the inventor’s house to see the curious toy ; and the Senate caused it to be known that they would like to possess it. Galileo at once presented them with the telescope, and received substantial rewards in return. Sisturi, who also constructed one of these instru¬ ments, ascended the tower of St. Mark at Venice, in order to use it without hindrance from curious citizens. But the people in the streets, observing him with the telescope, mounted the tower and deprived him of it until they all had satisfied their curiosity. They even wished to secure the same pleasure for their friends the next day ; but Sisturi, in order to avoid them, left Venice the same night. Galileo was the most sldlful maker of these in¬ struments, and at last he constructed one which magnified more than thirty times, with which he made some important discoveries connected wirh the moon. A. R. B. THE MITHERLESS BAIRH. S) Y the side of the door of a cottager’s dwelling I A little boy stood on a bright summer’s day. Trying hard to keep down the hot tears that were welling. As he wistfully gazed at two children at play. His young heart was sad, he had just lost his mother — A mother so gentle, so loving, and kind ; Alone now he stood, without sister or brother To share in his sorrow or comfort his mind. And as he looked on while the children were playing, And shouting with glee in the midst of the' floor, Their mother looked up from the work she was doing. And saw the poor laddie’s pale face at the door. Oh, the love of a mother, no one has a notion How boundless to others as well as her ovm ; And the heart of the woman sweffied up with emotion. As she bade him come in with the tenderest tone. ^Now, Hinney, coam in, coam and play with the bairnies. For it grieves me to see thee stan baking sae sad. See, the bonny wee babby she hands out her airmies As if she wad gang to the mitherless lad. ^ God bless thee, my laddie, for the sake of thy mither ! I’ll speak to thee kindly and nane shall thee hairm. It wad hae gladdened her heart had she knawn that anither Wad often speak kind to her mitherless bairn.’

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No. XXVII. The Mitherless Bairn.

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t 218 CHATTERBOX. No. XXYIIL GEOFPBEY CHAIJCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Continued from page 207.) THE SHIPMAN. ‘ A Shipman was ther, woned fer by west : For ought I wote, he was of Dertemouth.’ GOOD fellow was our Ship- man, hailing from Dart- mouth. Hut it would he ; difficult to find his exact y J counterpart amongst sea- faring men of the present day ; for he Avas not only mf.ster of the barge the Maydelaine, wdnch he com¬ manded, but owned the cargo too, and traded on his own account. He seems rather to have resembled the old smugglers, for ‘ of nice conscience took he no keep,’ and had drawn many a draught of wdne from Bordeaux ward whilst ^ the chapman ’ slept ; and if he got the upper hand in a fight sent it lioine by \vater to every land. But for skill in reckoning his tides, streams, and strands, the moon, and for pilotage, there was not his like from Hull to Carthage. A. hardy fellow, and a wdse*, his beard had been shaken in many a tempest ; and he knew all the havens from Gothland to the Cape de Finisterre. But his horsemanship was not equal to his seaman¬ ship ; and he rode on his ^ rauncie,’ or hackney horse, as w^ell as he was able. He wore a gown of ' falding,’ or coarse cloth, that reached dowm to his knees; and suspended by a lace round his neck, and hanging down under his arm, Avas a dagger; and the hot summer had made his face all brown of hue. Now after the Pardoner had told his story, our host had a little difference with that wily personage on the subject of relics; but having made friends w’ith him again, he stood up in his stirrups, and cried to the company of pilgrims, ^ Good men, hearken every one. This was a thrifty tale for the occasion.’ And then turning to the Parson, he asked him also to tell them a tale, as learned men like him knew so much good. But he accompanied his request with a great deal of profane language ; for he had a bad habit of swearing — a habit not altogether unknown to men of his class even now. ^ Beuedicite ! ’ exclaimed the good Parson. ^ What aileth the man so sinfully to swear ?’ Then our host, irritated t)y the rebuke, turned rudely on the good man, and calling him a ^ Loller,’* or heretic, said he would be preaching them some sermon next; seruions appearing to have been an especial source of dread to the merry Host of the Tabard. ^ Nay,’ quoth the Shipman, ^that shall he not; he * A Lollard ; a name at first £riven to a peculiar class of re¬ ligious people in Germany and the Netherlands : but it came to be used in Eagland as a name for any hei'etic. The word is sup¬ posed by some to be derived from the German * lallen,’ to sing in a murmuring way, like a dirge ; but it is more probable that it was from the Latin ‘lolium,’ or tares, as if they were tares among the wheat ; and this appears to have been Chaucer’s opinion. shall preach none here. And therefore. Host, I warn thee, my own jolly body shall tell a tale, and clink you so merry a bell, that I shall waken all this com¬ pany : but it shall not be of philosophy, ^ or physic, or terms of law : there is but little Latin in me.’ And so the Shipman told a story of a trick that was played on a merchant, to the great delight of our host, who, when it was ended, cried, ^ Well said ! Now long mayest thou sail by the coast, thou gentle master, gentle mariner ! But now pass over, and let us see who will tell us the next tale.’ A. H. (To be continued.) PEAS BLOSSOM. (Continued from p. 211 .) S the doctor came in, Pat bent over and kissed his forehead, and then bolted out of the room, with a heart too full for words, only keeping his thoughts resolutely fixed on what he had to do, to keep down the grief that seemed overwhelming. Paddy edged up to him as they went to their classes after prayers. ^ What is it Pat ? How is be?’ ' Don’t bother ! ’ was the gruff reply ; and Paddy did not take it amiss, guessing that things must be pretty bad. Took here,’ Pat added; Tome out after dinner sharp. I’m going to cut school this afternoon, and I want you to help me.’ ^ Help you cut school P’ ‘ I’ll tell you all about it.’ ^ All right. I’ll come fast enough.’ Pat went through his lessons that morning in a dream : the voices sounded indistinct and far away ; and his own voice, reading or construing, was strange and unreal. He must have looked and spoken much as usual, however, for no one but Paddy and Mr. Hadley noticed anything was wrong with him, and the latter only askkl if he were not feeling well. At dinner, too, Pat found himself eating mechani¬ cally, though I do not think he knew whether it was beef or mutton that he was swaUowin^, and he even laughed when one of the boys upset his glass of beer into his plate. Paddy was on the look-out after dinner ; and the two boys slipped out into Paul Street together. Piccola was watching for them at the door, and ran at once to meet them. She had her Sunday frock on, and was neatly washed and brushed, and round her neck, by a little silk ribbon, was hung a gold locket, that Pat had never seen before, though Piccola’s treasures had often been overhaided and displayed for his amusement. It was as new to her as to Pat, for she kept it held in her little hand, and every now and then glanced down at it, to make sure it was quite safe. ^ Look !’ she said to Pat; and he saw that it was old-fashioned and dinted, as if it had seen service, and on one side was engraved the word ^ Pray.’

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No. XXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 219 ^Maj I open it?’ * Yes/ said the child. Inside there was the portrait of a hoy, with large dark eyes. ‘Bay Carrington!’ hui’st from both hoys in a hreath. ‘No,’ said Piccola; ‘it’s father when he was a little hoy, and I’m to give it to grandfather.’ Any one meeting these three as they ran down Paul Street, hand-in-hand, might have thought them a merry, happy party, bent on a piece of fun, and if they had known that the hoys were playing truant from school they would have thought so all the more; hut another look at their faces would have altered the first impression, for even little Piccola had a serious look in her face, that did not seem to mean fun. As they went along, Pat told Paddy in a few words all he knew, and some of what he guessed, about the Signor and old Mr. Carrington, and how he had promised to get the little giid into the Orchards by fair means or foul. They lost no time on the way. When Piccola was tired with running, Pat carried her, and then Paddy took a turn, and then they crossed hands, and carried her between them. The child did not talk. ‘ I sliall forget my message,’ she said ; ‘ what I’ve got to say. Father has been telling it to me all the morning.’ ‘ flow shall we get her in ?’ asked Paddy, as they came in sight of the Orchards. ‘ We’ll try the door first,’ said Pat ; ‘ perhaps when they know he is ill they wiU lot us in.’ So they rang the bell, and Paddy stood back a little with Piccola, while Pat spoke to Cann. ‘ I want to see Mr. Carrington,’ Pat said. ‘ He doesn’t see any one.’ ‘ I have a message for him from Signor Cherita.’ Cann looked narrowly at Pat, but still kept the door half closed. ‘He don’t receive no messages.’ ‘Will you tell him that Signor Cherita is ill — ^very ill — that perhaps ho may not live very long - ’ Pat’s voice was trembling, and his eyes too full to see that the old man to whom he spoke was also stirred and shaken with some emotion, and he only heard the dry, rasping voice, — ‘ WeU, I can’t stand here in the cold wind all day.’ And then the door shut, and Pat turned back to Paddy and the little girl, not guessing that on the other side of the door the old man had caught at the wall to steady himself, and w'as covering his brimming eyes with his hand, and breathing a prayer out of a very sore, sad heart, for the poor young master — for oor Master Kay, who w^as not the Master Kay Pat ad knoAvn, but the one that little Piccola held a por¬ trait of in her hand outside. ‘ I’ll go down and find out the truth of it all, Cann said to himself, ‘and if things really are bad, I’ll venture it with the old master, and not mind how he takes it. But he’s grown harder and colder since Master Kay went, and it’s like dealing with a stone : but ril try.’ So presently Cann went out with his basket on his arm to Mudford, not knowing that at that very moment Pat was leading Piccola along the orchard path towards the house. They had immense difficulties in getting her over the palings. They found the place w^here the Signor had taken out some of the nails in the fence, and here Pat managed to get over without much trouble ; but it w^as another matter to get the little girl over, and Pat nearly gave it up in despair, till he found a wheelbarrow and some planks, and with the help of these, and Piccola’s unfailing courage and pluck, which did not even fail when one of the nails left a long crimson scratch on her arm, the little girl was landed safely in the orchard. The dogs kept barking furiously all the time, and Fury tore at her chain, and they were in constant fear that Cann would come out to see Avhat was the matter to cause such an uproar ; but Cann was too much taken up wdth his own feelings to notice them, and when Pat and Piccola came up to the house he had gone out. Pat remembered as he came along the orchard path the two occasions when he had been here before — the dark, cold December evening, when lie had come just for a bit of fun ; and the bright, spring afternoon, when the trees were full of blossom and he came to see Kay. Now the leaves were turning yellow on the trees, and dropping slow and sadly in the October sunshine. Piccola s little hand held Pat’s tightly as they came to the house, and he stooped and Idssed her. ‘ Don’t be frightened,’ lie said ; ‘ no one could be unkind to you.’ ‘ Oh, no !’ Piccola answered. ‘ Father said that grandfather would be kind and good to me. Take my hat off, Pat.’ He did this, and smoothed back her hair with his trembling hands. ‘ How cold you are !’ said Piccola ; ‘ and your face looks white and strange I’ He was much more frightened than she was, and when he knocked at Mr. Carrington’s study door, and without waiting for an answer turned the handle and opened it, his heart seemed to stop beating, and a cold dew broke out on his forehead, while little Piccola, grasping her locket, went in as quietly and naturally as if she were going into the little room at Miss Pink’s. The old man was sitting at his writing-table with a book open before him, and was so absorbed in reading or in thought that he had not heard the knock "at the door, and only looked up when the door opened and the little girl came in, and crossed the room to his side. ‘ Grandfather,’ said she, ‘I have brought you this.’ And she held out the locket to him, still fastened round her neck by the ribbon. He half rose, supporting himself by the arras of his chair, and looked at the child with wide-open eyes that wore full of surprise and terror; and then he sank down and rubbed his hand across his eyes, as if it were some delusion of his sight that showed him the little face looking up with great dark eyes. But that warm little hand laid on his was no de¬ lusion, and his ears had not deceived him, for she spoke again, — ‘ Grandfather, father has sent you this.’

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Lifting Piccola over the palings. She had opened the locket now, and it lay in the hand that he had mechanically held out to receive it, showing the curl of dark hair, and the innocent hoy’s face, so like the living child’s face close by. He sat looking at it in silence, and the child stood quite still with her head a httle bent forward that the ribbon round her neck might not drag the locket from his hand, and resting one hand on the old man’s knee. It seemed ages to Pat, who was outside listening in an agony for what would come next, but at last he heard the old man speak. ‘ Well !’ he said; ‘ and what does he say And then came the child’s soft voice, — ^ Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son/ And so little Piccola gave her message.

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Old Goody dropping the tea-kettle. CHAPTER XXXI. Old Goody wOvS sitting in the kitchen, utterly unconscious of all that was happening in her master’s study, where little Piccola was reaching up a small hand to stroke the old man s cheek, and saying, — ^ Don’t, grandfather ! dont’eecry, dear grandfather !’ while hot tears dropped on her young upturned face —the thawing of a heart tkat had keen frozen and hard for many a year. Outside in the passage Pat was kneeling, vainly trying to repress his sobs, which had become uncon¬ trollable by this time ; but the murmur of the child’s voice with the soft foreign accents, coaxing and comforting the old man, and the stifled sobs from Pat, were alike lost on the old woman’s deaf ear, and it

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222 CHATTERBOX. No. XXVIII. was only when she got up to put the kettle on for tea that she caught sight of something in the garden that caused her to drop the kettle on the door and stand staring open-mouth and open-eyed, hardly believing her senses, while the water from the kettle ran about in little rivulets over the red brick, and the kettle itself left smears on the cocoanut matting. But what she saw was enough to account for any stiange behaviour on her part, for down the garden-path went her master, holding a little curly-headed, dark¬ faced child by the hand, who looked up now and again to speak to him with no signs of fear or sh3mess ; and following them was a boy in one of the Grammar- school caps, walking along as if the Orchards was a W’dl-known place to him. She watched them spell¬ bound till they had reached the gate and passed out into the road, and then she ran after them, thinking it must have been a delusion, till she saw the strange trio again, going on along the road to Mudford, Pat now holding Piccola’s other hand, and the old man suiting his pace to the child’s little steps. Mr. Carrington had expressed no surprise when he found Pat outside the door — nothing could especially surprise him when everything was so wonderful ; and he let him tie on Piccola’s hat and join the party. When they reached the town he tui-ned to Pat and asked, — ‘ Is he very ill ?’ ‘ Very,’ was all Pat could get out. ‘ Go in first,’ the old man said, ^ and tell him I am here.’ They were just going up Paul Street when the deep bell in the old church tower rang out a solemn note. ^ Listen !’ said little Piccola : Gt is the knell. Some one is dead.’ And then she counted, * One — two — three ! It is a man !’ she said. And the old man turned to Pat with a look in his face that Pat will never forget. * We are too late !’ he said : ‘ too late !’ All through the afternoon the sick man had lain watching, and waiting, and listening. * It is for the child,’ Mrs. Welby said ; ' he’s never easy when she’s out of sight. Wherever can she have got to ? But he wouldn’t rest till I ffot her ready to go out, and he will have it she’s all right ; so most fikes she’s off with them Grammar-school boys. Poor little orphan ! she won’t have a father long !’ Every now and then he murmured to himself some words, the same that little Piccola was to carry to the old man. * Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son r Sometimes he was speaking to his earthly father, the father he had so grievously sinned against and wounded, and whose anger he confessed was just, if it had been hard and bitter, and for whose forgiveness, even now, he hardly hoped. And sometimes it was to the Heavenly Father, Who never fails to see the returning prodigal, even when he is yet a great w’ay off, and to have compassion on him. It w^as getting dark, and still Pat and Piccola did not come back to tell him what he thought he was quite resigned to hear — that his father would not listen to the message ; when on his ear, as it had done on his father’s, the deep knell sounded. ‘ Mine will be the next,’ he said. ^Listen ! ’ he said. suddenly raising his head from the pillow, and startling Mrs. Welby. ‘ Oh, ay ! it’s the knell ! Poor old .Tes'e ! him as blew the organ for many a year. He’s been ailing this two months. He weren’t quite all there, poor old chap ! But it’s all one to him now.’ ^ Listen ! ’ again querulously from the sick man. ^ Hush ! listen ! ’ Only the knell, beating out the number of years of old Jesse — sixty-five years of simple, unthinking life, and a footstep in the street — a slow, faltering step, heavy with age and sorrow ; but at the sound the sick man’s face lit up, and he sat up with a strength that had failed him all day, and stretched out his arms to the door, to which the step came nearer and nearer, through the passage and up the creaking wooden stairs. Come away, Pat ! Come away, little Piccola ! There are some scenes too sacred for any eyes to look on except His eyes Who ^pitifully beholds;’ or theirs, in whose presence there is joy over one sinner that repenteth. Even little children’s eyes are best away. And so Pat sat down in Miss Pink’s little room below, with Piccola in his arms. The cliild was worn out and tired with excitement and exertion : and so, indeed, was Pat. Piccola soon dropped asleep, with her head on his shoulder, with a little sob every now and then break¬ ing her soft breathing ; and Pat sat listening for any noises upstairs — the passing of a footstep and the poking of the fire — and once or twice Mrs. AVelby came in to fetch something, and in answer to Pars anxious look sighed and shook her head mournfully. Pat fell asleep himself at last, so sound that he did not notice some one coming into the room with a light and taking Piccola quietly out of his arms, which had loosened their hold in sleep ; and at last it was a much softer sound, and further off, that woke him, and made him jump up in a wild state of confusion, not knowing where he was or what was happening. It was a sound from the room above — the tune of the Evening Hymn played very softly on the violin, and just opposite to Pat, in Miss Pink’s arm-chair, was dear Aunt Bell, with Piccola still sleeping in her arms ; and she was wrapping up that we ny, worn- out little maiden in warm shawls, and John Keith was holding out his arms to take her. ‘ Pat ! ’ said Aunt Bell ; ‘ good old Pat ! we have come to take you and Piccola home. Paddy came right off. and told us all about it, and we came at once.’ * l^ut listen ! ’ Pat said ; for still the h^-mn tune went on above. ‘ Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, The ills that I this day have done ; That with the world, myself, and Thee, I, ere I sleep, at peace may be ; ’ repeated Aunt BeU, softly. ‘ Teach me to die,” ’ murmured Pat. ^ It’s that, isn’t it ? ’ ^ Not yet, dear. Teach me to live,” comes first. The doctor has just been here, and he thinks that his life may yet be spared if he can sleep.’ * But he’s pla^ung ! ’

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Fo, XXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 223 ^ No; it’s his father, playing him to sleep as he used to when he was a little boy. There, Pat, you may steal up on tip-toe and take a look; and then you must come away, and we must get this poor Httle •soul into bed, and relieve Honor’s anxiety on your account.’ So Pat crept up very softly, and saw enough to send him away very happy. The Signor lay asleep, and the old man, with the violin still in his hand, was kneeling by his side. And surely the picture of the fair young wife smiled with greater content and ’ sweetness than ever before down on those two. (Concluded in our next.) THE CONCEITED SINGER. From the German. The singer Caffarelli was perhaps the founder of the modern style of Italian song. He enchanted all who heard him, and was so overwhelmed, not only with applause, but with gold, too, that he might have purchased a Duchy. In diamonds and precious stones alone he possessed over two millions. But, with his wealth, his pride, vanity, and whimsical temper so increased, that they bordered on insanity. During the reign of Louis XV. Caffarelli came to Paris and sang before the King and his household. The King sent him a costly golden snuff-box. ‘ What ! ’ said the singer to the bearer of it, 'does the King send me such a box as thi.s ? Keep it your¬ self : for look, I have thirty such here, all of which are w’orth more than that one. It is not even adorned with the King’s likeness ! ’ ' Sir,’ was the reply, ' the King of France only sends his portrait to ambassadors.’ ' Ambassadors, indeed ! Let him send then for the ambassadors to sing to him ! ’ The King was informed of these words. lie laughed and told the story to the Daupliiness, who was a de¬ voted lover of music. She sent for the singer, did not make any allusion to his rude remark, and gave him a beautiful diamond, at the same time handing him a passport. ' It is signed by the King himself, which is a great honour for you,’ she said ; ' but you must make use of it at once, as it is only available for ten days.’ Thus exiled from France, Caffarelli went to Pome. Cardinal Albani invited him to his house, and asked the noblest and most illustrious ladies and gentlemen of the city to meet him. Caffarelli promised to come, and sent the music for some of his favourite airs, which he proposed singing before them. The evening and the hour of the concert arrive. Caffarelli does not appear. The Cardinal sends for him ; they find the singer in slippers and dressing- gown. ' Their Eminences and the first families of Pome are waiting for you,’ said the messenger. ' What a misfortune ! ’ replied the singer. ' I had forgotten all about it. Tell his Eminence he must excuse me. I will come another time. I am not dressed, and by the time I have made my toilette the evening will be over. He must excuse me : another time ! ’ This answer filled their Eminences with great wrath. Albani took his measures at once. The steward of his household got into a coach, and was followed by four stout horse soldiers. ' Sir,’ said the former to Caff areli, when they reached his lodging, ' you are to follow me to the Cardinal as you are.’ C aff areli refused : the four soldiers made a move¬ ment towards him, and the steward coolly and firmly repeated his orders. Caffarelli, quite confounded, got into the coach. On arrival, in dressing-gown and slippers, he entered the brilliant saloon, his companions all the time at his side ; he tried by gestures, and with broken and disjointed sentences, to excuse himself. No one answered him a syllable or made the slightest move¬ ment. His stern companions turned away to the left. Caffarelli had to go also, and reached the or¬ chestra. Here, too, was a deathlike silence. He found only his desk with the music of his airs open before him ; there was not even the chair in which he was always accu‘ tomed on these occasions to throw himself back, with calm conceit. When he reached the desk the orchestra struck up, and, to his horror, the accompaniment of one of his airs. He must sing, and in his anger and disgust he sang really very well. Tie was loudly applauded. ' Bravo, Caffarelli ! ' was heard on all sides. Now there was a silence. The five fearful faces stood there again, and obliged him to go into the ante-room. Here the steward handed him a splendid snuff-box full of gold coins, and said, — 'Accept this reward of your talents from his Eminence.’ And now is added this quartett, — ' Accept from his Eminence this reward for your bad manners.’ And then each gave him a few heavy strokes of his whip. As soon as the company in the saloon heard the singer howling and screaming, they repeated their applause, with the cry, — ' Bravo, Caffarelli ! Bravo, Caffarelli! ’ Next morning it was said in the city that the Car¬ dinals were better able to make themselves respected than the King of France. J. F. C. the hatching of a brood of young gee>e, in a snug spot near a farm¬ yard, the goose w'as sud¬ denly taken ill : she left her nest and rep:dred to an out-house, where there was a young goose of the first year, which she brought with her to the nest. The young goose immediately scrambled in¬ to it, sat, hatched, and afterwards brought up the brood. The other goose, as soon as the young one had taken her place, sat down by the side of the nest and shortly died. THE SICK GOOSE.

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224 CHATTEKBOX. No. XXVJII. The Sick Goose. By Harrison Weir.

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226 CHATTERBOX. No. XXTX. PE AS-BLOSSOM. THE FARMER’S PARROT. NE beautiful spring, a fanner, after working busily for several weeks, had sown one of his largest fields with corn. But the neighbouring crows found their way to the farmer’s corn - field, and made sad havoc there. The farmer, not being will¬ ing that his future crop should be destroyed, determined to drive the bold marauders to their nests. Ac¬ cordingly, he loaded his trusty gun, with the intention of giving them, upon their next visit, a warm reception. Now the farmer had a parrot, as talkative and mischievous as those birds usually are, and, being very tame, it was allowed its freedom to come and go at pleasure. Strolling around some time after the farmer’s d^ claration of war against birds in general and crows in particular, whom should it see but a number of those black bold robbers, busy in stealing the corn ? ‘ Pretty Poll,’ being a lover of company, without much caring wdiether good or bad, hopped into the midst of them, and was soon engaged in what I suppose was an interesting conversation on the many advantages of a country over a city life. Their friendly talk might have been prolonged, had not a passing wind wafted it to the ears of the farmer, who was smoking his pipe by the cosy fireside. Up started he, breaking in his hurry the ^ pipe of peace ; ’ and with his gun he sallied forth. Reaching his corn-field at length, he saw at a glance (though he overlooked the parrot) the state of aifairs. Levelling his gun, he fired, and with the report was heard the death-scream of three crows and a shriek from poor Poll. As the farmer advanced to see what execution he had made, the unwounded crows arose in the air, loudly pleading their cause as they departed. On looking among the murdered crows, great was his surprise to see stretched upon the ground his mis¬ chievous parrot, with feathers sadly ruffled and a broken leg. ^ ^ You foolish bird !’ cried the farmer ; ‘ this comes of keeping bad company.’ The parrot did not reply, probably because it did not know exactly what to say : but it looked very solemn, which answered just as well. On carrving it to the house, the children, seeing its wounded leg, exclaimed. — ^ What did it, father ? what hurt our pretty Poll ?’ ‘ Bad company ! bad company !’ answered the parrot, in a solemn voice. ^ Ay, that it was,’ said the farmer. * Poll was with those crows when I fired, and received a shot in¬ tended for them. Remember the parrot’s fate, children, and beware of bad company.’ With these words the farmer turned round, find with the aid of his wife he bandaged the broken leg, and in a few weeks the parrot was as lively as ever. But it never forgot its adventure in the corn-field, and if ever the farmer’s children engaged in play with quarrelsome companions, it warned them with its cry, ^Bad company! bad company!’ ( Concluded from p. 22 3. ) CHAPTER XXXII. FORTNIGHT later, on one of the boats from Cal ds to Dover Ray Carrington stood, looking at the white cliffs of Old Eng¬ land, as every minute they came nearer and grew more distinct. It was a wet day, and the decks and seats were clammy and damp; and there was a chopping, unpleasant sea, and nearly all the passengers were very sea-sick and most un¬ pleasant neighbours: the ladies resigning them¬ selves to limp misery and the gentlemen struggling vainly against their fate by assuming a quarter-deck stride and a seafaring way of talking. Ray was feeling very qualmish, and was accord- inglv very cross and unfeeling to others further advanced in suffering than himself, and scowled at a poor woman, who groaned at every heave of the steamer. ‘It was too bad,’ he complained to himself, ‘to be sent for from school, just as I was getting used and beginning to like it ! And there is no earthly reason for it. Grandfather is quite well : and it’s not six weeks since he went back to England.’ He thought he would like to see Pat Bright again, but he did not at all want to go back to Mudford Grammar School, which had very few pleasant memo¬ ries for him, and which woidd bring back all the trouble about Signor Cherita and the violin again ; for though he had got over the first bitterness, he could not think of it now without a pang, and he felt it would all revive when he got back. And if he were not to go to school that w’ould be worse still. The shut-up life at the Orchards, that had seemed very tolerable to him before he knew of anything bet¬ ter, would now be wretched, and he did not think he could put up with it even for the sake of his grand¬ father, of whom he was sincerely fond. So, altogether, Ray Carrington was in the dumps, and the long railway journey after he reached Dover did not improve matters, for he was not an experienced traveller, and had never been by himself before ; and he was not^iat aU conciliatory, like many helpless travell'^rs who appeal to the charity of the world, and always get taken care of by some one or other, but he rejected offers of help, and discouraged con¬ versation, and so got left to himself and pushed and hustled, and found his way into a smoking-carriage, wdth seven pipes going like chimneys, and was heartily sick of it before he reached London. Then there was jolting across London in a musty- smelling cab, wdth a very rude and extortionate cab¬ man ; and then more railway travelling, through, sodden-looking woods and sloppy meadows, which he watched till the rain gathered thickly on the glass and obscured the melancholy landscape, and the dusk came on to conceal it further. He did not reach Mudford till eight, stiff in limbs and cross in temper, and saw Gann standing on the platform waiting for him. He had been rather sur- (

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Ko. XXIX. CHATTERBOX. 227 prised that no one had come to meet him in London, if not at Lover, for he had always been treated as such a baby hitherto, and tiU he went to school had been tied to Goody’s apron-string. It made him feel much more of a man, being left to manage for himself ; but at the bottom of his heart he felt a little bit hurt, and when only Cann appeared at Mudford to meet him, and not, as he had full}^ expected, his grandfather, he felt decidedly injured and neglected, and did not receive the old servant’s warm greeting very graciously. ^ I’m tired to death, Cann,’ he said, ^ with this horrid long journey ! ’ ^ You look a sight better than when you went away, and you’ve grown out of mind ! The master - ’ But Kay cut short the old man’s talk, and, getting into the iiy, flung himself into a corner, and leant back, with his eyes closed, as if he were too tired to talk. If he had been in a better temper he might have noticed a change in Cann, a sort of subdued excite¬ ment and a less surly manner, even to the porter who Avas slow in bringing the portmanteau, and to the flyman who had dropped asleep on- the box, both of whom would have had a sharp rating in former days. But Kay did not notice it, and he kept silent all the way along the dark roads home, only rousing himself and looking out of window as they went down Paul Street, past Miss Pink’s and the Grammar School. There was a light in Miss Pink’s window, for the little milliner had come home; but in the room above aU was dark. When they reached the Orchards, Goody was at the gate to receive him, laughing aiid crying both at the same time, with the pleasure of seeing her boy again; but Kay looked beyond her for his grandfather, but looked in vain, and a sudden fear seized him. ^ Is my grandfather ill ? ’ he asked, hastily. ' No ; he’s quite well.’ * Where is he P’ ‘ Oh, he’s upvstairs. He’ll be down directly.’ * A pretty welcome home ! ’ Kay thought bitterly to himself, as rather roughly he pushed by Goody and went into the house. The very dogs barked at him as if he were a stranger. The dining-room was empty, and there was supper spread and a good fire, but Kay did not feel appeased. He flung down his hat and coat. H’m so tired!’ he said to Goody, who had followed him, and who stood looking at him with eyes that might have told a tale if he had read them. ‘ I’U go up to my room at once.’ ^ Master Kay, dear, your room has been changed. We thought you would not mind having the little back room instead.’ Kav looked aghast. ‘ Why was I sent for ? ’ he asked, with a burning sense of indignation. ^ What does it mean ?’ And for all answer. Goody turned and hurried out the room, as if she could not trust herself to speak. Kay sat down, fairly puzzled ; and as he sat, his eyes fell on the supper-table. There were plates laid for three, a thing that Kny never remembered to have happened in that house before, where, day by day, he and his grandfather had sat down alone to their silent meals. For three? — it was for four, for by his grand¬ father’s chair was drawn up a little high chair, with a spoon and fork and a little silver cup set ready. Kay stared ; but he stared still more when he got up to see what it was he was sitting on, and tu find it was a doU — a ragged, untidy doll, with only one eye and no wdg, that surely, surely he had seen before. And while he was standing with Biondina in his hand, anotlier surprising sight pre¬ sented itself — Pat Bright coming leisurely into the room as large as life, with his hands in his pockets, whistling as well as he could for a twitch in the corner of his mouth and a certain dampness in the laughter of his eye. ^Patl’ gasped Kay. ^Oh, Pat! what does it all mean ? ’ ‘ It means,’ said Pat, Hhat you are wanted upstairs. Come on ! ’ And he took hold of Kay’s arm, and the two boys went up together. But on the way Kay stopped, as if turned to stone. * What is that ? ’ It was the sound of music — the soft tones of the violin. Surely the pleasantest, sweetest wel¬ come Kay could have had in that house that was once so silent. ^ Come on ! ’ said Pat again, and led him on to the door of the room that had once been Kay’s, from which the sound came. The room was much the same as it used to be 'when it was Kay’s, except that over the fireplace hung a picture of a lady with a sweet, smiling face, and on the sofa, where Kay had often tossed and fretted in his illness, lay the present owner of the room, another Kay Carrington — ill too, and white, and weak, but with a face as bright as the picture up there, and full of glad welcome to the boy, who stood at the door looking wonderingly in. And by his side was the old grandfather, with the violin in his hand ; though, as Kay came in, the music stopped, for little Piccola had caught hold of the bow with the tyran¬ nical air that young person assumed to her grand¬ father, commanding attention. ^ Piccola is to sit up to supper ? Grandfather, say Piccoli is!’ ' To be sure ! to be sure !’ said the old man, lifting the child on his knee. ‘Sit up to supper with brother Kay.’ ‘ Here he is ! ’ said the Signor. ‘ The Signor !’ stammered Kay. ‘ You young duffer ! ’ said Pat ; ‘ it’s your gover¬ nor ! ’ And he gave him a push that sent Kay on his knees by his father’s side. It made them all laugh, and they vrere glad to laugh, they were so near crying; and very soon Goody turned them aU out of the room, having assumed the authority again she had exercised in old nursery times over this same Kay Carrington, and knowing that he could not bear much excitement yet, even of happiness. And then Pat would have gone home, but Mr. Carrington would not let him go without supper. And a very merry supper they had, with Pic¬ cola reigning supreme over every thing and every one, and tyrannising, especially over her grandfather,

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Bay Carrington approaching the White Cliffs of England. ^ It seems like a dream, Pat,’ Ray said, as he let him out of the gate after supper ; ^ as if ^ one would wake up and find the gloomy old life going on just the same ! ’ ^ Oh, bother dreams!’ said Pat. 'Piccola will keep you all awake ; and when the Signor — I mean your governor — is better, I don’t think there wall be a jollier house than the Orchards anywhere — except, perhaps, Kelburn Lodge 1 ’ in a manner wonderful to behold, till R ^ hardly eat his supper for w^atching them, or Pat for laughing. And Gann waited on them wdth grim smiles that must have been quite painful to his set, surly face ; and Goody heard the laughter, through all her deaf¬ ness, and stole down on pretence of warning them that the invahd was asleep, but really to learn the joke.

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LAZY-BOWES. LAZY-BONES, Lazy-bones, why are you here ? The school-bell has rungtwent}' minutes or near; A boy who won’t work always turns out a fool. Lazy-bones, Lazy-bones, hurry to school ! Lazy-bones, Lazy-bones, taking your nap ; You’re not very tidy, just look at your cap ! . A careless lad’s certain to grow up a fool — Smarten up. Lazy-bones ! hurry to school. I Oh, the tooth-ache you say, with a pitiful groan, You’ll make it much worse if you sit on that stone ; Tliat’s a very old story — I’m not quite a fool, Pick up your toothache and hurry to school. Come, come, master truant, you’d best take advice : A lad who shirks lessons can’t hope to be wise ; Here comes the Board officer, what will he say, Lazy-bones ? Lazy-bones hurried away. S. G.

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230 CHATTERBOX. No. XXIX. THE EOT TRAPPER. By Harry Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. CHAPTER I. A GLANCE AT THE PAST. ON’T worry atout it, mother. It is nothing we can help.’ * It seems to me that I might have helped it. If I had gone to General Gordon when your father first spoke about that barrel with the eighty thousand dollars in it, and told him the "whole story, things might have turned out difterently. But in spite of all he said, I did not suppose that he was in earnest.’ ‘Neither did I. That any man in his sober senses should think of such a thing ! Why, mother, if there had been so much buried in that potato-patch, the General would have known it ; and don’t you suppose he would have found it if he’d had to plough the field up ten feet deep ? Of course he would.’ ‘But just think of the disgrace that has been brought upon us.’ ‘ Father is the only one w’ho has done anything to be ashamed of, and he made matters worse by running away. If he would come home and attend to his business, no one would say a word to him. The General told me so this morning.’ ‘I am afraid you couldn’t make your father be¬ lieve it.’ ‘ Perhaps not ; but if I knew where to find him I should try.’ It was David Evans who spoke last. He and his mother were talldng over the strange incidents that had happened in the settlement during the last few days. The events were brought about by a very foolish notion which Godfrey Evans, David’s father, suddenly got into his head. During our late war it was the custom of the people living in the South to conceal their valuables when they heard of the approach of the Union army. They were also careful to take the same precautions to save their property when it became known that the rebel guerillas were near at hand : for these worthies were oftentimes but little better than organized bands of robbers, and the people stood as much in fear of them as they did of the Federals. These valuables, con¬ sisting for the most part of money, jewelry, and silver¬ ware, were sometimes hidden in cellars, in hollow logs in the woods, and in barns ; but more frequently they were buried in the ground. The work of hiding them was sometimes performed by the planters themselves, if they happened to be at home ; but it was generally entrusted to old and faithful servants in whom their owners had every con¬ fidence. It too frequently happened that these old and faithful servants proved themselves utterly un¬ worthy of the trust reposed in them. Sometimes they told the raiding soldiers wheie the property was con¬ cealed, and at others they ran away without telling even their masters where the valuables were hidden. General Gordon’s old servant, Jordan, was one of this stamp. He went off with the Union forces, who raided that part of Mississippi, and before he went he told a rebel soldier, Godfrey Evans, who happened to be at home on a furlough, and who was skulking in the woods to avoid capture, that he had just buried a barrel containing eighty thousand dollars in gold and silver in his master’s potato-patch, and that none of the family knew where it was. This Godfrey Evans had been well off in the world .at one time. He had property to the amount of fifteen thousand dollars; but, like many others, he lost it all during the war, and returned home after the surrender of General Lee to find himself a poor man. His comfortable house had been burned over the heads of his wife and children, who were now living in a rude hut, which some kind-hearted neigh¬ bours had hastily erected ; his negroes, who had made his money for him, were all gone ; his cattle had been slaughtered by both rebel and Union troops, and his mules and hoi ses carried off ; his fine drove of hogs, which ran loose in the woods, and upon "which he relied to furnish his year’s supply of bacon, had wan¬ dered away and become wild ; and Godfrey had nothing but his rifle and his two hands with which to begin the world anew. But it was hard to go back and begin again where he had begmi forty years ago. The bare thought of it was enough to discourage Godfrey, who declared that he wouldn’t do it, and he made his words good by becoming a roving vagabond. He spent the most of his time at the landing, watching the steamers as they came in, and the rest in wandering listlessly about the woods, shooting just game enough to keep him in powder, lead, and tobacco. His sole companion and friend was his son Daniel, who, being a chip of the old block, faithfully imitated his father’s lazy, useless mode of life. Mrs. Evans and the younger son, David, were the only members of the family who worked. They never lost an opportunity to turn an honest penny ; and there were times when Godfrey and Dan would have gone supperless to bed if it had not been for these two faithful toilers. Godfrey disliked this aimless, joyless existence, as much as he disliked work: and even Dan at times longed for something better. They both wanted to be rich. Godfrey wanted to see his fine plantation, which was now abandoned to briers and cane, cultivated as it used to be ; while it was Dan’s ambition to have two or three painted boats in the lake, to have a pointer following at his heels, and to do his shooting with a double-barrel gun that ‘ broke in two in the middle.’ He wanted to take his morning’s exercise on a spotted pony — a circus hoi'se, he called it — and to wear a broadcloth suit, a Panama hat, and mtent leather boots, when he went to church on fe undays. Don and Bert Gordon had all these aids to happiness, and they were the jolliest fellows he had ever seen — always laughing, singing, or whistling. Dan thought he would be happy, too, if he could only have so many tine things to call his own : but he could .see no way to get them, and that made him angry. He hated Don and Bert .so heartily that he could never look at them without wishing that some

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Ko. XXIX. CHATTERBOX. 231 evil might "befall them. He threatened to steal their horses, shoot their dogs, sink their boats, and do a host of other desperate things, believing that in this way he could render the two happy brothers as miserable as he was himself. Godfrey and Dan lived in a most unenviable frame of mind for a year or more, and then the former one day happened to think of the barrel which old Jordan had told him was hidden in the potato-patch. He spoke of it while the family were at dinner, and announced that he and Dan would begin the work of unearthing the buried treasure that very night. If they didn’t find it the first time they tried they would go the next night ; and they would keep on digging until they obtained possession of it, if they had to dig up the whole state of Mississippi. Dan almost went wild over the news. He and his father spent a few minutes in building air-castles, and then Godfrey, who felt as rich as though he already had the money in his possession, hurried down to the landing, entered the store there and called for a plug of tobacco, which the merchant refused to give him until he showed that he had twenty-live cents to pay for it. Although Dan and his father had great expecta¬ tions, which they believed would very soon be realised, they did not neglect to pay attention to small matters, and to pick up any stray dollars that chanced to fall in their way. David was a famous dog-breaker, and Don Gordon had offered him ten dollars to train a pointer for him. The offer was made in the presence of Dan and his father, and the former at once laid his plans to obtain possession of a portion of the money. While the two were on their way to the landing, where a shooting- match was to be held that afternoon, Dan stopped at General Gordon’s barn, and having borrowed a shovel, with which to dig up the buried treasure, he went to the house, where he found Bert reading a book. He told him that David had sent him there after five dol¬ lars, as he wished to buy a new dress for his motlier, and Bert, although he was well aware that, according, to the agreement his brother had made with David, the money was not to be paid until the pointer was thoroughly broken for the field, advanced him the amount he requested. Arriving at the landing Dan got the bill changed for notes of smaller denomination, and, while he was picking up his money, was surprised by his father, who was greatly amazed to see his son with such a roll of greenbacks in his hand. Knowing that Dan was too lazy to work — too much of a gentleman was the way Godfrey expressed it — ^lie could not imagine w^here the money came from, and Dan refuserl to enlighten him on this point, fearing that if he did his father would go to Don Gordon and ask for the rest of the ten dollars. Godfrey urged and commanded to no purpose, and was obliged to be satisfied with the loan of a dollar, which he promised to return with heavy interest as soon as the barrel was found. He paid seventy- five cents of it for the privilege of entering him¬ self in the shooting-match, and the rest he used in urchasing the plug of tobacco for which the grocer ad refused to credit him. He won nothing during the match, while Dan, to his father’s great disgust, came in for one of the first prizes — a fine quarter of beef. When the shooting-match was over, the father and son returned to the little hovel they called home. Dan at once put the mule into the cart and started back to the landing to bring home his quarter of beef; while Godfrey, by pretending to fall asleep on the bench in front of the cabin, was able to carry out a little stratagem that suddenly suggested itself to him. He knew that Dan was a thrifty lad in spite of his lazi¬ ness, and that he believed in laying by something for a rainy day. He was never out of ammunition for his rifle, but he always took care to keep his little stock hidden away, so that his father could not find it. By watching him on this particular day, Godfrey was luclvy enougli to find out where the boy’s hiding- place was. He went to it as Soon as Dan drove away in the cart, and found there a goodly supply of powder, lead, and caps, and also three dollars and twenty-five cents in money, all of which he put into his pocket. Dan came back from the landing in due time, and his father, who had been calculating on having a good supper that night, was astonished to find that the beef had been sold. He was emaged at first; but when he learned that Dan had received three dollars and a half for it he was quieted at once, and a happy thought came into his mind. He sent Dan into the woods to shoot some squirrels for supper, and ^vhile the boy was gone he went to the hiding-place and put back the ammunition and money just as He found them, believing that when Dan returned he would put the three doUars and a half there too. Nor was he mi.staken. The boy presently came back with squirrels enough for supper, and as soon as he thought he could do so without being seen by any one, he went to his storehouse, and having made sm’e that the property he had already hidden there was safe, he added to it the sum he had received for the quarter of beef, and went away happy. His father was happy, too, for he had seen the whole operation. Godfrey w’as too tired to dig for the buried treasure that night, so Dan went to bed as soon as it was fairly dark. Ilis father waited until he was soundly asleep, and then went to the storehouse and took out all it contained. Dan’s rage when he discovered his loss the next morning was something to wonder at. He knew where his property was, and he demanded its imme¬ diate return, threatening, in case of refusal, to tell General Gordon about the barrel in the potato-field. This frightened Godfrey, who gave up the contents of his pockets,. but not until he had forced Dan to tell him where he obtained the money he had seen in his hands at the landing the day before. He was astonished when he learned that it came from Bert Gordon, and set his wits at work to con¬ jure up some plan by which he might obtain pos¬ session of the rest. He went over to the General’s at once, and there learned that Don and Bert had gone down to the landing with their father, where they were awaiting the arrival of tw'o cousins, whom they were expecting from tlie North. {To he continued.)

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232 CHATTEKBOX. No. XXIX. Godfrey searching for Dan’s money in the Store-house.

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234 OHATTEI^BOX. No. XXX. DR. ALEXANDER MURRAY. HIS great linguist was an eminent example of what the force of native talent will sometimes accomplish where education has been almost wholly- withheld. His early history is an interesting one. He was born in Dim- Iritterick, in the shire of Kirkcudbright, in 1775. His father was a shepherd and had a large family of sons, all of whom had been brought up to his own calling. From him Alexander received his first lessons in reading, and when about seven years old he was sent to the hills with sheep. His father often scolded liim, because he was a negligent herdboy. In the summer of 1788 his mother’s brother offered to put the boy to the Galloway School, and pay for his board when there. Here he was seized with ill¬ ness which compeUed him to leave school, and he did not see it again for four years. He was now twelve years of age, and could read and write, and was engaged by the heads of two families to teach the children throughout the winter. Shortly after this he says, ' I began to study the French grammar and the rudiments of Latin;’ and tbougli busy teaching through the winter, yet he studied with the greatest eagerness. By his own efforts he made himself familiar with the French, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages, all within a year and a half from the time when they were wholly unknown to him. He says : — ‘ In an hour of ignorant ambition I believed myself capable of writing an epic poem, and chose Arthur, general of the Britons, for my hero. The speculation proved a failure. The booksellers at Dumfries aU refused to publish it. It was during this visit to Dumfries that I was introduced to Robert Burns, who treated me with great kindness, and told me that if I could go to college without publishing my poems it would be much better, as my taste was young and not formed. I understood this, and res(^lved to make publication my last resource.’ His subsequent progress was comparatively easy. He contributed to the JEdinhuo'gh Mevietu an^ other periodicals. In 1806 he was appointed successor to Dr. Muirhead, minister of Urr, in Dumfriesshire, and there he devoted his leisure hours to philological studies. In 1812 the professorship of Oriental liter¬ ature became vacant, to which he was elected, and the University conferred on him the degree of D.D. These honours, so richly merited, were bestowed on one w'ho was already in feeble health, and who soon sank beneath the pressure of his unceasing labours. He died in 1818, in the thirty-seventh year of his age. A CHILD’S CONCLUSION. WHY do we have long days in summer, and short ones in winter ‘ Don’t you know ?’ said a little boy, who had had a few lessons in science. ^Because heat expands and cold contracts' THE BOY TRAPPER. {Continued from page 231.) By Haery Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. ODFREY followed them there with all haste, sought an interview with Don, and by telling him some plausible story, induced him to advance the other five dollars. Godfrey hoped in this way to get the start of Dan and enjoy his ill- gotten gains all by himself, but Dan was there and saw it all, and his father, alarmed by the look he saw on his face, divided the money with him. Of course David knew nothing of this. He w^as saving those ten dollars for his mother. He did not expect to spend a cent of it on himself, and how he first learned of his loss and what was done about it perhaps we shall see as our story progresses. The two young gentlemen, Clarence and Marshall Gordon, for whom Don and Bert were waiting, and who landed from the steamer, JSimna Deane, that morning, had been sent away from the city by their father, in oi’der that they might be out of the way of temptation; but, as it happened, _ one of them ran directly into it. Clarence, the older, was anything but a model boy. He was much addicted to ale and cigars, and thought of nothing in the world so much as money. He was a spendthrift, and, like Godfrey Evans, had a great desire to be rich : but he never thought of working and saving in order to gain the wished-for end. This good old-fashioned and safe way was too long and tedious for him, and he was constantly on the look-out for a short road to wealth and consequent happiness. Before he had been twent^’-four hours under his uncle’s roof he thought he had discovered it, and this was the way it came about Clarence and his brother arrived at the General’s house in the forenoon, and before night came the former wished most heartily that he had stayed at home. He was lonely and utterly disgusted with the quiet of the country, and the old-fashioned, prosy way his two cousins had of enjoying themselves. Music, horseback-riding, hunting, fishing and visiting, made up the round of tlieir amusements, and Clarence could see no fun in such things. As soon as it grew dark he slipped out of the house, and leaning over a fence that ran between the barn-yard and a potato- patch, he lighted a cigar, and settled into a comfort¬ able position to smoke it. He had not been there many minutes before he was startled by the stealthy approach of two persons, a man and a boy, who stopped a short distance from him and began digging with a shovel. Clarence listened to the words which the man uttered for the encouragement of the boy, who was doing the work, and was amazed to learn that there was a fortune hidden in that field, and that these two had come there to dig it up. In his eagerness and excitement Clarence leaned half way over the fence, puffing vigorously at his cigar all the while. The little round ball of fire glowing through the darkness caught the

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No. XXX. CHATTERBOX. 235 eye of the hoy, who showed it to his companion, and the two, frightened almost out of their senses, took to their heels, leaving the eavesdropper lost in wonder. Clarence was almost overwhelmed by the discovery he had just made. It was an opportunity too good to bo lost, and he at once resolved that if there were eighty thousand dollars buried in that field he must have a share of the money when it was brought to light. In order to bring this about, he must find out who this man and boy were. He had a very slight clue to guide him, but he followed it up so skilfully that by noon of the next day he knew as much about the eighty thousand dollars as Godfrey did, and had formed a partnership with that worthy, Dan being dropped as a useless incumbrance. They met, according to agreement, as soon as it grew dark. It happened that there was one who witnessed their interview, and heard aU that passed between them, and that was Don Gordon, who had just re¬ turned from the landing, whither he had been to mail a letter to his cousin. Not finding the hostler about when he came back, Don attended to his pony him¬ self, and was about to shut up the barn for the niglit, when he discovered what he supposed to be a tliief prowling about. The lighted end of a cigar glowed through the darkness a moment later, and then Don saw that the prowler was his cousin Clarence. Greatly amused at his mistake, he was about to make his presence known, when it occurred to him that since Clarence had taken so much pains to get out of sight of the family, in order that he might enjoy his cigar, perhaps he would not like it if Don caught him in the act ; so Don remained in his place of conceal¬ ment, heard every word that was said when Godfrey came up, saw both of them get over the fence in the piotato-patch, and followed and watched them while they were digging for the barrel. Now, Don was one of the most inveterate practical jokers in the world, and a most accomplished one, too. Godfrey had received more than one proof of his skill. He had been tripped up when there was no one near him ; his hat had been knocked off his head by invisible hands, and ho had seen horrid great things with eyes of fire staring at him from fence-corners, until he had become fully satisfied that the Generals lane was haunted, and he would go a mile arourd over the fields before he would pass through it after nightfall. Here was another opportunity to frighten him, and Don knew just how to do it. Before he went to sleep that night, he had thought of something that beat all the other tricks he had heard of far out of sight. cnAPTER II. — David's visitors. The trouble began the very next morning. While Godfrey was sitting on the, bench in front of his cabin, deeply engrossed with his own thoughts, Dan came rusliing up with a face full of terror, and con¬ veyed to him the startling intelligence that a ^ haunt’ — a Northern boy would have called it a ghost — had been seen at General Gordon’s barn. It looked exactly like old Jordan, the negro, who had buried tlie treasure in the potato-patch ; but of course it couldn’t be old Jordan, for he had never been heard of since he ran away with the Yankees, and everybody believed him to be dead. Godfrey listened in great amazement to his son’s story, and, to satisfy himself of the truth of it, went up to the barn, with his rifle for company. He had not been there many minutes before he received con¬ vincing proof that Dan had told the truth, for he saw the object with his own eyes — a feeble old negi-o, di-essed in a white plantation suit, and wearing a battered plug hat, who limped along in plain view of him, and finally disappeared, no one could tell how or when. That was enough for Godfrey. He started for liome at the top of his speed, and scarcely dared to venture out of doors that night. He had an ap¬ pointment with Clarence Gordon at dark, but he would not have passed that barn in his present state of mind if he had known that he could make twice eighty thousand dollars by it. Bright and early the next morning Clarence came down to see why he had not kept his promise, and talked to him in such a way that Godfrey finally agreed to meet him that night, the boy promising to protect him from anything in the shape of a ghost that might cross their path. He kept his appoint¬ ment this time, but he was sorry enough for it after¬ ward, for the first object on which his eyes rested, when he and his companion reached the potato-field, was old Jordan, digging away as if he too were in search of the buried treasure. Godfrey would have talmn to his heels at once, but Clarence, who did not believe in ‘ haunts,’ walked up and seized the negro by the arm. After much argument, Godfrey was induced to do the same, and then his fears all vanished, for it was a veritable human being that he took hold of, and not a spirit, as he feared it was. He declared, too, that the inter¬ loper was the missing Jordan, beyond a doubt, and that he had come there to steal the money he had buried in that same field years before. The negro was commanded to point out the spot where the treasure was hidden, but nothing could be learned from the old fellow. He would not speak at all, until Godfrey threatened to punch him in the ribs with his shovel, and then he denied all knowledge of the barrel. Upon hearing this, Clarence and his companion seized him b}^ the arms, dragged him across tlie field, over the fence, and down the road to Godfrey’s potato-cellar, where he was tied to a stanchion with a plough-line, and left, with the assurance tliat he sliould never see daylight again until he told where the fortune was to be found. Godfrey was stirring the next morning before it was fairly light, and the first sound that fell on his eais caused him to start and tremble with terror. He listened until it was repeated, and then started post-haste for General Gordon’s house. When he reached it, he found the whole plantation in an up¬ roar. Don was missing, and a search was being instituted. Clarence came out about this time, and Godfrey told him a most astounding piece of news. It wasn’t old Jordan at all whom they had captured the night before, it was Don Gordon. Godfrey was sure of it, for he had heard him whistle as nobody in the world except Don Gordon could whistle.

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Godfrey “ seeing As soon as Clarence recovered from his amazement and terror, he mounted Don’s pony, and set out for the potato-cellar to see for himself . When he reached it, he found that the prisoner had already been liberated by somebody (it •y’as Bert, who was guided to his place of confinement by Don’s loud and continued whistling), and was no doubt on the way home by that time. What was Clarence to do? Of course he could ” the old Negro. not go back to the plantation and face his relatives after what he had done, and there was no other house in the settlement open to him. Just then he heard the whistle of a steamer coming up the river, and that settled it for him. He would go home. He jumped on the pony, and was riding post-haste toward the landing when he was waylaid by Godfrey Evans, who robbed him of twenty dollars, all the money he had in the world.

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As soon as lie was released, Clarence made liis way to the landing on foot, reaching it just in time to secure passage on the JEinma Deanej pawned his watch for money enough to pay his way home, and finally reached his father’s house in safety, only to be packed olf to sea on the school-ship, where he remains to this day. Don Gordon reached home with his brother’s as¬ sistance, and has been a close prisoner there ever since, not yet having recovered from the effects of his night in the potato-cellar. Godfrey Evans is hiding in the swamp somewhere, fearing that if he comes home he will be arrested for three offences — robbing Clarence, assaulting Don, and trying to steal the eighty thousand dollars, which he still firmly believes to be hidden in the potato-patch. A week has passed since the occurrence of the events which we have so rapidly reviewed, and now

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238 CHATTERBOX. No. XXX. that you are acquainted with them we are prepared to resume our story. * And if your father doesn^t come hack, how are we to live this winter ? ’ asked Mrs. Evans, continuing the conversation which we have so long interrupted. * How is Ae to live ? ’ * hlis living will trouble him more than ours will trouble us,’ replied David, who, knowing that he was his mother’s main dependence now, tried hard to keep up a brave heart. ^ It mil be cold out there in the swamp pretty soon. I saw a flock of wild geese in the lake this morning, and that is a sure sign that winter is close at hand. Father had no coat on when he went away, and he Was barefooted, too. And as for our living, mother, who’s kept you in clothes and coffee, sugar and tea, for the last year ? ’ ‘ You have, David. I don’t know what I should do without you. Y'ou are a great comfort to me.’ ^ And I’m never going to be anything else, mother. I never made you cry, dii I ? I’m not going to, either. I can take care of you; and I will, too. If I can’t fet work to do I can hunt and trap small game, you now ; and if I only had a rifle I’m sure I could kill at least one deer every week. That, reckoning venison worth six cents a poimd, would bring us in about thirtj" dollars a month. Who says we couldn’t live and save money on that ? ’ ^But you don’t own a rifle,’ said his mother, smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm. ‘ Well, that’s so,’ said David, sadly. ^ But,’ he added, his face brightening, ^ I shall have ten dollars coming to me as soon as Don Gordon’s pointer is field-broken, and you shall have every cent of it. Be¬ sides, you haven’t forgotten that I’m going to get a hundred and fifty dollars for trapping quail for that man up North, have you P ’ ‘ Have you heard from him yet ? ’ David was obliged to confess that he had not. ‘ He may have made a bargain with some one else before Don’s letter reached him,’ continued Mrs. Evans. ‘ Y'ou know this is not the only country in which quails are to be found, and neither are you the only one who would be glad to make a hundred and . fifty dollars by trapping them.’ ' I know it, mother ; but even if I can’t get that job, I can get some other that will bring us in money,’ said David, who was determined to Iook on the bright side of things. ^ I’ll earn another ten-dollar bill be¬ fore the one I get from Don Gordon is gone, you may depend upon it.’ With this assurance the boy kissed his mother and hurried out of the door, and Mrs. Evans, after clearing away the remnants of their frugal brealvfast, also went out to begin her daily toil at the house of a neighbour. David made his way around the cabin, and was met by Don’s pointer, which, coming as close to him as the length of his chain would permit, waited for the friendly word and caress that the boy never failed to bestow when he passed the kennel in which the animal was confined. The greeting he extended to his four-footed friend was a short one this morning, for David had other matters on his mind. He con¬ fidently expected that a few days more would bring him the wished-for order from the man who had ad¬ vertised for the quails, and when it came he wanted to be ready to go to work without the loss of an hour ; so he was spending all his spare time in building traps. He had four completed already, and just as he had got boards enough split out for the fifth he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs on the road, and looked up to see Bert Gordon and his brother ride up to the fence. ^ Why, Don, I am glad to see you out again,’ ex¬ claimed David, dropping his hammer and hurrying forward to gi’eet his friend. ^ Thank 3^ou,’ replied Don, accepting David’s prof- f erred hand. ‘ I assure you I am glad to be out again, too. It’s a fearful bore to be tied up in the house for a whole week, but I was bound to come do’wm here this morning, if I had to come in the carriage, for I have news for you,’ added Don, putting his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat. ‘Has it come?’ asked David, in a voice that trembled with excitement. ‘ It certainly has. It was addressed to me, you know, and so Bert opened it. The man says he wants fifty dozen live quails immediately, and — but there it is, read it for yourself.’ Don produced the letter, and David took it with a very unsteady hand. A hundred and fifty dollars was a fortune in his eyes, a larger one too than he had hoped to earn for some years to come. He opened the letter, and one glance at it showed him that the money was his, if he could onl}^ capture the required number of birds. They were to be trapped at once, the sooner the better, put into boxes, which were to be marked C. 0. D. and forwarded, charges paid, to the address at the bottom of the letter. ‘ Cod,’ repeated David, whose opportunities for learning how business was transacted had been very limited ; ‘ does he mean codfish ? ’ Don and Bert laughed heartily. ‘ No,’ said the former, as soon as he could speak. ‘ C. O. D. means ‘ Collect on delivery.” ‘ Oh,’ said David, in a tone of voice which showed that he did not yet fully understand. ‘ It is nothing to be asliamed of,’ said Bert ; ^ we didn’t know what the letters meant until father told us.’ ‘ That’s so,’ said Don ; ‘ how is a fellow to Imow a thing he has never had a chance to learn ? Now when the birds are caught, you put so many of them in a box, and on each box you mark the value of its contents. You send a notice of shipment to the man, and he will Imow when to look for the birds. When they arrive he pays the amount of your bill to the express agent, and the agent forwards it to you. You run no risk whatever, for the ^lan can’t gel the quails until your bill is paid.’ ‘ Now, I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said Bert, who saw by the expression on David’s face that his brother had not made matters much clearer by his explanation, ‘ you go to work and catch the quails, and when j^ou have made up the required number we’ll help you ship them off.’ ‘ That’s the idea ! ’ said Don. ‘ We’ll do anything we can for you.’ ‘Thank you,’ answered David, who felt as if a tremendous responsibility had been removed from his shoulders. “ I’ll write to the man to-day, informing him that

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No. XXX. OJHATTEIiBOX. 239 you will go to work at once/ added Don. ^ I don’t suppose you could tell, even witliin a week or two, of the time it will take you to fill the order, could 3'ou ? ’ shouldn’t like to make a guess,’ said David. ^The birds rove aroimd so that a fellow can’t tell anything about them. They are plenty now, but next week there may not be half a dozen fiocks to be found.’ ^ Then I will write to him that the best you can say is that you will lose no time. How does the pointer come on ? ’ ^ Finely,’ said David. ^ He works better than half the old dogs now. He’s smart, I tell you.’ ^ He takes after his owner, you see. I hope to get firmly on my feet next week, and if I do I want to try him. Good-bye.’ {To he continujed.) ABOUT OYSTERS. YSTERS,’ says Fuller, ^ are the only meat which men eat alive, and yet account it no cruelty.’ The idea that an oyster is dead as soon as ‘ The damsel’s knife the gaping shell commands, And the salt liquor streams between her hands,’ is a mistake: unless it is dead before opened, the oyster is often swallowed alive. From the most ancient times they have been thought a delicacy. Some think that Homer has alluded to them ; at all events, the Romans were very fond of oysters, and those brought from the shores of Kent near Rich- borough were much prized by them. There are many enemies to the oyster, and the star-fish, especially the common five-fingers, are amongst its greatest. They get the shell between their rays, fix it firmly by the suckers, and then turn their stomachs inside out, and so embrace the captive. The shells soon open, and the star-fish enjoys its meal. Mussels destroy oysters by smothering them, and sand and frost cause thou¬ sands to die. Oysters are said to be a great brain food. Louis XT. of France used to* feast the learned doctors of the Sorbonne on oysters once a-year, in order to keep up* their brain power. Cervantes, Pope, Swift, Rousseau, Voltaire, Hume, Christopher North, and Napoleon I., were all fond of oysters. A. R. B. GEOEEREY CHATJCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. (Contimied from page 218.) THE DOCTOR OF PHYSIC. * With us ther was a Doctour of Physike, In all this world ne was ther non him like To speke of physike, and of surgerie,* OUR Doctor of Physic was a man of very profound learning indeed, but his art differed from that of physicians of the present time, for it was grounded in astronomy; and by his natural magic he could tell VEL what hours the planets favourable to his patients were in the ascendant, and treated them accordingly. So he was half an astrologer. Fancy being ill, and having to wait for your medicine till Mars or Saturn were in some particular quarter of the heavens ! He knew the cause of every malady, whether it were hot or cold, or moist or dry; and of what humour, and what caused it. He was a perfect practitioner, for as soon as he knew the root of the harm and the cause of the disease he at once gave the sick man his remedy. In all the world there was none like him for pbydc and surgery. He had apothecaries ready to send him drugs ; and they made profit for each other, the doctor and the apothecary, for their friendship was of long standing. And well kne-w this Doctor the works of all tlie famous physicians, from old ^sculapius, and Hippocrates, and Galen, down to Gatesden and Gilbertin. His diet was moderate, but nouijshing and diges¬ tible ; and he studied his Bible biR little. He was clothed in red Persian silk, lin^d with taffety and sendal, or thin silk. Yet his expenses were light, and he kept carefully what he had gained during the pestilence ; for as gold is a cordial in physic, he los ed gold especially. This learned Doctor was not a man of many words, or one who indulged in needless talking. So when the Franklain had finished his story, and our host said, ‘ Sir Doctor of Physic, I pray you tell us a tale of some honest matter,’ the Doctor replied, ^ It shall be done, if you will hear it ;’ and at once he began his tale. But thinking that he need not tax his powers much where no fee could be expected, he contented himself with a recollection of his school days, and told the celebrated story of Virginius and his daughter, out of Titus Livius, and which you will find in your Roman History. Now though this story was most likely well known to the most educated of the pilgrims, to whom Latin was almost as familiar as their mother tongue, it was quite new to our host ; and when it was finished he began using strong language, as if he were mad, as was his very unpleasant custom when much excited. Ho railed at Appius Claudius for his wickedness; and whilst praising the Doctor’s cleverness, and hoping that Heaven would bless every boxful of his medicines, he declared that the piteous tale had nearly given him a ^ cardiacle,’ or some such malady ; and that unless he at once heard some merry tale his heart was quite lost for pity of poor Vir^nia. We must not judge the Doctor of Physic of the fourteenth century by the standard of our own day. He doubtless did much good in his time, by relieving human suffering as far as lay in his power. In the middle ages the planets were believed to have an influence over people’s health ; and the art of healing was mixed up with astrology and magic, and observa¬ tions of the stars, and ideas about ‘ humours ’ and ‘ temperaments,’ long since abandoned. Nor ought we to think liglitly of his studies, dark and confused though they seem to us now, for it was through the labours of such men as ho that the science of medi¬ cine has struggled on to its present eminence ; just as some of the most valuable discoveries in chemistry were made by the old alchemists, whilst spending their lives and exhausting their energies over their crucibles, striving to find out the philosopher’s stone, or the secret that should turn brass, and iron, and lead into gold. A. R. {To be continued,)

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The Doctor of Physic.

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242 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXI. THE ENGLISH BULL-DOG. CORRESPONDENT of the Bath Express writes: 'An evidence of the v\V courage and pugnacity of the English bull-dog was shown in a remarkable joanner a few days since, in this neighb(jurhood. A hull-dog who had never been accustomed to see trains until lately, took a groat dislike to them, and has made a point of chasing them whenever he has had a chance of doing so : but, of course, with¬ out being able to catch them. One morning, being out with his owner’s brother, near the Somerset and Dorset Railway, between the Midford and Wellow Station, the early train from Bath was heard to be rapidly approaching. Ihe dog, as usual, was olf directly. The gentleman knowing they were in advance of the train, and fearing the dog would be killed, called loudly to him to come back ; but in vain. He then ran to see what would be the consequence of the dog’s folly, and was just in time to see the dog boldly charge the cow-lifter of the engine and disappear. The gentleman then closed his'eyes for one moment, not wishing to see the dog’s remains torn to pieces, and on opening them the next moment, much to his surprise, he distinctly saw the dog under the rapidly passing carriages, evidently waiting an opportunity to make a dash between the wheels: but their speed checked his doing so : he therefore remained until the last carriage had passed over him, and then he was seen wagging }iis tail as though he had done something to be talked about, and having only sustained a few cut i about the head and losing the hair from one side of his tail.’ THE BOY TRAPPER. {Continued from page 239.) By Harry Castlemok. ■^(Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. jOW, there are two friends worth having,’ thought David, gazing al¬ most lovingly after the brothers, as they rode away. '1 don’t wonder that everybody likes them. A him- dred and fifty dollars ! Whew ! won’t mother have some warm clothes this winter, and won’t she have everything else she wants, too ? ’ The boy did not see how he could possibly keep his good fortune to him¬ self until his mother came home that night. His first impulse was to go over to the neighbour’s house, and tell her all about it; but he was restrained by the thought that that would be a waste of time. He could make one trap in the hour and a half that it would take him to go and return, and the sooner his traps were all completed the sooner he could get to work. His next thought was that he would let the traps rest for that day, go down to the landing, purchase some present for his mother, and surprise her with it when she came home. Of course he had no money to pay for it, but w'hat did that matter? Silas Jones was always willing to trust anybody whom he knew to be reliable, and when he learned that his customer would have a hun¬ dred and fifty dollars of his own in a few weeKs, he would surely let him have a warm dress or a pair of shoes. When his money came he would get his mother something fine to wear to church ; and, \yhile he was about it, wouldn't it be a good plan for him to send to Memphis for a hunting outfit and a few dozen steel traps? Like his father, when he first thought of the barrel with the eighty thousand dollars in it, David looked upon himself as rich already ; and if he had attempted to carry out all the grand ideas that were continually suggesting themselves to him, it was probable that his hundred and fifty dollars would be gone before he had earned them. ' Hallo, there I’ shouted a voice. David looked up and saw another horseman stand¬ ing beside the fence — Silas Jones, who kept the store at the landing, and the very man of whom he had been thinking but a moment before. 'Come here, David,’ continued Silas. 'I am out collecting bills, and I thought I would ride around and see if you have heard anything of that respected father of yours during the last few days.’ ' No, sir; we haven’t,’ answered David, hanging his head. ' Well, I suppose you Imow that he owes me eight dollars, don’t you ?’ said Silas. ' I knew he owed you something, but I didn’t think it was as much as that,’ replied David, opening his eyes. In his estimation, eiglit dollars was a debt of some magnitude. ' That’s the amount, as sure as you live, and if I had charged him as much as I charge others, it would have been more. I made a little reduction to him, because I knew that he didn’t own more of this world’s goods than the law allows. What is to be done about it ? Am I to lose my money because he has run away ?’ ' Oh, no,’ said David, quickly. ' I’ll pay it, and be glad to do so. We may want groceries some time, you know, when we have no money to pay for them.’ ' That’s the way to talk ! Pay up promptly, and • your credit will always be good.’ ‘ All I ask of you,’ continued David, ' is that you will wait about a month longer, until - ’ ' Can’t do it; can’t possibly do it,’ exclaimed Silas, shaking his head and waving his hands up and down in the air. ' Must have money to-day. My creditors are pushing me, and I must push everybody whose name is on my books.’ ' But my name isn’t on your books.’ ' Your father’s is, and if you have any honour about you, you will see the debt paid.’ ' That’s what I mean to do, but 1 can’t pay it now.’ ' Can’t wait a single day,’ said Silas. | If the money isn’t forthcoming at once, you can’t get a single thing at my store from this time forward, unless you have the cash to plank right down on the counter.’ ‘ I have always paid you for everytWng I have bought of you,’ said David, with some spirit.

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No. XXXT. CHATTERBOX. 243 ^ I know it ; but your father hasn’t, and if you want me to show you any favours you will pay that debt to-day. You have always been called an honest boy, and if you want to keep that reputation you had better be doinpf something.’ So saying, Silas wheeled his horse and rode away, leaving David lost in wonder. CHAPTER III. — AN OFFER OF PARTNERSHIP. This was the first time David had ever heard that a son had been held responsible for debts contracted by his father. At first he did not believe it; but Silas seemed to think it could be done, and he was a business man, and ought to know what he was talking about. The truth of the matter was that Silas Jones was a hard one to deal with. He wanted every cent that was due to him, and more too, if he could get it. It made no difference how poor his customers were, he always found means to make them pay the bills contracted at his store. The eight dollars that God¬ frey owed him looked almost as large in his eyes as it did in David’s. He co.uld not bear to lose it, and he did not care what tricks he resorted to to get it. When he rode away he took all David’s peace of mind with him. ^Wasn’t it lucky that I didn’t go down to his store and ask him to trust me for a dress for mother .P’ thought the boy, as he picked up his hammer and resumed work upon his trap. ^ He would have refused me sure. Now there is only one way I can pay that debt, and that is to ask Don Gordon for the ten dollars he promised to give me for breaking his pointer. Thars something I don’t like, for the money isn’t fairly earned yet, but I don’t see what else I can do. Mother must have something to eat, and the only way I can get it is by making a friend of Silas P^yi^o debt father owes him. I don’t care for myself, and as for Dan— let him look out for number one. That’s what he makes me do.’ While David was soliloquising in this way he heard a footstep near him, and looking up saw his brother Dan, whose appearance and actions surprised him not a little. His face wore a smile instead of the usual scowl, he had no coat on, his sleeves were rolled up, and he carried a frow in one hand (a frow is a sharp instrument used for splitting out shingles), and a heavy mallet in the other. He really looked as if he had made up his mind to go to work ; and David could not imagine what had happened to put such an idea into his head. He stopped on the way to speak to the pointer and ffive him a friendly pat, and that was another thing that surprised his brother. Dan would have acted more like himself if he had given the animal a kick. 'He’s up to something,’ thought David. 'He wouldn’t act that 'svay if he wasn’t. I shouldn’t wonder if he wants part of that money I am going to get from Don Gordon, but he needn’t waste his breath in asking for it. Every cent of it goes into mother’s hands.’ ' Hallo, Davy !’ said Dan, cheerfully. 'I thought mebbe you wouldn’t care if I should come out and lend you a hand. I hain’t got nothing much to do this morning.’ David made no reply. He was waiting to hear ' what object his brother had in view in offering his assistance, and he knew it would all be made plain to him in a few minutes. 'You got a heap of traps to build, hain’t you?’ continued Dan. ' AVhen be you goin’ to set ’em ?’ ' I am going to set some of them to-night,’ was David’s reply. ' Fifty dozen is a heap of birds, ain’t it ?’ said Dan. ' How do you happen to know anything about it ?’ demanded David, who w^as greatly astonished. ' I heerd you an’ Don talkin’ about it.’ ' Where were you at the time P’ 'Oh, I was around,’ answered Dan, who did not care to confess that he had intentionally played the part of eavesdropper. David was silent, for he wanted to think about it. Here was another piece of ill luck. His experience had taught him that if he wished to make his enter¬ prise successful, he must keep it from the knowledge of his father and Dan. If they found out that he expected to earn so much money, they would insist on a division of the spoils, and if their demand was not^ complied with, there would be trouble in the cabin. He had no fear of his father now, but here was Dan, who was an unpleasant fellow to have about when he was crossed, and he seemed to know all about it. There were troublous times ahead; David was sure of that. ' What ^ does that feller up North want with so^ many quails ?’ said Dan, as he placed one of the oak blocks upon its end, and began splitting off a shinide with the frow. ' He can’t eat ’em all by hisself.’ 'No, he wants to turn them loose and let them run,’ replied David, with as much good nature as he could assume. ' You see they had an awful hard winter up there last year, and the quails were all killed off.’ ' Wall, what does the fule want to let ’em go fur, arter he’s bought ’em ?’ ' Why, he wants to stock the country. He belongs to_ a Sportsman’s Club up there. He- and his friends will have a law passed keeping folks from shooting them for two or three years, and then there’ll be just as many birds as there were before.’ Is that the way them rich fellers does ?’ ' That’s what Don says.’ 'It’s mighty nice to be rich — ain’t it, Davy? to have all the money you want to spend, a nice h'oss to ride, one of them guns that breaks in two in the middle to do their ^lootin’ with, an’ shiny boots an’ a straw hat to wear to church ! I wish me an’ dad had found that thar bar’’l with the eighty thousand dollars into it. I wouldn’t be wearin’ no such clothes as these yere.’ ' That’s all humbug,’ exclaimed David. ' The silver things that old Jordan buried, the spoons, knives, and dishes, were all dug up again, and are in use now every day. General Gordon never had eighty thou¬ sand dollars in gold and silver.’ 'Don’t you b’lieve no sich story as that ar,’ replied Dan, with a knowing shake of his head. ' That’s what the Gordons say, anyhow.’ ' In course they do ; an’ they say it kase th ey don’t want nobody diggin’ arter that thar bar’l. They wants to find it theirselves. How much be you goin’ to get fur these quail, Davy? As much as twenty-five dollars, mebbe thirty, won’t you ?’ J

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This question showed that Dan didn’t know all about the matter, and David took courage. ' Yes, all of that,’ he replied. More, I reckon mebbe, won’t ye ?’ think so.’ ^ You won’t get fifty, will you ?’ said Dan. ^ I hope I shall.’ < Whew !’ whistled Dan. He threw down his frow and mallet, and seated himself on the pile of shingles, with an air which said very plainly, that with such an amount of money in prospect there was no need that any more work sliould be done. ^ That’s a fortin, Davy. It’s an amazin’ lot fur poor folk like us, an’ I can’t somehow git it through my head that we’re goin’ to git so much. But if we do get it, Davy, we’ll have some high old times when it comes, me an’ you.* {To he continued,) PICTURES EROM NEW ZEALAND. Amongst the English readers of Chatterbox there are many who have friends in that pair of islands which we call New Zealand. If such readers were to visit New Zealand they would not find a very great change from England, for the climate is but a little warmer, and only in some parts would they find the heat and cold much greater. But then, after the cultivated land seen on every side in England, how strange would seem the thick forests, with their strange trees and tangled under¬ wood ! or such scenes as one of our pictures repre¬ sents — a small stream, or creek as it is called, flowing over a rocky bed through a thick wood I Strange, too, to our eyes, would seem the abundance in which such fruits as oranges, lemons, citrons, melons, peaches, apricots, and figs, are found nearly everywhere ; not,

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Eachel beating as with us, expensive luxuries, but growing in such abundance that the pigs come in for a share of them. Many plants new to us would be found on all sides. Take, for example, the New Zealand flax {Ph(yrmium tenaXy boys and girls, if you would know its proper name), a most useful plant, the size of which may be seen from the fact that a young colonist is comfortably seated beneath its spreading leaves. And many more would be the strange plants springing up on all sides : a rich harvest for any botanist. But besides the strange sights nature would afford, there would be others brought about by man. Coal- mires are common enough ; but a gold-field is a rare sight, indeed. Gold was discovered in New Zealand in 1842, and the search for it has since been very successful — especially in the province of Otago. A. K. B. ‘WHAT WILL MOTHER SAY?’ O that is your new hat, Kitty ! Turn round to the light, and let me see whether your own small face is there, as well as all the fluffy black beaver and satin bows.’ ^ Not till I have kissed you, Granny, though you do not deserve any kisses at all to-day, for talking about my hat instead of about me. But isn’t it a pretty hat ? It was the only one they had of this shape at Chap¬ man’s, when mother and I went over to Sutton last week, so I persuaded her to let me have it. I was to have a new winter hat, you know, and Mrs. Chapman “Bee Music.” said that all the young ladies at Bath and Chelten¬ ham were wearing them.’ ^ It is very large, my dear, is it not ?’ ‘ Oh no, indeed; it is not one bit larger than they are worn, Mrs. Chapman says ; only, you see, it looks large now because small hats have been the fashion so long. It is called the Gainsboro’,” because that Duchess of Devonshire picture that was stolen had one on : so you must not find fault. Granny dear; you will soon get to like it, as you don’t set your face against the fashions as some people do,’ By this time the hat under discussion had been re¬ moved from the wearer’s head, and was being held in various positions before the eyes of the old lady addressed as Granny,” who, for her part, seemed to find watching the bright young face and girlish movements of its owner more to her taste than the beauties of the new beaver hat. Why Kitty Fane should speak to her as ‘ Granny ’ requires explanation, as the name ^granny’ usually suggests relationship, and no relationship whatever existed between them. Had Kitty herself been asked about it, she would probably have said, ' Why, you would not have me call her Miss Lavender,” would you? It would sound so very strange! She is a great friend of father’s and mother’s, and has been Granny ” to me ever since I can remember anything; and for the matter of that, most people who are Miss Lavender’s friends call her Granny:” she is much too kind and good to be called anything else.’

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246 CHATTERBOX- No. XXXL ^ It is a very pretty hat, I am sure, my dear, and is rather like the hats we used to wear when I was a girl ; only we pulled ours more over our faces, and did not have them turned up on one side. The one I wore was a Leghorn, and had a puce feather and a gauze veil - But there ! I do not like to think of that hat ! ’ ^ Fancy you, dear old Granny, in a large hat, and there being anything about it you do not like to think of ! I will run upstairs and take my things off, as Sally said I bad kept tea waiting ten minutes; and when we begin work you must tell me all about your hat, as a reward for bringing mine to show you. I’m sure it must be something very interesting, and I get on ever so much faster with my work if you only will tell me a story.’ ' It is not easy to tell one’s own misdoings, Kitty child ; and this Leghorn hat, pretty as it was, ac¬ cording to our then ideas, always must bring with it sad memories of my own foolish and wrong doings.’ Tea being over, and the fire well made up, and the curtains drawn in Miss Lavender’s snug little parlour, she began her promised story to Kitty Fane : — ' I have so often told you of the time when I was a girl, that I feel almost as if you knew my little old home in Devonshire, with its thatched roof, low casement windows, and porch-covered door. I feel as if you must have often been with me round the old-fashioned cottage garden, the like of which there never was before or will be again, and knew a little of the round of small duties which made up the happy life I led with my dear mother. A h ! she was the crowning joy of everything, and home simply meant mother, and mother meant home. The time to which I am going back was my fifteenth birth¬ day, and it was such a perfect June day. So warm and bright, why even the bees — (my bees, please, for tliey were my special charge, and any small earnings by the sale of the honey made up my modest pin- money) — even the bees felt the inHuence of it, and chose to swarm, much to my vexation, for I had cut out quite a different plan for the day, and I never thought that I should have to spend the^est part of it beating " bee music ” out of one of Betty’s frying- pans with the door-key. ' Mother’s present had been a new quilted, cherry- coloured petticoat, which I flattered m3^self looked veiy well under my dark grey frock, white kerchief, and elbow ruffles, and surmounted by my gipsy hat, which I had missed the day before, and now found its disappearance had been caused by Betty’s having stolen it, to trim up with ribbon to match mother’s petticoat. The post was not then either so regular or so early as it is now, and I was just hiving my young swarm when old Travers turned in at the gate and handed mother, in the porch, a letter. ' “ Who is the letter from, mammy ? ” I called. ' " Philip, dear ; and it is such a long one ! Cannot you come and read it to me ? ” ' Philip was, as you know, my half-brother, and be was a curly-headed lad of twelve when father brought mother home to be a new mother to him. lie always said he must have led her a sad life of it at first, as he was a thorough pickle : but mother never will allow this, but says from the very first he was the good steady fellow he lived to grow into. ' For myself brother Phil, though twelve years my senior, was everything that was good and delightful, ^and it was a black day indeed when the need of making his way in life took him away from us, and gave him a clerkship in an uncle’s office in Bath. W e had grown quite used to being without him now, though I, foolish child ! was still feeling sore and jealous at his having, about six months previous to the time of which I now speak, married a yoimg and very foolish little wife. Mother looked very grave and worried when she first heard of it ; but she was too tender to let any of her misgivings creep out in her letters to him, and too good a woman to doubt but that her dutiful stepson would be taken better care of some¬ how than she could see just then. ' " How would you like to go to Bath, Bachel ? ” was mother’s next question to me. ' " Very much, mother, if these horrid bees would but settle. You will have read the whole letter before I can get to you, I am afraid.’ ' " ( Jh, no, I shall not ! I am only dipping in here and there, and lighted on a bit where i’hilip wants me to let you go on a visit to him and Flora.’ ' " I wish it was only Philip I should see at Bath, mother,”! began, seating myself in the porch by her, and fanning my hot face with my hat. " Flora is so very silly ! I know she is more than two years older than I am, but I always felt ever so much older than she was when they were here at ICaster.” ' " She is a pretty, lovable little thing. And it is quite prettv to see how fond she is of Philip, and he of her. Dear fellow ! I hope he may make a wise little woman of her some day; or perhaps it would be better to say. May God do so.” ' " I cannot think how men can like to have such foolish little dolls for wives,” I went on, full of my youthful intolerance of everything that did not quite tit in with my own views of life. ' " Well, now is your chance, dear, for setting Flora to rights ! There’s no knowing what wonders you may not work if you go and .stay with her at Bath.” ' So we fell into talking the Bath visit quietly over, and the ways and means for it, as these had always to be seriously considered before mother or I could venture on the smallest step out of our daily beaten track. Philip was written to next day, and his in¬ vitation accepted ; and then all the resources of the cottage were severely taxed to get my small wardrobe ready for such a gay event as a visit to Bath. ' I was busy watching Betty put the finishing touches to my packing the night before my journey, when dear mother came into my room, holding a small old- fashioned case in her hand. ' " I am afraid my little maid will look a very countrified damsel among all the town young ladies ; but I hope she is too sensible a little woman to care for such things, and will be just as happy in her white frock as she would be if she had all the laces and satins in Bath.” ' " Of course I shall, mother dear,” I answered, boldlv, eyeing with satisfaction the pretty, soft, real muslin Betty was just carefully laying at the top of my box. " I am a country girl, and do not wish to be anything else, and if — — ” To what heights my brilliant fancy w'ould have carried me there is no saying, had not mother stopped me by opening the

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No. XXXI, CHATTERBOX. 247 small leather case she had in her hand, and displaying to my admiring gaze a dainty ruby brooch, which I had been allowed to look at now and then as a very great treat, and which I knew was her one small piece of valuable jewelry, and. had been my father’s wedding gift to her. ^ Oh, you darling mother ! You do- not mean to say you will lend that to me ? ” I exclaimed. ^ Yes I do, dear, as I am sure 1 can trust you to take care of it, and to bring it back safely,” said mother, quickly closing the little case, and handing it to Betty to be put in a safe corner. If it had been any one else’s gift, except father’s, you should have had it and welcome for your own ; but as it was, I could not give it away, even to you, before the time comes when it will be yours by right.” ^ You gay young ladies of the present day, when railways have opened up London and its thousand pleasures to almost every one, would have laughed at my humble little experience of life and society at Bath. Yet it was both these to me, and I soon found myself listening breathlessly to Flora and her doings, instead of, as I had pictured myself, setting my pretty, flighty, little sister-in-law, to rights out of my superior wisdom and knowledge. ^ It was all delightful ! — such shops ! such pretty faces and elegant manners ! such music and such people promenading about ! — to watch and speculate about. I^hilip, of course, was not in a position to let his pretty young wife go about to all the gay balls and routs with which Bath abounded ; but I soon found out that Flora had a will of her own, and would go about as much as ever she could, and more, too, than Philip liked and approved, but which she either coaxed him out of, or, worst come to worst, pouted and fretted him out of. (To he continued.) of the Embankment, and the necessary taking in af the foreshore, gave a large addition to the whole of the Temple Gardens facing the river. Here, in the Inner Temple Gardens, and protected by an iron railing, may be seen the remains of a tree under which Dr. Johnson, the author of the first really good dictionary in the English language, was in the habit of seating himself, when taking the fresh air in the Temple Gardens. And here, it is said (and Shakespeare accepts the story), the heads of the houses of York and Lancaster plucked the white and red roses, which became each the badge of one of the rival claimants to the throne of England. It need not be said that the 'white rose was the badge of the House of York, and the red, a badge of the blouse of Lancaster. The Temple itself is the head -quarters of the English lawyers, and is divided into the Middle and Inner, the first-named having the reputation of being the more distinguished of the two. Each portion of the Temple is governed by its own master and benchers, and each has its separate hall, where the students are bound to eat so many dinners in the course of a term. Until within the last ten or twelve years it was only necessary to pay certain fees and eat an ascertained number of dinijers, and a student was called to the bar. But now a preliminary exami¬ nation has to be passed before the student is entered, and some very severe tests are applied to the candi¬ date before he is at liberty to wear wig and gown. The Temple takes its name from its being the spot where, in the times of the Crusades, the Knights Templar congregated. The knights have long since vanished, but their name not only abides, but even their remains cling, in some instances, about the spot. The Temple Church, one of the finest round churches in Europe, still contains the tombs of many Templars, while the graveyard is sprinkled with these mute evidences of the struggle of Christianity to possess the Holy Land. In the yard outside the Church lie the remains of Oliver Goldsmith and other notable men. We now approach Blackfriars Bridge, one of the last built over the Thames, and which is held by very many judges to be a handsome structure. Passing under it, and also the viaduct of the Loudon, Chatham, and Dover Railway, we have a fine view of St. Paul’s Cathedral, which appears even higher than it is, as we look up from the river towards the hiU on which it is situated. It is now that the massive warehouses which dis¬ tinguish the lower Thames begin to show themselves, especially as we approach Southwark Bridge, the first important iron bridge built in England, in 1818, and at one time, with its open spandrels and fine arclies, reckoned as one of the sights of London. Here, so far back as the time of the Romans, was a ferry to Dowgate, the water-gate of the city of London. Passing under this bridge, before us we have Cannon Street Railway Viaduct, one of the most important in England, and the first line of rail which pushed its way into the City. And here we find ^ Old Swan Stairs,’ whence is started the Watermen’s Ap¬ prentices’ Boat-race for Doggett’s red coat and silver badge, established to commemorate the accession of the House of Brunswick to the throne of England. (To be continued.) THE THAMES FHOM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XV.— FROM SOMEESET HOUSE HE ea.stern wing of Somerset House is ^ occupied by King’s College. Here, in addition to the usual branches of knowledge, students are practically ( instructed in the various branches y of applied Science, while a short dis- tance away is situated the Hospital ^ connexion with the College. )^\ Now we reach the Middle and Inner Temples, each with its gar- ^ den between it and the river. The grounds, however, of the Middle Temple, have been much curtailed in recent days; first, by the building of the new Library; and, secondly, by pome new build¬ ings which are built upon the ground where only recently a mulberry tree grew, under the branches of which it was popularly said Henry YUI. taUved ^ ^’ith Anne Boleyn. Here, in the Middle Temple, is the fountain which the late Mr. Dickens describes in Martin Chuzzlewit. Farther on we come to the Iimer Temple, where the garden is still wide and handsome. The making

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250 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXII. GrEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. {Continued from pa(je 2S^.) THE WIFE OF BATH. * A good Wif was ther of beside Bathe, But she was some del defe, and that was scathe.’ was certainly a pity that Dame Alison, the Wife of Hath, was some¬ what deaf; but as her talent lay more in talking than in listening, it was less harm than might be sup¬ posed. She doubtless heard all she cared to hear. Indeed, she might have told us much more than she did; fur she had been a great tra¬ veller. She w^as now on her way to Canterbury to visit the shrine of Saint Thomas a Becket. Hut that journey w^as nothing to he)', for she had crossed the sea to Houlogne and Cologne, had paid her devotions at the famous shrine of Saint James of Compostella, in Galicia, had gone three times on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and passed many a strange stream ; and much could she tell of her w^andorings by the way. Pilgrimages were held to earn God’s favour in old times, and the Wife of Hath did her duty thoroughly in that respect. Dame Alison was rich, and had such an establish¬ ment for cloth-making that it surpassed those of Ypres or Ghent.* All her life she was a worthy w’oman; there was no other in the parish should go before her to the otfeiing, and if they did, she was sure to be so angry that she was out of all charity. And on Sundays she wore so many tine coverchiefs on her head that they must have weighed a pound. Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hue ; but her teeth were a little irregular — ^ gap-toothed,’ she herself called it : but that, she thought, became her. She w’as w^ell wimpled, and had on her head a hat as broad as a, buckler or target ; her stockings w^ere scarlet, her boots w^ere new, and she w’oro a pair of sharp spurs, and sat easily upon her ambling steed, with a foot-mantle wrapped about her; and well could she laugh and talk in merry companionship. The goo.d wife was as experienced in marriage as in erimage,for she had been wedded to no less than five bands. She w^as now a widow, and, as she ph'a- santly tells us, was waiting for her sixth, who should be heartily welcome wlienever he appeared. And it is not like’y that so rich and showy a dame would Ije left to yjine in loneliness long, though her teeth w'ere rather uneven. Now would you not have thought, when it came to this worthy dame’s turn to tell a story, that she would have told us of some of the strange scenes she had witnessed during her travels in foreign countries? She did nothing of the sort ; but told us instead all about herself, and how handsome and lively she Avas when she was young, and what fun she had ! And all about her five husbands in regular succession, and how well she managed them, and Avhat a life she led them, till the Pardoner, who had some thoughts of getting married, started up in alarm. * Cities in Belg-ium celebrated for tbeir clotli manufacture. ‘ Now, dame,’ cried he, ^ ye be a noble preacher in this case ! Alas ! I was about to Aved a a\ ife, but I Avould much rather Aved none if I must pay for it so dearly ! ’ ^ Stay,’ quoth she ; ‘ my tale is not begun.’ And then she Avent on Avith her story, telling how three of her husbands were good, and two Avere bad ; so she Avas rather fortunate, as she got three good ones out of five. She liked her fifth hus¬ band, Janldn, best of all, though it was through him that she came by her deafness. Jankin Avas ‘ a clerk of Oxenforde ; ’ and after his marriage spent all his leisure time in reading. Now, though he Avas A^ery fond of her, he had a bad habit of reading out to her, by Avay of Avarning, all the stories about Avicked Avives that he could find in his books ; till one evening she lost all patience — if she ever had any — and snatching the horrid volume out of his hand, she tore the leaves out ; at Avhich he Avas so angrv that he boxed her ears. And she instantly tumbled doAvn on her back and pretended she was going to die. And he Avas so sorry for what he had done in his pas¬ sion that he begged her forgiveness, and promi.'ed that she should henceforth ahvays have her own Avay, which Avas just what she AA*ished : but she Avas a little deaf e\’er after from the slap he had given her. And so, having got through all her family his¬ tory from the day she Avas first married, at tAvelve years old, and a great deal more besides. Dame Alison said that she Avould noAv begin her tale. ^ Now, dame,’ quoth Friar Hubei d, laughing, ' this is a long preamble of a tale.’ ^ Lo,’ cried the Summoner, 'a friar Avill be ever in¬ terfering ! Amble or trot, thou ever hinderest our sport in this matter.’ ^ ^ea, Avilt thou so. Sir Summoner?’ quoth tbe Friar. ‘Noav, I sliall teU a tale or tA\'o of a Summoner ere I go, so that all the folk in this place shall laugh I’ ^ And,’ quoth the Summoner, ^ere I come to Sitting- bourne I will tell tAvo or three tales of friars that shall make thy lieart mourn, for Avell I know thy patience is but gone.’ ^ Peace ! ’ cried our host ; ^ and that at once : let the Avoman tell her tale. Ye behave like folk that liaA^e been drinking ale. Do, dame, tell on your tale.’ ^All ready, sir,’ said she ; ‘ right as you please, if I have leave of this Avorthy Friar.’ Tlie Friar assented, and Dame Alison told a story as old as the days of King Arthur, to sIioav that Avhat all Avomen liked best in the Avo’ld Avas to rule and to have their OAvn Avay. . So, you see, this good Wife of Hath only did Avhat most of us do, for she judged of every one by herself. A. H. [To he continued.) DERIVATION OF WORDS. Blankets take their name from one Thomas Hlanket, of Hristol, avKo first made them in 1J40. Worsted is so called from the town of Worsted, in Norfolk, where it AA^as first manufactured. Sally Lunns (as the Avcdl-knoAvn tea-cakes are called) are simply retaining the name of the first young Avoman Avho made tliem and carried them about in her basket, toAvards the end of the last century. II. A. F.

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No. XXXII. CHATTERBOX 251 ‘WHAT WILL MOTHER SAYP» [Concluded from page 247.) first fortnight in Bath was delight¬ ful, and I thought I could never tire of such a life ; but there came one or two little parties, and Flora began to look askance at my simple ward¬ robe, and to show in many little ways that she did not think me well dressed enough to go out with her, or to visit her friends. I was very angry at first, and told her that if she was ashamed of me she might just leave me at home : but this she would not do, as she knew it would vex Philip. At last there came an announcement of a grand pro¬ menade and flower-show to be given in lionour of one of the royal dukes. Every one talked of it and every one wished to go : but tickets were only to be had by favour from the Committee. ‘ It is not one bit of use our wishing to go ! ” sighed Flora one morning; \t I wished it ever so Philip would never go out of his way to get tickets — and getting them is a great favour, I can tell you.” * We were standing in my bedroom, and I had just broken out with, — How can you say any such thing of Philip ? ” when I remembered that she was his wife, and I had much better liold my tongue. ‘ Turning to the table I took up dear mother’s little brooch, and began idly snapping its fastening back¬ wards and forwards to hide my vexation. ^ Whatever liave you got there, Bachel ? ” asked Flora, eagerly. It glitters like precious stones ! ” ^ It IS precious stones,” I answered, almost rudely : a brooch of mother’s, which she lent me when I was coming away.” ‘ “ How pretty !” said Flora, taking it from my hand. Fancy your having such a thing ! It would be more suitable for a married woman like me. Why did you not wear it at Mrs. Weston’s ? ” ^ I don’t know,” I began, too ashamed to confess how very grand I thought the brooch. ^ I wish it was mine,” said Flora, holding it now one way and now another, to catch the light : it would go lovely with my new gown with the crimson trimming.” ‘ Little woman ! little woman ! ” called Philip’s voice from below; here is something for you ! ” * “ Whatever can it be ? ” exclaimed Flora, putting down my brooch and running downstairs, while I followed more slowl3^ ^Flora’s radiant face told me at once that the something Philip had for her was especially agree¬ able, so I was not surprised when she turned to me and said, — ^ What do 3’’Ou think this dear Philip has done ? He has got three tickets for the Flower Show ! So we can go, really and truly go ! ” ^ ‘‘ Well, there, I cannot stop now to tallc about it,” said Philip, gentW freeing his arm from the pretty vTiite hands Flora had clasped round it. You will be wishing to talk over all your flowers and furbelows, which I know nothing about. So good-bye, sweet¬ heart, and mind yau look your very best, and make little Kachel here look hers too.” ^ Oh, dear .! here was that horrid dress coming up again ! I should dearly like to see all the wonders, I thought ; but really, was it worth all the trouble I knew I should have over my unlucky wardrobe ? ^ Will not my gown with the crimson trimmings be just the very thing, Bachel ? Dear me I how glad I am I have never Avorn it ! I shall only have to get a hat. But what shall you wear ? ^ I think I had better stay at home,” I began. ^ Oh, nonsense ! whatever would Philip say ? Noav, look here, I have a bargain to make. Y'our light puce is not badly made, and we will get some darker rib¬ bons and trim it up, and you shall have my new Leghorn hat, which has that puce feather in it. Then, with new gloves and a fan, you will look as well as anybody.” ^ Oh, tow kind you are. Flora 1 ” I was beginning, when she said, — ^ ‘‘ Wait a bit, till you hear what your side of the bargain is to be. I Avill be as pleased as possible to do this for you, if j'OU in return wdll lend me that ruby brooch of your mother’s to wear. We shall neither of us huH each other this Avay : you Avill lend your brooch, and I my new hat and feather — so Avhat do 3^ou say ? ” ‘ Say ! A\^ho.t could I ? My own gratified Avords about the hat all but pledged me to iua’^ own share in the bargain ; and turning aside that Flora should not see my tell-tale face, I said, Avith a sore pain at my heart, “ All right, FTora : how clever of you to think of such a plan ! ” ^ I suppose that Flower Show was one of the gayest scenes I Avas eATr at in my life. Flora took no end of trouble over mv dress, and Avas herself one of the prettiest and brightest of the many gay butterflies Ave saAv. I think I enjoyed it, though the thought, What Avould mother say ? ” kept ever}'- noAv and again s<»unding through my heart. It came to me Avhen I Avas being decked before Flora’s glass : What Avould mother say to see her little girl trying to look like a fashionable young lady ? ” And again Avhen I saw Flora fastening the brooch in her gOAvn : What Avould mother saA^ to my lending that to any one ? ” I Avas obliged to look another Avay, and to give a good hard SAvalloAV to keep doAvn my tears. ^ What a gay and pretty scene it Avas, to be sure, AAdien Ave reached the FloAver SIioaa", and hoAv it interested me to see the royal party, Avhose names mother and I had so often read in our little Aveekly journal ! But it came to an end, as everything else does, and Flora and I Avere idly talking it laughingly OA^er in our OAvn home Avhen a quick, anxious look came into her face, and, clasping the knot of ribbon in front of her dress, she exclaimed, — ^ Oh, Bachel 1 the brooch ! Have you got it?” ^^^No, indeed! I never thought of it till this minute ! Y^ou do not mean - ” ^Ihe Avords died on my lips, for there indeed Avas her pretty breast-lmot, but where Avas dear mother’s brooch ? ‘ ‘‘ Don’t tell Philip,” was poor Flora’s cry as she darted from the room to call the maids to aid us in a careful search from basement to attic after tlie missing brooch. ^ Need I say how useless that breathless search Avas, or how Ave two foolish, frightened girls, had to call

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Eacliel being decked before Flora’s Glass. my brother to our aid to help in what proved a still fruitless search further atield? Of course he was very angry, and I came in for a share ; but what was that to the idea, and about a week later on to the reality, of telling mother ? ^ Betty met me at the turnpike where the stage¬ coach dropped her passengers and parcels for our village ; and how pleasant it was to see her dear honest face again, and to hear her telling of mother and home doings in her familiar Devonshire brogue ! ^ Bath don’t seem to have made ye fatter or rosier. Miss Bachel,” she said after a bit, as we passed along the deep lanes ; “ or maybe ye have fretted for mis¬ tress as she have a fretted for ye, though she won’t say so. She’ve only been very middlin’ since 3’ou’ve been away ; but bless you ! don’t ye look so sheared like, as there’s nothing very much amiss, and she’ll pick up again fast enough now you are back.” ‘ Do not think I can find words to tell j^ou, my dear, of that evening. I think some things in our lives are well-nigh too sacred to be talked of, and are best left as sweet sketches in that picture-gallery which we call Memory,” where we can silently fill them in for ourselves with all their own bright colours and soft lights and shades. ^ It was not till after tea that I found courage to tell mother of mv loss, and then I foimd out that what mother did say was far away worse than all m3" im¬ agined dreads of what mother will say. There was only one Oh, Rachel dear !” and then she covered up her face with her hands and sobbed like a little child, till I could bear it no longer, but rushed out into the orchard, and there, under the old apple-tree, all tumbled and dusty from my long journey, I threw myself down and cried to my heart’s content. ' Later on I told mother all about it, and all my foolish vanity, while she stroked down my hair with her loving fingers; for I did not dare to look up, fearing to see the quivering of her lips, or the tear which even then, yes, and for ever so long afterwards, would come, when she thought of the lost wedding gift of her dead husband. ' So you see, Kitty, my experience of a large hat was not a pleasant one !’ ^ No, that it was not. Granny. But did you ever hear of the brooch again ? ’ 'No, never; though Philin did everything that could l3e done. How vexed he was, to be sure ! A great deal I know for mother and me, but mostly because his Flora was mixed up with it.’ ' Could 3"OU ever like Flora again ? ’ ' I had no call, my dear, to dislike her about the brooch ; and for herself, I came in after years to like her truly. You see, God’s great angel "Trouble” met her as He does most of us ; and the lesson He broug*ht her woke her from those butterfly dreams, and made her rank among those women whose price is ' far above rubies.’ E. W.

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Bachel sank down on the ground under an old apple-tree. THE BOY TRAPPER. {Continued from page 244.) By Harry Castlemon. (Copyriglit.) Porter and Coates. 1878. OU and me !’ exclaimed David. ^ Sartin. I want some good ' clothes an’ so do you. ’Twont be enough to get us a boss apiece. I do wish I had a circus boss like Don Gordon’s, but we kin get some better shootin’ irons, me an’ you kin, an’ mebbe we can git a boat to hunt ducks in, an’ some of them fish-poles what breaks all in pieces, an’ you carry ’em under your arm. An’, Davy, mebbe we’ll have a leetle left to get something fur the ole woman.’ 'For mother ! I rather think she’ll get some¬ thing,’ said David, in a tone of voice that made his brother look up in surprise. ' She’ll get it all, every cent of it.’ 'Not by no means she won’t,’ exclaimed Dan, striking his open palm with his clenched hand. 'No, sir, not by a long shot. You kin give her your shar’, if you’re fule enough to do it, but mine I’ll keep for myself. I’ll bet you on that.’ ' Your share ?’ ' In course.’ 'I didn’t know that you had any share in this business.’ ' Whoop !’ yelled Dan. He dashed his hat upon the ground, jumped up and knocked his heels together, coming down with his feet spread out and his clenched hands hanging by his side, as if he were waiting for an attack from his brother. 'No, sir,’ said David, quietly but firmly; 'this is my own business. If you want money go to work and earn it for yourself. You’ve got six dollars and six bits hidden away somewhere that you never offered to share with me or mother either.’ ' I know it, kase it is my own. I worked hard fur it too.’ ' I don’t know how, or when you got it,’ answered David, who little dreamed that his brother had more ready money than that, and that the most of it right¬ fully belonged to himself, ' and I have never asked you for any of it. The money I shall receive for these quails will be mine, all mine.’ Dan uttered another wild Indian yell, and once more went through the somewhat comical process of preparing himself for a fight, leaping high into the air, knocking his heels together, coming down with his feet spread out and his hands clenched,

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254 OHATTER-BOX. No. XXXII. and when he was fairly settled on the ground again, he exclaimed, — ^ Dave, does you want me to wallop you ?’ ‘No, I don’t,’ was the reply; ‘but if you do you won’t keep me from doing what I please with my own money.’ ‘ But it won’t be your own when you get it. I’m older nor you be, an’ now that dad’s away I’m the man of the house, I want you to know, an’ it’s the properest thing that I should have the handlin’ of all the money that comes into the family. If you don’t go ’have yourself it’s likely you won’t tech a cent of them fifty dollars when it comes. If you don’t go to crossiu’ me. I’ll give you your shar’ an’ I’ll take mine ; an’ we’ll get some nice things lilie Don and Bert Gordon has got.’ ‘ But how does it come that you will have any share in it ? That’s what I can’t understand.’ ‘ Why, I kalkerlate to help you set the traps, an’ take out the quail when tney’re ketched, air do a heap of sich hard work.’ ‘ I intend to do all that myself, and it isn’t work either. It’s nothing but fun.’ ‘But I’ll have a shar’ in it anyhow,’ said Dan, with a grin, which showed that he felt sure of his position, ‘ kase look at the boards I’ve split out fur you.’ David laughed outright. ‘Plow many of them are there ?’ said he. ‘ Plve ; and I could have split them out in less than half the time you took to do it, and made better boards besides. 1 can’t use these at all.’ ‘ Dave,’ said Dan, solemnly, as he picked up the frow and mallet, ‘I see you’re bound to go agin me.’ ‘ No, I am not, and I don’t want you to go against me, either.’ ‘ Yes, you be. You’re goin’ to cheat me outen my shar’ of them fifty dollars, ain’t you now F’ ‘ You will have no share in the money. It wiU all belong to me, and I shall give it to mother.’ ‘Then, Dave, not a quail do you ketch in these yere fields so long as you hold to them ideas. Don’t you furget it, nuther.’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked David, in alarm. ‘ W hat are you going to do ?’ ‘I don’t make no threatenings. I only say you can’t ketch no birds so long as you go agin me, an’ that s jest what I mean. If you come to me some day an’ say, “ I wus wrong, Dannie, an’ now I’m gom’ to act decent, like a brother had oughter do,” in ^ive you my hand, an’ do what I can to help you. Y"ou ve got a big job afore you, an’ you can’t by no means do it alone. You’d oughter have somebody to help you, an’ thar’s a heap of hard work in me, the fust thing, you know.’ ^ ‘ That’s so,’ thought David, running his eyes over ins brother’s stalwart figure ; ‘ but I guess it will stay ‘ We can make them fifty dollars easy, if we pull together ; but you can’t make ’em by yourself, an’ you shan’t, nuther. You hear me ?’ As Dan said this he disappeared around the comer Ti leaving his brother standing silent and thoughtful. Pie came out again in a few minutes With his rifle on his shoulder, and without saying another word to David, or even looking toward him, climbed over the fence and went into the woods. When he was out of sight David sat down on one of his traps and went off into a brown study. He was in a bad scrape, that was plain ; and the longer he thought about it the darker the prospect seemed to row. He hadhischoico between two courses of action : e must either take Dan into partnership, divide the money with him when it was earned, and permit himself to be brow-beaten and driven about as if he were little better than a dog; or he must make an enemy of him by asserting his rights. Which of the two was the more disagreeable, and likely to lead to the most unpleasant consequences, he could not determine. If Dan were accepted as a partner, he would insist on handling all the money, and in that case Mrs. Evans would probably see not a single cent of it; for Dan did not care who suffered so long as his own wishes were gratified. If he stuck to the resolution he had already formed, and went ahead on his own responsibility, Dan would smash his traps whenever he happened to find them (he was always roaming about in the woods, and there was hardly a square rod of ground in the neighbourhood that he did not pass over in the course of a week), and libe¬ rate or wring the necks of the birds that might chance to be in them. He never could capture so many quails if Dan was resolved to work against him, and neither could he make his enterprise success¬ ful if he allowed him an interest in it. David did not know what to do. ‘ I might as well give it up,’ said he to himself, after a few minutes’ reflection. ‘ I’ll go up and tell Don that I can’t fill the order; and while I am about it, I might as well ask him for that money. Perhaps, if I paid father’s debt, Silas Jones will give us what we need until I can find something to do.’ With this thought in his mind David arose and went into the cabin. He put on the tattered gar¬ ment he called a coat, exchanged his dilapidated hat for another that had not seen quite so hard service, and bent his steps toward General Gordon’s house. While he was hurrying along, thinking about his troubles and the coming interview with Don Go i don, and wondering how he could word his request so that his friend would not feel hard toward him for asking for his money before it had been earned, he was I almost ridden down by a horseman, who came galloping furiously along the road, and who was close upon him before David knew there was any one near. ‘Get out of the way, there!’ shouted the rider. ‘ Are you blind, that you run right under a fellow’s horse that way ?’ David sprang quickly to one side, and the horseman drew up his nag with a jerk and looked down at him. It was Lester Brigham, one of the neighbourhood boys of whom we have never before had occasion to sp(\ak. He was comparatively a new resident in that country. Pie had been there only about a year, but during that time he had made himself heartily detested by almost all the boys about Rochdale. Of course he had his cronies — every fellow has ; but all the best youngsters, like Don and Bert Gordon and Fred and Joe Packard, would have little to do with him. He had lived in the North until the close of I the war, and then his father removed to Mississippi,

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No. XXXII. CHATTERBOX. 255 purchased the plantation adjoining General Gordon’s, and began the cultivation of cotton. Mr. J3righam was said to be the richest man in that county, and Lester had more fine things than all the rest of the boys about there put together, lie took particular pride in his splendid hunting and fishing outfit, and it was coveted by almost every boy who had seen it. He had four guns— all breech-loaders: a beautiful little fowling-piece for such small game as quails and snipes ; a larger one for ducks and geese ; a light squirrel rifle, something like the one Clarence Gordon owned ; and a heavier weapon which he called his deer gun, and which carried a ball as large as the end of one’s thumb. He had two jointed fish-poles — one a light, split bamboo, such as is used in fly-fishing, and the otlier a stout lancewood, for such heavy fishing as black bass and pike. If there was any faith to be put in the stories he told, Lester was a hunter and fisherman who had few equals. Before he came to the South, it was his custom, he said, to spend a portion of every winter in the woods in the northern part of Michi¬ gan, and many a deer and bear had fallen to his rifle there. He could catch trout and black bass where other fellows would not think of looking for them, and as for quails, it was no trouble at all for him to make a double shot and bag both the birds every time. There were boys in the neighbourhood who doubted this. Game of all kinds was abundant, and Lester was given every opportunity to exhibit the sldll of which he boasted so loudly, but he v/as never in the humour to do it. He seldom went hunting, and when he did he always went alone, and no one ever knew how much game he brought home. * Your name is Evans, isn’t it ? ’ demanded Lester. David replied that it was. ‘ Are you the fellow who intends to trap fifty dozen quail in this country and send them up IS ortli ?’ ^ I am,’ answered David. * Well, I just rode down here on purpose to tell you that such work as that will not be allowed.’ ^ Who will not allow it ? ’ 'I will not for one, and my father for another.’ ^ What have you to say about it?’ asked David, who did not like the insolent tone assumed by the young horseman. ^ Do the birds belong to you P ’ ^ They are as much mine as they are yours ; and if you have a right to trap them and ship them off, I have a right to say that you shan’t do it.^ ^ Why not ? AVhat harm will it do ? ’ ^ It will do just this much liarm : it will make the birds scarce about here, and there are no more than we want to shoot ourselves. Oh, you needn’t laugh about it, I mean just wiiat I say : and if you don’t promise , that you will let the quail alone, you will see ti ouble. I am going to get up a Sportsman’s Club among the fellows, and then we’ll keep such poachers and pot-hunters as you w^here you belong. No one ob jects to your shooting the birds over a dog — that’s the way to shoot them ; but you shan’t trap them and send them out of the country. Will you promise that you will give up the idea ? ’ ^No, I w^on’t,’ answered David. ^ Then you will find yourself in the hands of the law, the first thing, you know ! ’ exclaimed Lester, angrily. ^ We w on’t stand any such w'ork. Don Gordon ought to be ashamed of himself for what he has done. He’s the meanest - ’ ^ Hold on, there ! ’ interrupted David, with more spirit than he had yet exhibited. ^You don’t want to say anything hard about Don while I am round. He’s a friend of mine, and I won’t hear anybody abuse him.^ He’s the best fellow in the settlement, and so is his brother ; and any one who talks against him is just the opposite.’ Lester seemed very much astonished at this bold language. He glared dowm at David for a moment, and then, slipping his right hand through the loop on the handle of his riding-whip, pulled his feet out of the stirrups, and acted as if he were about to dis¬ mount. ^ Do you know wdio you are talking to ? ’ said he. ^Yes, I do,’ replied David; ^ and that’s just the kind of a fellow I am.’ Lester looked sharply at the ragged youth before him, and then put Iiis feet back into the stirrups again, and settled himself firmly in the saddle. He felt safer there. ^ I’ll be even with you for that,’ said he. ^ You shan’t catch •any quail in these woods this wdnter. I’ll break up every trap I find, and I’ll make the rest of the fellows do the same.’ Lester gave emphasis to his words by shaking his riding- whip at David, and then wheeled his horse and rode away. CHAPTER IV. — MORE BAD NEWS. David’s feelings, as he stood there in the road gazing after the retreating hor.'eman, were by no means of the most pleasant nature. He wjis naturally a cheerful, light-hearted boy, and he w^ould not look on the dark side of things if he could help it. But he couldn’t help it now. Here was more trouble. If he had been disposed to give up in despair when he found that his brother was working against him, ho had more reason to be discouraged when he learned that a new enemy had suddenly appeared, and from a most unexpected quarter, too. That was the way he looked at the matter first ; but after a little refiec- tion he felt more like defying Dan and Lester both. What business had either of them to interfere with his arrangements, and say that he should not earn an honest dollar to give his mother, if he could ? None whatever ; and he would succeed in spite of them. He would get that grocery bill off his hands the first thing, and when he was square with the ’svorld he would go to work in earnest and outwit all his foes, no matter how numerous or how smart they might be. He would tell Don all about it, and be governed by his advice. Having come to this determination, David once more turned his face towards the General’s house. A few minutes’ rapid walking brought him to the barn, and there he found the boy he wanted to see. (2’o be continued.)

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256 CHATTEKBOX. No. XXXII. “ Dave, does you want me to wallop you? ’’

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258 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXTII. ^ i\ . LORD NELSON. E. ROBEET GOOCH, v^ho Naval Hospital vi^CjWik^Bl’n) Yarn] oil th on the morn- /) ing when Nelson, after the battle of Copenhagen (hav- ing sent the wounded before him), arrived at the Eoads landed on the jetty, states that the populate soon suriounded him, and ^j/ the military were ^ drawn up in the Market-place ready to i eceive him, but making his way through the crowd he went stiaight to the Hospital. ^ ^ ^ n i H went round the wards with hira,Hvrites Dr. Gooch, ^ and was much interested in observing his demeanour to the sailors. He stopped at every bed, and to eveiy man he had something kind and cheering to say. Stopping opposite a bed on which a sailor lay who bad lost his left arm close to the shoulder-joint, the following short dialogue passed between them Nelson. Well, Jack, what’s the matter with you?’ Sailor. Lost my left arm, your honour.” ‘ Nelson looked down at his own empty sleeve and said playfully, Well, Jack, then you and I are spoiled for fishermen. Cheer up, my brave fellow ! ” and he passed briskly on to the next bed. But these few words had a magical effect upon the wounded tar, for I saw his eyes sparkle with delight as Nelson tuined away and pursued his course through the wards.’ The sharks surrounded the island with gaping jaws, impatient for their prey. These monsters had already caused the mother and child many tears. The sailors wished to save from the wreck of the vessel a little goat which had been given as a present to Madame La Vaissiere, and wdiich was the companion of Eosita in all her games. They put the goat in a little boat. When it passed among the rocks wdiich surround the island of Melisch the little craft ran great danger: two sharks followed it closely. The sailors gave them blows on the head with the oars ; but the monsters again and again returned. The poor frightened goat jumped overboard, and the sharks seized their prey. The mother and her daughter burst into tears at this sad sight. Tormented by heat and thirst on their island prison, the sailors resolved to make a last effort to save them¬ selves. The most vigorous men set to work to construct, if possible, a boat large enough to contain thirty-five persons, and strong enough to traverse the Southern Ocean. The remains of the Duroc w'ere transported to the island, and the construction w^as begun. They worked for a month to finish the boat. Madame La Vaissiere and her daughter Eosita always had a smile and an encouraging word to cheer the workmen when they w^ere on the point of losing courage. At last the important day arrived. The boat was launched upon tire sea. Madame La Vaissiere was asked to be its sponsor, and she called it the Deliverer, The sailors asked the sponsor for some flowers out of her bonnet to decorate the bowsprit of the boat. The little Eosita also wished to give a present. She took from her neck a medal, which the sailors attached to the helm as a charm which ought to bring them happiness. One can scarcely believe what an effect this medal had on the minds of the sailors. They promised to give the child back the medal, and this promise seemed to them a guarantee against accidents in their perilous voyage. The thirty-five sliip wrecked men entered the boat; but on board began new sufferings. The ration of food and water was still further diminished, and could not appettse the hunger or quench the thirst of those unfortunates. Each day brought a new dapger. Sometimes the wind made the boat turn about lilce a bit of straw; sometimes there was a dead calm, which left them motionless upon the expanse of waters. Another time the sky was covered with great clouds ; in the evening the horizon was in flames, and it seemed as if the boat was afloat upon a sea of a fire. Happily rain fell, and they were able to catch some of it to slake their thirst. During all these terrible scenes one man watched over every one : this was the captain of tlie Duroc. During the twenty-eight days which this perilous voyage lasted, only one sailor, in a fit of despair, tried to throw himself into the sea. ‘But we will live!’ cried Madame La Vaissiere, with energy, pressing her daughter in her arms. The words of the mother were fulfilled; they all escaped death. The Deliverer did not belie its name. The fragile cockle-shell came off the victor in the struggle with the ocean. The valiant captain. La Vaissiere, landed all his crew at Timor, and the medal from the helm was restored to the little Eosita. C, S. 0. ON A BARREN ROCK. From the French. rpHE Zh^roc struck in the archipelago of Timor, upon X some rocks whose position is not well indicated upon the marine charts. The commander, his wife, and the little Eosita, found themselves abandoned, with thirty-two sailors, upon a little island in the wide ocean. Upon this isle not a blade of grass grew; they could not find a drop of water, nor a place to serve as a shelter: the island was as flat as a table, and in a tempest w^ould be almost swept by the waves. Near it they discovered another island of the same dimensions, which disappeared com¬ pletely at the moment of high tide; this filled the crew of the Duroc wdth apprehension. Fifty-one days, which seemed an age to them under these cir¬ cumstances, were passed upon this island, under the intolerable heat of the Equator, with all the torments of hunger and thirst. The most vigorous supported their sufferings with courage when they cast their e3’^es upon that devoted woman, and upon the little Eosita, w^hose life was in such imminent danger. The sailors had given to the child the rank of corporal. She w'as proud of her uniform ; and when her father reviewed nis thirty- two shipwrecked men she took her place in the ranks. One might say that the little liosita raised the courage of these unfortunate men battling with death ; she was the guardian angel of those living spectres, and in the hope of being able to save the charming child the most desponding sailor sought to preserve his own life. i _ _ — -

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No. XXXIII. CHATTERBOX. 259 SCRAPS OP BIOGRAPHY. Lord bacon, when a child, was remarkable for the gravity of his manners. Instead of the cheer¬ ful ways and playful habits which we like to see in children, he showed a quietness of manner and habits of thought which quickly marked him as a child of more than usual intelh’gence. When only ten years old, he is said to have busied himself with deep specu¬ lations over the art of legerdemain. At an even earlier age he one day stole away from his young playmates, in order to examine into the cause of an echo near at hand. In this case the child foreshadowed the man. The generosity of Washington is well shown by the following incident. A Virginian farmer was in¬ debted to him to the amount of nearly five thousand dollars. When the General was President of the United States one of his agents brought an action against the man, and, as he was unable to pay, the debtor was committed to prison. By the advice of a friend he addressed a petition to the President, telling him his many dilficulties and troubles. At an early day he received an order for his release, and a full discharge from his debt. Addison’s spotless life ended in a way that well befitted him. A master of English prose, a fair poet, a statesman of some merit, the idol of a wide circle of friends — on his death-bed he could say with cheerfulness to his son-in-law, ^ See how a Christian can die ! ’ A. R. B. THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XVI. LONDON BRIDGE and MONUMENT. ^AVING passed under the Cannon Street Viaduct we are soon within the shadow of London Bridge. Through the arches of that great structure we can see the shippin"* > which fills ' the Pool.’ On both sides we see masses of immense ware¬ houses, and near the bridge a hand¬ some pile of buildings, which is no other than Fishmongers’ Hall — where they show you the dagger with which Sir Thomas Walworth so treacherously slew Wat Tyler. On the Surrey side is to be seen Bankside. Here, until the middle of the seventeenth century, were many public gardens and other places of resort. Many of the names of these spots remain, such as Paris Garden, Rose Garden, Bear Garden, See. It was here that the great poet Shakespeare had his theatre, called * The Globe,’ owing to its circular shape, and which was situated in a garden. To this day, a tavern erected on the spot where the theatre once stood is called* The Globe; ’ while another, in memory of Queen Elizabeth’s favoured Earl of Leicester, is called * The Bear and Ragged Staff.’ The church tower which rises amidst the medley of houses is that of St. Saviour’s, Southwark, one of the most beautiful interiors in London. Here, in the exquisite Ladye Chapel, lie the remains of that truly religious poet Gower, and those of Edmund Shake¬ speare, the brother of the poet. London Bridge practically blocks the river to large craft, and hence the terms * above bridge’ and * below bridge.’ A wit has said, that the great difference between old and new London Bridges was this, that though both were adorned with human heads, those in the time of the old structure were stuck upon poles, while now, in our more fortunate da5-s, the heads are firmly enough fixed over their proper shoulders. Old London Bridge, as every one knows, was the first built across the Thames. It was for hundreds of years weighted with a row of houses on each side, overlooking the river, with a road between them. By the raising of a swing bridge in the centre, com¬ munication with the south of the Thames could at any moment be cut off. This was done more than once or twice, when rioters to the south of the Thames diew too near London. The houses were used to weight the bridge, and thus prevent the thrust of the tide from throwing down the structure. Here, over this swing bridge, the heads of executed traitors were fixed upon poles. As time wore on, and the piles of the bridge began to yield, it was found expedient to remove the houses, and thus lighten the bridge. Early in this century, however, it was felt that some change must be made. There were no fewer than nineteen arches, and conse¬ quently their piers offered such a breadth of resistanco to the tide, that it was at all times venturesome for small boats to * shoot ’ the bndge, and sometimes quite dangerous. Accidents were of daily occurrence. Several plans of improvement were suggested, the principal one being that of throwing several arches into one, throughout the length of the bridge, so that the w\ater-w^ay might be widened. But finally, in the summer of 1823, the House of Commons voted 150,000/., together with an extra tax of sixpence per ton upon all coal entering the port of London, for the purpose of providing funds to pay for the building of a new bridge altogether. The Lord Mayor, helped by the then Duke of York, laid the first stone, and within six years the new bridge ^vas opened in great state by King William IV. on the 1st of August, 1831. The king was accompanied by liLs wife, Quetm Adelaide, by Her Majesty (then a little girl), and by the Duchess of Kent, the Queen’s mother. The Countess of Kent, as the Princess Victoria w^as at that time designated, placed herself under the care of the Duke of Wellington, even then quite an old man, though a hale one. Every vessel, every steeple, every house-top, was gay with flags as the royal party slowdy walked over the bridge tow^ai ds Southwmrk, amidst the booming of cannon, w'hile a balloon — a rare sight in those days — rose in the air as the visitors approached. Dinner was then taken in a spacious marquee erected on the bridge, and then the king entered the city barge and was rowed to Somerset House, wheie he disem¬ barked. Thus w^as opened new London Bridge, at that date looked upon as a sufficiently wude highway from bank to bank of the river, but now held to be far from equal for the traffic which daily passes over it. (To be continued.)

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I London Bridge.

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TPIE RAINY DAY. YTTHEN I peeped out at eight o’clock last night, I saw Orion, like an hour-glass bright ; His starry belt was beautiful and keen. And not a cloud could anywhere be seen. This morn, as soon as I unclosed my eyes, I thought what Donald said, the weather-wise, — ‘ A rosy morn oft brings a day of rain,’ And soon I heard the patter on the pane. And all the sky is grey, and, oh, how fast Driven by the wind those clouds go sailing past ! And in the crevices the storm-voice sings Of wrecks, I fear, and many other things. And what of men, who all this day must brave The fury of the tempest and the wave ? And what must I do in my cosy nook ? Nothing at all ? Nay, give me slate and book.

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2B2 OHATTETIBOX. No. XXXIII. I won’t berlieve Orion any more ; Watching so high, he must have he’ard the roar Of coming tempest, yet he gave no sign : I know I thought the morrow must be fine. Bain yourselves dry, big clouds ; our waterfall Will go to-morrow, and delight us all. Except old Boger, who plods ankle-deep Over the meadow, there to tend the sheep. Bain on, rain on, and pour your riches down Into the streets, to wash the smoky town ; Into the fields, to start the loitering fiowers : The gifts are God’s, the gratitude be ours. G. S 0. the first place, there are two fellows here wEo say I shan’t trap any birds.’ ‘ Who are they ? ’ demanded Don, surprised and indignant. ' My brother Dan is one of them.’ * Whew 1 ’ whistled Don, opening his eyes and looking at Bert. . ^ ^ I didn’t want him to know anything about it, continued David, Hor I was certain that he would make me trouble : but he found it out by listening while I was talking about it, and wanted to join m with me. I told him I didn’t want him, and he said I shouldn’t catch any birds.’ < Did he say what he would do to prevent it ? asked Bert. t , , ^ Oh, it’s easy enough to tell what he will do ! exclaimed Don. He’ll steal or break the traps and kill the quails. There are plenty of ways in which he can trouble us if he makes up his mind to it. ‘ Who is the other ? ’ asked Bert. ^Lester Brigham.’ Don whistled again, and then looked angry. ‘ When did you see him, and Tvhat did he have to say about it ? ’ he asked. ‘ Has he any reason to hold a grudge against you ? ’ ^ , ^ I didn’t know that he had until I met him in the road this morning. He says he won’t have me trap¬ ping quails and sending tliem off North, because it wiUmake them scarce here. He says he is going to get up a Sportsman’s Club among the fellows, and then ne will keep pot-hunters like me where we belong.’ ^ Oho ! ’ exclaimed Bert. ^ It seems to me that he is taking a good deal upon himself.’ ^That is what he has done ever since he has been here, and that’s why there are so many boys in the settlement who don’t like him,’ said Don. ^ But he mustn’t meddle with this business. He can’t come down here into a country that is almost a wilderness and manage matters as they do up North, bather told me the other day that in some states they Imve laws to protect game, and it is right that they should have, for there are so many himters that if they were not restrained, thby would kill all the birds and ani¬ mals in a single season. The most of the hunters live in the city, and when they get out with their guns they crack away at everything they see ; and if they happen to kill a doe with a fawm at her side, or a quail with a brood of chicks, it makes no ditfei'ence to them. Sportsman’s clubs are of some use there, but we have no need of them in this country.’ ^ He Wyants the qiiails left here so that he can shoot them over his dog,^ continued David. ‘ Oh, he does ! When is he going to begin ? He has been here more than a year, and nobody has ever heard of his killing a quail yet. He must keep liis fingers out of this pie. W^e can’t put up with any interference from him. Any more bad new^s ?’ added Don, seeing that David’s face had not yet wholly cleared up. ^ Yes, there is,’ replied the latter, speaking rapidly, for fear that his courage might desert him again. ‘Just after you left me this morning, Silas Jones rode up and dunned me for eight doHars that father owes him.’ ‘ Y^ou have nothing to do with that,’ said Bert. % THE BOY TBAPPER. (Continued from page 255.) By Harry Castlemow. (Copyri Porter and Coates. 1878. \ HE brothers had just returned from a short ride — Don was /\j) not yet strong enough to J stand his usual amount of yfiC exercise — and having turaed ^ \ ^ the ponies over to tlie hostler, fte ^eve on the point of starting J /( for the house, when David 1 / M ^ came in. ^ 1 ^ ^Halloo, Dave!’ exclaimed VsOS— ^ Don, who was always the first to greet him. ^ Traps all built ? ’ ^Not yet,’ answered David, trying to look as cheerful as usual. * You have plenty of nails and timber, I suppose. If not come straight to us. It will never do to let this thing fall through for want of a little capital to go on,’ said Don, who was as much interested in David’s success, as though he expected to share in the profits of the enterprise. * I have everything I want in the way of nails and boards,’ replied David ; ‘ but I— you know'— may I see you a minute, Don ? ’ ^Of course you may, or two or three minutes if you wish. Come on, Bert. I have no secrets from my brother now,’ said Don, with a laugh. I kept one thing secret from him, and got myself into trouble by it. Tf I had told him of it, perhaps he would have made me behave myself. Now what is it ? ’ he added, when the three had drawn up in one corner of the barn, out of earshot of the hostler. David was silent. He had made up his mind just what he wanted to say to Don, but Lester Brigham’s sudden appearance, and the threats he had made had scattered all his ideas, and he could not utter a word. ^ Speak up,’ said Bertie, encouragingly. ^ You need not hesitate to talk freely to us. But what’s the matter with you? You look as though you were ' troubled about something.’ ^ I am troubled about a good many things,’ said David, speaking now after a desperate effort. ‘ In

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Ho. xxxin CHATTERBOX 263 ‘ Xotbia^ whftteTer,’ rhimed in Don. * You. tell Mr, Jones that if he 'irante hie m^ney he had better hunt up your lather and aek him for it. You don't ewe him anythmgp do yon Y ’ * No ; blit he saya that if I don't eettle that tiill, hell never let me have a thinj^ at hie etoto again UDleaa I have the money id my hand to fay for it, I haven^t a cent of my own,, and 1 thoii|rht if you could let me have the ten dol^ara you promiEed me foi hnealdng the poiuter 1 should be mut^ obliged to you.' ' If t would do what ? ' asVed Don in amazement, ' \\ tiy, David,' eaid Bert, * the money was all jiaid to you ID leu than twenty-four houie after the dog was placed in your keeping.' * Faid to me ? ’ ganped David. ' Well, DO, not to you, but to your order.' ' To my order P * repeated the boy, who began to think he was dreaming. * Yes, to your onfir/ said Don. ' We left the pointer in your hands at noon awhile you were at dinner. In les^ than an hour after wa^s Dan came over and said that you wanted live dollars to buy a di ess for your mother, and Bert gave him the money. The neit forenoon your father met me at the landing and told me you wanted the other live to buy BOme medicine for your mother, wbo was ill w’ltli the ague, and 1 gave it to him, and I juat know I made a mess of it/ added Don, bringing his hands together with a loud sdapi It was ^lain from the looks of David’s face that he had. Ihe boy libtened with eyes wide open, his under jaw dropping down and! his face growing pale, as the duplicity of which hb father and brother had been guilty was gradually made plain to him; and when at last his mind grasped the full import of Don's words, he covered nis face with hjs hands and cried alund. Don and Bert looked at him In sunrise, and then turned and looked at each other. They who had never wanted for the nece-ait'es, and who bad never hut onoe, and that was during the war, lacked the luiuries of life, could not under.'^tand why his grief should be so overwhelming^ but they could undeiistfind that they had been deceived, and even the gentle-spirited llert w'as indignant over it. The impulsive lX>n could Bcarccly restrain himself. lie walked angrily up snd do^'ti the door, thrashing his boots with his ndiu^whip, and cracking it in the air so viciously that me pomee danced about in their stalls. ' Dave/ said Bert at length, ' are we to undorstand that your father and brother came to us and got that looip'y without any authority from you?* * That’s just what they did,’ sobb^ David. * And you never saw a cent of it ? * * Not one cent, or mother either.' ' Well, what of that ? ' evclaimed Don. * Draco ap and be a man, Dave. A ten-doUar bill is not an everlasting fortune.' * 1 know it i^n’t much to you, but it is a good deal to me. You don’t know what the loss of It means. It means corn*bread and butter^inilk for breakfe^t, dinner, and supper.’ * Well, what of that P* said Don again. ' I have eaten more than one dinner at the Gaynso House in Mojnphis— and it b one of the best hotels in the country — when corn-bread and buttermilk were down in the bill of fare as part of the dessert.' ^ Well, U all the folk who stop at that hotel bad to live on it as we do they would call for someth ing else/ replied David. * flow am 1 to settle Silaa Jones's bill, Td like to know P ' 'Never mind Silas Jones’s bill. If he ssys any¬ thing more to you about it, teU him that you don't owe nun a cent.^ * And how am I to Aend my {jualls away ? That man said the charges must be paid.' * Ah I that’s a more serious matter/ said Don, placing hie hands on hie hips and looklpg down at the door. * It is all aerioue to me,* srd David, brushing the tears from bis eyes ; * but TU work through some¬ how. I’ll go home now end think about it^ and if 1 don’t earn that money in spite of all mj luck, it will not be because 1 don’t try.' ' That’s the way to talk/ aaid DoQp giving David an encouraging slap on the back. ' That’s the sort of spirit I like. Ikrt and I will see you again, perhaps this afternoon. In the meantltiio we’ll talk the inatier over, and if we three fellows are not sui^irt enough to beat the two who are opposing us, we’ll know the reaeon why,* David hurried out of the bam in order to hide hia tears, which every instant threatened to break forth afresh ; and Don, turning to the ho^tleri ordered him to put the saddles on the ponies again. 'Father is down in the liekl/ taid He to his brother, and it may be two or thrw hours before he will come to the hi -use. I cau't wait so long, so we'll ride down there and talk the matter over with him. He hasn't forgotten that be was a boy once himself, and he will tell us ju4 what we ought to do/ The ponies were led out again in a few minutes^ and Dert, Laving assisted his brother inte the saddle, inonnted his own nag, anti the two rode down the lane toward the field. Of course they could talk nbo.tt emty one thing, and that was the ill-luck that aeemvd to meet their friend Day id > at every turn. The longer Bert thought and talked of the trick that had been played upon himself and hU brother, the more indignant he becatue ; while Doll, b&vitig bad time to rc^covor a little of his usiml g<H:id nature, was more disposed to laugh over it. He declared that it was the eharpest piece of business he had ever heaid of, and wondered greatly that Godfrey and Dan^ whom he had always believed to be u-s stupid fw so many blocks, should liave suddenly exhibited so much shrewdnefiis. Bert declared that it wna u wicked swindle; and the earnestness ’uHtb vvhirb he de¬ nounced the whole prow'iiding made Dcin laugh loufler than ever. Of ojur^e tlie latter did not foig^ that the trick which so hi;rbly aniuaed him bad been the mean^ of placing David in a very unpleasant situation ; but still he did not think much about that, for he believed that his father wouM be able to make some suggestions, which, if acted upon, would straighten things out in short onler. ' Well, Don, how does it seem to find yourself in the ssdiLle again P You appear to enjoy the exercise, hut IVrt doesn't. He looks as though Le had lost lus Inst friend.* (To be c0nti»ueA)

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Dan shouldered his rifle and disappeared in the woods.

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and wb«ra I irould be aure to catch qiialla, too. S 1 thouj^ht I coukln^tf 1 would set them all on tbia plantation, and any one who troubled them would render hiniaelf liable for treepaaB..^ ^ Aha t ’ exclaimed Ikin, who caiurht the idea at once. * But, in order to throw Ban off the scent entirely , you mipht have David come up to oiu* shop ever\' day and build hie trapB tliere^ He will lind all the toois he wantB, and those aoii^rl^ we tore off that old corn crib will anawer hia purpose better than now ones, because they are old and wenther-beaten, luul look i'ust like the wood in the forests AVbcn 1 wop a boVr never bad any luck in catcbiti^ birds in br^flit new traps. When the birds are cauj^ht, he can put them into one qf those unoccupied netpu cabins and locK them up until he is ready to send them off. 'That's the very idea^ cried Don, gleefully. 'We knew that if there was any way out of the diiiculty you would be sure to see it.^ The General bowed in ackuowledErment of tlie complUnetitj and the brothers turned their honses about and rode away. W ;ien they reached the barn Bon was willing to confisa that be was very tired. Hiding on horseback is bard work for one who is stiff in every joint and lame all over , but Don could dot think of going into the house aud taking a re^t. He had been a close prisoner there for a whole weekp and now that he had taken a breath of fresh air and stirred hie sluggish blood with a little exhilaratingr ejierobcj he could not bear to go back to his sofa again. He proposed that they should leave their ponjes at the barn, and go up to DavidV in the canoe, ^ey would take their guns with them,, he said, aud after they had paid David hia money, they would row a short distance up the bayou, and pe.haps they might be fortunate enough to knock over a auck or two for the next day's dinner. Bert, of course, agreed to the proposition, and went into the shop for the care betoaging (o tho canoe, while Bon went into the house again for the guns. When he came out again he had a breech¬ loader on each shouHer and David's ten dollars in his pocket. Paying that bill twice did make a big- hole in his Christmas money, for it took just half of The brothers walked along the gatvleu path thct; ran toward the lake, and when Don, who was leading- the Way, stepped upon the jetty, he miitsed something at once. Toe caooe was gone. They had not been neir the jetty for a week, and the last lime they were there the boat was all right. It could not have gone away wntbout help, for it was firmly tied to a ring in tie jetty by the chain, w‘hich een ed as 4 painter, and eTeb if that bad become loosened the canoe w-ould have remained near its nioorinsrs, for there was no current in the lake to carry it from the shore. Beyond a doubt, it had been stoleun lX;nt would not have felt the loss mope keenly if the thief had taken his floe sail-boat. The canoe w^as alniost as old as he was, and in It bo aod Bert had taken their Hrst noddle on the lake, and captured their firot wounded auck, ' It's gone,^ said Bon, after he and Bert bad looked all around the lake as far as their eyes could reach, ' and that’s all there is of it. But well not give up our trip. We'll go in the s&il-boaL* beside the stump on which he was seated, auperinteuding the negroea who were at work In the dold. Bert bright^ ened up at once, but replied that he thought he bad good cause to look down-hearted, ana with this intro* duciioa be went on aud told Bavid^s etory just as the Utter bad told it to him’ and hU brother. The (Jeoeral listened good-naturedly, as he always did to anything his boys had to tell him, and when Bert ceasm speaking, he pulled off a piece of the stump and began to whittle it with bis knife. The hoys wailed for him to say sometbii^pi but as he did noi, Bert continued : ' We came down here to ask you wbat we ought to do about it, and we want particularly to know your opinion conoeiiiiiig the triw Dan and hia father played on us.^ ' That 10 easily given/ replied the General. 'My opiniou IS that Master Don is just ten doUars out of pJwkct,’ ' You don’t mean that I must pay it over again P * exclaimed Bon, * No, i don’t mean that^ because you bayen’t paid it at alL' ' Why, father, I - ' I understand. Dan made a demand upon Bert, and Bert borrowed five doUars of bis mother and gave it to him. Oodfrev came to^ you for the other five, and you gave it to aim. Baria has not yet been paid for breaking the pointer.’ 'No, sir^ but we supposed that bis father and brotber bad authority to ask us for the mooey.’ ' Y^ou had no right to suppose anything of the kind. You ought to have paid toe money into David’s own bands, or else satisfied yourselves that he wanted it paid to eome one else. Among business tdsd it is custoiuarvj in sucb cases, to send a written order. You must pay Bavid, and Uua time be sure that he gets the money.’ ' Wbew' ! ’ whistled Bon, who waa very much sut^ prised by this decision. That will make a big hole io the motley I was saving for Christmas ; but David needs it more than 1 do, and besides it belongs to him. What shall w-e do to Godfrey and Dau. They obtained] those ten dollara under false pretences, did they not Y ’ ' 1 don't know whether a lawyer could make a case out nf that or not,’ said the General, with a laugh, ' I am afraid he couldn’t, so you w'ill have to stand the loss. Perhaps you will learn something by it.’ ' 1 am quite sure that I have learned something alrti^.idy/ replied Don. 'But now about Ban and Lester. How are we going to keep them from inter¬ fering wUb David ' Why, it seems to me that I could bide my traps where they would never think of looking for tbeiuj L# JvT

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No. XXXIV. CHATTERBOX. 267 The sail-boat had been dismantled, and the masts, sails, rudder and everything else belonging to her had been stored in the shop under cover. While Bert was gone after the oars, Don drew the boat up to the jetty, and having stowed the guns away in the stow- sheets, he got in himself and took another survey of the lake to make sure that the canoe was nowhere in sight. It was hard to give it up as lost. Bert came back in a few minutes, and having shipped the oars, shoved off, and pul4ed down the lake. A quarter of an hour afterwards they landed on the beach in front of Godfrey’s cabin. They found David wandering listlessly about in the back yard with his hands in his pockets ; and when he came up to the fence in response to their call, they saw that he had been crying again. 'David,’ exclaimed Don, putting his hand into his pocket, ' we’ve got news for you that will make you wear a different looking face when you hear it. After you went home, we rode down to see father, and he told us — Eh ! ’ cried Don, turning quickly toward his brother, who just then gave his arm a sly pinch. ' l.et me tell it,’ said Bert. ' We’d like to see you at our house this evening about five o’clock; can you come ? ’ 'I reckon I can,’ answered David. 'Was that the good news you wanted to tell me ? ’ < No — I believe — yes, it was,’ said Don, who re¬ ceived another fearful pinch on the arm and saw his brother looking at him in a very significant way. ' "ibu come up, anyhow.’ ' We’ve got some w’ork for you to do up there,’ said Bert. ' It will not pay you much^ at first, but perhaps you can make something out of it by-and-by. It will keep you busy for two or three weeks, perhaps longer. W ill you come ? ’ David replied that he would, and turned away with an expression of surprise and disappointment on his face. The eager, almost excited manner in which Don greeted him, led him to hope that he had some¬ thing very pleasant and encouraging to tell, and somehow he couldn’t help thinking that his visitors had not said just what they intended to say when they first came up to the fence. ' What in the name of sense and Tom Walker was the matter with you, Bert ? ’ demanded Don, as soon as the two were out of David’s hearing. ' My arm is all black and blue, I know ! ’ ' I didn’t want you to say too much,’ was Bert’s reply, ' and I didn’t know any other way to stop your talking. There was a listener close by.’ ' A listener ! Who was it ? ’ 'David’s brother. Just as you began speaking I happened to look toward the cabin, and saw through the cracks between the logs that the window on the other side was open. Close to one of those cracks, and directly in line with the window, was a head. I knew it was Dan’s head the moment I saw it.’ ' Aha ! ’ exclaimed Don. 'He had his trouble for his pains this time, hadn’t he ? Or, rather, he had the trouble and I had the pain,’ he added, rubbing his arm. Bert laughed, and said he thought that was about the way the matter stood. CHAPTEB V. — DAN IS ASTONISHED. Many times during his life had David had good reason to be discouraged, but he had never been so strongly tempted to give up trying altogether, and settle down into a professional vagabond, as he was when he left General Gordon’s barn, and turned his face toward home. He had relied upon Don to show him a way out of his trouble, but his friend had not helped him at all ; he had only made matters worse by telling him more bad news. Nothing seemed to go right with him. There was Dan, who never did anything, and yet he was better off in the world, and seemed to be just as happy as David, who was always striving to better his condition, and continually on the look-out for a chance to earn a dollar or two. Why should he not stop work, and let things take their own course, as his brother did? He reached home while he was revolving* this question in his mind, and the first person he saw when he climbed the fence and walked towards the shingle pile, to resume work upon his traps, was his brother Dan. ' Whar 5^011 been, an’ what you been a doin’ of ?’ demanded the latter, as if he had a right to know. ' Ive been over to Don’s house,’ answered David ; ' and while I was there I found out that you and father borrowed my ten dollars.’ '’Taint so, nuther,’ cried Dan, trying to look sur¬ prised and indignant. ' I believe everything Don and Bert tell me. They have never lied to me, and you have.’ ' Whoop 1 ’ yelled Dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together. 'I mean every word of it,’ said David, firmly. ' You have got me into a tight scrape, but I’ll work out of it somehow. And let me tell you one tiling, Dan ; you’ll never have a chance to steal any more of my money.’ ' Then why don’t you divide it like a feller had oughter do ? ’ asked Dan, angrily. ' Why don’t you divide with mother and me when you have some? ’ 'Kase I work hard for it, and it belongs to me; that’s why.’ And knowing by his past experience that he could not hold his own in an argument with his brother, Dan turned and went into the house. David worked faithfully at his traps, paying no further heed to his brother’s movements. He tried to keep his mind on what he was doing, but now and then the recollection of the heavy loss lie had sustained would come back to him with overwhelm¬ ing force, and the tears would start to his eyes, in spite of all he could do to prevent it. Then he would throw down his hammer and wander about with his hands in his pockets, wondering what was the use of trying to do anything, or be anybody while things were working so strongly against him. It was during one of those idle periods that Don and Bert came up. David’s hopes arose immediately when he caught sight of Don’s smiling face, for he was sure that he was about to hear something en¬ couraging. Indeed, Don’s first words confirmed this impression ; but it turned out that they had come there simply to offer him work that would keep him busy for two or three weeks. Of course David wanted work, but just then he wanted money more.

Page 274

The brothers discovering He wanted to pay that grocery hill, so that he could look Silas Jones in the face the next time he met him. When the brothers e*ot into their boat and rowed away, David went bacJ: to his traps, while Dan, who had been disappointed in his hopes of hearing some private conversation between the visitors and his brother, shouldered his rifle and disappeared in the woods. that the canoe had gone. David worked away industriously until the sun told him that it was nearly four o’clock, and then he put on his coat and started off to keep his appoint¬ ment with Don and Bert. He found them waiting for him at the General’s barn, and he was not a little surprised when they seized him by the arms and pulled him into the carpenter-shop, the door of which they were careful to close and lock. (To he continued.)

Page 275

Alexander the Great and the Lion. i

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270 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIV. AIiEXANDEB THE GREAT AND V THE LION. J LEXANDEPt, King of Macedonia, * \ 1 A ^ was not only a great general, but was v\Vt»^ a brave man, and often fouglit at the head of his troops, and exposed hiin- equal danger with the common *JBL» soldiers. And in hunting wild beasts wJ he often gave proofs of his courage. 1 1 After he had conquered Darius, 1 ] the Persian monarch, and subdued the greater part of Asiq^ the inhabitants of one of tho provinces, Sogdian a, ^ rebelled against nim. Whilst march- ing through the country to reduce the revolted cities to obedience, the 1 King and his army came to a district called Bazaria, where there was ^ a royal park that had belonged to the king of Persia. The game had not been molested for more than a hundred years, so the place was full of wild animals of all kinds. The army formed a circle within the enclosure, as was the manner of hunting in the East, and drove the wild beasts into the centre, where they were killed by the King and his nobles, who were stationed there. Alexander was attacked by a hugh lion; and when Lysimachus, one of his friends, wished to come to his assistance, the King told him to stand back, and insisted on lighting the lion by himself ; and succeeded in overpowering the animal in spite of its strength and ferocit}^, and killed it with his own hand. The Spartan ambassador was present; and when the excitmg combat was over he cried out, ^A brave struggle, Alexander, with the royal beast for the mastery ! ’ But though the King had vanquished the lion and escaped injury, his army feared for his safety when they saw how recklessly he faced all danger. So, exercising a military privilege which they claimed of watching over their king as their leader, they called an assembly, and made a regulation that he should not in future hunt alone, or without some of his chief officers by his side to assist him. It is said that four thousand wild animals were killed at this memorable chase. And a group of statuary was afterwards executed in bronze repre¬ senting Alexander fighting 'with the lion; and was dedicated in the temple at Delphi by Craterus, one of his generals. A. R. CLAUDE GELEE (LORRAINE). The Pastrycook’s Apprentice, who became a GREAT Landscape-Painter. N a castle belonging to a nobleman H province of Lorraine, in A V France, about the year 1600, lived y a poor farm -servant, named Gel^e, 1 and his wife, who had several chil- dren. The youngest of these was named Claude. This boy, in the early years of his life, was so stupid, that when he was V sent to school it -was a very long time before he succeeded even in learning how to sign his name. Idle scholar that he was, he never failed to desert the class every time that he could do so, in order to wander about in the fields. lie did not care for boys’ games. He would roam about, appearing to look, without really seeing, like a person who is walking in his sleep, and who is asleep with his eyes open.^ If he sat down he would remain for hours motion¬ less as a statue, quite absent to all that was going on around him, gazing vacantly across the plains and landscape. What was then passing wnthin him ? No one knew, for he scarcely ever spoke, and the few words which he uttered were like those of one half¬ witted. He was apprenticed to a pastrycook, and gave no greater ][)roof of talent than he had done at school. When he was twelve both his parents died. He therefore went to Friburg, in Switzerland, to join his elder brother, who was an engraver, and who wished to teach him the principles of drawing. But Claude succeeded no better in this than he had done in learning to read, or in making pastry. And as his brother began to use severe measures to make him, if possible, fit for something in life, Claude one fine morning left his brother’s house. Here his history becomes somewhat obscure. All we know is that he went to Home— led there, as some say, by one of his relations ; begging as a vagabond accord¬ ing to others. The latter opinion is the most pro¬ bable, for it is scarcely likely that any relation would have taken this dull, stupid child, on so long a journey ; or if he had done so would have left the poor boy in the streets. However, it is certain that Claude was starving and destitute in the streets of Pome, till one day a landscape-painter, named Tassi, met him : had pity on his extreme misery ; took him into his service to mix his colours, to prepare his meals (Tassi could not have been very nice about his cooking), to groom his horse, and to do all the little domestic details of his house. It was agreed that the painter should, from time to time, give Claude some lessons in drawing, besides his modest wages; an agreement which seems a singular one, for it was the master himself who introduced this clause into the agreement. Was it then that Claude’s intellect had suddenly developed to such a degree that Tassi judged him capable of doing wonders in such a difficult art ? Not at all; but the painter thought that by this PUZZLES FOR FOREIGNERS. I. ‘^^TIFE, make me some dumplings of dough. They’re better than meat for my cough; Pray let them be baked through and through, But not tiU they’re heavy or tough, II. Now I must be off to the plough. And the boys, when they’ve had enough, Must keep the flies off with a bough, While tho old mare drinks at the trough.

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No. XXXTV. CHATTERBOX. 271 means he would make his servant more profitable, and that as soon as Claude had been a little taught he would find a very cheap assistant in him. But Tassi had to wait a long time before he repaid himself for his feigned generosity. Claude’s intellect was enveloped by a thick covering of stupidity and awkwardness which was very hard to work through. At last, however, light dawned in upon this dull soul. Claude listened, understood his master’s lessons, and was beginning already to profit by them, when the sight of some pictures sent from Naples by a famous landscape-painter of that city revealed to the young man what his real vocation was. He started from Borne to go and ask this painter, whose works had struck him so much, the favour of being admitted among his pupils. This request granted, Claude worked with so much zeal that at the age of twenty-five his name was already Imown as an illustrious artist. He did all he could now to make up for the time he had lost in his youth, studying with unwearied diligence all the principles of his art. He travelled in Italy, France, and Germany, and paid a visit to his native place — the old castle in Lorraine. It was from this province that he took the name of Lorraine, though he is generally known by the one simple name of Claude. He then returned to Borne, where he was eagerly welcomed. There was now a great demand for his pictures, many famous personages sending him com¬ missions. He finally fixed his residence at Borne. He would spend great part of his time, often whole days, in watching the changes of the appearance in earth and sky. He painted for his study a land¬ scape, compounded of many views taken in the Villa ]\[adaina, wdth a great variety of trees, which he kept as a store of natural objects : he refused to sell it, even when Clement IX. offered to cover it with pieces of gold. Claude is the prince of landscape-painters. His works now fetch enormous prices at picture-sales. Stories are told of picture-dealers who, by chance, have picked up a Claude at sales of property in French castles, making their fortunes by the dis¬ covery. Most of the galleries of Europe possess specimens of his paintings. In the National Gallery there are no less than ten, some of which rank among his finest works. Claude died in 1682, aged eighty-two, leaving his property to two nephews and a niece, his oi^ sur¬ viving relatives. J. F. C. SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS DOGS. SIB WALTEB SCOTT loved all animals, and especially dogs. When he lost his property he wrote these touching lines : — ^ My dogs will wail for me; the thought of parting from these dumb crea¬ tures has moved me more than anything else. Poor things ! I must get them kind masters. There may yet be those who, loving me, will love my dog because it has been mine. Alas ! I feel my dogs’ feet on my knees ; I hear them whining and seeking me. What would they do if they knew how things may be ? ’ GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. THE PABSON. ‘A good man ther was of religioun. That was a poure Persone of a town.* I DING to Canterbury, united by a common object, were men of vari¬ ous dispositions. The humble parish priest, ‘ a poure Persone of a town,’ rode side by side with the lordly monk, who belonged to a wealthy monastery, kept fine horses, and lived on the fat of the land. The 'poure Persone’ who ac¬ companied our pilgrims to Canter¬ bury, though a poor man, was rich in good works and holy thoughts. He was very learned, and preached the Gospel truly to his parishioners. Benign and won¬ derfully diligent, his patience in adversity was often proved. Notwithstanding his poverty he was loth to enforce the payment of his tithes, and would rather relieve the wants of the poor out of his offerings, or his own substance, for he himself could be contented with very little. His parish was large, and the houses scattered wide asunder ; yet with his staff in his hand he would walk through rain or thunder-storm to visit the farthest of them in times of sickness or misfortune. He taught his flock, after giving them the best example by his own life ; for he said, ‘ If gold rusted, what should iron do ? And if a priest in whom the people trusted were bad, what wonder if they were bad also ? For it was a shame to see sheep cleaner than their shepherd, and a priest ought, by his own way of hving, to show his fiocK how to live.’ But though he was so holy, he had pity on sinful men, and was not severe of speech, but strove to draw them to Heaven by gentleness and good example. To obstinate people, however, who persisted in doing evil, he would speak sharply at the time, no matter what their position in life was. A better priest was nowhere to be found, for he cared neither for pomp nor reverence ; ‘ But Cristes lore, and His apostles twelve, He taught, but first he folwed it himselve.* Chaucer calls his parson a ' Persone,’ because that was the old way of spelling, as the name is derived from the Latin word, ^persona a person — and was applied to the clergy, because in their persons they represented the church of their parish. So the good priest is still the same, though his name is spelled dif¬ ferently, just as his ordinary dress is different from that which he would have worn long ago. A. B. A RIDDLE. AS I was going through a field of wheat, I picked up something "ood to eat : ’Twas neither fish, flesh, feather nor bone, I kept it till it ran alone. The reply is— Hen’s Eaa.

Page 278

The Parson.

Page 279

No. XXXV. CHATTERBOX. 273 David leaving the store with his purchases.

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274 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXV. THE BOY TRAPPER. (Continued from p. 268.) By Harry Castlemon. (Copyriglit.) Porter and Coi 'res. 2878. / . OW I know we can talk witlic ut danger of being overheard,’ exclaimed Don. [r ^ We’ve got lots to tell you; but in the first place,’ he added, opening his pocket-book, ^ there’s your mone'y.’^ The expression of joy and surprise that came upon David’s face as he hesitatingly, almost reluctantly, took the crisp, new bill that was held to¬ ward him, amply repaid Don for the loss of the pleasui’e ne had expected to derive in spending the money for Chidstmas pre¬ sents. * Why, I understood you to say that father and Dan had drawn this money,’ said he, as soon as he could speak. ^ So they did, but my father says the loss is mine, and not yours.’ David drew a long breath. He understood the matter now. * It isn’t fair that you should pay it twice,’ said he. * I haven’t paid it twice ; that is, I haven’t paid you at all. It’s all right, David, you may depend upon it. They’ll never fool us again. If I should ever have any more of your money, nobody could get it except yourself.’ * Or mother,’ added David. ‘Oh, of course. I wouldn’t be afraid to trust her.’ ‘ I was in hopes that you would have a good deal of my money in your hands some day,’ continued David. ‘ I was going to ask you to keep my hundred and fifty dollars for me; but I don’t Imow now whether I shall ever get it or not.’ ‘Of course you’ll get it,’ exclaimed Bert. ‘You are not going to give up the idea of trapping the quails, are you ? ’ ‘ No, but I don’t know that I shall make anything at it, for Dan and Lester can break up my traps faster than I can make them.’ ‘Well, they’ll not breakup a single one of your traps, because - ’ Here Don began, and hurriedly repeated the con¬ versation which he and Bei’t had had with their father a few hours before. As David listened, the look of trouble his face had worn aU that day grad¬ ually faded away, and the old happy smile took its place. His confidence in his friends had not been misplaced ; Dan and Lester Brigham were to be out¬ witted after all. The traps, and the ‘figure fours’ with which they were to be set, could be built there in the shop, Don said. There were tools and a bench, and everything else needful close at hand, so that the work could be done in haK the time that David had expected to de¬ vote to it. As fast as the traps were completed they were to be set in General Gordon’s fields. They would be safe there, and Dan Evans or Lester Brig¬ ham, or anybody else who came near them, would be likely to get himself into trouble. The negroes were always at work in the fields in the daytime, and if they were told to keep their eyes open, and report any outsiders who might be seen prowling about the fences, they would be sure to do it. The best course David could pursue would be to say nothing more about trapping the quails. Let Dan believe that he had become discouraged and given up the enterprise. If he wanted to know what it was that took his brother over to General Gordon’s house so regularly, David could tell him that he was doing some w’’ork there, which would be the truth ; and besides it would be all Dan had any right to know. As fast as the birds were caught, they could be locked up in one of the empty negro cabins; and any one who found out that they were there an4 tried to steal them, would run the risk of being caught by Don’s hounds. It was a splendid plan, taken altogether, and David’s eyes fairly glistened while it was mifolded to him. He thanked tlie brothers over and over a^ain for their kindness and the interest they took in bis success, and might have kept on thanking them if Don had not interrupted him with — ‘ Oh, that’s all understood. Now, before you begin work on those traps, we want you to help us one day. We’ve had a good deal of excitement and some good luck since we last saw you. We have re¬ covered my canoe, which somebody stole from me, and we have found out that there is a bear living on Bruin’s Island.’ ‘ He must be a monster, too, for such growls I never heard before,’ said Bert. ‘ Didn’t you see him ? ’ asked David. ‘No. We landed to explore the island, and while we were going through the cane he growled at us, and we took the hint and left. We didn’t have a single load of heavy shot with us. We’re going up there to-morrow, and we want you to go with us. We’ll go fixed for him, too. We’U have a couple of good dogs with us; I’ll take my rifle; Bert will take father’s heavy gun ; and we’d lilve to have 3- ou take your single-barrel. If he gets a bullet and three loads of buck-shot in his head, he’ll not growl at us any more. If we don’t get a chance to shoot him, we’ll build a trap and catch him alive the next time he comes to the island. Will you go ? ’ Of course David would go. He would have gone anywhere that Don told him to go. He promised to be at the barn at an early hour the next morning, and then showed a desire to leave the shop ; so Don un¬ locked the door, and David hurried out and turned his face toward the landing. He had money now, and that grocery bill should not trouble him any longer. ‘ If there ever was a luclry boy in the world I am the one,’ thought David, whose spirits were elevated in the same ratio in which they had before been de¬ pressed. ‘ Ill earn my hundred and fifty dollars now, and mother shall have her nice things in spite of Dan and Lester. It isn’t every fellow who has such friends as Don and Bert Gordon. But I shall have a hard time of it, anyhow. Dan will be so mad when he finds out that he can’t ruin me, that he will do some¬ thing desperate.’ David, nowever, did not waste much time in think¬ ing of the troubles that might come in the future.

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No. XXXV. CHATTERBOX. 275 He preferred to thinlr about pleasanter things. He ■was so wholly engrossed "with his plans that it seemed to him that he was not more than five minutes in reaching the landing. There was no one in the street, and nothing there worth looking at, except General Gordon’s white horse, wdiich was hitched to a post in front of Silas Jones’s store. As David approached, the General himseK came out, accom¬ panied by the grocer, who was as polite and attentive to his rich customers as he was indifferent to the poor ones. ^ Ah, David ! ’ exclaimed the General, extending bis hand ; ^ how are times now ? Business looking up any ? ’ ^ Y-yes, sir,’ stammered the boy, who could scarcely speak at all. He w^as not abashed by the rich man’s presence, for he had learned to expect a friendly nod or a cor¬ dial grasp of the hand every time he met him ; but he was very much astonished by the greeting which Silas Jones extended to him. No sooner had the General released David’s hand than it was seized by the grocer, who appeared to be as glad to see him as though he knew that the boy had come there to buy a bill of goods worth hundreds of dollars. ' It never does any good to give way to our gloomy feelings,’ said the General. ‘ There are many times when things don’t go just as we would like to have them ; but the day always follows the night, and a little perseverance sometimes works wonders.’ David understood what the General meant, but it was plain that the grocer did not, for he looked both bewildered and surprised. He bowed to his rich cus¬ tomer, as he rode off, and then, turning to David, conducted him into the store with a great deal of ceremony. ‘ Mr. Jones,’ said David, who began to think that the grocer must have taken leave of his senses, ^ I have come here to settle father’s bill.’ ^ Oh, that’s all right,’ was the smiling reply. * It isn’t fair that I should hold you responsible for that debt, and I have concluded that I will not do it. Your father will pay me some time, perhaps; and if he doesn’t, I’ll let it go. The loss of it won’t break me. Can I do anything for you this evening ? ’ David was more astonished than ever. Was this the man who had spoken so harshly to him no longer ago than that very morning ? What had happened to work so great a change in him ? It was the General’s visit that did it. When Don and Bert left their father, after holding that short consultation with him in the field, the latter took a few minutes to think the matter over, and when his negi’oes had finished their work, he mounted his horse and rode down to the landing, to have a tallv with Mr. Jones. What passed between them no one ever knew, but it was noticed that from that dav forward, whenever David came into the store tc : rade, he was treated Avith as much respect as lie wciild have been had he been known to have his pockets full of money. ‘Want anything in my line this evenino-?’ con¬ tinued the grocer, rubbing his hands. ‘A hat, or a piir of shoes and stockings for yom’self, a Avarm dress for mother, or - ’ ‘ Oh, I want a good many things,’ replied David ; ‘ but I shall have only two dollars left after your bill is paid, and that must keep us in groceries for at least a month —perhaps longer.’ To David’s great amazement the merchant replied, ^ Your credit is good for six months. As for your father’s debt, I wouldn’t let you pay it if you ^vere made of money. Better take home some tea, coffee, and sugar, wdth you, hadn’t you ? It is always a good plan to replenish before you get entirely out, you know.’ ‘ Oh, we were out long long ago,’ said David, who could not help smiling at the mistake Silas made in supposing that tea, coffee, and sugar, appeared on his mother’s table every day. ‘ We haven’t had any in our house for almost a month.’ ^ Is that so ? ’ exclaimed the grocer. ‘ Then I’ll put up some for you, and lend 3^ou a basket to carry it home in.’ David leaned upon the counter and began a little problem in mental arithmetic, with the view of ascer¬ taining how much of his money it would take to keep his mother supplied with the luxuries the grocer had mentioned for one month, and how much he would have left to invest in clothing for lier ; but before the problem was solved the grocer had placed three neat packages — good-sized ones, too — on the counter, and was looking for a basket to put them in. ‘Now, then,’ said he, briskly, ‘what next? A dress for mother, or a pair of shoes for yourself ? The mornings are getting to be pretty cold now, and you can’t run around barefooted much longer. Ah, Dan I how do you do ? ’ David looked up and was surprised to see his brother standing by his side. He was surprised, too, to notice that the grocer greeted him almost as cor¬ dially as he had greeted himself but a few minutes before. David was not glad that he was there, for the expression on Dan’s face told him that he had seen and heard more than he had any business to know. David made haste to finish his trading after that; and when he had purchased a dress and a pair of shoes for his mother, and a pair of shoes and stockings for himself, he handed out his ten-dollar bill in pay¬ ment. Dan’s eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets at the sight of it. ‘ Never mind that now,’ said the grocer, pushing it back. ‘Perhaps you will need it some day, and I can wait six months, if you are not ready to settle up before.’ Dan’s eyes opened still wider; and when his brother, after thanking the grocer for his kindness and confidence, gathered up his purchases and left the store, he followed slowly after him, so wholly lost in wonder that he never recollected that he had six dollars in his own pocket, and that he had come there to spend the best part of five of it. lie walked along at a little distance behind his brother, looking thoughtfully at the ground all the while, as if he were revolving some pei-plexing question in his mind, and then he quickened his pace to overtake him. ‘ Let me carry some of them things,’ said he, as he came up with David. ‘ No, I thank you,’ replied the latter, who knew that Dan never would have offered to help him, if he had not hoped to gain something by it. ‘ I can get

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Sandrocottus and the Lion.

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The Custom House.

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278 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXV. alon<T very well by mj’^self. The load is not a heavy one.^ < You’re an amazin’ lucl^y feller, Davy/ continued Dan. What you been a doin’ to Silas, to make him speak so land to us poor folk ? ’ ^ haven’t done anything to him. I don’t know how to account for it any more tlian you do.’ ‘What’s the matter, now? Forgot something?’ asked Dan, as his brother suddenly stopped and looked toward the landing, as if he had halt a mmd to turn around and go back there. Yes, David had forgotten something, and it was very important, too, he thought. He knew that Dan was always on the look-out for a chance to make a penny without work, and David was afraid that he might be tempted to repeat the trick which he and his'^ father had played upon Don and Bert with so much success. It would be a very easy matter for Dan to make up some plausible story to tell the grocer, and per¬ haps on the strength of his brother’s almost unlimited credit, he might be able to obtain a few little articles of which he stood in need. David had never thought to put Silas on his guard. ‘ I’ll hold them things fur you, if you want to run back thar,’ said Dan, reaching out his hand for the basket. ‘ No, I’ll let it go until the next time I come down, answered David. ^ A day or two will not make much difference.’ ‘Whar did you get them ten dollars, anyhow? asked Dan, as the two once more turned their faces homeward. ‘ That’s the money you tried to cheat me out of/ replied his brother. ‘ Don says the loss was his and not mine.’ ‘ Did he give you ten dollars more ? ’ exclaimed Dan. ‘ Not ten dollars more, for this is the first he has given me. You and father got what I ought to have had.’ ‘ An’ you never spent none on it, did you ? ’ I seen Silas shove it back to you.’ ‘ Yes/ I’ve got it safe in my pocket. I’m going to keep it, too.’ ‘ Wal, I’ll bet a boss you don’t,’ was Dan’s naental reflection. ‘ I’d oughter have some on it, an’ if you don’t give it to me without my axin’ you. I’ll have it all. I’m the man of the house now, an’ it’s the properest thing that I should have the handlin’ of all the money that comes in.’ Of course Dan was much too smart to say this aloud. He knew that any threats from him woidd put his brother on his guard, and then he might whistle for the ten dollars. He said no more, and the two walked along in silence until they came to General Gordon’s barn. Just as David was going into it he met Lester Brigham riding out of it. Lester scowled down at him, but David did not scowl back. He was quite willing to forget that they had ever had any difficulty and to be friendly with Lester, if the latter wanted him to be. It is pro¬ bable, however, that he would have had different feelings if he had known what it was that brought Lester over to Don’s house. {To he contiTiued.) the story op AN INDIAN KIN a. HE ancients had a firm be¬ lief in the generosity of the lion. He was the king of beasts, not only fiom his immense strength and ma¬ jestic aspect, but from the royalty of his nature. It was supposed that he never attacked human beings ex¬ cept vhen he was driven to it by extreme hunger. It was thought that he could be moved to pity, and sometimes spared de¬ fenceless travellers through compassion ; and that his instinct enabled him to recognise true kings. All these poetic fancies have faded away before the experience of modern travellers, but the lion is certainly not so fierce or subtle as the tiger, nor has he the cruel eyes of that terrible creatum. hen in a state of repose there is no trace of ferocity in his expression, and as he sits in his grandeur, with his magnificent mane flowing about his neck and shoulders, he has an air of regal dignity and majesty that might well give rise to the old stories of his nobleness and generosity. When Alexander the Great invaded Ii.dia, and had advanced to the river Hyphasis, in the Pendjab, there came an Indian to his camp from a far-distant kingdom on the river Ganges. This man, whose name was Sandrocottus, appears to have been of doubtful origin, though some writers say that he was related to the royal family of his own country, and was sent on an embassy to the Macedonian king. However, he offended Alexander, who ordered him to be put to death, and he fled from the camp and onlv saved his life by the swiftness of his feet. After he had traversed a great distance, thinking he was out of danger, and being weary and footsore from his rapid flight, he lay down to rest. He fell asleep, and a great lion came- softly to him, and gently licked his face as he slept. Sandrocottus awoke in terror, and when he saw the lion standing over him expected to be torn to pieces, but the majestic animal did him no harm, but walked quietly away. When Sandrocottus recovered from his astonish¬ ment and fear, he concluded, from the r(*spect which the lion had shown for him, that he was destined to be a king. Now his native country was governed by a king who was a cruel tyrant, and greatly disliked by the Brahmins, or priestly order of the Indians. Sandrocottus, gathering together certain outlaws, headed an insurrection against this king, and mounted the throne himself, and became one of the most pow¬ erful monarchs who had ever reigned in the East. He defeated and drove out the Macedonians that Alexander had left in possession of Northern India. And when Scdeucus Nicator, who became King of Syria after the death of Alexander, tried to recover tlie Macedonian conquests, and invaded the kingdom of Sandrocottus, he completely failed, and the Greeks never again gained a footing in the country. The capital city of Sandrocottus was called Palibothra, and there he reigned in glory and prosperity until his death. A. R.

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No. XXXV. CHATTERBOX. 279 THE THAMES PHOM SOUHCE TO MOUTH. No. XVn.— THE CUSTOM HOUSE AND ‘POOL.’ Before passing under London Bridge, and so gaining one’s first view of the Custom House, the eye should once again wander across the river to the spires of St. Saviour’s Church and the river¬ side, for this portion of London is replete with in¬ terest. ^ The interior of St. Saviour’s is, after that of "W estminster Abbey, the finest in London. Gower, who lies buried here, was very fond of rowing on the Thames, and he was in his boat when he attracted the attention of Richard II. taking the air in the royal barge. The king invited the poet on board, and then it was that the royal host suggested to Gower that he should write another poem — his last, as it happened. Beyond St. Saviour’s Church, and stretching towards Blackfriars Bridge, is Bankside ; and it was ' here, in Queen Elizabeth’s time, that the good people of London came for their enjoyment in the fields and gardens which then stretched along the bank. The Custom House, as its name implies, is the Government establishment where all duties upon goods imported into London are paid. It is a very handsome building, erected in 1817, on a site which was previously part of the bed of the river, and the cost was enormous. It is interesting to remember that the first Comptroller of Customs was the fine old poet Chaucer, the pupil of Gower — ^Moral Gower,’ as Chaucer called him. He assumed office in lo7o, and so little important was the business done in those times, that Chaucer kept the customs accounts ‘ with his own hands.’ Now hundreds of clerks are busy all day in the building, and the ^ long room,’ one of the largest apartments in the world, is a sight to see. As our boat comes out from under Ijondon Bridge we get a good view of the Monument, erected to commemorate the great fire of London in 1666, and wliich, drolly enough, began at ^ Pudding Lane ’ and ended at ^ Pye Corner.’ The golden sheaf-like capital, or head, of the Monument is intended to represent the flames of the great conflagration. On the base of the Monument is a statement to the effect that the fire was caused by the Catholics. This state¬ ment has never been justified. London was then built almost wholly of wood, which in the month of August and in early September would be very dry. Again, the fire began in the ^ king’s bakehouse,’ near the Monument, and probably through overheating an oven. Strangely enough, the other great fire which has taken place in London broke out opposite the Monument, on the other side the Thames, in 1861. It raged for many days amongst costly warehouses filled with valuable goods. It may be said that the Thames was practically on fire, for the grease floating on the water in vast flames nearly destroyed the shipping in the Pool. Property to the amount of one million and a half was consumed, and Mr. Braid- wood, the superintendent of the London Fire Brigade, 'lost "hrs life during the conflagration. Between the Custom House and the present London Bridge stood old London Bridge, which was built in 1200, and held its owm until pulled down inunediately after the completion of the present I structure. Opposite is the church of St. Clave’s, situated in that Tpoley Street wherein those ‘ three tailors of Tooley Street ’ lived w^ho sent an address to Parliament beginning ^ We, the people of England.’ It w^as also at this point, near the church of St. Magnus, that the lord mayor of London took water for Westminster on the celebrated 9th of November. One Sir John Norman, lord mayor in 1554, in the time of Queen Mary, was the first city- king wrho began this custom. Here the Pool of the Port of London commences, and here begins that forest of shipping wdiich does not cease for many miles. It is by these almost numberless vessels that the poorest people of Eng¬ land in our days fare better than did kings and princes in the olden times. Once a queen of England nad to send to Flanders for a salad wdien she wished one. L}’ing between the Custom House and London Bridge is the celebrated Billingsgate Fish Market. The great mass of fish eaten in London passes through its portals. It is a wonderful sight to mark the unloading of the fishing-smacks, w^hile on a lower floor may be seen immense piles of winkles. Here there was certainly a fish-market so far back as 1016, while in the reign of Edward I. (1272-1307) an ordinance was issued regulating the prices of fish. When we read that twelve fine soles were to be only a shilling, twenty herrings but a penny, and a gallon of oysters no more than twopence, we begin to fancy that the good old times must have been cheap ones — until we recall the fact that a penny of those times was worth a shilling in ours. {To he co7itinued.) BROTHER PAT’S BIRTHDAY. ?^IS brother Pat’s birthday, this morning he’s three, I’m trying to get him a nosegay, you see j I’ll make it as pretty and sweet as I can. For Pat (as all know) is a dear little man. I promised, last night, I would give him a treat — A present, bright-coloured, and graceful, and sweet; And what is there brighter or sweeter than these, Except this fine butterfly, taking his ease ? 0, come, let me catch you — I wish I’d my hat, You’d be mine in a trice — come, I want you for Pat ; He’ll keep you and feed you, and make you rejoice. Come, butterfly, come, or you’ll make a bad choice. So, there you go, butterfly, out of my reach I Well, perhaps, after aH, it is better for each ; Pat soon might forget you, and you may prefer This field to a box where you hardly can stir. But stiU you’ve your dangers, you wilful wee thing, There are storms in the heavens, and birds on the wing; When the dark night comes on, and the sunshine has fled. You may wish you were safe with a roof overhead. If you wont then come with me. I’ll bid you ^good-bye,’ And may you be happy as long as you fly. And may you fly on till the summer’s no more, Then perhaps you’ll be wiser when Patrick is four. G. S. 0.

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“ O come, let me catch you!

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No. XXXVI. CHATTERBOX. 281 Dau hiding behind the fatlen log.

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282 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVI. THE BOY TRAPPER. (Continued from 278.) By Harry Castlemoit. ^ j- (Ccpyriglit.) Porter and Coatea. 1873. as we have said, turned into the barn, and Dan, who had more than his share of curiosity, would have given almost ^ anything he possessed to o know what business he had there; but he could not go in to see, for he dared not face Don and Bert after what he had done, so he kept on toward home. David deposited his basket and bundles on the steps that led to the loft, and mr.king his way around the north wing of the house, knocked at the door, "whicli was presently opened by Bert. David asked if Don Avas in, and receiving an* affirmative reply was ushered into the library, where his friend, wearied with his day’s exercise, was taking his ease on the sofa, which had been drawn up in front of a cheerful wood fire. David dechned to accept the chair which Bert placed for him, and opened his business at once. ‘ Don,’ said he, ‘ would you be willing to take that money you gave me and keep it until I call for it ? ’ < Of course I w^ould,’ replied Don, readily. ' You haven’t paid that grocery bill, then ? Well, 1 wouldn’t either. You are not responsible for it.’ offered to pay it, but Mr. Jones wouldn’t take the money. Pie says my credit is good for six months.’ * AVhv, what has come over him all of a stalden ? ’ said Don, who did not know that his father had had an interview with Silas that very day. ‘ I wish I knew. There’s the money, and you won’t let anybody have it, except mother or me, wiU you ?’ ^ Y ou may bo sure that I will take good care of it this time. Don’t forget that bear hunt, to-moirow.’ ^ No. I’ll be on hand, bright and early. Good-bye.’ David hurried out, and picking up the basket and bundles he had left in the barn, started for home. When he got there, he Avas surprised to see that Dan w'as at work. He had pulled off his coat, piled up his sleeves, and with a frow and mallet in his hands, was busy splitting out shingles. David said nothing to him, but went into the house to put away the tea, coffee, and sugar, and place the articles he had bought for his mother in a conspicuous position, so that she would be sure to see them the moment she entered the door. While he was thus engaged, Dan carne in smiling, and tr^dng to look good-natured. David was on his guard at once. ^ I’ll tell vou what I’ve made up my mind to do by you, Davy,’ said Dan, ‘ an’ when you hear what it is, if you don’t say I’m the best brother you ever had, I want to know what’s the reason why. I ain’t goin’ ’ I’m goin’ to give you half the money we ; Lten them quail. I’U give you half what I’v' an outen tliem quail, hid away, too.’ pardners with you, make [’ve got *1 have no claim upon that,’ replied David. Tt belongs to Don Gordon, and if you are honest you’ll give him every cent of it.’ ^ I can’t do it,’ said Dan. ^ Kase why, I give dad three an’ a half of it, an’ spent six bits myself.’ ^ Then give him what you have, and tell him that you will hand him the rest as soon as you can earn it.’ ^Not by no means, I won’t,’ said Dan quicldy, ^ Ten dollars ain’t nothing to him.’ ^ ^ That makes no difference. It is his, and he ought to have it.’ ' Wal, I'll teU you what I’ll do : I’ll pay him out of them fifty dollars we’re goin’ to get fur them quad. An’, Davy, if you’ll give me the money you’ve got in your pocket. I’ll hide it with mine whar nobody can’t find it, and then it’ll be safe.’ ^ It is safe, now.’ 'But if I go halves with you, you had oughter go halves with me. Let’s go out to them traps agin, and we kin talk it over while we’re workin’.’ ' I am not going to do anything more with those traps.’ ' You hain’t give it up, have you ? You ain t goin to let them fifty dollars slip through youi- fingers, be you ? ’ ' What encouragement have I to do anj’thing after what you said this morning? I have made other arrang(?ments. I am going to work over at the General’s,’ David expected that his brother would be very angry when he heard this ; but if he was, he did not show it. He looked steadily at David for a moment and then turned and walked around the corner of the cabin out of sight. CHAPTEB VI. — bruin’s ISLAND. ' That’s a purty way he’s got of doin’ business, I do think. lie’s a trifie the meanest feller I ever seed, Dave is, an’ if I don’t pay him fur it afore he’s a grpt many "weeks older. I'll just play myself out a tryin’. If me an’ him works together we kin get them fifty dollars as easy as failin’ off a log ; but he can’t arn ’em by hisself ,* an’ he shan’t, nuther.’ This was the way Dan Evans taffied to himself, as he trudged through the woods with his rifle on his shoulder, after his unsuccessful attempt to overhear what passed between his brother and Don and Bert Gordon, or, rather, after his failure to find out what it was that brought Don and Bert to the cabin. lie did overhear what passed between them, but he did not learn anything by it. Of course that made him angry. A good many things had happened that day to'inake him angry, and he had gone off in the woods by himself to tlimk and plan vengeance. ' Bein’ the man of the house I’ve got more right to them fifty dollars nor Dave has,’ thought Dan ; ' an’ if he don^t give me half of ’em, he shan’t see a cent of ’em hisself. Woiddn’t I look smart loafin’ around in these yere clothes while Dave was dressed up like a gentleman, an’ takin’ his ease? I’ll bust irp them traps of his’n faster’n he kin make ’em. I’ll show him that I’m the boss of this house now that dad’s away, no matter if them Gordon fellers is a backin’ on him up. I’ve lamed a heap by listenin’. I heard Dave tell the ole waman, that ‘he’s goin’ to make three dollars a dozen outen them quail. I didn’t larn

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No. XXXVI. CHATTERBOX. 283 nothing this afternoon, howsomever. Them fellers must a seed me lookin’ through the cracks, kase they didn’t tell him what they was agoin’ to tell him when they fust come up to the fence.’ Dan walked about for an hour or more, talking in this way to himself. The squirrels frisked and baihed all around him, but he did not seem to hear them. He wzo so busy thinking over his troubles that he scarcely knew where he was going, until at last he found himself standing on the banks of a sluggish bayou that ran through the swamp. The stream was wide and deep, and near the middle of it and oppo¬ site the spot where Dan stood, was a little island thickly covered with briers and cane. It was known among the settlers as Bruin’s Island. Dan knew the place well. Many a fine string of goggle-eyes had he caught at the foot of the huge sycamore which grew at the lower end of the island, and leaned over the water until its long branches almost touched the trees on the main shore, and it was here that he had trapped his first beaver. More than that, the island had been a place of refuge for his father during the war. He spent the most of his time there until all danger of capture was past. When Dan appeared upon the bank of the bayou a dark object, which was crouching at the water’s edge near the foot of the sycamore, suddenly sprang up and glided into the bushes out of sight. Its move¬ ments were quick and noiseless, but still they did not escape the notice of Dan, who dropped on the instant and hid behind a fallen log that happened to be close at hand. He did not have time to take a gotid look at the object, but he saw enough of it to frighten him thoroughly. He thrust his cocked rifle cautiously over the log, directing the muzzle toward the syca¬ more : but his hand was unsteady, and his face was as white as a sheet. ^ Looked to me like a man,’ thought Dan, trembling in every limb, ^but in course it couldn’t be ; so it’s one of them haunts what lives in the General’s lane.’ Dan kept his gaze directed across the bayou, and could scarcely restrain himself from jumping up and taking to his lieels when he saw a head, covered with a torn and faded hat, raised slowly and cautiously above the leaning trunk of the sycamore. It remained motionless for a moment, and Dan’s eyes were sharp enough to see that there was a face below the liat — a tanned and weather-beaten face, the lower portion of which was concealed by thick, bushy whiskers. As Dan looked, his eyes began to dilate, liis mouth came open, and the butt of his rifle was gradually lowered until the muzzle pointed toward the clouds. He was sure he saw something familiar about the face, but the sight of it was most unexpected, and so was the sound of the voice which reached his ears a moment later. * Dannie! ’ came the hail, in subdued tones, as if the speaker were afraid of being ovei’heard by some one besides the boy whom he was addressing. * Dad ! ’ cried Dan. As he spoke he arose from his concealment, and the man on the other side of the bayou — Dan was pretty certain now that it was a man — stepped out into view, disclosing tke well-known form and fea¬ tures of Godfrey Evans. Dan could hardly believe his eyes, and even Godfrey seemed a little doubtful. * Is that you, Dannie ? ’ asked the latter. * You’re just a shoutin’, was the reply. ^Nobody ain’t thar with you, I reckon,’ said Godfrey. ^ No ; I’m all by myself. But be you sartin that’s you, Dad?’ ^ In course I am, an’ I’ve been a waitin’ an’ a watchin’ fur yer. I'll bring you over. You’re an ongrateful an’ ondutiful boy to leave your poor ole pap, what's fit tlie Yauliees an’ worlied so hard to bring you up like a gentleman’s son had oughter be brung up, out liere in the cane so long all by hisself.’ * ^Vhy, dad, I didn’t know you was here,’ said Dan. Godfrey wallved briskly along the shore until he reached a little thicket of bushes, into which he plunged out of sight. He appeared again almost im¬ mediately, dragging behind him a small lead-coloured canoe, which Dan recognized the moment he saw it. It was Don Gordon’s canoe, the one he used to pick up his dead and wounded ducks wlien he was shooting over his decoys. It was a beautiful little craft, and Dan had often wished that he could call it his own. It was one thing that made him hate Don and Bert so cordially, and he had often told himself that when he was ready to carry out the threats he had so often made that canoe should be one of the first things to suffer. The brothers took altogether too much pleasure in it, and he wouldn’t have them rowing about the lake enjoying themselves while he was obliged to stay ashore. The sight of it satisfied him tliat the man on the opposite bank was his father, and nobody else. If he had been a ^ haunt ’ he would not have needed a canoe to carry him across tlie bayou. Having placed the canoe in tlie water, Godfrey went back into the canoe after the oars — the little craft was provided with rowlocks, and propelled by oars instead of paddles — and in a few seconds more he was on Dan’s side of the baj^ou. The moment the canoe touched the bank he sprang out, and if one might judge by the cordial manner in which father and son greeted each other, they were glad to meet again. ^ I didn’t never expect to feel your grip no more, dad,’ said Dan, who was the first to speak, ^ an’ I’m ridikilis proud to see you with this yere dug-out. How came you by it, and whar did you git it ? ’ ^ I jest ta(.ik it an’ welcome,’ answered Godfrey. ' I wasn’t going to swim over to the island every time I wanted to go there, was I P ’ ^ In course not. I’m scandalous glad you tuk it ; and now I’ll have a ride in it, an’ no thanks to Don Gordon nuther. Been a livin’ here ever since you’ve been gone ? ’ added Dan, as he stepped into the boat and picked up the oars. ^ Yes, an’ I’ve been a lookin’ fur you ^very day. Seems to me you miglit a knowed where to find me, kase here’s whar I hung out when the Y auks was in the country. Hear anything about me in the settle¬ ment ? ’ ^ Yes, lots. Silas Jones has been to Dave fur them eight dollars you owe him.’ ^ Much good may they do him when he gets ’em,’ said Godfrey, snapping his fingers in the air. ' Dave’s goin’ to pay the bill,’ added Dan. * I heard him say so.’

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Godfrey’s hiding-place in the Island. ^ The ongrateful an’ ondutiful scamp I ’ exclaimed Godfrey. ^ If he’s got that much money, why don’t he give it to me, like he had oughter do ? I need it more’n Silas does. Hear anything else, Dannie ? ’ ' Yes ; General Gordon says, why don’t you come home an’ go ’have youiself ? Nobody wouldn’t pester you.’ ^ Does you see anything green in these yere eyes ? ’ asked Godfrey, looking steadily at Dan. ‘That would do to tell some folks, but a man what’s fit the Yanks ain’t so easy fooled. I’m safe here, an’ here I’ll stay, till - Ilear anything else, Dannie — any¬ thing ’bout them two city chaps, Clarence an’ Marsh Gordon ?’ ‘ O, they’ve gone home long ago.’ ‘ You didn’t hear nothing about them gettin’ into a furse afore they went, did you ? ’ ‘ Course I have. Everybody knows that you an^

Page 291

The Megalosaiirns and Tgiianodon.

Page 292

286 CHATTEUBOX. No. XXXVI. Clarence thought Don was ole Jordan, an’ shet him up in the tater-hole.’ ^An’ sarved him right, too,’ exclaimed Godfrey. reckon he’s well paid fur cheatin’ me outen that chance of making eighty thousand dollars. I heard Clarence was robbed afore he went away,’ added Godfrey, at the same time turning a\yay his head and looking at Dan out of the corner of his eyes. ' I didn’t hear nothing about that,’ said Dan. Godfrey drew a long breath of relief. Dver since he took up his abode on the island he had been tor¬ turing himself with the belief that the robbery of which he was guilty was the talk of the settlement, and that he would be arrested for it if he should ever show himself at the landing again. He breathed much easier to know that his fears on this score were groundless. ^ Hear anything else, Dannie ? ’ asked Godfrey, and his voice was so cheerful and animated that the boy looked at him in amazement. ^What’s Dave an’ the ole woman doin’ ? ’ ^ That thar Dave is goin’ to git rich,’ replied Dan, in great disgust. ^ He got a letter^ from some feller up North this mornin’ tellin’ him if he would trap fifty dozen live quail fur him he’d pay him so’t he could make three dollars a dozen on ’em. I seed Don give him the letter, an’ I heard ’em a talkin’ and a laughin’ about it.’ ‘ That’s what makes me ’spise them Gordons so,’ said Godfrey, slapping the side of the canoe with his open hand. " ^ They’re all the time a boostin’ Dave, an’ me and you could starve fur all they keer. Now •jump out, an’ we’ll go up to my house an’ talk about ‘it. We’ll leave the boat here, so’t it will be handy when you want to go back.’ As Godfrey spoke the bow of the canoe ran deep into the soft mud which formed the beach on that side of the island, and the father and son sprang (jut. Godfrey led the way along a narrow, winding path which ran through the cane, and after a few minutes’ walking ushered Dan into an open space in the centre of the island. Here stood the little bark lean-to that he called his house. The cane had been cleared away from a spot about fifteen feet square, and piled up around the outside, so that it looked like a little breastwork. ' The lean-to was not a very imposing structure — Godfrey would much rather sit in the sim and smoke his pipe than expend any of his strength in providing for his comfort — but it was large enough to .shelter one man, and with a few more pieces of bark on the roof and a roaring fire in front, it might have been made a very pleasant and inviting camp. .1 ust now, however, it looked cheerless enough. There was a little armful of leaves mider the roof of the lean-to and there was a block of wood beside the fire-place, the position of which was pointed out by a bed of ashes and cinders. The leaves served for a bed, and the block of wood for a chair ; and they were all the ‘furniture’ that was to lie seen about the camp. But Godfrey was very well satisfied with his sur¬ roundings, and Dan was delighted with them. It must be splendid, he thought, to live there all by one’s self with nothing to worry over and no work to do. It was not even necessary that Godfrey should chop wood for the fire, for the upper end of the island was covered with broken logs and branches, and five minutes’ work every morning would suffice to provide him with all the fuel he would be hkely to burn during the day. ‘ What a nice place you’ve got here, dad ! ’ said Dan, when he had taken a hurried survey of the camp. ‘I reckon it’s about right,’ replied Godfrey. ‘I had this fur a hidin’ place w'hile the Yanks was a scoutin’ about through the country, an’ I come here now kase nobody won’t think of looking fur me so nigh the settlement. An’ they w^on’t stumble onto me afore I know it, niither. They can’t git to me if they come afoot, kase the bayou’ll stop ’em ; an’ I never heard of nobody coming up here in a boat. Nothing bothers me ’ceptin’ a bar. He comes over every night to feed on the beech-nuts an’ acorns, an’ some night he’ll come fur the last time. I’ll jest knock him over, and then I’ll have meat enough to last me a month. I build my fire and do my cookin’ at night, so’t nobody can’t see the smoke, an’ that’s what frightened the bar away afore I could shoot him.’ ‘ I’ve a notion to come here an’ live with you, dad,^ said Dan. ‘ ’Tw'on’t be safe,’ replied his father, quickly. ‘ If you’re mis.'in’ from home, folk might beg>n to hunt fur us, an’ that’s somethin’ I don’t w^ant ’em to do. ’Sides you must stay in the settlement an’ help me. I shall need things from the store now an’ then, an’ as I can’t go an’ git ’em myself, you’ll have to git ’em fur me. But what was you sayin’ about Dave ?’ asked Godfrey, throwing him.-elf down on one of the piles of cane, and motioning to Dan to oc¬ cupy the block of wood. ‘ I was a sayin’ that he’s a little the meanest feller I ever seed,’ repfied Dan, ‘ an’ don’t you say so, too, dad ? Kase why, he’s goin’ to git fifty dollars fur them quail, an’ he’s goin’ to give the money all to the ole woman.’ ‘ An’ leave me to freeze an’ starve out here in the cane ? ’ exclaimed Godfrey, wdth a great show of in¬ dignation. ‘ Not by no means he w^on’t. If he don’t mind what he’s about we’ll take the hul on it, Dan, me an’ you will.’ “ He won’t get none on it, you kin bet high on that,’ said Dan. ‘ I told him I was goin’ agin him, an’ so I am. I’ll bust his traps as fast as I kin find ’em, an’ I won’t do nothin’ but hunt for ’em, day and night.’ ‘ Now, haint you got no sense at all ? ’ cried his father, so fiercely that Dan jumped up and turned his face toward the path, as if he were on the point of taking to his heels. ‘ Wal, I wanted to go pardners with him, an’ he woLildn’t le’ me,’ protested Dan. ‘ What’s the odds ? Set down thar, an’ listen while somebody what knows something talks to you. What odds does it make to you if he won’t go pard¬ ners with you ? ’ ‘ Kase I want some of the money ; that’s the odds it makes to me.^ ‘ Wal, you kin have it, an’ you needn’t do no work nuther. I’m Dave’s dad an’ your’n too, an’ knows what’s best fur all of us. You jest keep still, an’ let Dave go on an’ ketch the birds ; an’ when he’s ketched

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No. XXXVI. CHATTERBOX. 287 ’em an’ got the money in his pocket, then I’ll tell you what else to do. Le’ me see : fifty dozen birds at three dollars a dozen ! That’s — that’s jest - ’ Godfrey straightened up, locked liis fingers to¬ gether, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked down at the pile of ashes in the fireplace. 'It’s a heap of money, the fust thing, you know,’ said Dan. ' It’s fifty dollars. Dave told nie so.’ 'Fifty gran’mothers!’ exclaimed Godfrey. 'Dave done said that jest to make a fiile of you. It w*ould be fifty dollars if he only got a dollar a dozen. If he got two it would be a hundred dollars, an’ if he got three, it would be - ’ (To he continued.) THE MEGALOSAUKUS AND IGUANODON. At the period in the history of the world when the ocean swarmed with such monsters as the Ichthyosaurus, the land was tenanted by huge croco¬ dile-like lizards. These were reptiles provided with feet ; while those inhabiting the sea were partly like fishes, and had paddles to enable them to swim. Tlie largest of the land species was the Iguanodon, so called because it resembled in structiu*e, and in the character of its teeth, the Iguana, a lizard common in the tropical parts of America. The Iguana of the present day only grows to the length of four or five feet, while the Iguanodon of former ages reached the astonishhig dimensions of more than sixty feet ! The horn on its nose gave it a strange, dragon-like aspect ; but, notwithstanding its enormous size and formidable look, it was probably a harmless creature, like its modern congener the Iguana, for its teetli were only formed for feeding on vegetable substances. The Megalosaurus, or ' Great Lizard,’ was, on the other hand, a dreadful carnivorous monster, almost as huge as the Iguanodon, but far more terrible ; for its immense jaw^s look as if they could have crushed through a bar of iron, and its formidable rows of teeth were specially adapted for cutting and tearing fiesh: for some were arranged like those of a saw, while otliers were curved backward like a sabre, and sharp all along the inner edge, so that when an animal was seized by them it could not possibly escape. The body of the Megalosaurus was covered with strong plates like armour, and its legs were longer in propor¬ tion to its size than those of other lizards. As these monsters were not slug-gish like the crocodile and alligator, but, from their flexible, lizard-like structure, probably swift and sudden in their motions, the destruction of animal life by such must have been immense; and, indeed, their voracity may have been one cause of their extinction, for wdien otlier food failed them they may have attaclred each otlier, the laige herbivorous animals, such as the Mastodon and Mammoth, not being then in existence. From the plants preserved in the same rocks which contain the remains of these creatures, wre know that they must have lived in a tropical climate, for the vegetation chiefly consists of tree-ferns and palms, such as only grow in hot countries. And yet aU tliese were discovered in England, showing what great changes have taken place in the earth since the ages before the Flood I A. E. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. THE PLOUGHMAN. * With him ther was a Plowman, was his brother. * * * * A trewe swinker,* and a good was he, '‘living in pees, and partite charitee.’ HE good Parson w^as accompanied by his brother, who was only a poor Ploughman, and the two brothers, each in his several way, did their duty to the utmost, for we can all be as good in the lowliest walk of life as in the very highest. Steadily guiding his plough, and making his furrows straight, our poor ploughman also guided his own life in the right path, and in his humble condition prattis d every Christian virtue. For he loved God with his wdiole heart at aU times, whether in joy or sorrow, and loved his neighbour as himself. And, if it lay in his power, he would thi’esh or dig and delve for any poor man, for the Lord’s sake, and without any hire; for he was a true w^orker, and a good, ' living in peace, and perfect charity.’ And he paid his tithes fairly, both of his labour and his goods. He wore a tabard, a kind of outer garment without sleeves, and rode upon a mare. These two good brothers, the Parson and the Ploughman, though they were the poorest, and their lives the hardest, were most likely the happiest in all that mixed company of pilgrims riding together to Canterbury. Ploughing has been practised from the earliest times of which we have any record. But at first the plough was nothing but the great branch of a tree, that was dragged over the ground, scratching the earth rather than furrowing it. By-and-by the branch was pointed with metal, so as to form a rude ploughshare. The Saxon plough was very simple, having no wheel, and the raised end of the beam forming the stilt or handle by which it was guided. In Chaucer’s time the plough had been greatly improved, and was made with a ploughshare, couiter, and mould-boards, as it is now ; it also had two stilts or handles, but they appear to have been placed one before the other, so that in guiding it the ploughman did not stand between the stilts as he does now, but rather behind them. What would the ploughman of the fourteenth centimy think, could he, in our days, visit the scenes of his labours; and instead of tlie familiar plough drawn by its yoke of slow-moA'ing oxen, that he had guided so patiently day by da}^ a strange -looking machine, armed with a number of formidable blades, tearing rapidly through the earth, cutting four furrows at a time, and attached by a steel cable to two pulling and snorting steam engines, placed one at each end of the field, and managed by a couple of smoke-blackened stokers ! A. E. ♦ Worker.

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290 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVIT. THE BOY TRAPPER. {Continued from 'page 287.) By Harry Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878, |ODFREY stopped, believing that he must have made a mistake some¬ where, and staved at Dan as if he were utterly bewildered. Dan returned the stare with interest. ^ A hundied dollars ! ’ he repeated slowly. ‘That thar Dave of our’n goin’ to make a hundred dollars all by hisself ! Some on it’s mine.^ ^ ‘It’s more’n that, Dannie,’ said Godfrey, who, as soon as he could settle his mind to the task, went over his calculations again, adding the astounding statement — ‘ An’ if he gets three dollars a dozen, he’ll get a hundred an’ fifty dollars for the lot.’ Dan’s astonishment was so great that for a few seconds he could not speak, and even his father looked puzzled and amazed. He was certain that he had made no mistake in his mental arithmetic this time, and the magnitude of David’s prospective earnings fairly staggered him. It made him angry to think of it. ‘ The idee of that triflin’ leetle Dave’s makin’ so much money,’ he exclaimed, in great disgust; ‘an’ here’s me, who has worked an’ slaved fur a hul life¬ time, an’ I’ve got jest twenty dollars.’ ‘Eh?’ cried Dan. Godfrey was frightened at what he had said, but i could not recall it without exciting Dan’s suspi¬ cions ; so he put on a bold face and continued : — ‘ Yes, I’ve got that much, an’ I worked hard fur it, too. But a hundred an’ fifty dollars ! We must have that when it’s ’arned, Dannie.’ ‘ The hul on it ? ’ ‘Every cent. I’m Dave’s dad, an’ the law gives me the right to his ’arnin’s, an’ yours, too, until you’s both twenty-one years ole. Now, Dannie, I’ve done a power of hard thinkin’ since I’ve been here on this island, an’ I’ve got some idees in my head that will make you look wild when you hear ’em. I didn’t know jest how to cany ’em out afore, but I do now. These 5^ere hundred an’ fifty dollars will keep us movin,’ till we kin find them eighty thousand.’ ‘ Be you goin’ to look fur them agin, dad ? ’ ‘ No, I haiiit, but you be.’ ‘Not much, I ain’t,’ replied Dan, emnhatically. ‘ Who’s to do it, then?’ demanded his father. ‘I can’t, kase I’m af eared to go into the settlement even at night. You hain’t goin’ to give up the money, be you ? Then what’ll become of your circus-hoss, an’ your painted boats, an’ your fine guns what break in two in the middle ? ’ ‘ I don’t keer,’ answered Dan, doggedly. ‘ I wouldn’t go into that tater-patch alone arter dark, if I knowed it was chuck full of yaUer gold an’ silver pieces.’ The savage scowl that settled on Godfrey’s face, as he listened to these words, brought Dan to his feet again in great haste. The man was fully as angry as he looked, and it is possible he might have said or he done something not altogether to Dan’s liking had it not been for an unlooked-for interruption that occurred just then. Godfrey had raised his hand in the air to give emphasis to some remark he was about to make, when he was checked by a slight splashing in the water, accompanied by the measured clatter of oars, as they were moved back and forth in the row-locks. This was followed by a clear, ringing laugh, which Godfrey and his son could have recognised anywheie, and a cheery voice said : — ‘ I’m getting tired. It is time for me to stop and rest when I begin to catch crabs.’ There was a boat in the bayou, and Don and Bert Gordon were in it. They were so close at hand, too, that flight was impossible. ‘I don’t think there’s much difference between riding on horseback and rowing in a boat, as far as the work is concerned,’ said the same voice. ‘I’ve done about all I can do to-day. There don’t seem to be any ducks in the bayou ; so we’ll stop here and take a breathing spell before we go back.’ ‘ Is thar any place in the wide world a feller could crawl into without bein’ pestered by them two oneasy chaps?’ whispered Dan, jumping up from his block of wood, and looking all around, as if he were seeking a way of escape. ‘ Not a word out of you,’ replied Godfrey, shaking his fist at his son. Following Godfrey’s example, Dan threw himself behind one of the piles of cane, and the two held their breath and listened. CHAP. YU. — WHAT HAPPENED THERE. You’re not going to get out, are you, Don?’ asked Beit, and as he was not more than four or five rods away, every word he uttered was distinctly heard by the two listeners in the cane. ‘ I want to stretch my legs a littie,’ was Don’s re¬ ply. ‘ Come on, and let’s explore the island. You Know it used to be a famous bear’s den, don’t you ? ’ ‘ I should think I ought to know it, having heard father tell the story of the animal’s capture a dozen times or more. He must have been a monster : he was so large and heavy that it was all a span of mules could do to d ag him from the shore of the lake, where he was taken out of the boat, up to the house.’ ‘ And didn’t he make things lively before he was killed, though ? ’ said Don. ‘He destroyed nine dogs and wounded two men. I’d like to take part in a hunt like that.’ ‘Well, I wouldn’t. It looks gloomy in the cane, doesn’t it ? What could we do if we should find a bear in there?’ ‘ I don’t know,’ answered Don, with a laugh. Our guns are loaded with small shot, and they would find - Halloo ! Bert, just look here !’ A chorus of exclamations followed, and Godfrey and Dan looked at each other and scrowled fiercely. ‘ That’s my canoe,’ said Don, and they heard the oars rattle as he stepj'ed into it. ‘ There’s no doubt about that,' said Bert, in surprised and delighted tones ; ‘ but how came it here ?’

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No. XXXVII. CHATTERBOX. 291 ^ That’s the question. The fellow who stole it took it up the bayou and then turned it loose, having no further use for it, or else it got away from him and drifted down here.’ ‘ Who knows but the thief brought it here him¬ self, and that he is on the island now, hidden in the cane?’ said Bert, lowering his voice, but still loud enough to make himself heard by GodFrey and Dan. ‘ I hardly think that can be possible,’ replied Don. ‘You see the bow of the canoe was caught on this root; and that makes me think it was brought down by the current and lodged here.’ Godfrey and Dan looked at each other aorain. They had taken no pains to secure the boat when they left it, and the current had moved it from its place on the bank, and was carrying it toward the lake, when it caught on the root where it was discovered by its lawful owner. ‘I am glad to get it again,’ said Don, ‘for I don’t know what we should have done without it. It is jud the thing to chase crippl'd ducks with. If I could see the man who stole it I’d give him a piece of my mind, I tell you.’ After that there was a pause in the conversation, and the rattling of a chain told Godfrey and Dan that the canoe was being fastened to the stern of the boat in which the brothers had come up the bayou. Then there w^as more conversation in a subdued tone of voice, and presently a commotion in the cane indi¬ cated that Dju and Bert were working their way slowly toward the camp. Dan began to tremble and turn white, and his father looked as though he would have been glad to run if he had only known where to go. ‘ Halloo !’ exclaimed Bert, suddenly, ‘ here we are. Come this way, Don. I’ve found a path.’ ‘ A path I’ repeated his brother. ‘ What should make a path through this cane ?’ ‘ I don’t know, I am sure. What’s this ? Can you tell a bear track when you see it ?’ ‘ Of course I can,’ answered Don, and the listeners heard him pushing his way through the cane toward the path in which his brother stood. ‘ But I don’t call this a bear track,’ he added, after a moment’s pause, during which he was closely examining the footprint his brother pointed out to him. ‘ A bare¬ footed man or boy has been along here, and that track was made not more than ten minutes ago. And Bert,’ he continued, in a lower tone, ‘ you were right about that boat after all. Come on, now, and if the thief is here we’ll have a look at him.’ ‘ Dad,’ whi‘ p -red Dan, hurriedly , ‘ they’re cornin’, sure’s you’re livin’. Le’s slip around to the other side of the island, easy like, and steal their boats afore th(‘y know what is goin’ on.’ ‘ VVe couldn’t do it,’ replied his father, in the same cautious whisper. ‘ Tliey’d be sure to s^e us. I’ll hx ’em when they come nigh enough. I’d like to shoot ’em both, to pay ’em for findin’ my hidin’ place.’ ‘Don’t do that, d.>d,’ said Dan, in great alarm. ‘ Here they come, an’ - What’s that ?’ As Dan uttered these words a deep, hoarse, growl, so suddenly and fiercely uttered, that it almost made his hair st.md on end, sounded close at his side. Don and Bert heard it, and they were as badly frightened as Dan was. ‘What was that, Don ?’ asked Bert, in an excited whisper. ‘ You heard it, didn’t you ?’ ‘ I should think so,’ was Don’s reply, and the words were followed by the clicking of the locks of his gun. After that came a long pause. Don and Bert waited for the warning growl to be repeated, and stooping down, tried to peer through the cane in front of them, in the hope of obtaining a view of the animal, which had been disturbed by their approach, while Dan, crouching low in his place of concealment, looked first at his father, and thep glanced timidly about, as if in momentary expectation of seeing something frightful. He could hardly bring liim- self to believe that the noise, which so greatly terrified him, had been made by his father, but such w as the fact. If there was a person in the w^orld Godfrey did not want to meet face to face, that person was Don Gordon : and when he first became aware that the boy was close at hand, and that he was about to explore the island, he was greatly alarmed, and utterly at a loss how to avoid him. If Don saw him there of course he would tell of it, and that would set the officers of the law on his track (no evidence that could be produced was strong enough to convince Godfrey, that he had nothing to fear from the officers of the law), and compel him to look for a new hiding-place. The conversation he overheard between the brothers, regarding the capture of the bear, which had so long held possession of tlie island, brought a bright idea into his mind, and he acted upon it at the right tinae, too. It was the only thing that saved him from dis¬ covery. Don Avas not afraid of a man, and if he had known that Godfrey was hidden in the cane a few feet in advance of him, he would have walked straight up to him, and accused him of stealing his boat ; but he had no desire to face a wild animal alone and unaided, and he was in no condition to do it, either. We say alone and unaided, because Bert would have been of no assistance to him. Bert was a famous shot with his double-barrel, and no boy in the settlement could show more game, after a day spent among the waterfowl, than he could ; but he was too timid and excitable to be of any use to one placed in a situation of danger. Even the sight of a deer dashing through the woods, or the whirr of a flock of quails as they unexpectedly arose from J:he bushes at his feet, would set him to shaking so violently that he could not shoot. ‘ What do you suppose it was, Don ?’ asked Bert, and Godfrey did not fail to notice that his voice trembled when he spoke. ‘ Was it a wild cat or a panther ?’ ‘Oh, no,’ replied Don. ‘One of those animals wouldn’t warn us. He’d be down on us before we knew he was ab( ut. I wish I had my rifle and the free use of my legs. I’d never leave the island until I had one good p')p at him.’ A slight rustling in the cane told the listeners that Don was again advancing slowly along the path. Dan was afraid that he had made up his mind to risk a shot with his double-barrel, and so was Godfrey, who uttered another growl, louder and fiercer tban the first, and rattled the cane with his hands. That

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was too much even for Don’s courage ; and Bert was frightened almost out of his senses. ' Look out, Don ! ’ he exc. aimed. ^ He is coming ! ’ * Let him come,’ replied Don, retreating backward along the path. ' Bun ! run !’ entreated Bert. * That’s quite impossible. I’m doing the best I can now. If he shows himself I’ll fiU his head full of number six shot.’ Godfrey continued to growl and rattle the cane at intervals, but there was no need of it, for Don was quite as anxious to reach his boat and leave the island as Godfrey and Dan were to have him do so. He retreated along the path with aU the speed he could command, holding himself ready to make as desperate a fight as he could if circumstances should render it necessary, and presently a rattling of oars and a splashing in the water told the listeners that he and Dan “ polling ” the raft.

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294 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVII. his brother were pushing off and making their way down the bayou. In order to satisfy himself on this point, Godfrey crawled over the pile of cane, behind which he had been concealed, and moved quickly but noiselessly along tlie pjtth, closely followed by Dan. On reaching the edge of the cane they looked down the stream and saw the brothers twenty rods away in their boat, Bert tugging at the oars as if his life depended on his exertions. The danger of the discovery was over for the present, but how were Dan and his father to leave the island now without swimming ? Don had taken his canoe away with him. ^ If I could have my way with them two feUers they’d never trouble nobody else,’ exclaimed Godfrey, shaking his fiat at the departing boat. ^ Whar be I goin’ to hide now, I’d like to know ?’ * Stay here,’ replied Dan, ^ an’ if they come back to pester you, growl ’em off ’n the island like you done this time.’ < An’ git a bullet into me fur my pains ?’ returned his father. ^ No, sar. Don will be up here agin in the mornin’, sartin, an’ he’ll have his rifle with him, too; but I won’t be here to stand afore it, kase I’ve seed him shoot too often. He kin jest beat the hind sights ofE’n you, any day in the week.’ * Whoop !’ cried Dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together. * I don’t see what brung them two oneasy chaps up here, nohow,’ said Godfrey, taking no notice of the boy’s threatening attitude. * I never knowed them or anybody else to come up the bayou in a small boat afore, ’ceptin’ when that bar was killed here. That was an amazin’ smart trick of mine, Dannie. Howsomever, we hain’t got no more time to talk. I’m goin’ to give you five dollars, Dannie, an’ I want you to go to the landin’ an’ spend it fur me. Get me a pair of shoes — number ’levens, you know — an’ two pair stockin’s, an’ spend the heft of the rest fur tobacker. Then when it comes dark I want you to get that canoe agin, an’ bring it up here with the things you buy at the store.’ * How am I' goin’ to git the canoe ?’ ^ Take it an’ welcome, like I did.’ Dan shrugged his shoulders, and his father, believ¬ ing from the expression on his face that he was about to refuse to undertake the task, made haste to add, — * An’ when you come, Dannie, I’ll tell you how we’re goin’ to work it to git them hundred and fifty dollars that Dave’s goin’ to 'arn by trappin’ them birds fur that feller up North. I have a right to it, kase I’rq his dad ; an’ when I get it I’ll give^ you half — that is, if you do Vight by me while I’m hidin’ here. I’ll give you half that bar’l, too, when we find it. Then you kin have your circus boss an’ all your other fine things, can’t you ?’ added Godfrey, playfully poking his son in the ribs. Dan’s face relaxed a little, but his father’s affected enthusiasm was not as contagious now as it was when the subject of the buried treasure was first brought up for discussion. Godfrey had no intention of renewing his efforts to find the barrel — he could not have been hired to go into that potato-patch after what had happened ^there — but it was well enough. he thought, to hold it up to Dan as a bribe. Be¬ sides, if he could get tlie boy interested in the matter again, and get him to prosecute the search, and Dan should, by any accident, stumble upon the barrel, so much the better for himself. The great desire of his life would be attained. He would be rich, and that, too, without work. ^ Why can’t you steal the canoe yourself ?’ asked Dan. ^ Kase I’ve got to pack up an’ get ready to leave here ; that’s why. It’ll take me from now till the time you come back to get all my traps together.’ Dan hurriedly made a menial inventory of the valuables his father possessed, and which he had seen in the camp, and the result showed one rifle, one powder-horn, and one bullet-pouch. All Godfrey nad besides he carried on his back. It certainly would not take him three or four hours to gather these few articles together. ^ Dad’s mighty ’feared that he’ll do something he can make somebody else do far him,’ thought the boy. ^ But he needn’t think he’s goin’ to get me into a furse. I ain’t agoin’ to steal no canoe fur nobody.’ * An’ since it’s you,’ added Godfrey, seeing that Dan did not readily fall in with his plans, * I’ll give you a dollar for doin’ the job.’ ‘Wal, now that sounds like business,’ exclaimed Dan, brightening up. ' Whar’s the money, an’ how am’ I goin’ to get olTn the island ?’ * The money’s safe, and I’ll bring it to you in a minute,’ replied Godfrey. ^ You stay here till I come back. As fur gettin’ acrosst the bayou, that’s easy done. Thar’s plenty of drift wood at the upper end of the island, an’ ye kin get on a log an’ pole yourself over. When you get home, Dannie, make friends with Dave the fust thing you do, an’ tell him you was only foolin’ when you said you was goin’ agin him. Help him every way you kin, an’ when he gits the money we’ll show our hands.’ So saying, Godfrey walked down the path out of sight. After a few minutes’ absence he came back, and handed Dan the money of which he had spoken, a five-dollar bill to be expended for himself at the store, and a one-dollar bill to pay Dan for stealing the canoe. When Dan had put them both carefully away in his pocket, he went back to the camp after his rifle, and then followed his father through the cane toward the upper end of the island. They found an abun¬ dance of drift wood there, and from it selected two small logs of nearly the same size and length. By fastening these together with green withes a raft w^ made, which was sufficiently buoyant to carry Dan in safety to the main land. When it was completed, the boy swung liis rifle over his shoulder by a piece of stout twine he hap¬ pened to have in his pocket, and taking the pole Ins father handed him, pushed off into the stream. Poling the raft was harder work than rowing the canoe, and Dan’s progress was necessarily slow ; but he accomplished the journey at last, and after waving his hand to his father, disappeared in the bushes. He took a straight course for the landing, and after a little more than an hour’s rapid walking, found himself in Silas Jones’s store. (To be continued.)

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No. XXXVII. CHATTERBOX. 295 THE AHCIEHT AHIMALS OF THE ) VALLEY OF PARIS. HE vale in which the brilliant City of ^ i' ^ Paris now stands was once a lake estuary, whose shores were fringed Ov forests of palms. Strange an- who.se species have long since V ' r passed away, sported in its waters, whilst huge crocodiles lurked a- ^ mongst the thick reeds and large water-lilies, watching for their prey. The valley is Imown in geology as the Paris basin, just as the corre¬ sponding formation in the Thames is named the Lon¬ don basin. They both belong to the tertiary period, 80 called because it was the third in the three great systems of rock formation ; the rocks being composed of the sedimentary deposit of water, and not, as in those of the first ages, produced by the action of fire: those in the vicinity of Paris being in strata, or layers, containing alternately freshwater and marine shells, showing that the valley of the Seine was at one time a freshwater lake, and, at another, an arm of the sea. At Montmartre, a hill a little to the north of Paris, there are extensive quarries of gypsum, the material known to us as plaster of Paris. Gypsum is composed of sulphate of lime, deposited by fresh water; and in digging these quarries a great number of skeletons of various animals were discovered, some of them being nearly perfect, having been preserved by the gypsum which had hardened about them. And Cuvier, the great French naturalist, restored them, and we can have a distinct idea of what these strange creatures were like, in every particular except their colour — that, of course, we cannot teU. At the commencement of the tertiary period, the heat, though not so intense as it had been in the preceding ages, when the tepid swamps teemed with monstrous reptiles, was still as great in England and France as it is now in the tropics. But the tem¬ perature was slowly cooling, and the forests of palms were mixed with trees which stiU flourish in these climates, such as the oak, wych-elm, alder, cypress, walnut, and others. The gigantic saurians of the red sandstone age were extinct and appeared no more in the earth, and there grew into life the great pachyderms, or thick-skinned animals; instead of the dragon-like pterodactyle, the air was filled with quails, woodcocks, and curlews, and aU nature wore a new aspect. The animals which were so abundant in the Paris basin belonged chiefly to two genera: the Palseo- theria, or ancient animals, and the Anoplotheria, or unarmed animals; these latter, were so called from the Greek words for ^ unarmed,’ and for ^ beast,’ because their teeth were arranged in an even line all round, just as in man; the canine teeth not projecting beyond the others, as they do in animals which can bite and tear, so that they were defenceless. There were several species of Palaeotheria, the largest, or ^eat Palseotherium, being about the size of a horse, but it was much heavier and clumsier, having a very thick body, supported on short, stout legs, and its feet were divide .1 into three rounded toes. Its head was large, and was provided with a short trunk, or pro¬ boscis, like that of the tapir ; and altogether it formed a link between that animal and the rhinoceros, and probably resembled them in its habits. The Anoplotheria also comprise several species, differing greatly from each other. The largest was about the size of an ass, but, though belonging to the Pachydermata, the Anoplotherium was like no one animal now existing, for whilst in some respects it resembled the hippopotamus, its skull partook of the character of that of the horse, and its upper lip was divided, like the camel’s; and the bones of the feet, which were separated into two toes sheathed in hoofs, were like those of the hog. The body was about four feet long, and it had a thick tail of equal length, probably to assist it in swimming; and its hair was smooth, like that of the otter. Another kind, the Xiphodon gracile, was about the size of a chamois, and was as light and slender as a gazelle; and instead of swimming in the water, it bounded over the plains: but though in this respect it resembled a deer, and had a long neck and a short tail, its lip also was divided like the camel’s. Some of the species were very small, one being only as large as a hare, whdst another was no bigger than a rat. It is difficult to imagine creatures more defence¬ less than these animals were, possessing neither horns nor claws, nor teeth that they could tear with; and they were probably soon exterminated when the large beasts of prey came into existence. As it was, the chief enemies of those that frequented the water must have been the crocodiles. The Anoplotheria were all herbivorous, living on seeds and green twigs, or the succulent roots of plants. Remains of the Palaeotherium and an Aplothe- rium have been discovered in the Isle of Wight, in strata similar to that of the Paris basin, but not in such abundance. Altogether, Cuvier found the bones of about fifty different kinds of animals embedded in the gypsum, aU of which are extinct, besides turtles, and crocodiles, and bats, and various birds of kinds which still exist on the earth. A. R. ‘MY NAME IS NORVAL.’ ^V^ATHER thinl^s Phil a clever boy, Because he’s learnt to say ^ My name is Norval ’ off by heart, In childlike prattling way. And mother has been called to hear. And sister Mary, too. How perfectly Phil knows his part — ■ How well he acts it through ! ’Tis kind of father thus to be Delighted with his son ; But let us hope he will not spoil The boy for what he’s done. For in this world full many more Of clever children dwell ; And all are good who try their best To learn their lessons well.

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“ My name is Xorval.”

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No. XXXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 297 A Bold Pig. By Harrison Weir.

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298 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXVIII. A BOLD PIG-. OW many readers of Chatterbox have seen a pig swim ? Not many, I am sure. It is said that in swimming any distance they cut their own throats, hut this was not the case in a recent instance. Some fat pigs were being conveyed in a cart along a road by the banlts of the Severn. Suddenly one left his friends, and boldly plunged into the stream at its widest part. Swollen by floods from the hills, the tide was running fast and strong. With piggy it was a struggle for life and death. Swept on as he w^as by the stream, it seemed that he must fail to gain the bank. But he bravely struggled on, and at Lost reached the shore in safety, and that without cutting his own throat. A. R. B. THE BOY TRAPPER. (Continued from "page 294.) By Harrt Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. E was greatly surprised at something he saw when he got there, and so bewildered by it that he forgot all about the money he had in his pocket, and the stockings, shoes, and tobacco of which his father stood so much in need. There was David malring the most extravagant purchases, and there was Silas bowing and smiling, and acting as politely to him as he ever did to his richest customers. If Dan was astonished at this, he was still more astonished when David threw down a ten-dollar bill, and the grocer pushed it back to him, with the remark that his credit was good for six months. Dan could not imagine how David had managed to obtain pos¬ session of so much money, and when he found out, as he did when he and his brother were on their way home, he straightway went to work to think up some plan by which he might get it into his own hands. This problem and a bright idea, which suddenly suggested itself to him, occupied his mind during the walk ; and shortly after parting from his brother at General Gordon’s barn, Dan hit upon a second idea, which made his usually gloomy face brighten won¬ derfully while he thought about it. Dan’s first duty was to rectify his mistake of the morning, and make his brother understand that he had repented of the determination he had made to work against him, and that he was going to do all he could to assist him. He tried to do this, as we Imow, but did not succeed, for to his great surprise and sorrow David announced that he was not going to waste any more time in building traps for Dan to break up, and this led the latter to believe that noth¬ ing more was to be done toward catching the quails. He walked slowly around the cahin, after a short interview with his brother, and the first thing he saw on which to vent his rage vras Don’s pointer, which came frisking out of his kennel, and wagging his tail by way of greeting only to be sent yelping back again by a vicious kick from Dan’s foot. * I’m jest a hundred an’ fifty dollars outen pocket. an’ so is dad,’ said Dan to himself, almost ready to cry with vexation when he thought of the magnificent prize which liad slipped through his fingers. ^ A hundred an’ fifty dollars ! My circus hoss an’ fine gun an’ straw hat an’ shiny boots is all up a holler stump, an’ that thai-’s just what’s the matter of ^ me. An’ what makes it wusser is, I lost ’em by bein’ a fule,’ added Dan, stamping his bare feet upon - the ground. Just then a lively, cheerful w^histle sounded from the inside of the cabin where David was busy arranging his purchases. Things were taking a turn for the better with him now% and he whistled for the same reason that a bird sings — because he was ?l/ i could only think up some way to make that thar mean Dave feel as bad as I do, how quick I’d jump at it ! I wish dad w^as here. He’d teU me how. He’s as jolly as a mud-turtle on a dry log on a sunshiny day, Dave is, while I - Whoop I’ yelled Dan, jumping up and striking his heels to¬ gether in his rage. ^Howsomever, I’ll have them ten dollars afore I take a wink of sleep this blessed night - ' Here Dan stooped and looked steadily at the pointer for a few minutes. Then he slapped his knee with his open hand, thrust both arms up to his elbows in his pockets, and walked up and down the yard, smiling and shaking his head as if he were thinking about something that gave him the greatest satisfaction. CHAP. VIII. — DOGS IN THE MANGER. David would not have been as happy as he was if he had known all that was going on in the settle¬ ment. As it happened, his father and brother were not the only ones he had to fear. These two had an eye on the money he expected to earn by trapping the quails, and for that reason they were not disposed to interfere with him until his work w^as aU done, and he had reaped the reward of it; but there were two others who had suddenly made up their minds that it was unsportsmanlike to trap birds, and that it should not be done if they could prevent it. They were Lester Brigham and his particular friend and crony — almost the only one he had in the settlement, in fact — Bob Owens. Bob lived about two miles from General Gordon’s, and might have made one of the select little company of fellows with whom Don and Bert delighted to associate, if he had been so inclined. But he was much like Dan Evans in a good many respects, and had been guilty of so many mean actions that he had driven almost all his friends away from him. He rode over to the General’s about twice each week, and while he was there he was treated as civilly and kindly as every other visitor was ; but the brothers never returned his visits, and would have been much better satisfied if Bob had stayed at home. These two boys, Lester and Bob, were determined that David should not earn the one hundi*ed and fifty dollars if they could help it, and they knew that by annoying him in every possible way they would annoy Don and Bert too : and that was really what they wanted to do. ^Vhat reason had they for wish¬ ing to annoy Don and Bert ? No good reason. Did

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No. XXXVIII. CHATTERBOX. 299 you ever see a youth who was popular among his fellows, and who was liked by almost everybody, both old and young, who did not have at least one enemy in some sneaking boy who would gladly in- iure him by every means in his power ? Lester and Bob were jealous of Don and Bert — that was the secret of the matter : and more than that, they wpe disappointed applicants for the very contract which Don had secured for David. Bob regularly borrowed and read the JRod and Guuy and when his eye fell upon the advertisement calling for fifty dozen live quails, he thought he saw a chance to make a goodly sum of pocket money, and hurried off to lay the matter before his friend Lester, proposing that they should go into partner¬ ship and divide the profits. Of course Lester entered heartily into the scneme. He knew nothing about building and setting traps, but Bob did ; and when they had discussed the matter and calculated their chances for success, they told each other that in two weeks’ time the required number of birds would be on their way up the river. That very day Bob ad¬ dressed a letter to the advertiser, and as soon as it was sent off he and Lester went to work on the trf^s. It is hardly necessary to say that they lived in a fever of excitement and suspense after that, and anxiously awaited an answer from the gentleman who wanted the quails. The mail was brought in by the carrier from the country seat on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and Bob and Lester made it a point to be at hand when the letters were dis¬ tributed. One Wednesday, about two weeks after the letter applying for the order was mailed. Bob went down to the post-office alone, and the first per¬ son he met there was Bert Gordon. They leaned against the counter and talked while the^ mail was being put into the boxes, and when the pigeon-hole was opened, the post-master handed each of them a good-sized bundle of letters and papers which they began to stow away in their pockets, glancing hastily at the addresses as they did so. It happened that each of them found a letter in his bundle which attracted his attention, and, as if moved by a common impulse,, they walked toward opposite ends of the counter to read them. The letter Bert found was addressed to Don; but he was pretty certain he could tell where it came from, and knowing that his brother wouldn’t care — there were no secrets between them now — -he opened and read it. He was entirely satisfied with its contents, but the other boy was not so well satis¬ fied with the contents of his. When Bert picked up his riding-whip and turned to leave the store he saw Bob leaning against the counter, mechanically folding his letter, while his eyes were fastened upon the floor, at which he was scowling savagely. < What’s the matter ? ’ asked Bert. ' No bad news, I hope.’ ‘ Well, it is bad news,’ replied Bob so snappishly that Bert was sorry that he had spoken to him at all. ^ You see, I found an advertisement in one of your father’s papers asking for live quails. I wrote to the man that I could furnish them, and I have just re¬ ceived an answer from him stating that he has already sent the order to another party, and one who lives in my immediate neighbourhood. Wbat’s the matter with you ? ’ exclaimed Bob, as Bert broke into a cheery laugh. ^ When did you write to him ? ’ asked Bert. ‘ On the very day I borrowed the paper.’ * Well, Don was just three dayKS ahead of you. I’ve got the order in my pocket.’ ^ What do you and Don want to go into the trap¬ ping business for ? ’ asked Bob, with ill-concealed disgust. ^ You don’t need the money.’ ^ Neither do you,’ replied Bert. ^Yes I do. I intended to buy a new shot-gun with it. I am almost the only decent fellow in the settlement who doesn’t own a breech-loader. I have racked my brain for months to think up some way to earn money enough to get one, and when I am just about to accomplish my object you and Don jump up and rob me of the chance. The man tells me that he would be glad to give me the contract if he hadn’t given it to you. I’ve a good notion to slap you over.’ ^ It isn’t for us,’ replied Bert. ^ It is for Dave Evans ; and I think you will acknowledge that he needs the money if anybody does.’ ‘ Dave Evans ! ’ sneered Bob. ^ Yes ; and he needs clothes and food more than you need a new shot-gun.’ ^ I guess I know what I want and how much I want it,’ retorted Bob. ^ I’m to be shoved aside to give place to that lazy ragamuffin, am I? If I don’t make you wish that you had kept your nose out of my business I’m a Dutchman.’ Bert did not wait to hear aU of this speech. Seeing that Bob was getting angrier every minute, and that his rage was likely to get the better of him, he drew on his gloves, mounted his pony, and set out for home. Bob followed a quarter of a mile or so in his rear, and once or twice ho whipped up his^ horse and closed in on Bert as if he had made up his mind to carry out his threat of sL pping him over. But every time he did so a sturdy, , road-shouldered figure, with a face that looked wonderf ully like Don Gordon’s, seemed to come between him and the unconscious object of his pursuit, and then Bob would rein in his horse and let Bert get farther ahead of him. Presently Bob came to a road running at right angles with the one he was following, and there he stopped, for he saw Lester Brigham^ approaching at a full gallop. The latter was by his side in a few seconds, and his first question was, — ^ Been to the post-office ? ’ ^ I have, and there’s the letter on which I built so many hopes,’ replied Bob, handing out the document which he had crumpled into a little round ball. * W e were too late. The order has been given to that meddlesome fellow Don.’ Lester looked first at his companion, then at Bert, who was now almost out of sight, and began to gather up his reins. ‘ You’d better not do it unless you want to feel the weight of his brother’s arm,’ said Bob, who seemed to read the thoughts that were passing through Lester’s mind. * I gave him a good going-over, and told him I had a notion to knock him down.’ ‘ Why didn’t you do it ? ’ exclaimed Lester. ‘ I’d have backed you against Don or anybody else.’ ^Hawl haw I ’ laughed Bob. I shall want good

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Who’s there?” backing before I willing! raise a row in that quarter, I tell you.’ * What do you meav^ by that?’ demanded Lester. ^ Oh, I was just iviving, of course. But what’s to be done about this business ? Don got the contract for Dave Evans, and I want to know if we are to be kicked out of the way to make room for him.’ Lester did not reply at once. He did not feel very highly flattered by the low estimate Bob seemed to mt upon him as a * backer ’ in case of ti’ouble with Don Gordon, and while he was trying to make up his mind whether he ought to let it pass or get sulky over, it, he was unfolding and smoothing out the letter he held in his hand. When he had made himself master of its contents he said, — ^ You come over and stay with me to-night, and we’ll put our heads together and see what we can make of this. I must go down to the store now, and I’ll meet you here in half an hour. That will give you time enough to go home.’ Bob spent the night at Lester’s house, and it was during the long conversation they had before they went to sleep that they made up their minds that it was a mean piece of business to trap quails, and that nobody but a miserable pot-hunter would do it. They adopted the dog-in-the-manger policy at once. If they could not trap the birds nobody should ; and that was about all they could decide on just then. {To he continued.) HOW CHBIS GAME TO US. : T must have been about the end of July, for it was the day after the Flower Show, and that is how the outhouse door came to be open. We — that is, Jim, Jack, and I, Judy Kelly — are not often allowed in the outhouse, but it was just the beginning of the holidays, and mother was going away for a week, leaving us to the care of Ilalpli and the ser¬ vants ; and knowing how cross and particular Kalph is, we got possession of the outhouse key before mother left, and turned over her stores to get prizes, for every one in the house, servants and all, were to send things 'for competition ’ to owr Flower Show. It was to be ' awfully grand,’ and we began our decorations betimes, as we wished mother to have a faint notion of the glories before she left. Also we wished to have something else to think of when she was gone, for it is always so dreadfully dull when mother goes away, and Balph is so strict ! Ralph was a ward of father’s, and was quite a big boy when he came, just before I was born ; so that as I am twelve, and Jim eleven, and Jack ten, he must be getting quite old — past twenty ever so much. Mother is very fond of Ralph, and says that it is very good of a clever yoimg man like he is to stop on.

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Ealph and Chris in the Garden. Well, the show was great fun, and looked beautiful, though cook said that it was a pity we put up the decorations so many da^^s before, as they looked quite withered, and hung about when the day came. The little Westons from the Vicarage all sent bouquets; and Joe, our gardener, said we might show the two vegetable marrows cook was to have the next day for dinner ; and old Thomas, dear, kind, old man ! brought us some cherries out of his own garden ; and cook and Sarah sent us out some onions and French beans ; so that, with what we could manage ourselves, it really was first-rate. The hot-bed being so near was troublesome ; but we did a good deal with pink calico fiags, and arranged the garden chairs before it for visitors to lounge in. Jim and Jack were the band round by the water-butt, and played a lovely selection of popular airs with dressing-combs and pieces of paper, and when cook and Sarah came out, and the Westons’ nurse arrived, bringing all the children with their best parasols, as they promised, it really was quite exciting. But I am telling all about the Flower Show and fo:^etting Chris. It was the day after the show, and cook and Sarah were both very disagreeable, and had made us go and take down all ‘ that horrid old rubbish,' as cook called it, * making the whole place look like nothing better than Rag Fair.’ I think we had offended them somehow by giving cook a little book we turned out of mother’s cup¬ board as a prize for onions, called One Glass More ; and Sarah a most sweet picture-card, called The Lyre-bird f for French beans. Of course we never thought of looking at the names, and if we had, we should never have put such meanings to them as cook and Sarah did. A little dull book and a picture we thought would of course be all right ; and there, if you please, next day, was cook crying, and saying that ' It was the first time in her life as she’d been accused of taking too much;’ and Sarah flouncing about, and saving that ^ Sne wasn’t a-going to stay with folk as thought she told stories.’ So the clearing up was not more pleasant than it usually is, and we took our time about it, which did not mend matters, instead of what Nurse Green calls ^ striking a bustle,’ and getting ^things done quickly. Ghosts have alwa3'S been received as realities in our views of life, and though 1 need hardly say we none of us ever saw one, still they were recognised as likely ' to happen ’ any day ; so I was not surprised when, as the dusk came on, JacK came flying in with white face and scared eyes, saymg that there was a ghost in the outhouse. This really was refreshing after the gloom of offended servants and clearing up ; and Jim and I rose to the occasion. Jack, a good deal to our surprise, entirely refused to come with us on our tour of inspection, saying, ‘ It’s no fun, I can tell you. It moves, for I heard it ; and it snorts, for I heard that too.’

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* Oh, come on, Jim,’ I began; ^ never mind Jack. Fancy having a real ghost !’ After various skirmishings and rushings back to the house, just to add zest to our adventure, we arrived at the outhouse door, and stood panting and listening. It was nearly dark, and we could not dis- tinguii*]? anything in the gloom within. And — yes — Jim and I seized each other’s hand, for — yes— there was a rustling, just as Jack had said ; and, — no, not a snort, it was too damp for that; and had one ever heard of a ghost sobbing 9 I should have said it was that. M’hat was to be done ? Neither of us dared move a step forward, and as to asking the servants, why it was more than I even dared think of in their then state of indignant, injured innocence. My heart beat so fast I could hardly find breath to ga'sp, ^ Ralph is in the dining-room, let us tell It was a vast relief to see Ralph rise from his reading at our story, and putting on his hat, advance to the outhouse door. Jim and I followed at a safe distance, and it pleased me to see Ralph stop for a minute and listen, and then with a clenched fist go in, saying, ‘ Who’s there ? By this time cook and Sarah were on the scene, having been worked upon by Jack, Tvho, forgetful of our state of war with tne kitchen, had plunged in and enlisted their interest. There clearly was something in the outhouse, tor now we could hear Ralph’s voice saying, ‘ Stand cannot you ?’ What I expected the something to be I do not Imow, as I very nearly screamed when Ralph appeared again, leading a boy just about Jaca s * What are you doing here ?’ began Ralph, shaking him ; while cook advanced with a candle, and revealed to us the fact that, though dusty and travel-stained, the boy was no tramp, and that, as his white face showed, he was weU-nigh dead beat. ^ * Oh, please let me stop ! I will not do any mis¬ chief ! I am so awfully tired ; I only want to lie down a little bit in the straw !’ ^ Where are you from ?’ asked Ralph. ' ‘Oh, ever so far away!’ began the boy; when, overcome by fatigue and hunger, he gave a lurch forward, and w^ould have fallen had not Ralph caught him, and carried him into the kitchen, saying, ‘ There, cook anh Sarah, just see .to this little fellow, and give him something to eat, and I will speak to him again when he is more up to it.’ Nothing could have pleased cook better jnst then than such a charge, and she and Sarah coddled him up, bathing his sore, tired feet, and feeding him up w'ith hot milk and bread, while w^e three looked on; and when the little fellow was somewhat recovered we exchanged smile^with him. ‘ There, I tell you what it is,’ said cook, after a bit, ‘ it’s no moidal use for Mr. Ralph to say he’ll speak to the little fellow this side of to-morrow morning, for I would not turn a dog out with feet blistered like his, let alone a mortal Christian; so suppose you go. Miss Julia ’ (cook always said Miss Julia, instead of Miss Judy, w'hen she was in an elevated mood), ‘ and ask Mr. Ralph if me and Sarah may not make up the little bed in the inside attic, and then to-morrow, when he has had a good rest, we shall make more out of him.’ I think Ralph was rather glad of cook’s suggestion, and I know we were; and presently, when it had been carried into execution, and the little boy had been left snugly tucked up in the inside attic, and even been kissed by cook, I found myself walldng downstairs arm-in-arm with Sarah, just as if there had never been any otfence given or taken over those unlucky tlow^er-show prizes. The talked-of speaking to from Ralph came off the next morning, and we watched the interview with eager eyes from the kitchen window, as Ralph and Chris, for we had found out such to be his name, walked up and dowm the garden path. Jim and Jack soon grew tired of watching, and w’^ent off to feed the cats, but I could not help looking at the two faces ; they were just like a story-book ip me. Chris’s face a sweet little face, not one bit common or tramp-like ; and how his eyes did plead with Ralph to be sure ! I could not hear what he said, though I should dearly have liked to — Ralph would have sent me about my business in no time ; and for a bit I thought he was going to send poor little Chris about his, and I got hot and angry. But presently a look came into Ralph’s face I had never seen there before, and it made me feel quite sorry I had ever felt and said the unkind things I had of him ; and made me believe, too, that what mother said of his goodness was quite true. After this I had not long to wait for the sentence, for Ralph came in and said, ‘ Here, cook, I must get you to see after this little fellow till to-morrow morning, if it is not too much trouble, as I have to go to Silyerbridge, and shall not be home till past ten to-night.’ ‘Well, Mr. Ralph! it’s not a bit of trouble; and it’s only a pleasure, I’m sure, to do it, leastways if Chris is the good little boy I take him for 1’ It really was a first-rate arrangement, and I was so pleased, I actually went and found Ralph’s riding- gloves and whip, and had them ready for him by the time Black Bess came round. What a morning we did have ! Why, if Chris’s face and hands and clothes had not told that he was a gentleman, his w'ords and ways while we Wei's at pls-y would hav’'e done so. He liked just the games that we did, md was ever so much better fun than the little \N'estons; and we were just beginning to arrange a cattle-show for the afternoon at his suggestion, with the little pigs and the dormice, and a department for wooden animals, when cook called us in to dinner. Then, for the first time, we heard a little more about our strange and delightful playfellow. (Concluded in our next.) HOPE’S GENEROSITY. Lord brougham teUs this story of Charles Hope, a distinguished member of the Scotch bar at the beginning of this century. Hope w^as at the High School of Edinburgh, and in the first year of liis attendance rose to be ‘ dux,’ that is, first of his class. But next to him there came out a blind boy, who was in his second year. To him Hope gave up the first place, but would suffer no one else to pass him. The next year he held the first place himself. Later in life Hope more than once showed himself equally generous. H. B. yr

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No. XXXYIII. CHATTERBOX. 303 ^CHANCE,’ THE FIREMAN’S DOG. HE intelligence of dogs is such that they easily adapt themselves to any kind of employment in •which it is possible for them to take part. ^ Chance ’ chose for his occupation that of a tire-dog. After a tire in Shoreditch he one night followed a fireman back to the station in Watling Street. He was found out by his master, and taken home. But at home ‘ Chance ’ would not stay. He soon ran away, and escaped to the station, where he had been petted by the men. After having been carried home three times, his master allowed him to have his own way. And then for many years he was always to be seen going out with the engines, running sometimes under the machine, sometimes under the horses’ legs, barking loudly all the time. Arrived at the fire he did his best to help by pulling out blazing logs of wood with his teeth. His legs were broken half-a-dozen times, but even this could not cure him of his love for this work. At last he received a more serious injury than usual. He was being nursed at the station when one day the ‘ call ’ was heard. At the sound of the usual preparations he could not be prevented from running out. But his day was over. The brave dog tried to clamber on to the engine, but fell back in the attempt — dead. Poor Thance’ was stuffed, and so famous was he that, when he was raffled for for the benefit of a fireman’s widow, he realised a large sum. A. R. B. THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XVIH.— TOWER OF LONDON AND ‘ POOL.’ IMMEDIATELY below London Bridge are to be found on both sides the river various stairs, or gates, whence passengers still take ferry-boats across the crowded river. The boatmen are very smart fellows, equally clever in contending with the tide and avoiding collisions. We have Battle Bridge Stairs, Cherry Garden, and Wapping Old Stairs, Irongate, and many others, especially Execution Dock Stairs, as it is still cMled. albeit the pi’oper name of the place is King Henry’s Stairs. Here, in the ghastly old times, pirates were hanged in chains, as a warning to sailors, and there remained until time reduced the bones to dust. And now through the forest of shipping crowding the Upper Pool comes in view the huge, square, four -tui reted White Tower, the chief building of the Tower of London. Tradition ascribes the first building of this Tower to .Julius Caesar. The Queen in Shakespeare’s Richard II. talks of the way to * Julius CaBsar’s ill-erected tower.’ Or, again, — * The towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame, By many a sad and midnight murder fed.’ As we come abreast the Tow'er we see a water- gate opening on the river in front of the* embank¬ ment which lies between the w^ater-way and the celebrated Traitors’ Gate. This Traitors’ Gate was the entrance by which all traitors, or so-called traitors, entered the gloomy building from which so few escaped with life. Here, amongst others, was brought Queen Eliza- betli, during the reign of her elder half-sister, Mary Tudor; and here, on the steps of Traitors’ Gate, she sat down and refused to move, vowing herself the queen’s truest subject. But she arose at last, and made the best of her imprisonment, which was in the strong tower where now the crown jewels are kept. The Tower is made up of many towers, the chief of which is the White,- in the centre. This is the oldest portion of the vast edifice. Here it was that the sovereigns of England, even to the time of Queen Mary Tudor, held state between the time of their proclamation and the day of their coronation in West¬ minster Abbey. Here have died some of the best of English men and women — amongst others, unhappy Lady Jane Grey — and Sir Walter Raleigh, whose only crime was that he possessed, or had possessed, land which James I. wished for one of his favourites. Here also died the Lady Arabella Stuart, cousin of James T., who dreaded that the people might prefer her to himself as the sovereign of England. After James, if he had had no children, the Lady Arabella would have justly claimed the throne. Here in 1615 she died, borne down by her afflictions, her reason having fled some time before death released her. The last to suffer on the block at the Tower -were certain lords who in 1745 assisted the Scotch to rise against George H., in the hope of placing Prince Charles Edward (grandson of James II.) on the throne of England. The indented block on which these misguided men suffered is still shown. In the reign of Hemy III. the outer walls of the Tower feU suddenly down, a catastrophe supposed to be due to an earthquake. But the king at once ordered the necessary repairs. Visitors to the Tower are taken over the White Tower, where there is a magnificent collection of armour, very many thou¬ sands of rifles, and some beautiful groups of steel, and other arms, arranged in various forms of flowers. Visitors also visit the Beauchamp Tower, the walls of which are covered with almost countless me¬ mentoes of the prisoners who once wore out life in this weary place. They may also enter the J ewel Tower, as it is now called, where the crown jewels have been kept for centuries, and whence Colonel Blood some two hundred years since nearly suc¬ ceeded in abstracting them. Vi itors are also shown the staircase under which were found the bones of the two princes (sons of Edward IV.), who were murdered in the Tower by command of their uncle, Richard HI. They now rest in Westminster Abbey. The Tower is a very peaceful place now, whe e soldiers and their wives lead homely lives; while in the moat surrounding the garrison, from which long since the water was driven out, recruits are drilled, and offleers may be seen taldng early morning walks. Near the Tower is the entrance to the subway beneath the Thames, which was built shortly after the closing of the Thames Tunnel. It was first used as an air-railway, passengers traversing the distance in carriages. But after a time it was found more economical to make the tunnel a footway, which it still is. (To be continued.)

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A Lesson in Politeness.

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806 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX. A LESSON IN POLITENESS. 'NE day Dean Swift was in his study reading when the door was pushed open, and a young fellow came in with some game, and without saying ‘By your leave,’ or ‘With your leave,’ he walks over and flops them across the Dean’s knees, saying, ‘ There’s some game my a father sent you.’ ‘ Oh, I’m very much obliged, Tm sure : hut^Id he more obliged if you had shown better manners. ‘Well, I wish I knew how.’ ^ ‘ Sit dowm here and I’ll show you how to behave. He took the game in his . hand and went outside and shut the door. Then he tapped, and heard the young fellow cry out wdth a loud voice, ‘Come in. and what should he see but the young fellow seated in the arm-chair, and pretending to read a book . ‘ Please your reverence,’ says the Dean with a bow, ‘ my father will be much obliged by vour acceptance of this game, which he has just taken.’ ‘ Your father is a most respectable man,’ says the lad, ‘ and I’m sure you’re a good boy ; here’s half-a- crown for you. Take the game down to the kitchen, and teU the cook she’s to give you your dinner.’ He then got up and relieved the Dean of the game, who was so tickled at the lad’s witty impudence that he at once gave him half-a-crown. THE BOY TRAPPEB. (Continued from pane 300.) By Harry Casti.lxon. ^ ^ ^ (Copyi’ight.) Porter and Coates. 187o. The next morning after break-fast they mounted their horses, and rSde in company until they came to the lane that led to Bob’s home, and there they parted, Lester directing^ his course down the main road toward the cabin in wdiich David Evans lived. He met David in the road, as we know, and laid down the law to him in pretty strong language; but strange enough, the latter could not be coaxed or frightened into promising that he would give up his chance of earning a hundred and fifty dollars. Lester was in a towering passion when he rode a\vay after his conversation with David. Lashing his horse into a run, he turned into the first road he came to, and after a two-mile gallop, drew rein in front of the double log-house in which Bob Owens lived. There was an empty wagon -shed on the opposite side of the road, and there he found Bob standing with his hands in his pockets, and gazing ruefully at the pile of traps upon which he and Lester had worked so industriously, and which he had hoped would bring them in a tidy little sum of spending money. ‘ Well, did you see him ? ’ asked Bob, as his friend rode up to the shed and swung himself out of the saddle. ‘ I did,’ was the reply ; ‘ and he was as defiant as you please. He was downright insolent.’ ‘ These white trash are as impudent as the niggers, said Bob; ‘ and no one who has the least respect for himself wUl have anything to do with them. I used to think that Don Gordon w'as something of an aris¬ tocrat, but now I kn®w better.’ ^ ^ ^ ‘I wish I had given him a good cowhiding, con¬ tinued Lester, who did not think it worth while to state that he had been on the point of attempting that very thing, but had thought better of it when he saw how resolutely David stood his ground.. ‘ But never mind ; we’U get even with him. We’ll touch his pocket, and that will hurt him worse than a whipping. It will hurt the Gordons, too.’ ‘ Then he wouldn’t promise to give up^ the idea of catching them quails? , I am sorry, for if we could only frighten him off the track, we would write to that man up north telling him that the party with whom he made his contract wasn’t able to fill it, but we could catch all the birds he wants in two weeks.’ , i • j ‘ That’s a good' idea — a splendid idea ! ’ exclaimed Lester ; ‘ and perhaps we’ll do it any how, if the plan I have thought of doesn’t prove successful.’ Lester then went on to repeat the conversation he had had with David, as nearly as he could recall it, and wound up by saying,-— ^ ‘ I told him we were going to start a sportsman s club among the fellows, and that, after we got fairly going, our first hard work should bo to break up this practice of trapping biids. Of couree that wasn’t true — I just happened to think of it while I was talking to him, — but why can’t we make it true ? If all the boys will join in with us. I’d like to see him do any trapping this winter.’ ‘ But who can we get to go in with us ? ’ ‘ AVe’ll ask Don and Bert the first thing.’ ‘Nary time!’ exclaimed Bob, quicldy. ‘If they are the sort you’re going to get to join your^club you may just count me out. I don’t like them.’ ‘ You like them just as well as I do ; but we have an object to gain, and we mustn’t allow our personal feelings to stand in our way.’ ‘ Do you su])pose Don would join such a club after getting Dave the job ?’ ‘ Perhaps he wmuld. He likes to be first in every¬ thing, doesn’t he ? ’ ‘ I should say so,’ replied Bob, in great disgust. ‘ I never saw a fellow try to shove himself ahead as that Don Gordon does.’ ‘ Well, we’ll flatter him by offering to make him President of the club; and v^,-e’ll promise to make Bert Vice or Secretary.’ ‘ I’ll not vote for either of them.’ ‘ Yes you will. We want to get them on our side; for if they promise to go in with us every boy in the settlement will do the same.’ ^ t i i ‘ That’s what makes me so mad every time I think of those Gordons ! ’ exclaimed Bob, spitefully throw- imr down a stick which he had been cutting with his knife. ‘Every fellow about here, except you and me, is ready to hang on to their coat tails and do just what they do. One would think by the way they act that they belonged to some ^ royal family. They don’t notice me at all. They’ve had a crowd of boys in that shooting-box of their’s every spring and fall since I con remember, and I have never

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No. XXXIX. CHATTERBOX. 207 had an invitation to go there yet. They take along cook for them, and have a high old time shooting over their decoys ; hut the first thing they know they’ll find that shanty missing some fine morning. I’ll set fire to it.’ * Don’t say that out loud,’ said Lester, quickly, at the same time extending his hand to his compan¬ ion as if to show that what he had said met his own views exactly. ^ Don’t so much as hint it to a living per^n. 'We’ll give them a chance to make friends with us if they want to, and if they don’t, let them take the consequences. But we can talk about that some other time. What do you say to gettinfr up a sportsman’s club?’ ^ ^ Bob did not know what to say, for he had never heard of such a thing until he became acquainted with Lester. ^ The latter explained the objects of such organizations as well as he could, and after some debate they crossed over to the house, intending to go into Bob’s room and draw up a constitution for the government of the proposed society. On the way Bob suddenly thought of something. * You and I want to earn this money, don’t we ? ’ said he. * That’s what we’re working* for, isn’t it ? ’ Well, now, if we put a stop to trapping how are we going to do it ? ’ * Ihis is the way we’re going to do it : we’ll drive Dave Evans off the track first. When that is done, we’ll tell that man up north that we are the only ones here who can fill his order. Then we’ll go quietly to work and catsh our birds, saying nothing to nobody about it, and when we have trapped all we want we’ll ship them off.’ * But somebody will see us when we are puttino^ them on the boat.’ ° * No matter for that. The mischief will be done, and we’ll see how Don and Dave will help themselves. W^e can afford to be indifferent to them when we have seventy-five dollars apiece in our pockets, can’t * Lester, you’re a brick ! ’ exclaimed Bob. * I never could have thought up such a plot. I’ll have my gun after all.’ ^ Of course you wiU.’ * And what will become of the club ? ’ ‘ We don’t care^ what becomes of it. Having served our purpose it can go to smash and welcome. Now will you vote for Don and Bert ? ’ ‘ rn be only too glad to get the chance. But you’ll have to manage the thing, Lester.’ ^ I’ll do that. All I ask of you is to talk the matter up among the bovs; that is, if Don and Bert agree to join us, and put in your vote when the time comes.’ The two friends spent the last part of the day in Bob’s room, drawing^ up the constitution that was to govern their society. Lester, who did all the writing, had never seen a document of the kind, and having nothing to guide him he made rather poor work of it. He had read a few extracts from game laws, and remembered that Greelc and Latin names were used therein. He could recall some of these names, and he put them in as the}’’ occurred to liim, and talked about them so glibly, and appeared to be so thoroughly posted in natural history that Cob was greatly astonished. Of course there was a clause in the ins^ument prohibiting pot-hunting and the snaring of birds, and that was as strong as lan¬ guage could make it. The work being done at last to the satisfaction of both the boys, Lester mounted his horse and galloped away in the direction of Don Gordon’s home. CHAPTER IX. — NATURAL HISTORY. Lester Brigham was not at aU intimate with Don and Bert. The brothers, as in duty bound, called upon him when he first arrived in the settlement, and a few days afterward Lester rode over and took dinner with them; and that was the last of their visiting. The boys could see nothing to admire in one another. Don and Bert were a little too ' high- toned ; ’ in other w^ords, they were young gentlemen, and such fellows did not suit Lester, wiio preferred to associate with Bob Owens and a few others like him. Lester had been a leader among his city school¬ mates, and he expected to occupy the same position among the boys about Rochdale ; but before he had been many weeks in the settlement he found that there were some fellows there who knew just as much as he did, who rode horses and wore clothes as good as his own,^ and who had some very decided opinions and were in the habit of thinking for themselves. They wouldn’t ' cotton’ to him even if he was from the city, and so Lester made friends with those whom he regained as his inferiors in every way. Lester was not at all pleased witli the task he had set himself on this particular day. He never felt easy in Don’s presence and Bert’s, and nothing but the hope of compelling David to give up his contract and thus leave the way clear for Bob and himself, would have induced him to call upon them. He rode slowly in order to postpone the interview as long as he could, but ■^be General’s barn was reached at last, and the hostler, who came forward to take his nag, told him that Don and Bert had just gone into the house. The latter opened the door in response to his knock, and Lester knew by the way he looked at him that he was very much surprised to see him. But he welcomed him cordially, and conducted him into the library, where Don was lying upon the sofa. * That night in the potato cellar was a serious matter for you, wasn’t it ?’ said the visitor, after the greeting was over and he had seated himself in the chair wdiich Bert placed in front of the fire. ^ Haven’t you been able to take any exercise at all yet P’ ' Oh, yes ; I’ve been out all day. I’ve had almost too much exercise, and that is what puts me here on the sofa,’ ^ We’ve liad some excitement, too,’ added Beii;. ^ Yes. We went up the bayou to see if the ducks had begun to come in any yet, and we foimd a bear on Bruin’s Island.’ ^ Did you shoot him ? ’ ^No. He gave us notice to clear out, and we were only too glad to do so. Such growls I never heard before.’ ‘ One’s nerves do shake a little under such circum¬ stances, that is, if he is not accustomed to shooting large game,’ said Lester, loftily. ^ You ought to have had me there. Perhaps I’ll go up some day and pay my respects to him.’ Don, who tiiought this a splendid opportunity to

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test Lester’s courage, was on the very point of telling him that he and Bert were going up there the next day to see if they could tind the animal, and that they would he glad to have his assistance ; hut on second thought he concluded that he would say noth¬ ing about it. He expected to have some sport as well as some excitement during the trip, and he didn’t want his day’s enjoyment spoiled hy any such fellow as Lester Brigham. ‘ I came over to see you two hoys on business, con¬ tinued the visitor, drawing an official envelope from his pocket. 'We taffi of getting up a Sports¬ man’s Club here in the settlement: will you join it ? ’ .1 *' Who are talking of getting it up, and what is the object of it ? ’ asked Don. ^ • 4. All the boys are talking of it. One object is to bring the young sportsmen of the neighbourhood into

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Chris playing and singing to Mother. more intimate relations, and another is to protect the game. Perhaps I can give you no better idea of the proposed organization than by reading this con¬ stitution, which will be acted upon by the club at its first meeting.’ As Lester said this, he looked from one to the other of the brothers, and receiving a nod from each, which signified that they were ready to listen, he drew out the document of which he had spoken, and pro¬ ceeded to read it in his best style. He glanced at his auditors occasionally while he was reading the paper, and when he came to a certain paragraph, the one upon which he and Bob had expended the most time and thought, he told himself that he had cer¬ tainly made an impression, for Bert looked bewildered and Don straightened up, drew a note-book from his pocket and began making entries therein with a lead- pencil. The paragraph read as follows : — ^ The great object of the club being to put down pot-hunters and poachers, and stop the practice, which IS so common, of trapping game, and shipping it out of the country, it is nereby ^ Ilesolved, that on and after the date of the adop¬ tion of this constitution, it shall be unlawful for any person to take by trapping, at any season of the year, or on any lands, whether private in their own occu- ation, public or waste, any of the game animals and irds hereinafter described, to wit: pheasant, part¬ ridge, rabbit, and red deer. The penalty for disobe¬ dience shall be a fine of ten dollars for the first of¬ fence, twenty for the second, thirty for the third, and so on ; the fines to be sued and recovered before any justice of the peace in the county, and to be di¬ vided in equal parts between the informer and the poor ; and in default of payment the offender shall be imprisoned for ten days in the county jail.’ When the document was finished, Don asked him to read this clause over again. He complied with the request, and as he folded the paper very delibe¬ rately waited for his auditors to say a word of com¬ mendation ; but as they didn’t do it, he said it himself. (To he continued.) HOW CHHIS CAME TO US. (Concluded from page 302.) name was Christopher Carson, and his father had been an officer out in India, and was dead, and now his mother had married again, and he had been sent over to be educated in England. ^ I am sure mammy never thought of the holidays when she sent me over. There are twenty of us in school-time, but I am the only one who was left for the holi¬ days. All the other fellows had homes or friends to go to, and now Mr. and Mrs. Pollard and the children have gone off to the sea, and

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310 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX. I was left to Goodie — slie is the matron — and the servants to take care of , and I could not bear it any longer, and made up my mind to run away. It was not difficult, I can teU you, for no one thought or cared much for me ; so I took all the pocket-money I had and slipped away, and ran to the railway sta¬ tion. It was close by ; but when I got there I did not know where to go to, as you see I have only been such a short time in England, and don’t know where any. of mammy’s friends live. At last I remembered that I had heard her talk of Shepperton, so I asked the ticket-man for one of the cneapest tickets to Shepperton, and he said, “All right, young ’un; the train that is just due will suit, only mind you change at Blackwell.” And so I did ; but when I got to Shepperton it was such a large place, and I did not know where to go, or who to ask for, and wan¬ dered about,^till I got quite away from the town, and it was getting so dark tnat at last, when I came to a cottage I knoclved, and said, “ 1 would be very glad to give them sixpence if they would let me sleep there.” It was a very old woman who opened the door, and she grumbled at first, and asked me lots of questions, and then she said, “ If I would give her another six¬ pence she would give me some supper.” I did not much like to think of the supper or bed, but I was so hungry and tired I did not care a bit what they were. Then yesterday I set out again, and it was O such a dreadful long way ! and do you know I had been watching you three ever so long through the hedge, and when it began getting dark, and you left the door open where you had been playing, I crept in, as I was so tired again, and thought you all looked too kind to turn me out if you found me.’ 'But you will have to go back, shall you not, Chris?’ I began. ' Oh, no, no ! indeed I can’t ! I am sure Mr. Kalph will not send me - ’ ' There, Miss Judy,’ broke in cook, ' do keep your questions to yourself. I never did come across such a one as you are for that perpetual ask, ask ! Can’t you see as how Chris don’t know anything about what’s coming ; nor he’s not fit to,’ she added in an undertone to Sarah. ' He’s not eaten scarce a bit of dinner, and has gone on drink, drink, at the water all the time, just as if he had a fever.’ ' And look at his cheeks!’ answered Sarah; 'they are all of a flame ! There, I do hope he’s not a-going to be ill, and mistress away and all !’ I do not quite know whether cook and Sarah’s talk set me watching Chris, but he certainly was not the same after dinner as he was before. He had lost all his interest in the cattle-show, and even his wonderful talent for putting pin legs to the animals in 'the wooden department’ flagged, and as tea-time ap¬ proached he was complaining of headache and pains in his limbs. ' He has caught a cold, that’s what he has,’ was cook’s verdict ; ' and Sarah and I will just put him to bed, and give him some gmel and a dose of nitre out of mistress’s chest. I Imow there’s a plenty there, and that we may have some. He’ll be right enough to-morrow morning.’ I was going downstairs the next morning when I heard Ealph’s voice below say, ' You had better send Job for Dr. Taylor, and do not let the children go near him till we hear what the doctor says. I wish your mistress was at home ; but she will not be here till Saturday, I am afraid.’ ' So do I r was cook’s rejoinder. ' Sarah and me has been up most of the night with the poor little fellow ; but there, it’s always the way, if mistress is not at home, things will go wrong.’ ' Oh 1 I nope there is not much mischief done yet, cook,’ was Kalph’s more cheerful reply, ' We none of us calculated on having a visitor, you see.’ ' And perhaps we were wrong in keeping of him,’ was cook’s woeful rejoinder, who evidently took the most gloomy view possible of matters. The doctor’s verdict told in favour of neither view, as he said ' he could not at once tell what the attack might be. It might only be a feverish cold, brought on by exposure and excitement, or it might be some¬ thing more serious.’ Of course ' he hoped not ; but it would be safer to keep the other children away, as Mrs. Kelly was not at home ; and if they could get Nurse Green — that was our dear old nurse — ^to come in and sit with him, that would be the very best thing that could happen.’ Friday and Saturday Ralph seemed nearly crazy, for Dr. Taylor when he came on Friday morning pro¬ nounced Chris’s illness to be low fever. ' He is a delicate child, and the change from India to England was enough to upset him, to say nothing of coming from a mother’s care into the hands of strangers. He wandered a good bit last night Mrs. Green tells me, and it was always “ mammy ” he was crying after, or complaints about school troubles. I really think you had better write to the master, if you know who and where he is, as it is hardly fair to yourselves or him to have this responsibility on you.’ ' Oh ! the child told me before I went off on Wed¬ nesday that he is with a Mr. Pollard at Anstey, sol wrote there yesterday, and thought, of coui>e, Sir. Pollard would have been over to-day ; and I do no^ think it says much for him that he has not come yet.’ ' I am afraid we cannot think of moving the poor little fellow,’ was the doctor’s reply. ' I have heard a little of Mr. Pollard, and thougb he is not a bad fellow, it is not the school such a delicate, sensitive child as that should have been sent to.’ Mother does not often look vexed, but she really did when Ralph told her our story on her return on Saturday evening. ' It was very foolish of me, Mrs. Kelly, to say he might stay, but I really had not the heart to send him back on Wednesday ; he did beg so hard ; and then the mischief was done yesterday morning, as I never gave a thought to him when 1 got back from Silverbridge.’ ' I am not blaming you, my dear fellow, as I know I should have done just the same myself ; but I do hope the boy is not very ill, or low fever catching.’ And here mother stroked Jack’s curly head, and looked anxiously into his happy face. ' What did you say that poor little fellow’s name was ?’ began mother, when she had paid him a visit of inspection, and we were sitting at tea. 'Chris Carson ? I believe he is the same child I have been hearing of at Elmwood. His mother is my dear old school-friend, Evelyn Elton, whose first husband —

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- - - — - - , No. XXXIX. CHATTERBOX. 311 this child’s father, I believe — died four yeara ago in India. She married again the end of last year, and it was necessary to send her boy back to England, •. both for his health and his education, and the Elm¬ wood people were saying that they thought Mr. Pollard’s was hardly the place he should have been sent to. Evelyn was always very musical, and her boy they say has quite a wonderful taste for music. How strange it would be if poor little Chris really were her son ! ’ Mr. Pollard arrived in the course of that day, and was very angry about everything; and Chris cried dreadfully till Dr. Taylor came, and said, ^ No one must dream of moving him for a fortnight, or perhaps more.’ And then Mr. Pollard got better, and mother and he sat and talked for ever so long, and she found out all about Chris, and that he really was the little boy she had heard about at Elmwood. Mr. Pollard said he was quite music mad; but mother never thinks that anything to do with music is mad, and the more she heard of Chris the more glad she was to have to care for him. He was a long time getting well ; but he did get quite well before he went back to school, and now he always spends his summer holidays with us, and seems just like one of ourselves. Mother and he are as fond of one another as if they were really mother and son — not that he ever takes our places, or could take them in mother’s heart ; but there is the music between them, and none of us have* any more ear, mother says, than three crows. Of a summer evening we often miss her and Chris, and though at first we could not think where they were, we know now that we have only to run down the lane to the churchyard, and we are sure to find the church door open, and to hear the soft tones of the organ floating out into the warm air. Within Chris is sure to be playing, and mother sitting by listening, or every now and then joining in with her sweet, clear voice ; and I think mother and he like these times better than anything else that ever happened since Chris came to us. E. W . was well proved, for all who came to contend at the wrestling matches went down before him, and he carried off in triumph tlie ram which was the prize of the wfinner. And no wonder ; for he was broad- shouldered, and as hard as the knot of a tree; and so strong, that he could heave a door from its bars, or break it by running with his head at it. But he was no beauty to look at, for his broad spade-shaped beard was as red as a fox ; and right on the top of his nose there was a wart, with a tuft of red hair growing out of it ! His nostrils were wide and black, and his mouth gaped like a furnace. A talking fellow was he, too, who belonged to the jovial society of Goliards,* and could play well on the bagpipes. He was dressed in a white coat and blue hood, had a sword and buckler at his side, and brought the pilgrims out of London town, blowing merrily on his pipes. ^ Now this roguish miller had taken more ale at the ^ Tabard ’ than was good for him, so much so that he forgot his manners, and the deference he owed to his superiors ; and w^hen the knight’s tale was ended, though scarcely able to sit upright on his horse, he shouted out that he Imew a tale as good as the knight’s. Our host, seeing the state he was in, be¬ sought him to wait awhile, and let some better man first tell one. This only made the miller more bois¬ terous, and he cried out that he would speak, or else he would go his own way ; whereon the host, telling him that ho was a fool, and that his wit was overcome with drinking, bade him tell on his tale, and have done vdth it. So the miller, asking the company, if he said anything wrong, to put it down to the credit' of the Southwark ale, began by telling them that he knew of a trick that had been played on a carpenter. Now the Keve happened to be a carpenter, and when he heard this, fearing some ridicule would be thrown on his craft, he bade the miller to stop’ his chattering, for it was a great sin to defame any man. In spite of all, the miller persisted in teUing his tale, to the amusement of the company ; but while they were laughing, Osewald the Reve was getting more and more angry, and only thought of how he could pay the miller for his tale in his own coin. A. R. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. THE MILLEE. * The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, Pul bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones.’ TN Chaucer’s time, the miller was a man of some X importance, for there were few shops except in the large towns, and nearly every one sent their corn to be ground at the mill, and baked their own bread. He took a handful of meal from every bushel that he ground, as his perquisite, but it was believed that lie usually took far more than his due. Indeed, so bad a reputation had he, that there was a proverb, that every honest miller had a gold thumb. ^ The miller who rode with our pilgrims to Canter¬ bury to clear his conscience, appears to have had much to answer for in this w\ay, for he was shrewdly suspected of taking thrice his due from the meal, and even «f stealing the corn. However, he was a jolly feEow, and a famous wrestler, and his strength EQUAL SHARES. TN the revolutionary times of 1848, two stalwart X leaders of the people one day entered the Roth¬ schilds’ bank at Frankfort. They asked for the Baron, and were admitted to his presence. ^ You have millions on millions,’ said they to him, ^and we have nothing. You must divide with us.’ ^Very well, gentlemen,’ calmly replied the Baron. ^ What do you suppose, now, the firm of Rothschild is worth ? ’ ^ About forty millions of florins.’ ^ Forty millions of florins you think, eh? Well, there are just forty millions of people in Germany; that will be a florin apiece. Here are yours ; now, of course, you are satisfied. Good morning.’ And the nonplussed advocates of equality actually allowed themselves to be bowed out. * So called from Golias, a wit of the twelfth century.

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312 CHATTERBOX. No. XXXIX.

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A kind Friend. By Harrison Weir.

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814 CHATTERBOX No. XL. A KIND FRIEND. r Robinson’s Hotel, Westport, CountjMayo, abig mastiff, called Warden, was tied up in the yard ; it belonged to a family staying in the house. Another family owned a tiny dog called Monkey. One day Monkey begged a her¬ ring of the coek, and in two minutes came back for another, which she also gave him: but when he wanted a third she wondered that a little pampered pet should care for such food, and therefore followed liim into the yard to see what be did with it. To. her surprise he went straight up to Warden, and laid it at his feet, the old dog being busy in chumping up Herring No. 2. Monkey, who was always at large, had taken pity upon poor chained Warden, and brought him titbits which he fancied he would enjoy. He understood the maxim, ^ Do unto others as you would have others do to you.’ H. A. F. THE BOY TRAPPER. {Continued from •page 309.) By Harbt Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. NOW I drew up that instrument, and I think it is just about right,’ said he complacently. ^ It is nothing but the truth, if I do say it myself, that there is not another fellow in the settlement who could have done it. Of course it will be open to amendments, but I don’t see how or where it could be improved. It covers all tlie ground, doesn’t it ? ’ * It covers a good deal, and especially the article you read twice,’ replied Don. ^ But I can’t join in such an organization as that. I’m a pot-hunter my¬ self. I never went himting yet without I intended to shoot something for the table.’ 'But you are not a poacher.’ ' I don’t Imow about that. I hunt in every field and piece of wood I can find, no matter who owns them.’ ' Perhaps I had better change that,’ said Lester, after thinking a moment, ' and say market-shooters instead of pot-hunters.’ 'There are no such things as market-shooters in the county.’ ' But there are market-trappers,’ said Lester. Tliere are persons here who are catching quails and shipping them out of the state.’ ' Yes, there is one who thinks of going into the business, and I got him the job. It wouldn’t look very well for me to turn around now and tell him that he must not do it.’ ' You could say to him that you have had reason to change your mind lately, and that you know it isn’t right to do such things.’ . . ' But I haven’t changed my mind.’ ' You ott^ht to. The first thing, you know, there will be no birds for you and me to shoot.’ ' I’ll risk that. You may trap two hundred dozen if you want to, and send them out of the county, and when you have done it, I will go out any morning with my pointer, and shoot birds enough for break¬ fast. I’ll leave more in the fields, too, than you can bag in six months,’ added Don ; and Bert saw the point he was trymg to make, if Lester did not. 'Besides, what right have I to tell Dave what he shall do, and what he shall not do ? ’ He’d laugh at me.’ ' Well, he wouldn’t do it more than once. A few days in the calaboose would bring him to his senses.’ 'Who would put him there ? ’ ' The club would.’ 'Where’s the club’s authoiity for such a pro¬ ceeding?’ Lester lifted the constitution and tapped it with his forefinger by way of reply. 'I think I had better have nothing to do with it,’ said Don, who could scarcely refrain from laughing outright. 'We intend to make you our president,’ said Lester. ' I am obliged to you,’ replied Don, but still he did not take any more interest in the Sportsman’s Club than he had done before. He did not snap up the bait thus thrown out, as Lester hoped he would. He was not to be bought, even by the pro¬ mise of office. Lester saw that, and arose to take his leave. ' Well, think it over,’ said he. ' Sleep on it for a few nights, and if at any time you decide to go in with us, just let me know. ' Good evening ! ’ ' I’ll do so,’ answered Don. ' Good evening ! ’ Lester bowed himself out of the room, and Bert accompanied him to the door. The first question the latter asked when he came back was : — ' Is there a beast or a bird in the world whose Latin name is canis-lupus ? ’ Don threw himself back upon the sofa and laughed until the room rang again. ' Is there a beast or a bird in the world whose English name is dog-wolf ? ’ he asked, as soon as he could speak. ' I did give Lester credit for a little common sense and a little knowledge, but I declare he possesses neither. It beats the world how he has got things mixed. Just listen to this,’ added Don, consulting his note-book. ' He speaks of a pheasant and calls it T. Scolopax. Now Scolopax is a snipe. He probably meant ruffed grouse, and should have called it a Tetrao Umhellus. He speaks of a partridge when he means quail, or more properly Bob White, there being no quails on this side tne Atlantic - ’ 'Why do people call them quails, then ? ’ asked Bert. ' The name was given to them by our forefatliers, because they resembled the European quail. There is no pheasant in America either ; but our grouse looked like one, and so they gave it that name. Les¬ ter calls a quail Ficus Imperialis. Now that’s an im¬ perial woodpecker — that big black fellow with a red top-knot, that we sometimes see when we are hunt¬ ing. Hq used to be called cock-of-the-woods, but the name was twisted around until it became woodcock, and some people believe that he is the gamey little bird we so much delight to shoot and eat. But

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No. XL. CHATTERBOX. 315 they belong to different orders, one being a climber and the other a wader. Lester speaks of a rabbit, not knowing that there is no such thing as a wild rabbit in our country, and calls it Oi'tyx Virgiana, when he should have called it L^ms VirginianuSf the name he uses being the one by which our quail is known to ornithologists. A deer, which he calls a dog-wolf, is Cermis Virginianus. ^ Oh, he^s a naturalist as well as a sportsman,’ shouted Don, as he laid back upon the sofa, and laughed until his sides ached. ^ Then he didn’t get one of the names right ?’ ^ Not a single one. After aU, his ignorance on these points is not so astonishing, for everybody is liable to make mistakes ; but that any boy living in this day and age should imagine that, by simply getting up a club and adopting a constitution, he could imprison or fine another boy because he didn’t do just to suit him, is too ridiculous to be believed. That particular paragraph w\as probably copied after some old game law Lester read years ago; but he ought to know that before a sportsman’s club, or any other organization, can have authority to prosecute persons for trapping birds and sending them away, there must be first a law passed prohibiting such trapping and sending away ; and there’s no such law in this State. It doesn’t seem possible that he could have been in earnest.’ But Lester was in earnest for all that — so very much in earnest that he was willing to run a great risk in order to punish Don for refusing to join his society. Of course he was angry. He and Bob liad felt sure of obtaining the contract, had laid many plans for the spending of the money after it w^as earned, and it was very provoking to find that their scheme had been defeated, and that they w’-ere to be pushed aside for the sake of such a fellow as David Evans. Lester was sorry now that he had not given David a good thrashing wdien he met him in the road that morning, and told himself that he would do it the very next time he put eyes on him, and risk the consequences. The thought had scarcely passed through his mind wdien the opportunity was pre¬ sented. He met David coming along the road in company with liis brother Dan. David did not seem to remember that any sharp words had passed be¬ tween Lester and himself, for he looked as cheer¬ ful and smiling as usual, and, following the custom of the country, bowed to the horseman as he rode past. Lester did not return the bow, and neither did he dismount to give David the promised thrash¬ ing. He was afraid to attempt it ; but coward-like, he had to take vengeance upon something, and so he hit his horse a savage cut with his riding-whip. ^ Dave can afford to be polite and good-natured,’ til ought Lester, as he went fiying down the road. ' He is rejoicing over his success and my failure ; but if he only knew it, this thing isn’t settled yet. I’ll wi-ite to that man to-night, telling him that the par¬ ties to wLom he gave the contract can’t catch the birds, and then Bob and I will go to work and make it true. If we don’t earn that money, nobody shall. As for those stuck-up Gordons— I’ll show them how I’ll get even with them.’ The spirited animal on which he was mounted made short work of the two miles that lay between Don’s home and Bob’s, and in a few minutes Lester dismounted in front of the wagon-shed, where his crony was waiting for him. ^ I’ve had no luck at all,’ said he, in reply to Bob’s inquiring look. ^ I might as well have stayed at home. Don says he can’t join a club of this kind, because, having got David the job of trapping the quails, he can’t go back on him. He says he’s a poacher and pot-hunter himself : and what surprised me was, he did not seem to be at all ashamed of it.’ * Of course he wasn’t ashamed,’ said Bob. ^ He thinks that ever}d:hing he and his pale-faced brother do is just right. Did he say anything about what passed between Bert and my^self at the post-ofiice ? ’ ^Not a word.’ ^ I was afraid he would,’ said Bob, drawing a long breath of relief, ^ for he knows that you and I are friends.’ Yes, Don knew^ that, but there w^ere two good rea¬ sons wdiy he had not spoken to Lester about Bob’s threat of slapping Bert over. In the first place, he was not aware that Bob had made any such threat. Bert was one of the few hoys we have met who did not believe in telling everything he knew. Do you know such a boy among your companions ? If you do, you know one whom nobody is afraid to trust. Bert wanted to live in peace, and thought it a good plan to quell disturbances, instead of helping them along. He knew that if he told his brother what had happened in the post-office, there would be a fight the veiy first time Don and Bob met, and Bert didn’t believe in fighting. But even if Don had known all about it, he would not have said anything to Lester. He would have w* aited until he met Bob, and then he would have used some pretty strong ar¬ guments, and driven them home bj’- the aid of his fist. Plow much trouble might be avoided, if there were a few more boys like Bert Gordon in the world ! ‘ I am not sorry I went down there,’ continued Lester, ^ for I had the satisfaction of showing those conceited fellows that there are some boys in the set¬ tlement besides themselves who know a thing or two. I read the constitution to them, and it would have made you laugh to see them open their eyes. Bert was so astonished that he couldn’t say a word, and Don never took his gaze off my face while I was reading. When I got through he asked me to read that clause with the Latin and Greek in it over again, so that he could copy the names in his note-book. He’ll learn them by heart, and use them some time in conversation, and so get the reputation of being a very smart and a very learned boy. If he does it in your presence, I want you to let folks know that he is showing off on the strength of my brains. I don’t suppose the ignoramus ever knew before - ’ ^ Well, who cares whether he did or not?’ ex¬ claimed Bob, impatiently. ^ That’s a matter that doesn’t interest me. Is Dave Evans going to make that hundred and fifty dollars, and cheat me out of a new shot-gun ? That’s what I want to know ! ’ ^Of course he isn’t,’ replied Lester. ‘WA can’t stop him by the aid of the Sportsman’s Club, and so we will stop him ourselves without the aid of anybody. Let him go to work and set his traps, and we’ll see how many birds he will take out of them. We’ll rob

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Lester and Bob setting fire to the Shootm<T-boz. every one we can find, and keep the quail ourselves. In that way we may be able to make up the fiity dozen without setting any of our own traps. Well write to that man, as you suggested, and when Dave finds he can^t catch any birds, he’ll get discouraged, and leave us a clear field. But first I want to touch up Don and Bert Gordon a little, to pay them for the way they treated me this evening. That shooting- box shall he laid in ashes this very night. I expected an invitation to shoot there last spring, but I didu t get it, and now I am determined that they shall never ask anybody there. What do you say ? ’ say I’m your man,’ leplied Bob. And so the thing was settled. . Lester put his horse into the barn, went in to supper, which was announced in a few minutes (Bob found opportunity before he sat down to the table to purloin a box of matches, which he put carefully away in his pocket),

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Greenwich*

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318 CHATTERBOX. No. XL. and when the meal was over, the two hoys went hack to the wagon-shed, where they sat and tallied imtil it began to grow dark. Then Boh brought a couple of paddles out of the corner of the wagon- shed, handed one to his companion, and the two walked slowly down the road. When they were out of sight of the house they climbed the fence, and directed their course across the fields toward the head of the lake. Then they quickened their pace, having much to do, and they wanted to finish their work and retmTi to the house before their absence was discovered. Half-an-hour’s rapid w'aUving brought them to the road just below General Gordon’s barn. The next thing was to make their way along the foot of the garden imtil they reached the jetty, and that was an undertaking that was not wholly free from dan¬ ger. Don Gordon’s hounds were noted watch-dogs, and any prowlers they discovered were pretty certain to be severely treated. But there was no flinching on the part of the two boys. Bob led the way almost on hisnands and knees, stopping nowand then to listen, and finally brought his conmanion to the place where the boats were moored. There w^as only one of them available, however, for the canoe, which they had intended to take, was secured to a tree by a heavy padlock. ^ Did you ever hear of such luck ? whispered Bob. ^ Couldn’t we paddle the other up there ? ’ asked Lester, feeling for the chain with which the sail-boat was fastened to the wharf, to make sure that it was not locked. ^ Oh yes ; but why is this canoe locked up ? That’s what bothers me. Perhaps Don suspects something and is on the watch.’ * "Who cares if he is ? ’ exclaimed Lester. ‘ I've come too far to back out now. I wouldn’t do it if Don and all his friends stood in my way.’ ' All rmlit. If you are not afraid, I am not. Be careful vmen you cast off that chain. You know that sound travels a long way a night like this.’ Lester was careful, and the boat was pushed off, and got under way so noiselessly that a person stand¬ ing on the bank would not have known that there was anything going ©n. Bob, who Imew just where the shooting-box was located, sat in the stern and did the steering, and before another half-hour had passed they wem at their journey’s end. ^ Hold up now,’ whispered Bob, ^ and let’s make sure that everything is all right before we touch the shoie.’ Lester drew in his paddle and listened. He heard a whistling in the air, as a solitary duck flew swiftly up the lake, and that was the only sound that broke the stillness. The trees on the shore loomed up darkly against the sliy, and presented the appearance of a solid wall of ebony. Lester could not see anj^- I thing that looked like a shooting-box, but Bob knew it was there, and when he had listened long enough to satisfy himself that there was nobody in 'it or about it, he brought the bow of the boat around and paddled toward, the shore. ‘ Wliicli way is it from here ? ’ asked Lester, when the two had disembarked. * I can’t see anything.’ ' Hold fast to my coat-tail,’ replied Bob, * and I’ll show it to you in a minute.’ Lester being thus taken in tow was safely con¬ ducted up the bank. Presently he heard a door un¬ latched and opened, a match was struck, and he found himself inside the shooting-box. He could scarcely have been more surprised if he had found himself inside a little palace. The shooting-box was not a shanty, as he expected to find it, but a conveniently- arranged and neatly-constructed house. He borrowed a few matches of Bob, and proceeded to take a thorough survey of it. ^ Don must have spent a good deal of time in fixing this up,’ said he. ^ He certainly has,’ replied Bob, ^ and he handles tools like a born carpenter, too. I suppose this is a nice place to get away to when the fellows are here shooting over their decoys. Joe Packard says so, at any rate. They have mattresses and bed-clothes in the bunks, a carpet and rugs on the floor, camp chairs and stools enough for the whole party, and they sit here of evenings, and crack hickory-nuts, and tell stories, and have boss times.’ * It’s almost a pity to break up their fun.’ ^ It’s a greater pity that Don should take money out of our pockets and put it into those of that beg¬ gar, Dave Evans,’ answered Bob, spitefully. ^ That’s so,’ said Lester, who gi’ew angry every time he thought of it. * Set her agoing ! ’ That was a matter of no difficulty. There was an abundance of dry fuel and kindling wood in the little closet under the chimney, and some of the latter was quickly whittled into shavings by the aid of Bob’s pocket-knife, Lester standing by and burning matches to light him at his work. More kindling w^ood was placed upon the shavings, dry stove wood was piled upon the top of this, then the slats in the bunks, the table and eveiy other movable thing in the cabin •that would burn was thrown on, and Bob took a match in hand, and extended another to his com¬ panion. ‘ You light one side and I’ll light the other,’ said he. ‘ Then you can’t say I did it, and I can’t say you did it!’ The matches blazed up on opposite sides at the same instant. The flames made rapid progress, and by the time the boys had closed the jioor and got into the boat they were roaring and crackling at a great rate. They quickly shoved off, and laid out all their strength on the paddles ; but before they could reach the jetty the flames burst through the roof of the shooting-box, and the lake was lighted up for a quarter of a mile around. But no one saw it, and Lester and his companion put the boat back where they found it, made their way across the road iiit(i the fields, witliout alarming the hound.<, and started for home at a keen run, no one beiug the wiber for what they had done. {To be continued.) LONDON LONQ AGO. WIvITEIl has estimated that in the reign of King Henry H. London contained about 350,000 inhabitants. We are told that during the wars of Stephen this city alone was able to raise, at the king’s command, a force of 60,000 foot and 20,000 horse-soldiers: and all these were properly-trained men. A. II. B.

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No. XL. CHATTERBOX. 319 THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XIX. FEOM THE TOWER to GREENWICH. ?jROM London Bridge to the Tower the Thames is called the Tpper Pool.^ Now begins the Tower Pool/ whence on each bank (but chiefly the northern), branch immense docks containing ship¬ ping of vast value. The ^ Lower Pool ’ goes as far as Horn Stairs, and thence to Deptford the Thames is called ^ Lime- house Reach.’ A wonderful part of the Thames is this, and, after its manner, very beau¬ tiful. Nowhere else in the world can there be seen such a forest of masts, their rig^g forming a wonderful network against the sky. ^ Passing the Tower, and as we approach St. Kathe¬ rine’s Docks, we may catch a view' of the smoke from the Mint, where all English money has been coined for many centuries. St. Katherine’s Docks (the first great establishment of this kind which we note as we go down the river), though less extensive than the London Docks below them, nevertheless occupy twenty-four acres of land. These docks take their name from St. Katherine’s Hospital, which was founded here by the wife of Stephen, King of England. Multiply St. Katherine’s Docks by about four, and you have some idea of the size of the London Docks. It is said that in the docks named (together with those called the East and West India and the Victoria), in tea alone, there is stored to the value of ten millions of money ; while the wine, if set free in a dock, would float many ships. Furthermore, it has been calculated that here there is enough tobacco to supply every man, woman, and child in the kingdom, with a pound a-piece, without quite ex¬ hausting the supply. Again, there is Indigo enough to dye a long stretch of the Thames of as dark a blue as any sailor’s jacket. All of which statements may be taken for what they are worth. About 10,000 vessels, large and small, are constantly coming and going on the Thames, or in dock. About 140,000 sailors, of many races and languages, are employed on board the ships or in the docks. Here are to be found AVapping Old Stairs, near which the infamous Judge Jefferies lay in hiding at the ^ Rod Cow’",’ while waiting for a boat to convey him from the kingdom wEere, within a month, he had hanged, more Englishmen than have all the judges sjnce his time in all their judicial lives. ° Here, too, still remains the Thames Tunnel, though now it cannot be entered, except you go through it as a railway passenger, for this tunnel now connects the riiilway system of the noith and south of the Thames below bridge. The tunnel was twenty years in bnildin" ; four times did the Thames break in, and yet did it only secure one victim, an unhappy drunken rnan, who was fast asleep when the water overtook him. From the bed of the river to the roof of the tunnel it is fifteen feet ; but nevertheless, with good ears, one can hear the beating of paddles of stea,mers. At the south end of the timnel is Rotherhithe, where in the parish church of St. Mary’s lie the remains of Le Boo, a Prince of the Pellew Isles, who died of small-pox, in London, whither he had come to learn that civilisation which he hoped to spread through his native land. Now, as we descend the river, we see the Isle of Dogs. This is a corruption of ^ Isle of Ducks,’ for here once upon a time wild ducks were innumerable. Now on the Kent shore appears Deptford, where was once a splendid naval repository, extending over thirty acres of land. It was established by Henry VIII. who may be said to have laid the foundation of our naval supremacy. This establishment has ceased to be a naval ddpdt, and is used as a receiving port for foreign cattle to supply the London markets. It was at Deptford that Peter the Great of Ruasia when in England, worked as a shipwright, or at all events improved his knowledge of ship -building. He lodged at Sayes Court, the house and beautiful gardens of honest John Evelyn, the inventor of picturesque hardening. No sooner did Peter compre¬ hend that the wall of his garden was that of the dockyard than he knocked a hole in it, and so saved himself the trouble of going round to the gates. And now royal Greenwich appears in view, at a noble rounding in the river, and beautifully backed by the green hills of Greenwich Park. (To he continued,) ‘NOT ME! NOT ME! IT IS MY SISTER YOU MUST SAVE!’ From the French. A VIOLENT fire had broken out last year in Paris, in front of the square of the Innocents. The fire spread rapidly from stoiy to story. It was six o’clock in the morning. On the fourth floor a young workman, Clement B., was sleeping, close to his sister, a little girl ten years old, already half-suffocated with the smoke. In a few minutes the room was invaded by the flames. The sleeper was awoke by the suffocating heat. The staircase had fallen in. All retreat Avas impossible. What Avas to be done ? He opened the window, and uttered despairing cries. A comrade of Clement B., named Girard, who Avas passing in the street, did not hesitate to risk his life. He ascended to the fifth story through a neighbouiing house, and leaning out, having for his only support a bar of iron, to which he held on by one leg, he stretched out his hand to his friend, inviting him to hoist himself in) through the window as quickly as possible, and to profit by the help Avhich he offered him. ^ Not me ! not me ! ’ he said ; ^ it is my sister you must save ! ’ Then wrapping up the child in a sheet, he held out to his comr^e the precious burden, Avhich Avas balanced for an instant above the abyss. A cry arose from below — a cry of agony from the mother, Avho was returning from the market, and Avas poAver- less and terrified at this lamentable spectacle. The little girl Avas saved ; and afterwards, by the mercy of God, the brave Girard, by again leaning out of the window, and by superliuman effort, rescued Clement also from the flames. E. H. C.

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320 CHATTEKBOX. No. XL. “ It is my sister you must save! ’’

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Page 328

822 CHATTERBOX. No. XLI. GEOFFREY CHATJCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. THE MANCIPLE, ‘ A gentil Manciple was there of a temple, ^ Of which achatours* mighten take ensempla T used to he the custom at all inns of courts and colleges, where lawyers or students lived together, to have an officer to buy provisions for the com¬ munity, who was called a Manciple. His name was derived from the Latin word maiicepSy which at finst meant the owner of a public bakehouse. The office is still retained in several V colleges and inns of court; and as Chaucer is said to have studied in the Middle Temple, he must have been well acquainted with their ways. A Manciple belonging to one of the Inns of Temple rode with the pilgrims to Canterbury, and was so clever that all other purchasers might take exa,mple in buying victuals wisely ; for whether he paid or took by account, he so watched his bargaining that he always did well. Now is not this a great gift, that the wit of such an ignorant man should surpass the wisdom of a heap of learned men? For he had more than thrice ten masters, all expert and careful in law : and there were a dozen in the house fit to be stewards of rent and land to py lord in England, and enable him to live on his property honourably and without debt, unless he were mad — men who were able to help a whole shire in any case that might happen ; and yet this Manciple ‘ set all their caps ; ’ in fact, made fools of them ! In the way to Canterbury, just under the wood called ‘ The Blee,’ there stood a little town known bv the funny name of ^ Hob-up-and-down,’ and for whicn you might now look in your maps in vain. And here our host saw that the cook, Koger, had got tipsy, and was lagging behind ; and he cried out, — ^ Sirs, what ? Dun is in the mire Is there no man who will waken our fellow behind? A thief might easily bind and rob him. See how he naps, as if he would faU from his horse ! Is this a cook of London? Make him come forth, he Imows his penance; for he shaU tell a tale, though it be not worth a bottle of hay ! Awake, thou Cook,’ q^uoth he ; ' what aileth thee to sleep in the day-time ? ‘ I Imow not how it is,’ said the Cook ; ^ but such a heaviness hath fallen on me that I would rather sleep than have the best gallon of wine in Cheap!’ Which might very well be, as he had already taken too much. ” Well,’ quoth the Manciple, ‘ if it will do thee ease. Sir Cook, we will now excuse thee of thy tale : for in good faith thy face is full pale, and thine eyes dazed : YOU shall certainly not be flattered by me. See^ how he gapes, as though he would swallow us^ outright ! Shut thy mouth, man 1 Ah ! take care, sirs, of this sturdy man ! N ow, sweet sir, will ye just at the fan ? t Methinks ye be in good condition for that 1’ ♦ l^ui-chnsers. , . . . ^ t A favourite sport in the middle ages was ‘justing at tne Quiutaiuc which was a post with a movable top called a * tan, or ‘ vane and which, if awkwardly struck with the lance, would swing round and hit the rider. At this the Cook waxed ‘ aU raw,’ and began nod¬ ding fast at the iVlaneiple for lack of speech, -^en down he fell from his horse, and there he lay. Here was a brave expedition of a cook 1 It was a pity he had not stuck to his ladle 1 And what trouble there was, and what a pushing to and fro, ere his unwieldy body could be hoisted into the saddle again I ^ As drink hath dominion over this man,’ quoth our host to the Manciple, ^ he will be unable to tell his tale ; for it is more than he can do to keep himself on his horse out of the slough : and if he fall off again we shall all have enough to do to lift him up : so tell on thy tale, and never mind him. But yet, manciple,’ said he, ' in faith thou art foolish to reprove him thus openly. Mayhap some other day he will be even with thee, by pinching at thy reckonings that were not honest, if it came to the proof.’ ^ ^ H would rather pay for the mare he rides on, quoth the Manciple, ‘ than that he should get me into trouble. I will not anger him — I spoke but in jest. But I have here in my gourd a drau^it of ^good wdne, and this cook will drink, and not say nay ! ’ And sure enough the Cook did so, though he had drunk so much already ; and he thanked the Manciple as w^ell as he could, though he had been so angry wdth him a while ago. At w'hich our host, laughing loudly, turned to the Manciple and asked him now to teU his tale : and so he told a story from Greek mythology. . THE BOY TRAPPER. (Continued from page 318.) By Haery Castlemon. (Oopyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. CHAPTER X. — A BEAR HUNT. LL jest do it, an’ it’s the luckiest thing in the world that I thought of it. That will make me wuth — ’ here he stopped and counted his fingers — Hwenty-two dollars and two bits, anyhow. Then my clothes an’ stock¬ ings, an’ shoes, an’ all the powder an’ lead I want this winter, won’t cost me nothing; so I shall be rich fur all that thar mean Dave is workin’ so hard agin me.’ It was Dan Evans who talked thus to himself, and he was standing behind the cabin, with his hands in his pockets, and looking at Don’s pointer, just as he was the last time we saw him. He was so very much delighted with certain plans he had determin^ upon that he did not dare meet his brother again just then, for fear that the expression of joy and triumph which he knew his face wore would attract David’s notice, and put him on his guard. So he remained in the rear of his cabin with his thoughts for company, until his mother came home. The dress David had purchased for her, and which he had placed in the most conspicuous position he could find, was the first thing that attracted her attention as she entered the door. Dan heard her exclamation of joyful surprise, and listened with all his ears in the hope of overhearing some of the conversation that passed between her

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“ a low tone of than 'h ^ Dan was no wiser when it was concluded ttan he was before. He knew, however, by the Hn, his’mother's bps that David was telling her somethino- which ^eatly interested her, and Dan would have |iven al- SntLTf ’"^3. He heard his ^t“k^ a bttle occasionally, and that brought !k^f '' *° He could not bear to know that any one about that house was happy. the di,biTP®Tk? had cleared away the dishes, he and his mother seated themselves in front ein, ® ™:eplace, and prepared to pass the evening in hims!yr*^““’ +k® *^®y/lways did, while Dan threw Wvf^ upon the shake-down ’ on which he and his iMtifv’^ We*’ ? “i ^®\™“utes be^an snoring onpii^-iTirl ^as not asleep, however. His ears were o^n, and so were his eyes the most of the time. He y^lZe^ y®® and lieard all that d,^ bf h ’^Tk” J*'® ®“'^ Havid; but not a word V **k‘ “tfrested him. David had already ^be kne^ ™k*i"®k® of events of the day. ® When i^‘®i P'®“® "^e^’O-.and approved them, the elk k*®if* came, David took possession of the other half of the ‘shake-down,’ and prepared to thfi*Ld*!^' He leposited his clothes at the head of he bed, as usual, and Dan, through his half-closed ofZlT as fk*"® “ ® oareless sort tLZ^' though there was nothing of value in ‘ But he can’t fool me so easy,’ thought Dan ; ‘ not by no means. Thar’s ten dolfes somewhar in’ them Wbln^^ give ’em to the ole woman ■when she fmt come hum, an’ they’ll be mine afore mornin’. He wouldn’t go snacks with me, like a feller had oughter do, an’ now I’ll have ’em all 1 ’ n an hour from that time everybody in the cabin appe^edno be asleep. Mrs. Evans certainly was and David seemed to be, for he lay with his eves closed and breathed long and heavily. Dan took a good look at him — the blazing fire on the hearth made the cabin almost as light as day— and then reaching out his hand drew David’s cbthes toward im. He searched all the pockets carefully, but SfthtZb”t^“]Sf ® pocketeknife With two broken blades, and that was not what Dan ,®f‘‘ft®ring something under his th “®*de out, and tnen felt the lining of the coat; but as nothino* rewarded his search he tossed his clothes back upon brntb u’l'^ cautiously slipped his hand under ^his brothers pillow.^ As he did so David suddenly raised froTto pC? “ ** sa^so he’IXV" y°“ £did-no? show 1"““^ ®^®®«®“®“ isn’t there you see, don’t you ? ’ said David. ^ ^ growled Dan. Why, the ten-dollar bill you saw me have at the -i"'.™ ‘ I wasn’t lookin’ fur it,’ returned Dan. yon want to know,’ continued David. ‘ It is safe in Don Gordon’s pocket- book, and you can’t get it out of there. I told you that youd never have another chance to steal any of my money, and I think you will believe it now. Qood- ni ht, and pleasant dreams to you ; that 13, if you can sleep after such a performance.’ ^ Dan con’d sleep, and he did, too, after he got over him much “f “ot seem to^ refresh him much, for he was cross and sullen the next morning, and ate his breakfast without saying a wo?d to anybody. David was as bright as a lark : and duties^bP l‘‘Vr®‘®‘^k?’‘® household duties, he took down his rusty old single-barrel from andS nmicb^® fire-pjace, slung on his powder-horn and shot-pouch, and when his mother was ready to frnl^r'*®.i°“^®i“®‘^-**®'' ^o^u the road toward (Gen¬ eral Gordons leaving Dan sitting on the bench moody and thoughtful. ^ ’ *®’^® “otjce of me nor if I r ®k^r oraciooked stick,’ growled Dan when he found himself alone. ‘ I’ll pay ’em fur it by pb'^Tf ‘^®'^ ‘^°"® that thar xr ^®“ ^ ® *toin’ of it nuther ! ’ the road +bp®f .Separated at the forks of hoLe ot tbp n°'''kf her course toward the Wbpt k °“,t®"'ard General Gordon’s. When he reached the head of the lake he heard a itclmeT’ “dl°°hingin the direction from which It came, he saw Don and Bert standing on the wharf beckoning to him. David ran across^the garderto tHtart *’"°r*k® k’ ®“‘^ that they were^all ready A wo1l*fin“s**k ^®'^ planned the day before. | A weU-fflled basket, which David knew contained a substentid lunch, stood on the wharf, and nea^t Srr*k!d^®“®’'®*®.,*'c®'’^ double-barrel gun, which woidd^tk ^""°"®d for the occasion, knowing that it more force thanlis light Bert was unfastening the canoe, and Don stood fnThS^otW^ “ ou® >mnd and an axe b»«W Hy near the lunch Se to%“b hounds- stood as wore to the edge of the wharf as they could get, im^fttencw^”' ^'gorously, and wfiining w^ith tblirtp® large and powerful animals, and their courage had been tested in more than one des- perate bear fight. If they had been with their m^. ter when he visited the island the day before, some- hing disagreeable might have happened. Godfrey Evans could not have driven them away by imitating the growl of a wild animal. ^ ^ imiwimg They welcomed the new-comer with their bu^le- vplnp”f *®®’ rk^ ®"®'^®''ed by a chorus of an° ry un?n thp“k*^® ’'®®i P®®''"’ *'®®u ®hui up in the barn and were to be left behind. said Dm,’ ; ®n *‘i’® ’■®*'’®'' ® f'-u’U’i'luWe expedition,’ to-day, I wouldnt take a dollar for my chance of shot ^^b^in three loads of biick- shot wiU be more than he can carry away with him. Here are the axes to bnild the trap with, if we don’t hnd him on the island : there’s a bag of cmm Tor baH an auger to bore the holes, and the pins with

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824 CHATTERBOX. No. XLI. to fasten the logs together. Bert and I worked in the shop last night until ten o’clock, making those pins. I think we have everything wo want, so weU be off ^ The canoe having been hauled alongside the ^^arf, and the articles which Don had enumerated being •packed away in it, the hounds jumped in and curled themselves up in the bow; David took his place at the oars, and the brothers found comfortable seats in the stem. Altogether it waa a heavy load the litUe boat had to carry, and she was so deep m the water that her gunwales were scarcely three inches above the surface ; but there were never any heavy seas to be encountered in that little lake, and so there was no danger to be apprehended. IDavidsent the canoe rapidly along, and presently it entered the bayou that led to Bruins Island. As it approached Godfrey Evans’s cabin, Dan arose from the bench on which he was seated in of the door, and ran hastily around the corner of the build¬ ing. He did not mean that Don and Bert should see him again, even at a distance, if he could help it. lie remained concealed until the canoe was out of sight, and then came back to his bench again. . While on the way up the ba,you the young hunters stopped once, long enough to pick up a brace of ducks whidi Bert kUled out of a flock that arose from the water iust in advance of them, and at the end ct an hour came within sight of the leaning sycamore which pointed out the position of Brum’s Island, there was no one to be seen, but that was no proof that the island was deserted. There was some one there whom the three boys did not expect to see or hear of very soon, and that was Godfrey Evans. He w^ waitino^ for Dan to come with the canoe and the tobacco and other articles he had been instructed to purchase at the store. He had watched {or him until long after midnight, then retreated to his ^d of leaves under the lean-to for a short nap, and at the first peep of day he was again at his post behind the sycamore. To his great relief he saw the boat coming 5 but his joy was of short duration, for a second look showed him that Dan was not in it. The canoe came nearer to the island with evey stroke of the oars, and presently one of Dons hounds started to his feet, snuffed the air eagerly for a moment, and uttered a deep-toned bay. Godfrey ducked his head on the instant, and crawled swiftly away from the sycamore on his hands and He was careful to keep the tree between himself and those in the boat until he reached the cane, and then he arose to his feet and worked his way toward his camp with all possible haste. • • + ^ Them two oneasy chaps has come back agin, just as I thought they would,’ said he to himself; * and our Dave’s with ’em. Don’s got his rifle now, and his dogs, too; so’t thar ain’t no use tryin to scare him this time. I must hunt a new hidin place now.’ Godfrey stopped in his camp just long enough to seize his rifle and ammunition, after which he plunged into the cane again and ran toward the head of the island. The muddy beach was thickly covered with drift-wood, and behind a convenient pile of branches jmd logs Godfrey crouched down, and waited to see what was going to happen. The actions of Don’s hounds made thp young hunters almost as nervous as they m^e Godfrey Evans. David stopped tugging at the oars, and looked over his shoulder ; Bert caught up his father s double-barrel, and hastily loaded it with two cart¬ ridges containing buckshot ; while Don, after ing the canoe broadside to the island, dropped the oaddlewith which he was steering, and picked up He’s there yet,' said Bert. ‘ The hounds have scented him already.’ ,, ‘It looks like it,’ replied Don. ‘Well, we came here to find him, and if he drives Y. i he’ll have to fight to do it. Dave, you d better load UTJ— Bert has plenty of loose buckshot in his pocket and mind you now, fellows, don’t get excited and shoot the dogs. I’d rather let the bear go than have one of them hurt.’ _ . , v i i,:„ While David was loading his single-barrel— nis hands trembled a little, and it took him longer than usual to do it— Don and Bert sat with their guns across their knees, closely watching the island, whUe the hounds stood in the bow snufting the air. ihey caught some taint upon the breeze, that was evident, for the long hair on the back of their necks stood erect, and now and then they growled savagely. When David had driven home a good-sized charge of buckshot and placed a cap upon his gun, he leaned the weapon against the thwart upon w^ch he wM dtting, and picked up the oars. Don dropped hts paddle into tL water, and his canoe moved around the foot of the island and along the beach, until it reached a point oppoate the place where Bert had found the path the day before. Then it was tu™ed toward the bank, and the monient the bow p"“ded the hounds sprang out. The boys ® haste, and Bert as he stepped ashore drew , the canoe half way out of the water, so that the cuwent could not carry her down the stream. ' Now, we’ll send the dogs in to drive him out^ said Don, ‘ and if they can push him fast enough to make him take to a tree, he’s our bear ; but if he takes to the water and swims to the mainland we shall lose him. We don’t care for that, however. He’ll be sure to come back, and when he does he U find a trap waiting for him. Well see sport in catching him alive as we would in shooting hm. Hunt ’em up there!’ he added, waving his hand along the path. , , , The hounds, baying fierce and loud at every ]ump, went tearing through the cane, followed by the boys, who moved in single tile, Don leading very few minutes sufficed to bring them to the cleared spot in which Godfrey’s camp was located, and there they found the hounds running about, showing eveiy sio-ii of anger and excitement. They’re on a warm trail,’ said Don, lookung first into each corner of the cleared space and then up into the trees over his head. ^ The game bas ^t lett here. This is somebody’s old camp, and the bear has taken possession of it. No doubt he slept in that shantv. ‘ Hunt ’em up, there ! ’ i, The hounds followed Godfrey s trail through the camp, and diHng into the cane on the opposite side werl quickly out of sight. The boys flowed, and presently stood panting and almost breathless beside

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Godfr^ escaping from the “ hunters.” the drift-wood, where the hounds were running about close to the water’s edge, now and then looking to¬ ward the opposite shore and baying loudly. But Godfrey was safely out of their reach. Seizing the opportunity when the hunters and dogs were hidden from view in the cane, he stepped into the water and struck out for the mainland. He had hardly time to climb the bank and conceal himself in the bushes be¬ fore Don’s hounds were running about on the very spot where he had been hidden but a few minutes before. Why was it that the hounds followed his trail as they would have followed that of a bear or deer? Simply because they scented him before they reached the island, and because Godfrey took so much pains to keep out of their way. Had he stood out in plain view while the boat was approaching the hounds would have paid no attention to him.

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1 826 CHATTERBOX. No XLI. ‘WeU, he’s gone/ said Bert, and the deep sigh that escaped his lips as he uttered tlie words would have led one to believe that he was glad of it ; ‘ and now Conaes the hard work. It’s an all-day’s job to build that trap.’ * It would be if we had to cut down the trees and trim off the branches,’ replied David ; ^ but there is some timber in this drift-wood that will answer our purpose as well as any we could get ourselves. Where are you going to build the trap, Don ? ’ ^ In there, where his den is, would be the best place, wouldn’t it? Now let’s go after the axes; and while you and Bert are cutting the logs. I’ll unload the boat and open a road through the cane, so that we can haul our timber in without any diffi¬ culty.’ The work being thus divided rapid progress was made. By the time Dan had unloaded the boat and cut a path leading from Godfrey’s camp to the upper end of the island, Bert and David had selected and notched all the logs that we:e needed for the trap. Then a stout rope, which Don had been thoughtful enough to put into the boat, w^as brought into requi¬ sition, and the work of hauling in the logs began. As fast as they were placed into position, Don fastened them down with the pins he and his brother had made the night before, and when lunch time came, a neat log cabin about six feet square was standing in front of Godfrey’s lean-to. With a little ‘ chinking/ and the addition of a door and perhaps a window, it would have made a much more comfortable place of abode than the miserable bark structure which God¬ frey had so long occupied. Their hard work had given the boys glorious appe¬ tites, and they did full justice to the good things Mrs. Gordon had put up for them. Don said their lunch might have been much improved by the addi¬ tion of one of the ducks Bert had shot that morning, but their time was much too precious to be wasted in cooking. The hardest part of their task was yet to be done, and that was to build a movable roof for their cabin. Don, who had received explicit instructions from his father the night before, superin¬ tended this work, and by the middle of the afternoon the trap was completed and set, ready for the bear’s reception. It looked, as we have said, like a little log cabin with a flat roof. One end of the roof rested on the rear wall of the trap, while the other was raised in the air, leaving an opening sufficiently large to admit of the entrance of any bear that was likely to come that way. The roof was held in tliis position by a stout lever, wffiich rested across the limb of a con¬ venient tree. A rope led from the other end of the lever, down through a hole in the roof, to the trigger, to which the bait — an ear of corn — was attached. The bear was expected to crawl through the opening and seize the ear of corn : and in so doing he would spring the trigger, release the lever, and the roof would fall down and fasten him in the pen. When all the finishing touches had been put on, the boys leaned on their axes and admired their work. {To be continued.) DO INSECTS TALK TO EACH OTHEB? TWO ants/ says Buchner, ‘ when they are talking together stand with tlieir heads opposite each other, working their sensitive feelers in the liveliest manner and tappidg each other’s heads.’ N umerous examples prove that they are able in this way to make communications to each other, and even on certain definite subjects. ^ I have often,’ says the naturalist Jesse, ^ placed a small green caterpillar in the neighbourhood of an ant’s nest. It is immediately seized by an ant, which calls in the assistance of a friend after ineffectual efforts to drag the caterpillar into the nest. It can bo clearly seen that the little creatures hold a conversa¬ tion by means of their feelers, and this being ended, they repair together to the caterpillar in order to draw it into the nest by their united strength. Further, I have observed the meeting of ants on the way to and from their nest. They stop, touch each other with their feelers, and appear to hold a conversation, which I have good reason to suppose refers to the best ground for obtaining food.’ Hague writes in a letter to Darwin, that he one day killed with his finger a number of ants who came every day from a hole in the wall to some plants standing on the chimney-piece. He had tried the effect of brushing them away, but it was of no use, and the consequence of the slaughter was, that the ants who were on the way turned back and tried to persuade their companions who were not yet aware of the danger to turn back also. A short conversa¬ tion ensued between the ants, which, however, did not result in an immediate return, for those who had- just left the nest first convinced themselves of the truth of the report. — Leisure Hour. AN AKCTIC HERO. MONGST the names of those gallant men who have risked, and in many cases lost, their lives in exploring the frozen regions around the North Bole, that of Sir W. E. Parry justly holds a high place. His father was a well- known physician at Bath, and in that town the future hero was born, in the year 1790. At four years of age he is described as being a handsome boy with dark hazel eyes and golden curls, even then showing signs of the spirit of adventure which afterwards made him so distinguished. The young Parry was a favourite with all. At five years old he was one day discovered in the library of a lady friend astiide of a large globe. ^ What, Edward,’ said the lady, ^ are you riding on the globe P ’ ^ Oh, yes ! ’ said the boy; ^ and how I should like to go round it ! ’ Parry’s home was miles away from the sea, but still he was bent on a sailor’s life. His father had wished him to be a physician, but, finding the boy’s tastes opposed to this, he had him appointed a volun¬ teer of the first class on board the Ville de Paris. France and England were then at war, and this

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No. XLI. CHATTERBOX. 327 vessel Avas sent out as flagship to the fleet watchiner the coast of Prance. And so the Jad who had never ^n the sea before went at once to active service beiore the enemy. Parry had not been long on board ship before his daiing spirit showed itself. Seeing a sailor aloft he sprang into the rigging, and climbed to the mast¬ head, where he waved his cap in triumph. * A fine feUow, . every inch of him!^ was the verdict the sailors gave as they clustered around him on the deck. At this time he was not yet fourteen, and whilst doing his ordinary duties on board ship, and showing himself a bold, courageous, and withal nappy and con- tented lad, he yet managed to keep up his knowledge of Orreek and Latin, and apply himself to French and mathematics. ^ The fear of God was his ruling prin¬ ciple, and the influence of a Christian home kept its power over him. ^ At seventeen years of age Parry received his first important office. He was sent as prize-master to coinmand a captured French vessel laden with salted sarmnes and wine. One year later he was removed to the Vanguard, his duties became more diffi¬ cult and dangerous. The fleet was protecting British merchantmen from jDutch gunboats, and Parry often took part in fights in which the enemy were supe¬ rior in numbers. At this time he was urged to represent his age as nineteen, in order to get a heutenancy the sooner; but he disdauied to gain the coveted step, as many did, by deceit. He was x^ling to^ wait the required time, and within a fort- ni^t of his being nineteen he received his commission. That rank he was to retain for many years. Cruis- ing in the Baltic, on the American coast, and else¬ where, he saw others advanced while he was passed over; and at last he came home to England in his twenty-seventh year only a lieutenant. But he could not remain inactive. A letter was written asking for a post with an expedition to explore the river Congo in Africa. It had nearly been posted, when he saw in a newspaper some details of a proposed Arctic expedition. Again he seized the pen, and wrote to a friend his wish for service. t.s are gathered in the rear. A. B. B.

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An Arctic Hero.

Page 335

! ^ ^ - - — - - — - - — - - ! No. XLII. CHATTERBOX. 329

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330 CHATTERBOX. No. XLII. THE BOY TBAPPEB. {Continued from p. 32G.) By Harry Castlemon. - (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. CHAPTER XI. — TRAPPING QUAILS. )W, I call that a pretty good job for a first attempt,’ said Don ; ^ and con¬ sidering the work we have had to do, it hasn’t taken us a great while either. I wish I dare crawl in there and set it off, just to be sure that it will work all right.’ . ^ But that wouldn’t be a very bright proceeding,’ replied Bert. ^ W e could never get you out. You would be as closely fixed as you were when you were tied up in the potato-cellar.’ Don was well aware of that fact. The roof was made of logs as heavy as they could manage with their united strength, and there were other logs placed upon it in such a position that when the roof fell, their weight would assist in holding it down. All these precautions were necessary, for a bear can exert tremendous strength if he once makes up his mind to do it, and David had repeatedly declared that if they should chance to capture an animal as large as the one that had been killed on that island some years before, the pen would not prove half strong enough to hold him. But it was quite strong enough to hold Don if he got into it, and the only way his ; companions could have released him would have been ( by cutting the roof to pieces with their axes. I The work was all aone now, and the boys were 1 ready to start for home. AVhile Bert and David were * gathering up the tools and^stowing them away in the canoe, Don scattered a few ears of corn around, so that the bear would be sure to find them the next time he visited the island, and threw a dozen or so more into the trap close about the trigger. The rest of the corn he hung up out of reach on a sapling which he knew was too small for the bear to climb. Assisted by the current the canoe made good time down the bayou. Bert and David lay back in the stern-sheets and said they were tired, while Don, who was seated at the oars, declared that his day’s work had relieved his stiff joints, and that he began to feel like himself again. He was fresh enough to help in building another trap without an hour’s rest ; and, in order to work off a little of his surplus energy,' he thought when he reached home ho would take a turn through the fields in company with his pointer, and see if lie could bag quails enough for his next morning’s breakfast. Bert said he would go with him, for he wanted to see the pointer work. In about three quarters of an hour the canoe entered the lake, and drew up to the bank in front of Godfrey’s cabin. David sprang out, and after placing his gun upon the bench in front of the door, went behind the building to unchain the pointer. He was gone a long time — so long that Don and Bert, who were sitting in the canoe waiting for him, began to grow impatient — and when he came back he did not bring the pointer with him. He brought instead a chain and a collar. His face told the brothers that he had made a most unwelcome dis¬ covery. ^ Where’s the dog ?’ asked Bert. don’t know,’ answered David, looking up and down the road. ^ He must have slipped the coUar over his head and gone off ; but I never knew him to do it before.’ * Well, you needn’t look so sober about it,’ said Don. ^ He isn’t far away. I’U warrant I can bring him back.’ Don set up a whistle that could have been heard for half a mile. Indeed, it was heard and recognised at a greater distance than that. An answering yelp came from the direction of his father’s house, but it was not given by the dog Don wanted to see just then. It w^as uttered by one of the hounds which had been shut up in the barn when Don w^ent away that morning, and afterward released by the hostler. The others answered in chorus, and half a dozen fleet animals were seen coming down the road at the top of their speed. But the pointer was not with them. * It’s likely we shall find him at the house,’ said Bert, who wanted to say something encouraging for David’s benefit. ^I don’t doubt it,’ returned Don. ^ If he’s there^ Dave, we’ll take a short hunt with him, and bring him down in the morning.’ ^ If you don’t care I’ll go up with you,’ said David. * It would be a great relief to me to know that he is safe.’ ^ All right. Jump aboard.’ David got into the canoe again, and Don pulled up the lake toward the wharf. When they reached it the boat was made fast to the tree again, and the three boys started for the house. Don at once began making inquiries concerning his pointer, but no one had seen him, and his loud and continued whistling brought only the hounds, which snuffed at the guns and yelped and jumped about as if trying to make their master understand that they were there, and ready for anything he might want them to do, ‘ Never mind,’ said Don, who did not seem to feel half as bad as David did ; ^ dogs of his breed never stray far away, and he’ll be at your house or ours before morning, you may depend upon it. Good-by now, and don’t forget to be on hand at an early hour. We must set to work upon those traps without any more delay.’ David reluctantly turned his face toward home, and Don and Bert T^ent into the house. ^ I didn’t tell him just wliat I think about the matter, for he feels badly enough already,’ said Don, when he and his brother were in their room, dressing for supper. ' There’s an awful thief about here, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all to know that the pointer has gone where our canoe went.’ ^ Do you know that that thought has been in my mind all the while?’ returned Bert. ^ Who is the thief ?’ * I give it up. If he lives about here he’s foolish to steal my dog, for he never can use him in hunting. There isn’t a man or boy in the settlement but vsrould recognise him the moment he saw him.’ ‘ Perhaps he was stolen in the hope that a reward would be offered for his return,’ suggested Bert.

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No. XLII. CHATTERBOX. 331 'Well, there’s something in that. But after all,' added Ban, a few minutes later, 'there isn’t so much in it, for how could the thief return the dog with¬ out making himself known Still I hope it is. so — that is, if the dog was stolen — for rather than lose him. I’ll give ten dollars to anybody who will bring him back to me, and ask no questions. If I have •to do that it will ruin me, for it will take my last cent.’ The ringing of the supper beb put a stop to their conversation for the time being, but it was resumed as soon as the family were gathered about the table. Various explanations were offered for the pointer’s absence, and when that matter had been talked over, the events of the day were brought up for discussion. Bert acted as spokesman, and when he told how the hounds had driven the bear from his den and forced him to swim the bayou, Don was surprised to see that his father smiled as if he did not quite believe it. ' It’s the truth, every word of it,’ said Don, almost indignantly. ' Oh, I don’t doubt that you found something on the island and drove it off,’ replied the General, ‘ but I don’t think it was a bear.’ ' What was it ?’ asked Don. ' It was something you will not be likely to catch in your trap. It was Godfrey Evans.’ Don dropped his knife and fork, and settled back in his chair. I ' We saw tracks in the mud that did not look to I me like bear tracks, that’s a fact,’ said he. ' If that 1 was Godfrey, he’s the one that stole our canoe.’ ( 'Then we have had all our trouble for nothing’ said Bert. ^ 'Perhaps not,’ replied his father. ' The island has been much frequented by bears ever since I can remember, and it may be that your labour will be rewarded in a day or two. It might be well for you to watch your trap at any rate. If you should happen to catch a young bear, that you could bring home alive, Silas Jones would give you twenty dollars for it. That would be a big addition to David’s little capital, for of course you wouldn’t want any of the money.’ ‘ Of course not. AU we want is the fun of catching the bear.’ Don and Bert were up the next morning before the sun, as they always were, and as soon as they were dressed they went out to the shop and found David there busy with his traps. He knew where the key was kept, under the door-step, and at the first peep of day he had let himself in and gone to work. Of course the first questions that were asked and an¬ swered were in regard to the missing pointer, but no one had seen or heard anything of him. David seemed to take the loss very much to heart. The animal was a valuable one, and he felt that he was in some degree responsible for his safe-keeping. Three yairs of willing hands made light work, and by two 0 clock in the afternoon a dozen traps were completed and ready for setting. The boys then stopped long enough to take a hasty lunch, which they ate in the shop, in order to save time, and after that one of the mules was hitched to a waggon and brought before the door. The traps, a basket con¬ taining the ' figure fours,’ with which they were to be set, a bag of corn for bait, an axe, with which to clear away the under]3ush, and a spade to dig the trenches, having been packed away in the vehicle, the boys got in and di’ove off. They directed their course along the fence, which ran around the plantation, and wherever they found a clump of bushes or a little thicket of briers and cane, there they stopped long enough to set one of their traps. The traps were made of slats split from oak boards, and were a little less than four feet square, and a little more than a foot in height. In the top was a slide covering a hole large enough to admit one’s arm, and it was through this hole that the captured birds were to be taken out. The undergrowth was first cut away with the axe, and the trap put down in the clear space, a narrow board being placed under two sides ot it, to give it a solid foundation. A trench just large enough to admit a single quail was dug under each of these boards, one end of the trench being on the outside of the trap and the other on the inside. A small ear of corn was tied firmly to the trigger, the trap set with the 'figure four,’ a few kernels were scattered about in the immediate neigh¬ bourhood, and the trap was ready for the first Ijock of quails that might come that way. When they came, they would, of course, find the corn, and while they were eating it they would be sure to find the trap. One or more of them would go in and spring it by pecking at the ear that was tied to the trigger, and the others, no matter if there were a hundred in the fiock, would all go in to him through the trenches before spoken of. After they had eaten the corn they would look up instead of down for a way of escape, and, although the trepches at which they came in were still open to them, they would not know enough to make use of them. If the trap was once spi-ung the capture of the entire flock was certain, provided those outside were not frightened away before they had time to go into their imprisoned companions. In two hours’ time the traps had all been set, and the boys were at home again. They had done a good day’s work, but they wanted to do a better ; so, as soon as the mule was unharnessed and the waggon put under the shed where it belonged, they set to work in the shop again, and before dark a large coop, which would just fit into the waggon-box, was com¬ pleted. This was to be used to bring home the captured quails. After that one of the unoccupied negp cabins was selected to confine the birds in until the required number had been trapped. It received a thorough sweeping, the floor was covered with clean sand, and the broken window was boarded up so that the captives could not escape. When this was done David started for home, and Don and Bert went into the house to get ready for supper. The next day was spent much as the preceding one had been spent. At eleven o’clock seven more traps were ready for the field. Then the mule and waggon were brought into use again, and the new traps were distributed along the fence. When the boys came back they took time to eat lunch, after which tlie coop was put into the waggon, and they set out to visit the traps they had set the day before. ' There’s nothing here,’ said Bert, as he drew rein in front of the thicket in which the first trap was located. He could not see the trap, but his ears told

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The Dinotherium.

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BJackwaH.

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334 CHATTERBOX. No. XLII. him all he wanted to know. If there had heen any quails in it they would have uttered their notes of alarm as soon as they heard the waggon coming. ‘ No, there’s nothing here !’ said l)on, after listening a moment. ^ I’ll scatter a little more corn about, and make sure that the trap is all right.’ He got out of the waggon as he spoke, and while he was working his way into the thicket he flushed a hlue-jay, which flew into a tree close by, and scolded him with all its might. Don shied a stick at it, and kept on to the trap. It was down, and there was something in it which fluttered its wings against the bars, and made the most frantic efforts to escape. Don knew it was not a quail, so he did not stop to see what it was. He threw back the slide, thrust his hand into the opening, and when he clutched the bird received a severe bite from it. ‘ I have half a mind to wring your little neck for you,’ thought Don, as he brought the fluttering captive, a beautiful red- bird, into view. *Not because you have bitten me, but because you wiU make it your business to come here and spring this trap every day. Ked-birds and blue-jays are perfect nuisances when a fellow is trapping, and I wouldn’t blame Dave .for shooting every one he sees.’ But Don did not injure the bird. He was a sports¬ man, and never made war on game of this sort. He tossed the captive into the air, and it flew away out of sight. Having set the trap again, and scattered a little more corn about to replace that which had been picked up by the birds, Don went back to the waggon, and Bert drove on down the field. They found the second trap thrown, and the marks of little teeth on the ear of corn that was tied to the trigger showed that a ground squirrel had been at work. The third trap was also sprung, and the shrill, piping notes of alarm which came to their ears when Bert stopped the waggon, told them that they had made their first capture. Jumping quickly out of the waggon the boys made their way into the bushes, and when they came within sight of the trap they found that it was so full that the little prisoners had scarcely room to turn about. ‘ Here’s the first instalment of your hundred and fifty dollars, Dave,’ cried Don. * We’ve got more than a dozen, I know 1’ Having stopped up the ends of the trenches so that the quails could not escape, Don thrust his arm through the opening in the top of the trap, and began passing out the birds to his brother and David, who carried them to the waggon and put them into the coop. He counted them as he took them out, and found that there were nearer two dozen than one, twenty being the exact number. One, however, escaped from Bert, who, through fear of injuring it, handled it too tenderly. * Never mind,’ said Don, when his brother told him of the loss. ‘He’U go off and join some other flock, so we are bound to catch him anyhow. I call this a good beginning, don’t you, Dave ? It looks now as though you were going to earn your money in spite of Lester and Dan.’ After resetting the trap the boys got into the waggon and drove on. They found some of their traps just as they had -left them ; a few had been thrown by ground squirrels or red-birds ; and from the others they took enough quails to make their day’s catch amount to a little over four dozen. These were aU safely transferred to the cabin, the mule was unharnessed and the young trappers, greatly en¬ couraged by their success, replenished the fire in the shop, for the day was raw and chilly, and went to work to build more traps. (To he continued.) THE dinotherihm:. HIS huge creature Appears to have received its name of Dinotherium, or ‘Terrible Animal,’ on account of its vast size ; for the structure of its teeth shows that it lived on roots and herbage, and from its general character it most likely frequented the great lakes with which, in its time, a great portion of the earth was covered. Its dimensions, indeed, were quite enough to inspire fear, for it was larger than the great Mastodon, and was about eighteen feet in length, the skull alone being four feet long! But, as far as we know, there were no human beings in the world in those days; so the gigantic creature probably led a peaceful life, digging up roots from the bottom of the lake with its immense tusks. These tusks are its most distinctive feature, for they grow out of the under-jaw, not out of the upper one, like those of the elephant ; and they curve under, as if expressly made for digging with. They were also, probably, of use to the animal in taking , hold of the bank to draw its weighty body out of the water, in the same way as the walrus uses its tuslts. The structure of its skeleton is not like that of the elephant, and the form of its shoulder-blade resembles that of the mole, and seems to indicate a habit of rooting and burrowing in the ground. When the remains of the Dinotherium were first discovered, the great French naturalist, Cuvier, thought the animal had been a species of gigantic tapir. But it is not like the tapirs, and it seems to stand alone as the largest terrestrial mammalian that ever existed. ° A. R. THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XX.— FROM GREENWICH TO BLACKWALL. PROM Greenwich to Blackwall the river winds so much that one may see forests of masts upon every side. The view of Greenwich Hospital is far. finer after one has passed the building than it is when approaching the place from London. Now we have a fine view of the hilly, broken lands, which made this part of Kent so fine a hunting- ground, and such a favourite haunt of various sov¬ ereigns of England when Greenwich was the frequent residence of the English royal family. Above all other royal pei’sonages Elizabeth pre¬ ferred Greenwich. Indeed, that queen loved the Thames, whether at Windsor, Richmond (where she died), at Greenwich, where she passed some of her

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No. XLII. CHATTERBOX. 335 happiest days, or at Purfleet and Tilbury, where, as we shall shortly tell, that queen inspirited her army. Her father, Henry VIII., was born at Greenwich, and fio w^as she herself, and her half-sister Mary. Even Dr. Johnson, who cared little for the beauties of nature, could admire Greenwich as the birth-place of Elizabeth, for he wrote, — * Struck with the site that gave Eliza birth, We kneel and kiss the consecrated earth.’ When Queen Mary lived at Greenwich, the captain of an English vessel going out to sea, saw the royal banner floafng over the palace, and fired a salute, imfortunately being ignorant of the fact that the cannon was loaded. The ball passed through the wall of the room in which the queen was seated, to her great alarm. Nobody was hurt, not even the captain, for he was one of the few persons who offended Mary whom she spared. Strangely enough, years after, when Elizabeth was in her barge olf Greenwich, a serving man of some neighbouring gentleman, shooting over the fens about Greenwich, sent a bullet through the arm of one of the queen’s bargemen. This unfortunate sportsman was con¬ demned to be hanged. Elizabeth, however, wisely pardoned him. But the old palace has long since passed away, and on its site stands the noble building which until recently was called Greenwich Hospital, but which is now entitled the Koyal Naval College. Very picturesque were the old seamen in their three- cornered hats and their quaint old coats. But a few years since it was felt that it would be better that these old men should not be separated from their wives. Now, therefore, they live where they like, ' and dress as they will. The present building was begun by Charles H., in whose reign the Observatory which crowns the hill behind the fine old palatial building, was also erected. A walk about the Royal Naval College is delightful ; nor must you forget the Painted Hall, or the Museum, where is to be found the coat worn by Nelson when he received the bullet which killed him. Beyond is the Naval School for boys, in the grounds of which you may see a fully-rigged ship upon dry land, whereon the boys play and romp while they learn sailoring. The school has also a fine brass band, entirely composed of the boys themselves. Beyond is the Park, where there may be found a greater variety of trees than anywhere else, except at Kew, for twenty miles round London. Here you will mark the Observatory, and ite twenty-four hour chronometer, the face of which is on the outer waU, so that anybody may correct his watch. Here the visitor will also find the imperial standards of long measure let into the wall. Within the Observatory is a very deep shaft or well, from the bottom of which the astronomers observe the transit of the stars by day; while there are tele¬ scopes so powerful, that a cobweb stretched across^ a lens seems like a thick cord. From this hill arid its Observatory all English astronomers commence the calculation of longitudes. So let us leave Greenwich, after gazing from the hill-top upon that panorama of shipping, which is one of the fflgnts of the world. - - - - - - Now, having left the good old town and its white- bait taverns behind us, we see Blackwall towering before us — once more a forest of shipping, and one of the busiest piers in the world. It is from this point, issuing from the East and West India Docks, that most of the English ships bound for Australia and New Zealand set sail. It is on Blackwall Pier that friends stand to take a last look as the great ship is slowly tugged out into the river, and so begins her voyage to far-off lands. (To he continued.) THE POST OFFICE. rjIHE need of a Postal system was met in very X ancient times by causing relays of horses to be stationed at points along the roads a stage distant from each other. Traces of something like this are found in the statutes of King Edward III. But for many years the system must have been very imper¬ fect, for before the reign of Charles I. tradesmen and others began to send private messages. Some of the chief towns in England had their own posts, who performed long journeys on foot or on horseback, and came back with the answers. In 1543 a post was established by which letters were carried from London to Edinburgh in four days. In 1635 Charles I. established a more successful system for England arid Scotland. But during the civil wars the arrange¬ ments could not be carried out. As years rolled on improvements were made by slow degrees, but letters were a very expensive luxury, until Sir Rowland Hill persuaded the Government to make trial of the Penny Post. To this far-seeing man we owe the freedom and cheapness of our present arrangements.^ ^ OH DUTY. you ask me why I don’t run away Sj When the bullets are flying so free f I stick to my post for the lass Who stood to her duty for me. Long ago, when I was but a lad, The fever got hold of my head ; Like enough I’d not been here to-day If she had not watched by my bed. Oh ! she stuck to it close, night and day ; For a week she was never in bed. Though she was but a bit of a lass She scarce even rested her head. So, my lads, in the front or the rear, Wherever on duty I be. For my sister I stick to my post Who stood to her duty for me. What’s a year or two longer to live ? It is not so much for one’s life. It’s for such as one’s ready to fight — For a mother, or sister, or wife. Take the word of an old grenadier. Who does not know how to say ‘ Yield.’ Let the women stand by us at home. And we’ll stand by them in the field. S. Q-.

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No. XLIII. CHATTERBOX. ‘GOOD OLD DOG!’ ASTI knows his master wears a hat, Jy) To keep him warm, or cool ; lie "oes without, does Hash, but that Is just as much the rule. Ills master’s hat is part of master, As his own bushy tail Is part of Hash — a sad disaster "NVere that fine brush to fail 1 Dash saw the March wind lift the tile, As master drove apace A-ma^*keting. It went a mile As if it ran a race. And Hash flew after; but- the thing Had got the start, and rolled Fast as the chariot of a king, While masters head grew cold. And master’s heai't got anxious, for The bowling hat was bent (A stupid thing !), he plainly saw, On plunging in the Trent ! ‘ Ay, so I thought ! ’ And, saying so, He saw it disappear Over a bank, which bounds the flow Of Trent, to anglei-s dear. A river is a place, you see, For boats and floats and that. But never surely meant to be A hat-box for a hat. ‘There goes a hat!’ cried Saucy SaD, Said Peter, ‘ What a joke ! Food for the fish !’ It never shall, ’ While Hash can swim a stroke I It never shall, you laughing girl. While Hash has legs enough. Although the Trent’s an ugly swirl And his broad bosom’s rough ! A hat’^ a sacred thing to Dash, It may be master’s life. Worth more than all his cows and cash, Hearer than child or wife. So reasons Hash, as Hashes can ; Then, in the flood he bounds: Good dog ! a deed like that in man Were worth a thousand pounds I He buffets with the angiy Trent, It’s triclrs and awlvward ways ; A hundred eyes on Hash are bent, A score of tongues give praise ! ‘ lie’s got the hat 1 ’ ‘ Good dog ! ’ ‘ Well done ! ’ Some tifty voices cry : May we be there to see such fun. When next the wind is high ! G. S. O. THE BOY TRAPPEE. (Continiicd from page 331.) By Harby Castlemon. (Oopyright.) Porter and CJoatcs. 1878. CHAPTER XII. — WHERE THE POINTER WAS. Yes, sar, I’m goin’ to raise a furse here now, ail* I won’t l)e long about it, nuther. They think I don't amount to nothin’ in this yere house, but I’ll show ’em that I do. Had bein’ away, I had oughter be the man of the family, an’ that leetle Dave shan’t crowd me outen the place, nuther. When ne comes back to-night his eyes’ll stick out so’t a feller could hang his hat onto 'em. You hear me?' Tnis was the way Han Evans talked to himself, as^ he sat on the bench in front of the door, gazing after his mother and Havid, as they walked down the rodd toward General Gordon’s. He was greatly enraged over his failure to steal his brother’s ten dollars, and really thought David had been guilty of a mean piece of business in putting his money where it would be safe. . . ‘ He hasn’t gone off with that thar shootin’-iron on his shoulder fur nothin’,* thought Dan. ‘ He’s goin* huntin’ with them Gordon fellers, and he’ll have a nice time an* get somethin’ good to eat, while I must go without my dinner, kase thar’s nobody here to cook it fur me. Tliey don’t take half so much notice of me as they would if I was a pinter dog !' Dan sat on the bench for half an hour or more, now and then looking down the road as if he were waiting for something, and all the while his mind was occupied with such thoughts as these. At last the sight of Don Gordon’s canoe, which suddenly appeared in the lake, brought him to his feet and sent him behind the cabin in great haste. It did more. It recalled to himi the fact that his father had told him to steal that same cinoe and bring it to Bruin’s Island, together with several necessary articles that were to be pur¬ chased at Silas Jones’s store. Dan had not once thought of this since he saw David at the landing with ten dollars in his hand, and heard the grocer tell him that his credit was good for six months; but l)e thought of it the moment he saw the canoe with the hounds curled up in the bow. His eyes w^ere sharp enough to see that Don carried his rifle in his hands, and that a heavy shot-gun, which Dan knew belonged to General Gordon, leaned over Bert’s shoulder. God¬ frey’s prediction was about to be fulfilled. Don was going back to the island to shoot the bear which had f lightened him and his brother the day before. The thought made Dan almost frantic. He jumped up and knocked his heels together, slapped his hands, dashed his hat upon the ground and made other de¬ monstrations showing a very perturbed state of mind. ‘ Dad’s in fur it now, an’ so am I,’ said he, in an ex¬ cited whisper. ‘ He’ll get his jacket wet swimmiii’ the bayou to get away from them fellei*s, if they give him the chance, an’ I’ll get mine dusted with hickoiy, lease I didn’t fetch that canoe up thar. I jest wish I k no wed what to do.* Dan, almost leady to cry witli vexation and alarm, watched the canoe until it turned into the bayou and passed nut of his sight, and then went back to tlio b:‘nch and sat down to think alx>ut this new dilliculty in which he found himself, and to find a w’ay out if

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No. XLllI. * CHATTERBOX. 389 he could. His father would he compelled to hunt up a new hiding-place now — there was no way to prevent that— and in order to leave the island he would pro- hahly be forced to swim the bayou, for he would nave no time to build a raft. That would, of course, make him angry, and he never could bre ithe easily again until he had taken satisfaction out of somebody, i lhat somebody Dan kuevv was certain to be himself, tmless - I I’ll fix him,’ thought the boy, his face clearinn^ up, \ as a bright idea came into his mind. ‘ I’ll take'^him i the pintp. I was goin’ to hide him in the woods somewhar, but dad kin take keer on him as well as not. Don’ll pay a dollar or two to git him back, an’ IT give the old man half. But fust, I must go down to the landin’ an’ buy them shoes an’tobacker; an’ ; . while I m thar. I’ll jest say a good word to Silas fur 'myself. I’m a nobody about this yere house, am I ? them ten dollars to keep fur I him, an’ now I’ll take somethin’ outen his pocket j without sayin’ a word to him.’ : i Dan shook his head in a very wise and knowino* manner, and went into the house after his rifle. He Old not take it becau e he expected to find any game while he was on the way to the landing, but because he had fallen into the habit of carrying it with him everywhere he went and felt lonely without it. Knowing that Don and Bert were not at home Dan . did not go around through the fields to avoid the . General s barn, as he usually did, but boldly followed V the road. There were a few idle men hanging about the store, as there almost always were, but none of them . appeared to be doing any trading, and the grocer was ‘ ■ ready to attend^ to Dan’s wants at once. The boy bought the articles his father wanted, and having pocketed the change, cleared his throat, preparatory ' tosayingagood word for himself. 'Mr. Jones, if you please, sar, Dave sent me down here this mornin’ to ax you would you give me somethin’ fur myself, if you please, sar — some shoes, an’ sich like.’ ' Certainly,’ replied the grocer, readily. And Dan was surprised to see that he held out his hand as if he expected to receive something. ' I’ve no money,’ said Dan. ' That makes no difference. I don’t want any money from David.’ ' Then I’ll take a pair of them amazin’ fine-lookin’ shoes of your’n — number nines, pleaie, sar.’ 'All right. Hand out the order.’ ' Sar ! ’ exclaimed Dan, opening his eves. ' if David doesn’t come here himself and tell me to give you the things, he must send a written order. * Dave, he done told ir e to git ’em,’ faltered Dan. 'I don t doubt it; but in order to have things straight, you go home and get an order for such tilings as you want and I’ll give them to you.’ Dan gathered the articles which he had purchased for his father under one arm, tdok his rifle under the other, backed slowly away from the counter, and went out of the store. He wasn’t quite so smart as he thought he was. His shoes and stockings, and the ammunition for his rifle, which he thought he w-as going to get for nothing, weie likely to colt him something after all. It w’as an easy matter to cheat fellow^s like Don and Bert, wTo were much more familiar with Greek than they were with the way business was conducted, but it w’as not so easy to deceive a man like Silas Jones. Dan w-as surprised and disappointed, and of course as angry as he could be. He walked rapidly alono- the road with his bundles under his arm and his rifle on his shoulder, and it was not until he reached homo and had sunned himself for a few minutes on the bench in front of the door, that he cooled down so that he could think the matter over. But he could think to no purpose even then ; and after resting a few minutes longer, he arose and went into the cabin. He walked stiaight to the 'shake-down’ wdiich ho and his brother occupied, and drew from under the head of it a piece of rope he had placed there the night before. With this in his hand he came out again, and after looking up and down the road, to make sure that there was no one in sight, he went around the building to the kennel where Don’s pointer was confined. The animal came out to meet him, and Dan did not send him back with a kick, as he usually did. He^ took off his collar, and having tied the roj)e about his neck, buckled the collar again and threw it on the ground, hoping in this w-ay"to give David the impression that his charge had freed himself. He then led the dog to the high rail fence which surrounded the lot, assisted him to climb over it, and left him there in the bushes, wliile ho returned to the bench after his rifle and bundles. These secured, he climbed the fence himself, picked up the rope and hurried into the woods, the pointer trotting along by his side. Dan thought he knew just where to go to find his father. The latter would, of course, be on the look¬ out for his son, and it was reasonable to suppose that he would rsmain somewhere near the island ; so Dan followed the course of the bayou, taking care to keep so far away from it that he would not be discovered by any one who might chance to be passing in a boat, and when he had approached close enough to the island to hear the voices of the young hunters, he tied the pointer to a tree, deposited his bundles on the ground, and with his rifle for a companion crept through the bushes to see wdiat they w ere doing. There was no one in sight w-hen he first reached the bank of the bayou, but in a few minutes Bert and David came out of the cape wdth a rope in their hands. There were several logs scattered about the beach,, and David made the rope fast to one of them, and he and Bert dragged it into the cane. While Dan was wondering what they were going to do with the log a t\vig_ snapped near him, and he turned quickly to find his father almost wdthin reach of him. ' Halloo, dad ! ’ said Dan, jumping to his feet and backing into the bushes. *' Whar’s the tobacker?’ demanded Godfrey, in a subdued tone of voice. ' I’ve got it. You ain’t mad, be you, dad ? ’ ' I’m not so scandalous mad now; but if I could have got ray fingers into your collar about the time I wiis a shiverin’ in my w'et clothes, I’d a played " Far’well to the Star Spangled Banner” on your back with a good hickory, I bet 3^11 !* ' Kase if 3*011 be mad ’tain’t my fault,’ continued Dan. ' I tried my level best to steal the canoe, but

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ouldn’t do it. It ^’as locked up tighter n a hnck. I tied to get ten dollars fur you too, dad, but I couldn t o that nuther; so 1 brung Don Gordons pinter lono-. Swum the bayou, I rcckon, didn’t vou . ^ f didn’t walk acrosst, did I ? In course I swum it. * Your clothes ain’t wet ! ’^ , . -i. ‘No ’kase I went back in the woods, an built a ire an’ dried ’em. Le’s go back thar now, so’t^we dn talk. We don’t want them fellers to hear us. ‘ What be they doin’ over thar, anyhow ? ’ ^ked Dam ‘ They’re buildin’ a bar trap, looks like. They 11 be sartin to ketch one, too, ’kase tbar’s a bar comes thar a’most every night. If I bad a boat they woiildn t get much good of him arter they do ketch him. Dan handed his rifle to his father and went hack after the pointer and his bundles; and when he came up again Godfrey led the way toward his temporary camp. He was gloomy and sullen, and there was an

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No. XLIII. CHATTERBOX. 341 The Training Ship. expression on his face which Dan did not like to see there, for it made him fear that a storm was brewing. But after they had been a few minutes in the camj^ and Godfrey had filled his pipe and smoked a whiff or two, the scowl faded away, and Dan began to breathe easier. ' I’ve put you in the way^ to make a dollar, dad. said he, as soon as the soothing effects of the tobacco began to be perceptible. ^ If you 11 take that pin ter an' keep him till I call fur him, I’ll give you half of what Don pays me to get him back. * I seed you bringin’ the dog, an’ I knowed what you was up to,’ replied his father. ^ But Don don t get him back for no dollar, I tell you. That animile is wuth fifty dollars anyhow, an’ if Don ^ wants him aonn he’ll have to plank (lo1\ n five dollars. ^Whew!’ whistled Dan. ‘We’re gettin’ rich, ain’t we? Now^, dad, thar’s your shoes an’ stockin’s, an’ thar’s the change Silas give me. You kin put it w’ith what you’ve got left of your twenty dollars, an’ when— oh, laws !’ , Dan jumped to his feet, opened his mouth and eyes, and looked at his father in the greatest as¬ tonishment. Something he had said seemed to pro¬ duce a wonderful effect upon Godfrey. ITis pipe dropped from his lips, the colour all left his face, and after sitting silent and motionlessfor a moment, he gave utterance to a loud yell, sprang to his feet, and strode about the camp as if he were almost beside himself. (To be contiimed.) A BOY'S liOG. T may interest some of the ‘land¬ lubbers’ (as a seaman used to call a landsman) if we note some of a boy’s daily doings on a training-ship. We will call her the Soleiit, and we may say of her she is a noble vessel, one of Old England’s wooden walls. It is said she was before Sebastopol, vol¬ leying forth fire and fury at those strong ramparts ; but she will fight no lore. All her guns have forsaken her, and she is ndino* her days as a training-school for young fellows rho mean to uphold the Union Jack in the forefront f the world’s coinmerce. ^ • • j i, tSoon after the boy who wrote this log joined the he wrote thus : — H. M. S, Solent, Monday, Aug. Ilth, 1879. Drau Eatukr,— 1 hope you are all quite well at home. I am going to write a sort of diary, and send it you every three days. From til is log we propose making some extracts, for the enlightenment of the land-lubbers. MoTiday, lUA.— We turned out at 6 a.m. Had brealffast at 7. After breakfast, sent our clothes to the wash, swept majp deck, placed forms for prayers.

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842 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIII. had prayers, and placed desks for school. Went into school at ‘J.oO. Did not do much in school, as all the boys liave not yet come back. There will be thirty- six new ones altogether. Stowed desks. At 1 o’clock had dinner. After dinner, placed desks, went into school at 2.0O, came out early, and washed upper deck. Tea. After tea washed lower deck. At 8.»‘10 had divisions for hammocks. Had prayers. Turned in. TueHclai/f \’2fJi. — Did the usual work in the morning. Nothing particular happened. Had seamanship in the afternoon. Did not do much — new boys, and boys who had new clothes, had them examined. After tea had free Evening. Dead Newton Foi'ster. Several old boys came back, also, some new ones. Wednesdaif, I lUh. — Did work as usual. Began school- work in earnest. As it rained in afternoon had school. Free evening instead. Put chest to rights after tea. Thursday, \Ath. — Had lessons as usual in the morn¬ ing. In afternoon, starboard watch, went to the baths. Came on board at 4.o0 p.m. Lessons after tea. Fnday, \^th, — After breakfast, got main and mizzen nets out of the hold, and took them on the upper deck. After dinner put the nets up, also some of the ropes. Had lessons after tea. Saturday y IG^A. — Scrubbed and washed all decks in morning. About dinner-time it began to rain, so we had to stop on board. There was going to be a cricket-match at our field, but of course they could not play. Free evening. When w^e turned in, still raining haixi. Sunday y 17^^.— When we turned out, still raining haixi. We had Bible class as usual this morning; also service morning and evening. Wednesday y 27th. — Very wet day. In afternoon. Judge F - came and t*ok N - and me to the town, where we went to an hotel. We then went out and oixiered a lot of grub, which we called for next morning. We then went back to tho hotel and had dinner. After that w^e went to the Christy Minstrels, which I liked very much. We then re¬ turned to the liotel and went to bed. Thursday, 2^th. — Very fine day. We got up about eight, and had breakfast at nine. We then went Cut and walked about. Got the grub which we had oixiered the day lief ore, which consisted of corned beef, cheese, &c. We then took a cab and got off by the eleven boat. We got on board about half-past, and xvent in school. After dinner, it being fine for once, tlio port watch went to the baths, while the starboard watch got up coals. We have just finished getting up poals, and those that want to go are falling in on the lower deck. Tuesday, September 2iu7. — Showery day. Had be¬ tween decks instruction in afternoon. Also lowered tep-gallant ma.sts and yards. Wednesday, t]rd. — Port watch went to the baths. Overhauled our kits. 'Thursday, 4th. — Fine day. We had the monthly holiday. In the moming I went to the baths; in the afternoon to the field, and about the parts where we are free to go. Friday, V2th. — Fine da}". Hot in aftenioon. Had sail drill. In afternoon, ship’s piano came on board. Free evening at night for dancing. Saturday, \ Sth. — Fine day, though it turned rather dull in afternoon. I did not go on shore. Cleaned as usual in the morning-. Sunday, 14^/i. — Splendid day. Seiwice as usuaL Shore in afternoon. 'Tuesday, IG^A. — Fine day, though foggy. Sail drill in afternoon. Mr. H - came back after a week’s outing. H M. S. R - ’s launch picked up one of their own men, who fell overboard a week before. Thursday, ISth. — F'ine day, though dull. We had our flag half-mast high, because the R - ’s man was buried. Free evening at night. Wednesday, 24th. — Very foggy in the nioniing. Had to ring the fog-bell, which is on the poop. Star¬ board watch went to the baths in the afternoon. Dingy had to be lowered at night about 10 o’clock to fetch the captain. - Friday, 2Qth. — Fine day. A little fellow named T - last night fell on his head from the lower deck on to the bricks which surround the stove. I and two other fellows picked him up insensible, and carried him into the *sick bay,’ where he soon came round, and went out of the ^ sick bay ’ to all appearance all right, except that he complained of a headache. However, tnis moming he -svas found dead in his liammock. In the afternoon an inquest w"as held over his body in the forward Lsick bay.’ He had frac¬ tured his skull. He has a brother on boaixi. His parents came the same afternoon. His father is a clergyman. J^tuiday, 27th. — We cleaned the ship as usual We were going to begin football, had it not been for little T - ’s death. After tea we all fell in on the lower deck, while the coffin, borne by four petty officers, was carried to the boat, covered by the red ensign. It was taken to the hotel close by. Monday, 2^th. — We all followed poor little T - to his grave in our full unifonn. II. M. S. R - 's launch landed us. (Concluded in our next.) THE WARS OP THE PRIMROSES. ISSENSION once was very rife Within a piimrose bed; The little buds they all to .fit part, And naughty things were said, Because one foolish piimrose iX)ot Had blossoms rosy red. The contest loud and louder waxed Within this primrose town, The dreadful truth had come to light, Through stories of renoxvn — The gardener had the primrose root Inserted upside-down.* ' ’Tis plain to see, ’ in angry tones Denounce the yellow friends, * When modest heads too lowly droop The sap too fast descend.^ ! Which causes the unseemly bloom That primrose taste offends ! ’ ♦ Allndin?? to the fact that primroses planted upside-dowa bear I'ed blossoms.

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NO.XLIII. CHATTERBOX. 343 The hasty little crimson buds, To seize the gauntlet rush ; But one tall ilower, the Crimson Queen, i In gentle voice says, * Hush ! TTis for the gardener’s negligence And ignorance I blttsk/* The Yellow Queen’s sarcastic voice Is borne upon the breeze ; * When next you’re planted upside-down, downwards, if you please! Appreciation you may find At the antipodes ! ’ The rosy Chieftainess in vain Would still her outraged crew. * Is not the evening sky,* they shout, * Tinged with a crimson hue ? That yellow shade you all possess To,;Woz^y is due ! * The yellow buds in deep disdain ' All further parley spurned. ' We know,’ they said, ‘ the sunset clouds ' With golden radiance burned I Poor things ! their senses, like their roots. Quite upside-dovm are turned I ’ Since then the deadly primrose feud I No lapse of time can stay. The Crimson pointedly ignore, Tlie Yellow Monarch’s sway. ' The Yellow have the Ci'hnson sent To Coventry for aye ! G. E. Bennkt. GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. THE KEVE. ‘ The Reve was a slendre, colerike man. His herd was shave as neighe as ever he can.’ rnilE Reve was a steward, or head bailiff, who X managed an estate, and took charge of the stock for its owner. Chaucer describes his reve as a slender man, prone to anger. His beard was clean shaven, and his hair clipped away at the top, and cut close round his ears like a priest’s. His legs were long and lean as a staff. But he w'as a good man of business, and could keep his lord’s accounts well; the sheep and cattle, the horses, poultry, and even the dairy, being wholly under his control. And ever since his lord was twenty years of age he had given due reckoning of all to him, and no man could accuse him of being in arrear. There was no bailiff, nor herd, nor hind on the estate, but was in deadly fear of him, for he knew all their tricks and wiles. Yet with all this he was subtle enough to enrich himself, whilst he pleased his master ; for indeed he could purchase better than his master, and so manage matters as to get thanks, and a present of a coat and hood, when he was only giving to his lord that which was his own property. He had a fair house in Norfolk, built on a heath, and well shaded by green trees ; and he had learned a good trade in liis youth, and was a carpenter. Altogether he was a very prosperous man, but this does not appear to have im¬ proved his temper: in fact, he was a very cross old fellow. He rode on a fine dapple-grey horse, whose name was ^ Scot ; ’ wore a long surcoat of ‘ perse,’ or bluish-gray colour, and carried by his side a rusty sword. lie always rode hindmost of the company. Now when this long-legged, short-tempered reve, whose name was Osewold, or Oswald, heard the tipsy miller tell a jest about a carpenter, he at once thought, like all conceited people, that it applied to himself, as he belonged to the craft of carpenters; and he thought that the miller had not told it merely to amuse the company, but on purpose to make him ri¬ diculous. So to revenge himself, he determined to tell a tale about a trick that was played on a knavish miller, but he began with such a long tirade about his grey hair, and youth and age, and so forth, that our host, losing patience, interrupted him by telling him that a reve was not made for a preacher, any more than a blacksmith was a shipraan or a doctor; and reminding liim that the day was wearing on, pd that they weie in sight of Deptford and Greenwich, bade him tell his tale without wasting any more time. So Osewold the Keve to’d his story about a miller who ground the corn of the college of Soler Hall at Cambridge, or Cantebrigge, as it was then called; and how this miller, taking advantage of the illness of the manciple of the college, stole so much of the com that two of the scholars, resolving to put a stop to it, got permission from the warden to take the corn themselves to the mill ; and they not only got all ground, but gave the rogue a thorougli beating for his nains. Thus the mve thought that, he had paid off the miller for his stoiy about a caipenter; and it is to be hoped it coinfi.)rtf^i the sour old fellow, and quieted his temper for a time.. A. R. SCRAPS OP KNOWLEDGE. A N oyster is said by Poli, a great authority on this XjL subject, to contain as many as 1,200,000 eggs, 60 that from a single oyster enough to fiU 12,000 barrels might be born ! The number of herrings caught in one year for food is beyond calculation. In Norway twenty millions have been taken at a single fishing, and, where more boats are employed, still larger numbers are caught. It is uncertain who first suggested that herrings should be salted and kept for food. One writer gives the honour to William Denkelzoon, a fisherman of Biervlist, in Flanders, who began the practice in the fourteenth century. By others the invention is asciibed to William Benkelings of Bierulin. The Emperor Charles V. was so impressed with the importance of the invention that he paid a solemn visit to his tomb, and there ate a salted herring over the grave. The fii'st rhinoceros purchased for the Zoological Gardens cost 1000.. It was then, of course, a great curiosity. The next was bought for less than half that sum, although as fine an animal. A pair of giraffes cost the Society 1400/. in purchase-money and tl«^ir carriage home. The hippopotamus pi'esented to the Society cost nearly 1000/. to biing to England and safely hou-e it. The prices of some rare hird.s have been even larg(*r than these. A. K. B.

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Page 351

Sagacity of a Hen. By Harrison Weir.

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346 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIV. WING to some heavy rains, nearly all the ground about a poultry -yard was covered with water. At this time there was a brood of chickens in the hen-house ; they were on the roosting-place, and could not get down on ac¬ count of the water. In this situation they were kept nearly two days, at the end of wliich time the hen was seen to convey them, one by one, on her back, to the gi’ass-plot at a short distance, w\ading through the water as well as she could. In this way the chickens W'ere saved from beirg either starved or drowned. — From Jesse^s * Gleanings in Natural Histui'y' i I i I I j 1 i THE BOY TRAPPER. (Continued from page 341.) Dy Harry Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. WHATS the matter of you, dad Dan ventured to inquire, as soon as he could find his tongue. 'I hain’t got no money at all no more!’ Godfrey almost shouted. ‘That’s what’s the matter of me. Its over thar on the island whi\r them fellers is ! ’ t No !’ gasped Dan. ‘ But I say, yes, it is too ! ’ exclaimed Godfrey. ‘ You see,’ he added, controlling himself with a great effort, when I fust seed them fellers cornin’ up the bayou the sun was kinder shinin’ on the water, an’, it blinded me so’t I thought it w'as you. I was jest goin’ to speak, when I seed thar was three fellers in the boat; an’ afore I could ax myself what that meant, one of the hounds that Don had with him set up a yelp. I knowcd that meant business, an’ it SKeared me so’t I didn’t think of nothin’ only how to get off’n that thar island without bein’ diskivered. I got off all right, but I left my money in that thar holler log, an’ I never thought of it till this blessed minute.’ ‘ Mebbe they won’t find it,’ said Dan. ‘ Wal, that’s a comfortin’ thought,’ returned his father, sighing heavily, as he picked up his pipe : ‘ but luck’s agin me. It allers is. Other folks can get along smooth an’ easy, but I can toil an’ slave, an’ slave, ah’ toil till — jest look at me,’ added Godfrey, rising to his feet again and turning slowly about, so that Dan could have a fair view of him. ‘ Ain’t this a purty fix fur a man to be in who owned nigg^ers an’ cotton by the acre only a little while ago ? That’s jest what makes me ’spise them Gordons.’ ‘ An’ that’s what makes me ’spise that Dave of our’n,’ exclaimed Dan. * He’s gettin’ richer every day. He’s got ten dollars in greenback money now, an’ I heard Silas Jones tell him that his credit was good at the store for six months.’ Godfrey opened his eyes when he heard this, and BO interested was he in the stoi’y Dan had to tell, that he forgot his troubles for the time being. Ho seated himself again, and while he was refilling his pipe Dan gave liim a history of what had happened at the store, and told how David had come by the ten dollars. lie also described the manner in wdiich he had tried to obtain possession of it, and told how he had failed in his attempt to induce Silas to give him a pair of shoes on the strength of David’s credit. This led to a long discussion between the fatlier and son, during which various plans were laid, and one or two things determined upon which will probably be revealed in due time. Dan paid strict attention to all his father said, but he was glad when the interview was over. Godfrey w'as almost be.side himself wdth fury. Having been unfortunate himself he was enraged to leam that anybody else w’as prosperous; and when he heard of David’s good luck, ho looked and acted so savagely, that Dan began to fear for his own personal safety. He started for home as soon as he could find an excuse for so doing, and it was not until he was out of sight and hearing of his father’s camp that he began to breathe easily. Dan did not go directly home. He was in no hurry to meet his brother, for he was afraid the latter miglit have something to say to him about the pointer. He roamed through the woods, and having shot a few squirrels, built a fire, and roasted and ate them. He stayed in his camp until the sun "went down and it began to gro\v dark, and then shouldered liis riiie and reluctantly turned his face toward the (‘ahin. He did not find his brother there, but he came in .shortly afterward, and then Dan found that lie had been borrowing trouble, for David never .«<aid a word to him about the pointer. He told his mother of the loss, and of course she sympathised with him, and offered every explanation except the right one. The thief opened his eyes and looked surprised while they were talking, but neither of them paid any attention to him ; and Dan, muttering angrily t/) himself that he was nothing more than a crooked stick about that house any w'ay, undressed, and went to bed. Dan passed the next day in his usual idle and shiftless manner. He saw David go up to General Gordon’s, and w'ould have been glad to know wliat sort of work he w’as doing up there, and liow^ miH^li he w’as to receive for it. He did not find out that, day, but he did the next, and the discovery made him feel like a new boy. Growing tired of staying by himself, Dan thought he would go down to the landing, hoping that he would find a shooting-match going on there, or that a steamer would come in, bringing a stranger or two for liim to stare at. The weather was raw and chilly, too, and Dan’s bare feet were blue with the cold. lie must have a pair of shoes and stockings ; and since he couldn’t get them in any other way, a portion of the money he had hidden in that hollow log in tlm woods must be brought into use. 1 )an took out the necessary amount, and groaned when he looked at the small sura he had left. As soon as the sun had warmed the air a little, Dan shouldered his rifle and set out. He did not follow the road, as he did before, for that would take him past the G{merar.s barn, nnd Don and Bert were at liome now.

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Ko. XLIV. CHATTERBOX. 347 He went around through the fields ; and it was while he was sitting on a log near General Gordon’s fence, watching the only squirrel he had seen since leaving home, that ho accidentally learned what it was that took David over to Don’s house so regularly every morning, and kept him thei-e all day. He lirat heard the creaking of wheels and the sound of voices, and they came from tlie General’s field, which was not more than twenty feet distant, and which was concealed from his view by the thick bushes that lined the fence. Dan recognised the voices, and his first impulse was to jump up and take to his heels. His next was to stay where ho was until the waggon passed by ; and this he did, for he was in an excellent hidii'g-place, and no one could Lave foimd him without taking pains to look for him. The waggon came nearer, the voices grew louder, and presently Dan heard the shrill notes of a quail directly in front of him, and just on the other side of the fence. He paid no attention to the sound until the waggon was brought to a standstill in front of the thicket, and somebody, after working his ^vay into the bushes, called out in a cheery voice, — * Here’s the first instalment of your hundred and fifty dollars, David ! ’ These words made Dan so excited that he almost betrayed his presence by letting his rifle fall out of his hands. He cautiously raised himself to a standing portion on the log, and looking through the tops of the bushes, listened intently to catch every word that was said. CHAPTER XIII. — TEN DOLLARS REWARD. When the quails had been taken out of the trap and put into the coop the waggon drove on, and Dan eat down on the log to think about what he had just heard, and to wait until the coast was clear, so that he could resume his walk toward the landing. He had learned two things. One was that his brother had not given up the idea of trapping the quails, as he had supposed, and the other that there was some¬ body besides himself whom David bad reason to fear. * Looks now as though you were goin’ to ’arn your money in spite of Dan and Lister,’ thought the ILtener, recalling the last words he had heard Don utter. * That must be that Brigham boy up to that big white house. What’s he got to say ’bout it, I’d like to know ? I’ll jest keep an eye on him. He don’t want to let me ketch him foolin’ round them traps, fiiase I’ll make him think war timos has come hack sure enough. Now that I’ve got another chance to ’am a share in them hundred and fifty dollars, no¬ body shan’t take it away from me.’ Dan was as good as his word. Ho kept a sharp watch over David’s interests, and perhaps we shall see that he was the means of defeating a certain plan, which, if it had been carried into execution, would have worked a great injury to the hoy trappei*. The waggon having passed on out of hearing, Dan shouldered his rifle and started toward the landing. While he was skulking through the woods at the lower end of the field, he stopped in a fence corner long enough to see David and his two friends transfer another good-sized catch from one of the traps to the coop in the waggon. The sight encourag-ed him greatly. If David’s good luck would only continue for just one week, the fifty dozen birds would cer¬ tainly be captured, and Dan would stand a chance of making a small fortune. It was not so very small either in his estimation. His share would be seventj'^- five dollars — his father had told him so — and that would make a larger pile of greenbacks than Dan had ever seen at one time in his life. With it he was sure he could buy a new gun as fine as the one Don Gordon owned (he would not have believed it if any one had told him that that little breechloader cost a hundred and twenty-five dollars in gold), a jointed fish-pole, and some good clothes to wear to church ; and when he had purchased all these thing's, lie hoped to have enough left to buy a circus-horse like Don’s, and perhaps a sail-boat also. Godfrey, for reasons of his own, had held out these grand ideas to him during one of their interviews, and Dan, being unable to figure the matter out for himself, believed all his father told him. Having seen the second catch put into the coop, Dan started toward the landing* again. It was mail- day, and so there was a larger number of loafers about the post-office than there usually was. Among them were Lester Brigham and Boh Owens, who seemed to be very much interested in something* that was fastened to the bulletin-hoard in the store. Having nothing better to do just then Dan wallvod up behind them, and looking over their shoulders spelled out, with much difficulty, the following, — ^ Notice. ‘ Ten DoUars Reward. ^Strayed or stolen, my black-and-white pointer, Dandy. I will pay the above reward for his safe return, and ask no questions ; or I will give Five Dollars for any information that will lead to his recovery. ^ Donald Gordon.’ ^ I am glad he has lost him, and I hope he will never see him again,’ said Bob, spitefully, ' If I knew where he was I wouldn’t tell him for five times five dollars.’ . * What does he want him hack for anyhow ? ' said Lester. ‘ Don is assisting in shipping quails out of the country, and the first thing he knows the dog will he of no use to him.’ Dan did not waste five minutes in loafing about the store after that. Here was something* he had been waiting for ever since he stole the pointer. The owner had offered a heavy reward for his safo return — it was twice as much as Godfrey said they ought to have — and the next thing to be settled was how to obtain the money without facing Don Gordon. This was a question over which Dan had often both¬ ered his few brains, hut without finding any way of answering it. Something must be determined upon now, however, for there was a tidy hit of money at stake. Dan made all haste to do his trading, and, talcing his stockings and shoes under his arm, set out for home, avoiding the road, as he always did when Don and Bert were about, and skulking around through the woods and fields. When he reached the cabin he seated himself upon the bench beside the door, and there he remained building air-castles until four o’clock in the afternoon. Then he began to bestir himself, and David, who came home that

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348 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIV. night before his mother did, was surprised to find a roaring fire on the hearth, a pile of wood large enough to last all the evening beside it, and in a pan upon the table a half-a-dozen squirrels dressed and ready for the frying-pan. ‘ What in the world is up now ? ’ thought, David. ‘ Dan’s got an axe to grind, for he never does such thinf^s unless he intends to make something by it’ * Halloo, Davy ! ' exclaimed Dan, cheerfully * I thought mebbe you’d be cold when you come hum, 80 I built up a fire to warm you. J est look at them thar squirrels, will you ? Every one on ’em was shot througn the head. Can you beat that ? ’ * No,’ answered David. * It can’t be beaten.’ * If we had a few quail now we’d have a bully supper, wouldn’t we ? ’ continued Dan. ‘ You don’t seem to shoot no more quail lately, do you, Davy ? ' ^ Oh, I can’t hunt them without a dog to tell me where they are.’ 'Have you never heard nothin’ of that pin ter pup at all P ’ 'Not a word.’ ' I’m sorry. I wish I knowed whar he was, so’t I could fetch him back. I’m scandalous mad at my¬ self fur takin’ that money from you an* Don, an’ if I had ten dollars I’d give em back to-night : but I haven’t got ’em, an’ so I’m goin’ to try an’ find his dog fur iiirn.’ ' He’ll be very glad to get him,’ said David, who knew very well that his brother had some other reason for taking this sudden interest in the pointer. ' I want to act decent now, like a gentleman had oughter act,’ Dan went on ; an’ if I do what I can fur Don, do you reckon he’ll call it squar’ ?* ' I don’t know. You must talk to him about that.’ ' But I’m not agoin’ to face him till I know how he feels towards me, I bet you. I don’t know whar the dog is more ’n the man in the moon ; but I’m kinder scentin’ round when I’ve got no work to do, an’ if I should happen to find him would you take him to Don fur me ? ’ ' Of course I would, and be very glad to do it'.’ ' Then I’ll do what I kin, an’ if I do say it myself I kin find him if anybody kin. I kin afford to spend all my time lookin’ fur him, kase I was down to the landin’ to-day, an’ I seed a notice stuck up thar sayin’ that Don ’ll give ten dollars fur him an’ ax no ques¬ tions. What’s the matter of you ? * demanded Dan, as David turned quickly about and walked toward the door. 'I don’t know what to make of you, Dan,’ replied David. ' A little while ago you gave me to under¬ stand that the reason why you wanted to bring the dog back to Don was because you wanted to make everything square between you and him ; and now you say you want to do it because Don has offered a reward for him.’ ' An’ I told you the gospel truth both times ! ’ ex¬ claimed Dan. ' That thar animile is wuth every cent of fifty dollars ; an’ if I bring him back it’ll be that much in Don’s pocket, an’ ten dollars in mine. I kin afford to work fur that, can’t I ? ’ ' Very well,’ said David. ' If you will produce the dog, safe and sound. I’ll take him to his master for ydu, and bring back the reward if he gives it to me.’ {To be continued.) THE MEGATHERIUM AND THE MYIiODON. N the tropical regions of South’ America there once lived a species of gigantic sloth, vastly larger than any of the animals of that kind now living. The Megatherium, or ' Great Animal,’ was about eight feet in height and twelve feet in length. Though not so large as the great mastodon, its bones were much thicker in proportion ; the thigh¬ bones being three times the thickness of those of the elephant. Its haunches were more than five feet in width, and the upper mrt of its tail two feet \\dde. The feet were a yard long ; those of the fore limbs being terminated by three immense claws, whilst the hinder feet were only provided wdth one claw each. The head was comparatively small, and shaped like that of the sloth. The Mylodon w’as a huge creature, also belonging to the family of the Sloths, but differing somewhat from the megatheiium. Its name, wdiich means ' Grinder -Tooth,’ was given to it from the con-' struction of its teeth, from which it appears that it lived on the shoots and twigs of trees as w^ell as on the leaves. But whilst the sloths of the present day climb the trees to reach their food, no tree in the forest would be strong enough to bear the enormous weight of the megatherium or mylodon. They must have attained their object in a different way. Their immense claws being adopted for tligging and bur¬ rowing, it is supposed that they loosened the roots of the trees by scooping away the earth from about them, and then seizing the trunks in their strong fore¬ arms and pulling them down, were enabled to devour the topmost branches. Had these extraordinary animals lived after the appearance of man in the countries w^hich they in- haoited, it is most likely that there w^oidd hav'e'been some traditions of them ; but as there are none, they were probably extinct long before that part of America was peopled. Both the megatherium and the my¬ lodon are peculiar to the New World, and their remains were discovered in the neighbourhood of Buenos Ayres. A succession of dry seasons having greatly lowered the water in the river Salado, a skeleton of one of these animals was discovered ]}y Sir Woodbine Parish, standing upright in the bed of the river. And their extinction may have been caused by a long drought occurring, when the huge creatures, seeking for water to slake their thirst, may have sunk in the mud, and got suffocated. In the drawing a megatherium is shown digging up the roots of a tree ; whilst, a little further off, a mylodon is pulling down a tree to feed on the top branches. A. K. FRIENDSHIP. njlllUE friendship is like sound health, the value of i it is seldom known till it be lost.’ Shebidak.

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The Megatherium and the Mylodon.

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350 CHATTERBOX. No. XLTV. A BOY’S LOG. {Concludec from page 342.) PART II. Thursday y Octohei' 2nd. — Stormy ; but about dinner¬ time it cleared up, so that the port watch went to the baths. liained a good deal after they went, and I am afraid the poor poi’twatch had a good ducking. October lias set in with very bad weather here, a^d it is beginning to get very cold. Friday j i'n'd. — Dull wet day. Slung fresb ham¬ mocks in the afternoon. Saturday y Wi.' — Fine bright day. Cleaned as usual. Football match in afternoon. Wednesday y ^th. — Finish day. Lowered steam launch, which had been under repair on the upper deck just a month. Also hoisted the second cutter on deck for repair. Had main-deck instructions in afternoon. Friday y 10th. — Fine day, though dull, and rather cold. Had monthly holiday. Went to baths in morning. Football in afternoon. We are going to give something each to erect a gravestone for poor little T - ’s grave. Two fellows left; seven new boys came. Sunday y 12th. — The captain called N - and me up this morning, and gave us permission to meet father, and stop till Friday. Monday y l^th. — N - and I went ashore after dinner to meet father. We went to the hotel to stop a night. Tuesday y l^th. — itainy day. I got a telescope. We left the hotel, went across the river, and started for Chester ; walked round the city on the top of the, walls. Then went on to Carnarvon, which we reached about 5 p.m. We then took the 6 train to Llanberis, which we reached about 6.S0. We took up our quarters at a ve^ comfortable hotel, called * Dolbadarn,* when, having pitched into beefsteak, cold beef, and tea, w^e went to bed, where we slept very soundly till nearly morning. Wednesday y l^th. — Having eaten our breakfast we bejjan, with a guide, the ascent of Snowdon, at 9 a.m. When we got about half way it began to snow a little. We reached the summit at about half-past 11; it was all covered with snow, and terribly cold. We went into the house at top, and had tea and bread and butter. There was a good fire. We could see the Isle of Man, nol3'head, and other places. We arrived at the hotel at ^ p.m., and had a splendid dinner. After dinner we went in a boat on the lake. Went to bed about half-past 8. Fine day. Thursday, IG^A. — Started by the 12 train for Car¬ narvon, thence to Bangor and Chester, which we reached at 4 p.m. We then took the train for home, and got to the hotel close by our ship. Had tea, and went to bed. Beautiful day. TYidayy 17 th. — Father left by the 11 train. Very rough. N - and I I'eturned on board before dinner. Saturday y l^h. — Fine day. Cleaned as usual. Foot¬ ball match in afternoon. Thi:: 'Mayy 2lh'd. — Fine, though dull. Port watch to the baths in afternoon. Behearsal of Christy Minstrels. F'idayy 2Ath. — Dull and wet in afternoon. Had main-deck instructions in afternoon. Christy Min¬ strels at night. Saturday, 26th. — Fine day on the whole, though it rained a little at first. Cleaned the ship as usual. Shore in afternoon. Dancing at night. Tuesday y 26th. — Very foggy, though cleared up after. Main-deck instructions in p.m. Deceived an invitation from F. H - to spend Saturday to Mon¬ day with him. Wednesdaxjy 20th. — Fine day. Cold wind. Star¬ board watch to the baths. Wrote toF. H - . Said I should be very glad to come. Thursday, ?)0th. — Had holiday for paper chase, but I went to the baths instead. Saturday, November 1st. — Dull wet day. I went by the 11.30 boat, and was met by F. H - at the landing-stage. Then we took a ’bus which runs right by his house in 0 - Street. After dinner we went to the theatre, and saw H. M. S. Pinafore performed. We then went to tea, and after tea to a circus, which was also splendid. Sunday, 2nd. — After breakfast had a walk with F. H - into the country. Had dinner at 2. Went to church at night. Monday, ^rd. — Fine day, though cold. Got up about 8.80. Had breakfast and went down to the landing-stage, and thence on board H. M. S. Solent. To school as usual. Free evening at night. Fore¬ castle and foretop men had baths, as the town baths are closed. Thursday, 0th. — Fine but dull. School till 1 1 o’clock. After which we went on the upper deck, and began to lower all 3'ards and topmasts. We went on again in afternoon till 6 o’clock, and finished up the day with free evening. i Saturday, 6th. — Fine. Cleaned as usual. Football { in p.m. A boy fell overboard, but swam to the barge i which was alongside, and got in. We have got the ship ready for winter, though it has not come yet. Tuesday, llth. — Very rough day. Main-deck in¬ structions in p.m. About 8 p.m. the first heavy- weather crew were called away in the cutter to fetch the doctor, to see a fellow who they thought had broken his ribs. The doctor came and said he thought one was broken, but was not quite sure. Friday, lAth. — Very foggy, and a little frost. Fog- bell had to be tolled all day, and part of night. Saturday, \6th. — Very cold ; sharp frost. Cleaned as usual till 11, when I went on leave to see Mrs. M - , with whom I had a capital dinner. Her arting present was a Melton Mowbray pork pie. he wished me to give her best love to )'Ou and mother, whom she sa^-^s she has not seen for nineteen 3^ears. Went on board by last boat. Tuesday, 18^A. — Drill and main deck-instructions. Fog came on at night. Fog-bell had to be rung. All are expected to give half-a-crown to some theatricals they are getting up, so will you be so kind as to send it me? We begin our exam, in about ten days. Saturday, 22nd. — Cold frosty morning. Began to snow at about 8 a.m. Cleaned as usual. Stopped snowing at 12 o’clock. Upper deck had about two inches of snow. Swept it into heaps, and hove it overboard. Football match in afternoon. Monday, December Is^. — Bright, cold, frosty weather. School as usual. Free evening. Fore and forecastle men had baths. Fog came on at night. Fog-bell rang all night. Tuesday, 2nd. — CJiristmas exams, begin. \ ery cold.

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No. XLTV. CHATTERBOX. 351 Hoar frost. School as usual in the morning. Sea¬ manship exam, in afternoon. Free evening at night. Wednesday y Zrd. — Very cold and frosty. Scripture History exam, in morning. Holiday as usual in afternoon, and free -evening. Thursday j 4tth. — Still cold and frosty. 1st and 2nd classes had an exam, in a subject which 3rd and 4th don't do. French exam, in afternoon. Saturday j (jth. — Cold frosty morning. Cleaned ship as usual. Football match in afternoon. Slides on upper deck. ► Sunday, 7th, — Cold, frosty, and dull. Snowed a little during the day. A great deal of ice came down the river in immense pieces, some as large as our field, though if you got on them I think they would let jou through. The weather is very cold here, but I don’t mind it, though it is rather nasty turning out. Monday, ^h. — Foggy ; frost gone. School in moming. History exam. ’in afternoon. Tuesday, 9th. — Arithmetic exam, in morning. Drill most of afternoon. Quarter boys had rocket practice. Wednesday, \9th. — Foggy, cold. Navigation exam, in moming. Holiday as usual in afternoon. Shore. Thursday, IH/i. — Cold, foggy, frosty. Algebra exam, in morning. Geography in afternoon. If you possibly can, please send the P. 0. order on Friday, as we must have them on Saturday ; so it says on the notice. Send it me, and I will get it changed and give it in to the captain. With this sign of returning home — the journey money — we will conclude, for- the time at least, our extract. Possibly the boyish hand which penned these may send home from the roaring ocean more thrilling extracts from a seaman’s log, which will have to chronicle denser fogs, bigger waves, greater dangers, and hardships and discipline more severe, than those which can ever befall the Solent in her safe moorings by the pleasant shore. THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XXI.-FBOM BLACKWALL TO WOOLWICH Leaving behind us Blackwall, its docks and its whitebait (the one edible fish which still swims in the Thames, and contrives, when it is not caught, to live there), soon we see the fine slopes of Shooter’s Hill, where, at so late a date as the beginning of this century, highwaymen did their dastardly work. And now the high chimney-shafts and undulating hills of Woolwich come in sight. We are now in what is strangely enough called Bugsby’s Beach, which claims the river during the first half of the dis¬ tance between Blackwall and Chai Iton, a town which is practically part of Woolwich. As we near Charlton the water changes its name to Gibson’s Beach. • Woolwich is one of the great naval ports of Eng¬ land, and eight miles from London. Once a small fishing-village, it was only in the time of Henry VH. that its value as suitable to ship-building was dis¬ covered. In the succeeding reign a royal dock was established here, and from that time VVoolwich has been Hooking up.’ But it has been chiefiy during the present century that Woolwich has taken gigantic proportions. Recently, however, the prosperity of Woolwich has declined, chiefiy owing to the rise of iron shipping. The Government found that they could obtain small vessels much more economically by direct contract with private firms than by building for themselves at Woolwich. The largest vessels of the English navy are still, however, built under Government control, and in the great yard at Ports¬ mouth. The royal Dockyard at Woolwich is, there¬ fore, quiet enough, as we may remark in passing it. But farther on the Arsenal is busy enough, for here are the head-quarters of the manufacture of all our cannon and ammunition. The cannon manufacture forms one of the chief departments of the Boyal Ar¬ senal. The largest furnace can at once melt nineteen tons of metal. Here, upon obtaining an order, about which there is no difficulty, the visitor to the Arsenal can witness the manufacture of the celebrated coiled wrought-iron cannon. He sees the great bar of white- hot metal drawn from the furnace and fixed to a re¬ volving cylinder, round which it is slowly coiled until it has the appearance of a snake of fire. Then he sees the coil boi ne off, tipped on end, and brought under the huge steam-hammer, which beats the mass of hot metal down as though it were butter. Thence the coil is put to * stew ’ for twenty-four hours in another furnace, and the visitor can turn away to the La¬ boratory, a wilderness of whirling wheels, rods, and discs, the results of which take the shapes of various bullets and other projectiles. The rise of the Arsenal is really interesting. In the time of George I. certain cannon, talien from the French by the Duke of Marlborough, were about to be recast at Moorfields, where the government cannon foundry was then situated, when a Swiss’ engineer, named Adrian Schalck, who had examined the pre¬ parations, gave unheeded warning that an accident might occur. The Swiirs was right. Many people were killed, and more wounded, and then some notice was taken of the foreigner, who settled in England and made his fortune. He was offered a large salary as superintendent of a new foundry which was to be established within twelve miles of London. Schalck’s choice fell upon * the Warren,* on the Woolwich shore, and this place after a time came to be called the Royal Arsenal. Schalck held office for sixty year's, and died at the age of ninety. Woolwich is a wonderfully bright place ; its hills gay with the uniforms of soldiers, while its celebrated Common is often astir with the sounds of military bands or of the drum and fife. Here also is to be found the Rotunda, which is a military museum. This building originally stood in London, and w’as built as a banqueting-hall for the so verek- ns who visited this country after the victory of Waterloo. Hove on the Common is also the Boyal Military Academy, where the hapless Prince Imperial learnt that art of war which he exercised in South Africa, w’here he met his death. The remains of the Prince, when brought to England, w'cre landed at this town, whence they were conveyed to Chisel hurst, and laid with those of his father, Napoleon HI. Woohvich is the head-quarters of the Sappers and Miners and of the Artillery, w' hile two of the most im- ortant military hospitals in the south of England are ere situated. This garrison is well wmrth a visit. {To be continued.)

Page 358

Woolwich

Page 359

No. XLV. David escaping from his Father.

Page 360

354 CHATTERBOX. No. XLY. THE BOY TRAPPER. (ContiniLed from page 348.) By Harry Oastlemon. Slight.) Porter and Coates. 1878. IS interview had a perceptible effect upon both the boys. It took away all Dan’s industry, and all David’s peace of mind. The former had gained his point. He had made his brother promise to take Dandy to his owner and bring back the reward, and that was happiness for one day. He didn’t chop any more wood, or take any more interest in the supper. ' He seated himself on the bench again, and resumed the agreeable occupation in which he had spent the most of the afternoon — that of build¬ ing air-castles. David walked up and down the floor, with his hands in his pockets, thinking busily. He told liirn- self over and over again that if it were not for his mother he would not care if he should never see his home again. He was cheerful and happy when he was away from it, but it almost always happened that as soon as he crossed the threshold something happened to make him miserable and gloomy. His conversation with Dan had confirmed a suspicion that had been lurking in his mind ever since the pointer disappeared. He had aU the while held to the belief that Dan knew where the dog was ; and Dan might as well have confessed it, for his face and his actions constantly betrayed him. David believed, too, that his father had not left the country, as a good many people in the settlement seemed to think, but that he was hiding in the woods somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood. Of this he had re¬ ceived proof that was almost positive. He knew, if Don and Bert did not, that it was something besides a bear they had driven off Bruin’s Island on the day they went up the bayou with the hounds. He had seen footprints in the mud that were made by a bare-footed man ; and more than that, having been the first to come out of the cane when the dogs led the way toward the head of the island, he had caught a glimpse of something, as it was disappearing in the bushes on the main shore, which looked wonderfully like the tattered, hickory shirt his father had worn the last time he saw him. This discovery, taken in connexion with Dan’s behaviour, led David to believe that his father and brother were often in communi¬ cation with each other ; and when the pointer dis¬ appeared he promptly settled it in his own mind that Godfrey and Dan were to blame for it. He was as certain now that Dan had had a finger in the business as he would have been if he had seen him going off with the dog ; and he resolved that as soon as the next day dawned he would take pains to find out whether or not he was correct in supposing that his father was Dan’s accomplice. ^Father hid on Bruin’s Island while the Yankees were raiding through here,’ thought David. ‘ "When we drove him off, thinking he was a bear, of course he had to hunt a new hiding-place, and it is possible that he is now camping close about there on the main shore; If I can find his camp I’ll take a good look at it. If I don’t see the pointer there, well and good; I shall be very glad of it. But if he is there I must get hold of him somehow. Don has been swindled out of enough money by the black sheep of our family, and he shan’t lose any more by them if I can help it.’ As this thought passed through David’s mind, an expression of determination settled on his face, which did not fail to attract the notice of Dan, who just then happened to look into the cabin to see what his brother was doing. ^What you lookin’ that way fur?’ demanded Dan. ‘ You’re not puttin’ up a job on me, be you?’ . David replied that he was not. ‘You’ll take the p’inter to Don an’ fetch me back the ten dollars, honour bright?’ continued Dan. ‘ That is what I promised to do, isn’t it ? ’ asked David, ill reply. ‘ But if I can help it you will never have the dog in your possession again,’ he added, mentally. ‘ I didn’t promise that I wouldn’t head you off if I could.’ ‘ An’ you won’t answer no questions ? Don said in that notice that he wouldn’t ax none. ‘ Then, of course, I shall not answer any. You needn’t be afraid. I shan’t mention your name.’ ‘Kase if you’re thinkin’ of puttin’ up a job on me, Davy,’ said Dan, shaking his finger at his brother, ‘you won’t never see that p’inter ag’in so long as you live. Keep still now. Here comes the ole woman.’ , -n. Dan settled back on the bench again, and David took his hands out of his pockets long enough to throw a fresh log of wood on the fire — not because it was needed, but for the reason that he wanted to hide his face from his mother for a minute or two until he could call it to a more cheerful expression than the one it was then wearing. He had never said a word to his mother about his suspicions regarding his father and Dan, for he wanted to talk to her about nothing but pleasant and agreeable things. She had enough to trouble her already. David had everybody in the cabin up at an earlier hour than usual the next morning, and after eating a very hasty breakfast, he took his gun under his arm, bade his mother good-bye, and disappeared down the road that led to General Gordon’s. Dan sat on the bench and watched him as long as ho remained in sight. ‘ It’s a heap easier to have a feller to ’arn your money fur you nor it is to ’arn it yourself,’ thought Dan. ‘Heie’s Dave a toilin’ an’ a slavin’ fur them hundred an’ fifty dollars, an’ when he gets ’em, they’ll go plump into dad’s pocket an’ mine, an’ Im’ll never see no good of ’em at all. I’ll have ten dollars in my pocket this very night. It’s ’most too frosty to go slashin’ round through the bushes now, so I’ll wait till the sun gets a little higher, then I’ll go arter that p’inter.’ David kept on down the road, until he was out of sight of the cabin, and then he climbed the fence and plunged into a dense thicket of briers, through which he made his way with great difficulty, follow¬ ing nearly the same path that Clarence Gordon fol¬ lowed on the morning he went through there to release his cousin Don from tlie potato-cellar. Beach¬ ing the woods at last, he took a straight course for’

Page 361

No. XLY. CHATTERBOX. 355 Bruin's Island, and half an hour’s rapid walking’ brought him within sight of it. David’s first care was to satisfy himself that it was a man and not a bear that Don’s hounds had di’iven off the island; and in order to set all his doubts on this point at rest, he looked for the foot¬ prints which the man or animal must have made when he left the water and climbed the bank. David found the tracks after a few minutes’ search, and a single glance at them confirmed his suspicions. They were made by a bare-footed man, and that man must have been Godfrey Evans, for there was no one else in the settlement, that he knew of, who was so very anxious to escape observation that he was willing to swim a bayou on a cold day. ^ I was right,’ said David to himself, feeling grieved and mortified when he remembered that his father had been hunted like a wild animal. ^ He is some¬ where about here, and if I find him I shall find the pointer with him. There he is now ! ’ The sharp crack of a rifle rang through the woods at that moment, and David scrambled up the bank and hurried away in the direction from which it sounded. He knew it was his father’s gun (those who are experienced in such matters will tell you that there is as much difference in the reports of rifles as there is in the sound of the human voice) even before he received the proof that came a moment later. Scarcely had the report died away when he heard an impatient yelp just in front of him, and that he also recognised. It was uttered by Dandy. Godfrey was probably out hunting for his breakfast, and the pointer, excited by the report of the gun, was complaining because he was tied up in the camp and left behind. This was the way David explained the situation to himself, and the sequel proved that he was right. After running through the bushes for a short dis¬ tance, David cam^ within sight of a little cloud of smoke which ascended from a hollow just in advance of him. A few steps more brought him within sight of the camp, and the first object his eyes rested upon was Don Gordon’s pointer, which was tied to a saplin near a little bark lean-to, something like the one Godfrey occupied while he was living on the island. ^The animal, hearing his approach, advanced to meet him as far as the length of his rope would allow, and stood wagging his tail with every demon¬ stration of joy. * I’ve saved Don ten dollars,’ thought David, as he idled out his knife and cut the rope; * and I have ept Dan and father from playing a most contemptible trick upon one who would be a good friend to them if they would only let him.’ David had taken no pains to approach his father’s camp without being discovered. He knew he was in the right, and he intended to be open and above board in everything he did. He expected to meet ills father face to face, and he was ready to use every argument he could think of to induce him to sur¬ render the pointer, that is, if the animal should be found in his possession. If arguments and entreaties failed, he was prepared to use other means, although he knew that by so doing he would bring certain punisliment upon himself. Very fortunately, how¬ ever, he chanced to reach the camp during his father’s absence, and all he had to do was to liberate the pointer and go home with him. ^ I’m glad it happened just as it did,’ thought David, drawing a long breath of relief. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble with father, for I have seen him angry too many times. If he should catch me here now I believe he’d half kill me.’ ^ HaUoo, Dannie ! What brung you up here so ’arly, an’ whar be you goin’ with the dog ? ’ David’s heart seemed to stop beating, and his old single-barrel grew so heavy that he could scarcely sustain its weight. His first impulse was to take to his heels, but the unexpected sound of the familiar voice seemed to have deprived him of aU power of motion. He did manage, however, to turn his head and look in the direction from which the voice sounded, and saw his father standing a little way off, with his rifle on his shoulder and a squirrel in his hand. * Dave ! ’ exclaimed the latter, so surprised that he could scarcely speak. * Yes, it’s Dave,’ replied the boy, who saw that the battle for which he had prepared himself was likely to come off after all. ^ What business you got up here, an’ how come you by that p’inter pup ? ’ demanded Godfrey. ^ My business up here was to get the dog. I found him in your camp, and I cut him loose because I have a better right to him than you have.’ * Wal, we’ll see ’bout that thar,’ returned Godfrey, throwing down his squirrel and leaning his rifle against the nearest tree. David’s face grew pale, for he knew w^hat was coming now. His father’s next move would be to reach for a hickory. ^ Who told you I was up here?’ demanded God¬ frey; and David’s uneasiness increased when he saw that his father was running his eyes over the bushes nearest him. He was picking out a good stout switch. ^No one told me,’ answered David. ‘ Then how did you know whar I was ? ' * I was up here with Don and Bert on the day you swam the bayou, and I saw you just after you had climbed the bank and were dodging into the bu.'jhes.’ ^ Don’t you think you was a very grateful an’ dutiful son to hunt your poor ole dad outen a good hidin’-place an’ make him take to the water lilre a hounded deer, in this cold weather, too, an’ my rheu- matiz so bad ? ’ asked Godfrey, angrily. ‘ Who told you the p’inter w'as here ? ’ ' Nobody. I just guessed at it.’ ^ Wal, what be you going to do with him now you got him ? ’ ^ I’m going to take him back to his master and save him ten dollars.’ ^Ten dollars!’ repeated Godfrey. ^Is that what he’s goin’ to give to get him back ? Now, Dave,’ and here Godfrey pulled out the hunting-knife which he always carried in a sheath attached to his bullet- pouch, and cut down the switch he had selected ; ‘ you jest take that thar p’inter dog back whar you got him an’ tie him up thar. You hear me ? ’ ' I do, but I’ll hold fast to the dog. Y’’ou and Dan have swindled Don out of enough money ali’eady; and now I’ll tell you what’s a fact - ’

Page 362

David discovering the foot-prints. David did not finish liis sentence. He saw his father dash his hat upon the ground, and knowing what was coming, he faced about and took to his heels. CHAPTER XIV. — SOME DISCOVERIES. David would have been glad to reason with his father, but he had not been allowed the opportunity, and now it was too late to find one. His fii*st thought was of the pointer. Giving the animal a iiasty kick to start him on his way home, David sought to save himself by flight, although he had little hope of suc¬ cess. Everybody said he was a swift runner for a boy of his age, and he did his best now, but fast as he went Godfrey gained at every step. David heard his heavy footfalls growing louder and more distinct, and once or twice he lost all heart, and was on the point of stopping and surrendering at discretion.

Page 363

Ancient Animals of the Valley of the Thames.

Page 364

358 OHATTET^BOX. But he knew that the heating he would receive would he a most severe one, and he was sure he did not deserve it, and that his father had no business to give it to him. This thought lent him wings, and a ^ few more jumps brought him to the bayou. ‘ I’ve got you now ! ’ cried Godfrey ; and David heard the switch whistle through the air as his pursuer made an effort to reach him with it. Godfrey thought the bayou would offer an effectual cheeky to David’s flight, but the boy himself looked upon it as his only means of escape. He ran straight to the bank, which at this point arose almost perpen¬ dicularly from the water to the height of at least twenty feet, and just as Godfrey was stretching forth his hand to seize him by the collar he disappeared. pursuer tried to stop himself, but so rapid was his flight that he made one or two involuntary steps, and it was only by catching hold of a bush that he saved himself from following David over the bluff, ‘Who’d a thought he would a jumped into the bayou sooner nor take a leetle trouncin’ ? ’ thought Godfrey, gazing in astonishment at the bubbles on the surface of the water, which marked the spot where David had gone down. ^ He’s gettin’ to be a powerful bad boy, Dave is, an’ I oughter be to hum every day to keep him straight. Come back here ! ’ he shouted, as the fugitive’s head suddenly bobbed up out of the water. ‘ If you’ll ketch the p’inter fur me an’ promise to say nothin’ to nobody. I’ll let you off this time.’ David could not say a word in reply. He felt as if every drop of blood in his body had been turned into ice. He wiped the water from his eyes, glanced over his shoulder to make sure that his father had not followed him into the bayou, and struck out for the opposite bank. Godfrey coaxed, promised, and threatened to no purpose. David would not come back, and neither would he make any answer. He held as straight across the bayou as the current would permit, and when he reached the shore he climbed out and disappeared in the bushes. ^ ^ He’s gone,’ thougnt Godfrey, throwing away his switch and slowly retracing his steps toward the camp ; ‘ an’ here’s more trouble for me. The p’inter’s gone, too, an’ that takes money outen my pocket an’ puts ^it into the pockets of them pizen Gordons. Dave’ll tell everything he knows as soon as he gets hum, an’ that’ll bring the constable up here arter me. I must go further back in the cane, but I won’t go outen the settlement, an’ nobody shan’t drive me out nuther, tiU I get my hands onto them hundred an’ fifty dollars. Then nobody won’t ever hear of me ag’in — Dan nor none of ’em. It’s jest a trifle com¬ fortin’ to know that that thar mean Dave can’t do no more shootin’ : he lost his gun.’ Yes, David’s faithful friend and companion was gone. It slipped from his grasp as he struck the water, and was now lying at the bottom of the bayou. He felt the loss as keenly as Don Gordon would have felt the loss of his fine breech-loader. David thought he had never before been so nearlv frozen as he was when he struck the opposite bank of the bayou ; but a few minutes’ vigorous exercise put his blood in circulation again, and then he began to feel more comfortable. He followed the bayou until he reached the lake, and then he plunged into No. XLV. I the water again, and swam across to the other shore. It was cold work, but he had no boat, and so there was nothing else he could do. He was a very for¬ lorn-looking object indeed, when he reached the cabin. Dan, who was stiU sunning himself on the bench, must have thought so, for wnen his brother first ap¬ peared in sight, he jumped up and stared at him as if he could not quite make up his mind whether the ap¬ proaching object was David Evans, or one of the dreaded haunts that lived in the General’s lane. He could not wholly satisfy himself on this point until he had made some inquiries. (To be continued.) THE AHCIEHT AHIMALS OP THE VALLEY OP THE THAMES. Though Britain is now an island, it was not always so. The researches of geologists show that it was once united to the continent of Europe. The fossil remains of animals discovered in many parts of England are the same as those found in France, and a species of freshwater mussel, now extinct in this country, still lives in the river Seine. The flint implements, too, which prove that even at that earl}^ age human beings existed on the earth, though there was no historian to chronicle their deeds, are found to be of a similar type in England and France, and seem to show that, at a far distant time, the same race of people inhabited both coun¬ tries. But these men were not our ancestors ; they died out, or were exterminated by the influx of tribes superior to them in intelligence, and the shape of their skulls, which have been dug up out of the gravel beds in France, shows that they belonged to a diffe¬ rent race from any now inhabiting either country. At that time the valley of the Thames must have presented a very different aspect from what it does now, and it is supposed that our river was then a tri¬ butary of the Rhine. The vegetation was of much the same character as at present, for, after lasting countless ages, the great Tertiary period had come to an end ; England was no longer covered with groves of palm-trees and tropical ferns, and the strange animals of the Paris basin were already extinct. The temperature, that had been gradually cooling, at length became so cold that what is known as the Glacial period, or age of ice, ensued. After a long interval, tlie climate grew warm again, and it was at this time that man came into existence : at least we ma3^ conclude so, for there are no certain vestiges of human beings before the age of ice. The forest trees such as we still now have, appeared, and dense forests of oak and elm and thickets of alder grew to the water’s edge. The climate too Avas probably not very different to w^hat it is now, except that the winter was colder and the summer hotter than in our day. But if the trees on the banks of the Thames were of the same kind as at present, it was far otherwise with the animal kingdom, for the gigantic mammoth brow^sed on the young shoots of the oak, whose branches gave shelter to troops of apes, wdiilst the woolly rhinoceros wallowed in the mud and the huge hippopotamus came swdmming up the river. The wild horse and the ass scoured the plains, and herds

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No. XLV. OHATTERBOX. 359 of bisons and wild bulls roamed through the woods, that at night echoed with the cries of the hyena or the growling of immense tigers. There were several distinct species of rhinoceri natives of Britain and other parts of Europe, but they were not all co-exis¬ tent. They first appear about the middle of the tertiary period, but the species that lived then appears to have given place to other kinds. Of these the woolly rhinoceros, Avhicli had two horns, was the most common, and its remains have been found in an entire state in the ice of northern Asia. Besides itswooUy coat it had another peculiarity, which does not exist in every living species — its nostrils were separated by a bony partition, and hence it is called the Rhinoceros tichorinus. There was also a smaller and more slender species, which had two horns, and another kind, no larger than a hog. The hippopotamus, of which there were two ^ecies, did not dilfer much from that of Africa. Its bones have been found, together with those of the rhinoceros, in excavating the gravel at Charing Cross, Waterloo Place, the London Docks, Bethnal Green, and many other parts of London; and a jaw-bone of a hippopotamus, armed with a formidable pair of tusks, was dug up at Peck- ham, and is now in the geological collection of the British Museum. It was at the close of the tertiary period, and just before the appearance of man, tliat many of the animals appeared which still inliabit Britain, such as the hog and the horse ; but the first horses were very- small, being no larger than the ass : there are no fossil remains of such horses as we see now-a-days. One species of the deer was of gigantic size, and there was a large serpent, and the caves were the abode of huge bears, that exceeded the grizzly bear of North America in size ; and a terrible creature, called the machairodus, now totally extinct, preyed on the denizens of the woods. Flocks of birds flew through the air, and vultures brooded on the rocks. Beavers constructed their dwellings in the stream, and were not extinct till historic times. In the valley of the Thames the remains of both arctic and tropical animals are found, and the reindeer, glutton, musk-sheep, and even the lemming, once frequented Britain. It might be imagined that these animals lived at different periods, but the bones of hippopotami are found with those of the reindeer, and it is probable that as England was then united to the Continent, and the land continuous, the animals migrated according to the change of the seasons, and the hippopotamus swam up the rivers from France and Spain. The reindeer extended its wanderings as far as the south of France, where it was at one time very numerous. Amid the multitude of savage animals which then swarmed in these countries, the primitive human beings must have led a precarious existence. Armed only with flint-headed arrows and axes, or bone- pointed spears, they doubtless frequently fell a prey to the tiger or the terrible cave-bear. Their skeletons show that they were a small race of men, with round heads and low foreheads, and very prominent ridges over the orbit of the eye. They were probably some- tliing like the Eskimo or Laplanders, and their lives were spent in hunting or in resisting the attacks of wild beasts. A, B. CUCKOO’S EGG IN THE HEDGE- SPARROW’S NEST. SAUCY Cuckoo ! idler gay. Whilst other birds around Are busy gathering moss and hay, What art thou doing all the day ? But little. I’ll be bound ! You only come when Winter’s past. And May begins her reign ; You never feel one bitter blast; Like English birds you never fast Upon the ice-bound plain. In this we do not blame your taste, But rather wish that we. Like you, could put the wintry waste Behind our backs, and fly with haste Across the raging sea. Thy pretty song to all is dear, But ^ deeds,’ say we, ‘ not words ; ’ Thy tricks they are so very queer. We cannot place thee high, we fear, Among thy fellow-birds. The silly sparrow builds his nest, And lays his eggs, sky-blue ; Then, slyly coming, like a pest. Thou layest thine, unwelcome guest ! Oh, what a deed to do I By love and warmth that egg of thine A monster chick is made. On other’s care, O bird supine ! Doth thy great baby sup and dine, A care how ill repaid ! For, see, the stranger, big and strong. Eats up the children’s bread ; He gets the meal, and they the wrong. And for his sake, alas ! ere long. The rightful heirs are dead ! And so, when ' Cuckoo ! ’ sounds so clear, And ‘ Cuckoo ! ’ sounds again. And, at the note, the days appear The blithest days of all the year, We feel one pang of pain. To think that singer has to bring Sorrow on one sweet nest — A sorrow that will cloud the spring Of two gay creatures on the wing. And add to their unrest. G. S. O. MINUTE CREATURES. There are living creatures so small, that a hundred millions of them might be put into the space of a square or cubic inch ; and when they are examined by a microscope they are seen to possess organs for collecting their food, and even capturing their prey. These facts are difficult to comprehend, but they are nevertheless true.

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CHATTERBOX. No. XLV. Cuckoo’s Egg in the Hedge-Sparrow’s Hest.

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No. XLVI. CHATTERBOX. 361

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362 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVI. THE BOY TRAPPER. [Continued from page 358.) By Harry Castlemok. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. that your own self, Davy ? ’ Dan asked, holding himself ready to take to his heels in case a satisfactory answer was not promptly returned. David replied that it was. ^What’s the matter of you, an’ whar you heen ? ’ continued Dan. ‘ Whar’s your gun ? ’ have swam the bayou twice, and I have heen taking “a walk in the woods, hly gun is in the water near the foot of Bruin’s Island.’ Dan opened his eyes and was about to propound a multitude of questions, when something that cmne around the corner of the cabin just then checked him. It was Don Gordon’s pointer. He had found his way to the cabin, and taken quiet possession of his bed in the kennel, and Dan was none the wiser for it until that moment. Hearing the sound of David’s voice, the dog came out to meet him, and the two appeared to be overjoyed to see each other again. Dan opened his eyes wider than ever, and backed toward his seat on the bench without saying a word. ^I found him right where you left him, Dan,’ said David, who thought it high time his brother should know that some of his mean acts were being brought to light. ^ I’ve got him again, you see, and you’ll never have another chance to steal him.’ * Wliat have you got, an’ whar did I leave him ? ’ Dan managed to ask at last. ^ Oh, I wouldn’t try to play off innocent, if I were you. I know all about it ; and I want to tell you now that you had better turn over a new leaf, and be quick about it, too. Mother says that if folk don’t grow better every day, they grow worse, and I can see that it is true in your case and fathei’’s. You are both going down ‘'hill, and the first thing, you know, you’ll do something that will get you in the calaboose. Three months ago neither one of you would have been guiltv of stealing.’ ^ Whoop ! ’ yelled Dan, jumping up and knocking his heels together. ^ I don’t want to go back on either one of you, con¬ tinued David, ^ and neither do I want to tell mother how bad you are ; but I’ll do it sooner than let you swindle Don Gordon or anybody else. Why don’t you go to work ? ’ ‘ Kase I’ve got jest as much right to set around an’ do nothin’ as other folk has,’ answered Dan, who had had time to recover himself in some measm’e. ^ That’s jest why ! ’ * Mother and I don’t sit around and do nothing.’ 'No, but them Gordons does.’ ' No, they don’t. They all work, Don and Bertas well as the rest.’ 'If I hadn’t seed them ridin’ round so much on them circus bosses, an’ sailin’ in them painted boats of their’n, mebbe I’d be willin’ to b’lieve that,’ said Dan. ' They don’t work, nuther. They don’t do nothin’, but have good times. Theyv’e got good clothes an’ smart things, an’ I’ve got jest as m.uch right to ’em as they have.’ ' Those ideas wiU get you into trouble some day, replied David, earnestly. ^ If you want smart things, go to work and earn them ; that’s the way to get them.’ ^ TV • 1 While this conversation was going on, David was pulling off his wet clothes, and putting on his best suit, the one he wore on Sundays. It was not just such a suit as the most of us would like to go to church in, hut it was whole and neat, and David looked like another boy in it. He kept the pointer in the house with him all the while, for fear that his brother might attempt to steal him again ; but Dan was too much astonished at the turn affairs were tfildng, and too badly frightened, to make any more efforts to win the ten dollars reward. He sat on the bench, with his eyes fastened thoughtfully on the ground, and saw David come out with the pointer, and lead him down the road toward General Gordon’s without saying a word. ‘When David reached the barn, he walked straight through it to the shop, and there he found Don and Bert, busy at work building more traps. They were surprised to see him dressed in his best, and still more surprised, and delighted too, when the pointer bounded in and fawned upon them. 'Father said that the offer of a reward would bring him if anything would,’ exclaimed Don, as he wound his arms around the animal’s neck, and hugged him, as he might have hugged a brother he had not seen for a long time. ^ j i ' Yes, the reward did it,’ replied David, and that was true. If Dan had liot seen the notice in the post- office, he never would have had that conversation with David, and so the latter would not have known where to go to find the pointer. ' We all thought he was stolen,’ continued Don. ' I am glad you are the one to bring him back, for I would rather give you the ten dollars than give it to anybody else.’ ^ ^ ^ ' I don’t want the money,’ said David, ^ and I won t take it.’ ' You can’t help yourself. AVhere did you find ' Didn’t you promise that you wouldn t ask any questions ? ’ asked David, with a smile. ^ Well - yes, I did,’ ausweied Don, somewhat as¬ tonished. ' But I made that promise just to let the thief see that he would run no risk in returning the dog. I can question you, can’t I ? ’ ' I’d rather you wouldn’t.’ Don uttered a- long-drawn whistle, and looked at Bert to see what he thouglit about it : but the blank expression on the latter’s face showed that he was altogether in the dark. ' Well, let it go,’ said Don, picking up his hammer again. ' I’ve got the dog back, and with that I’ll be satisfied. You’ll take him home with you to-night, of course ? ’ 'No, I think not. I am afraid to take him there.’ ' Then leave him here,’ said Don, who now began to think that he knew pretty nearly what had been going on. ‘ He’ll be safe with us, and you can find him when you want him. He isn’t broken yet.’

Page 369

No. XLYI. CHATTERBOX. 363 ^ I know it, but I can’t do any more for him. I shall have to give you back your ten dollars. ^ I’ll not take it. A bargain is a bargain. I want my dog broken, and you need the money to send off your quails with.’ ^ I know it,’ said David again ; ^ but I can’t shoot any more birds over him. I have no gun.’ ‘ Where is it ? ’ ‘ At the bottom of the bayou.’ The brothers grew more and more astonished the longer they talked with David, and Don told himself that there had been some queer doings in the settle¬ ment that morning. His interest and curiosity were thoroughly aroused, but he did not ask any more questions, for he knew that David could not explain matters without exposing one or more members of his own family. He turned the conversation into a new channel by saying suddenly : ^Bert and I made the rounds of the traps this morning, and took out a hundi’ed and fifty birds. Wliat do you say to that ? ’ Under almost any other circumstances David would have had a good deal to say about it : but just now he seemed to have lost all interest in his business. It would have been hard for any boy to wear a merry smile, and keep up a light heart, after such a scene as David had passed through that morning. He could not banish it from his memory, llis father was hiding in the woods, because he was afraid to show his face among his neighbours again ; he was a re¬ ceiver of stolen property, and his brother Dan was a thief, and the remembrance of these facts was enough to depress the most buoyant spirits. David wanted to do something to bring his father and brother to their senses, and get them to become decent, re¬ spected members of the community, but he did not know how to set about it, and there was no one of whom he could ask advice. He never talked to his mother about the family difficulties now. She had more than her share of trouble, and David always tried to talk about cheerful things when he was in her presence. ^ Doesn’t it cheer you up any to know that your business is prospering ? ’ exclaimed Bert. ^ Then we win tell you something else. How would you like to be mail carrier ? How would you like to put thirty dollars in your pocket every month ? ’ ^ That is more money than I shall be able to earn for long years to come,’ replied David. ^ Perhaps not. Father told us this morning that the old mail carrier is going to give up his route, his contract having expired, and he thinks he can get you appointed in nis place. He’s been to see Colonel Packard, and Silas Jones, and all the rest of the chief men in the settlement, and they have promised to give you all their influence and to go on your bond.’ ^ What does that mean ? ’ asked David, who now began to show some interest in the matter. * \Vhy, there are certain legal forms to go through with, which father explained, but which I don’t pre¬ tend to understand,’ said Bert. ‘ You must promise to attend to your business - ’ ^ Oh, I’ll do that,’ exclaimed David. ^ Of course you will,’ said Don, ^ but that will not satisfy the authorities in Washington. They don’t know you, and even if they did it would malte no dif¬ ference. The law must be complied witli, and you^ must give bonds for the faithful performance of your duty. But that needn’t trouble you ; father will at¬ tend to it. He says your chances are good, for you are the only one* on the track so far.’ This was the fiui’st time David knew that there was anybody on the track. He was greatly astonished and delighted, and his attempts to express his grati¬ tude for the General’s kindness and thoughtfulness were awkward enough. Thirty dollars was a large sum of money in his eyes. His earnings would amount to three hundred and sixty dollars a-year, and couldn’t he and his mother live nicely on that, and save something for a rainy day besides ? If he could get the contract, and his father and Dan would only abandon their lazy, worthless mode of life, and go to work, how happy they would all be ! ^ What’s the matter ? ’ asked Don, for David’s face became clouded again when he tliought of his father and Dan. ‘ There’s a good deal the matter,’ replied David, ‘ but it is nothing I can help.’ ^ You don’t act like yourself at all to-day,’ continued Don. ^ Suppose you go home and take a rest. Don’t brood over your troubles, whatever they are. Let them ffo, if you can’t help them. Think about plea¬ sant tilings, and to-morrow you wiU come up here, feeling like a new boy. Bert and I will set the traps we have made this morning, and then we’ll go up and take a look at our bear-trap.’ David thought it would be a good plan to follow this advice, so he closed the door of the shop to keep the pointer from following- him, and started for home. ^ Well,’ said Bert, as he picked up his knife, and resumed work upon the figure four he was making, ' Dave has seen his father ! ’ ‘ And had trouble with him too,’ added Don. ^ It was about the pointer,’ said Bert. * My idea exactly. Godfrey is hiding somewhere in the cane ; Dan wanted to make a little more money without work, so he stole the pointer and gave him to his father to keep until I offered a reward for him. David found it out, and to save me from being swin¬ dled, he recovered the pointer and got himself into difficulty by it.’ The boys, who were merely guessing at all this, would have been surprised to know that their sur¬ mises were aU correct. David and his troubles, and llis manful efforts to better his condition in spite of his adverse circumstances, afforded them topics of conversation while they were at work; and when the figure four, on which Bert was employed, was completed, the mule was harnessed to the waggon, and the boys drove off to set the half-a-dozen new traps they had built that morning. It was twelve o’clock when they returned, and they found lunch waiting for them. When they had done ample justice to it, they began making hasty prepara¬ tions for their visit to the island, and a quarter of an hour more saw them well on their way up the bayou. {To he continued.)

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THE BROKElSr SEIlPE]SrT. AHOMET the Second was called ^ Fatih/ the meaning of which is ^ the Opener, or Vanquisher.’ He was a Turk, a fierce, narrow, restless, ambitious, cruel bigot. Whenever he had talked with a Chris¬ tian he used to wash his hands and his face. He spoke five languages besides his own. He was a learned man in many ways, but horribly cruel. A melon had been stolen, and fourteen boys were ripped open to find it. On the slightest provocation this man made blood flow in streams. When he ascended the throne, at the age of twenty-one, he slew all his infant brothers. His chief glory was the capture of Constantinople, at the siege^ of which he used cannon of an immense size, which carried a ball of 600 lbs. weight the distance of a mile. Constantinople was filled with ancient treasures when the rude Mahomet took it. One of these was a column of brass, made by three brazen serpents twined together. Their three heads rose upward,

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The ascent of Snowdon.

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366 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVI. and formed a rest for a three-legged vessel of gold, which the warlike Greeks had offered to their god Apollo, on the occasion of a glorious victory over a very mighty foe. The Turks hate all images and pictures, and they destroyed all they found in the cities they took. As Mahomet rode through the circus, or racecourse, he saw this twisted pillar, and no doubt thought it was an emblem of the Trinity, and a Christian idol ; and in his zeal he lifted up his huge iron mace, and shat¬ tered at one blow the under-jaw of one of the serpents. But Mahomet passed on, and did no more harm to the column. He had far too many things to occupy his re.tless, ever-changing spirit. He did nothing thoroughly. His mind was filled too fuU with grand ideas, and before he had learned to rule his own fatherland properly, and the kingdom he had won in Europe, he was dreaming how easily he could plant his banner in India and China. But a little fit of the gout came, and then ' all his thoughts perished.’ The one shattered under-jaw of the serpent remains to teach a silent lesson : ^ What you do, do thoroughly.’ This is the secret of Turkish misrule and decay. While England does all she can to improve India, everything the Turk does is done carelessly, hastily, in a slovenly manner : and the vast empire which the Mahomets, Bajazets, and Amuraths built up, is dissolving like a snowball before our eyes. G. S. 0. THE ASCENT OF SNOWDON. HAVE long had a great wish to climb a mountain. Since I was quite a child it has been my ambition to do so ; and I remember reading with delight in Chattei'hox stories of moun¬ tain-climbing, both abroad and in Scotland. This year I have made my first ascent of a mountain, and although that of Snowdon is not to be compared to Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn, and I have no hair-breadth escapes to write about, I thought some readers of Chatterbox might be interested by a short account of the ^ highest mountain in England, Ireland, and Wales.’ Snowdon is 3571 feet above the level of the sea, but falls far short of Ben Nevis in Scotland, which is 4368 feet. I w^as this summer staying at Portmadoc, along with my father and mother, an uncle and aunt, and a friend, and I was determined that I would not leave Wales without ‘doing’ Snowdon, if I could possibly overcome the objections of my elders; which objections were the great stumbling-blocks in my way, and which I could not jump over at once, but had to remove bit by bit, by gradual persuasions. At last my friend and I got our friends to consent so far as to say that they would drive with us to Beddgelert, from which place we intended to make the ascent, and if they heard notliing very dreadful from the guides there, they would themselves start us off. We left Portmadoc at half-past ten on a beautiful clear morning, and had a lovely drive to Beddgelert, passing Pont Aberglaslyn, of the beauty < f which I can give no description. • The old ivy-covered bridge, with the water on one side foaming and rushing over the stones, and on the other in such curious contrast, motionless, in deep pools, and so wonderfully green and clear that you see the bottom distinctly, though the water is very deep — so clear and deep that it would be easy actually to ‘ see ’ a man drown ! We also drove through the Pass of Aberglaslyn, which is very beautiful ; and then on to Beddgelert. We hired a good guide and a lean pony at the inn there, and started off for Snowdon, leaving our friends standing on the hotel steps to see what they, I believe, expected to be, the last sight of us in a whole condition, as they evidently thought that people who will be so foolish as to climb mountains always return with dilapidated limbs. We drove three miles further — the guide and pony following — to the foot of the mountain; then I mounted and we began really to ascend. At first we had to go through regular bogs, for there had been a great deal of rain, which had made the coarse grass like a sponge. After this we came to what is called the path, but it is really only like the track of a water-course, and full of stones of aU sizes. It was very rough riding. I had to sit nearly double, to keep myself from slipping down over the pony’s tail, as we regularly climbed each step ; and if the guide had not held the pony up, it would have fallen several times. As we got higher we had a splendid view of the beautiful mountains round, and of several lakes. There is no danger tiU near the top of the mountain, where the narrow path goes along the side of the smaller peak of Snowdon, with a precipice below. Snowdon is shaped like the half of a saucer, and ascending from Beddgelert the path runs, as it were, along the edge of the saucer, and from the edge of the precipice you look down into the hollow part. The most dangerous bit of the whole climb is what is called the ‘ Saddle,’ standing in the middle of the path. You can take a stone in each hand, and throw them do^vn the precipice on both sides. In a high wind, this bit, though only a few feet in length, is most dangerous, as there is nothing wliatever to keep a person from being blown down on either side. I believe that on the top of Snowdon there is always a breeze, for that day when we started from Beddgelert it was quite hot, and about a mile from the summit we could hardly walk against the wind. From the ‘ Saddle ’ we were about a quarter of an hour in going to the top ; but it is a trying bit of climbing for any one who has not a good head for heights, as the path is steep, and you look sheer down in many places to tlie bottom of the mountain, first on one side and then on the other. We arrived at the top after about three hours’ climbing, and our guide said Ave had made a good ascent. There are some low, wooden huts, built on the very point of the mountain, where there is just room for them to stand ; and during the summer a man and his wife live there, and sell beer, tea, and eatables to people who go up. We had some capital tea and good bread and butter, which we enjoyed immensely after our climb; and it was curious to see the mists

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No. XLVI. CHATTERBOX. 367 Uowing round our hut, and feel ourselves amongst the clouds on the top of a mountain quite away from all the world, and yet drinking tea in proper cups and saucers, and paying for it as we might have done at an ordinary hotel. The people told us that everything had to he carried up by pack-ponies, and that their coals cost them six pounds a ton by the time they got them up Snowdon ! The wonder is that the huts are not blown down in the high winds, as they have not even a rock to protect them, but are perched on the very edge of the mountain peak. Unfortunately, as we got up the mists came down, and very much interfered with our view ; but the man told us, that on a clear day you can see the Irish lakes and parts of Scotland. The going down was great fun. We ran a good part of the way, steadying ourselves with our Alpine stocks, without which we could hardly have got on. W'e looked about for rock-crystals, but did not find any good ones, and the guide told us that after rain there are none, as it washes them down the slopes. But we did find some beautiful roots of parsley-fern, growing under rocks and between the stones of a sheepfold. Of course, riding dowm was quite impossible,^ and we got terribly foot-sore. The walking on a continual slope and over loose stones, which turn under one’s feet, for three hours, is no joke. Next time I climb a mountain I shall profit by my bitter experience on Snowdon and not go in high- heeled boots, as I foolishly did then. I could hardly walk the last part of the way, in consequence of the said heels, which twdsted and turned over the stones in a most uncomfortable way. It was nearly dark when we got to where the carriage was waiting for us on the high road, after having been six hours in doing the ascent and descent. We found our friends looking out for us at the inn at Beddgelert, and we all had a six-miles’ drive in the dark back to Portmadoc, where we safely landed about ten o’clock. I can only say that I never had a more thoroughly enjoyable expedition, and my last thought before I went to sleep was one full of satis¬ faction at having ^ done Snowdon.’ I will just add, that the charge for a guide is 7s. 6d., and the same for a nony. We got our guide from the ‘ Saracen’s Head' Inn, at Beddgelert, and found him a most civil and obliging man. His Christian name was William. I am sorry I do not know his full name, as I could weU recommend him to any one who might think of ascending Snowdon. Some people do not take a guide ; but the ascent of the mountain is often dangerous, on account of sudden fogs; and, therefore, no one ought to go up without a good guide. ^ li. M. O. WILD-BEAST MERCHANTS. IF any young reader of Chatterbox would care to have for a playmate a healthy lion, or a young tiger, there are merchants in London who could at once supply the required animal. Ratcliffe Highway seems to be the usual abode for dealers in such live stock, and there we could soon secure enough animals to make a small menagerie. Familiarity, we know. breeds contempt, and wdld-beast merchants do not seem to go in very great fear of their stock, by the stories that are told of their occasional escapes. One, who went to bed after fastening up a pair of lions in his yard, was awakened by his wife in the night, and on going to the window found the lions loose, stand¬ ing with their paws on the window-sill, and calmly looking in at him. Another time he found that an elephant had got loose and was going around the yard, unfastening the other cages. When dis¬ covered ho was trying to set at liberty a cage of lions ! Should you ever visit one of these places, be sure to summon up all your self-possession, and prepare for a surprise now and then. A gentleman who was once looking at some of a dealer’s stock in a loft, saw a trap-door at his feet rise now and then, and heard a good deal of noise below. Imagine his feelings on being told that it was only three lions at play in a box beneath ! Fortunately animals in captivity seem to be overawed by bold and resolute conduct, so that accidents are not so common as the inexperienced would expect. A. R. B. «PHE CREATION OF THE CAMEL. 2 day Jupiter held a court, at which he commanded all the animals of his creation to appear. They w^ere ushered one by one into the throne- room,- and one by one they made obeisance to the great god. Then they all retired except the horse, who remained till the court was ^ Sire,’ he began, when he found himself alone with Jupiter, ^I am sensible of the many attractions you have heaped upon me. You have made me beautiful, noble, and useful ; but, sire, a few alterations would make me quite perfect, and I venture to suggest them to you. With a long, swan¬ like neck, I should be perfectly graceful; with a thick, broad chest, I ^vould never lose my breath ; with very long, thin legs, I would run as swiftly as the wind ; and, since you have destined me to carry human beings, if I had a saddle growing on my back, I would be quite convenient to them. Then, too, my back would never get rubbed with man’s clumsy manufactures.’ Jupiter extended his sceptre and a camel appeared. The horse shuddered and w^as silent. ‘ Presumptuous animal !’ exclaimed Jupiter ; ^ what wouldst thou further ? Behold a swan-like neck, a broad chest, long and thin legs, and a fixed saddle.’ The horse made no answer, but shuddered once more. ‘ I see,’ said Jupiter, ^ that the prospect of ihe change pleases thee not. I will not punish thee this time by inflicting it on thee ; but remember in future how ill-able thou art to judge thyself what is best for thee. Thou new animal,’ he continued to the camel, ^ live on to be useful in the deserts. Thou shalt be called ^ Camel,’ and the horse shall never see thee without shuddering !’ And it is said the horse always shudders at the sight of the camel.

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368 CHATTERBOX. No. XL VI The Camel.

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No. XLVIL Salamander asleep in the Squire’s Wide-awake.

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370 CHATTERBOX. No. XLYII. A DOMESTIC SERVANT. CHAPTER I. GOING TO SERVICE. H! it’s you, Mr. Sancho, is it ? How you did frighten me, to be sure ! I thought it was a dog scrambling through the hedge.’ * I’m really very sorry, madam. If I had had the least idea that you were on the other side - ’ ^ Don’t mention it, pray How are you all going on at the Hall, Mr. Sancho ? ’ • Much as usual, I thank you, Mrs. Tibbet.’ ‘ But the new groom ? ’ < Yes, to be sure ! I had forgotten him. Well, he behaves very well on the whole ; knows his place, and doesn’t interfere with me.’ * He suits you better than the last ? ’ ^ O dear, yes! — keeps the stables much cleaner; and yesterday he put three sacks of corn into the coach- nouse as a bait for the mice.’ ' That’s a good notion 1 And how is Mrs. Pepper ? ’ ^ I haven’t seen her for many days. She doesn’t come out much in the winter time — says her lungs are delicate. ‘ Oh, indeed ! I am sorry to hear it. And you’ve no news to tell me ? ’ ^ None at all, except that they are going to have an under-house-cat at the Hall.’ ^ Well, that ts something new ! And pray who is it to be ? ’ ^ That’s more than I can tell you, Mrs. Tibbet ; there’s no one come yet that suits. Is there no friend of yours that would do, do you think ? ’ Mrs. Tibbet pricked up her ears : a bright thought had come into her head. ‘ It’s quite possible, Mr. Sancho ; I must think it over : but I ought to know all about it.’ ^ Certainly, madam, so far as I can tell you. In the first place, she must be young, under twelve months old. ^ So I thought ; and what else ? ’ ^ Docile and well brought up, and that is all I know.’ * But what would her duties be ? ’ ^To help Mrs. Pepper: but aU the work would be little enough for one.^ ^ Thank you, Mr. Sancho. I think it would be just the thing for a young friend of mine ; but we’ll talk it over when next we meet. I must wish you a good evening now and go home to my children.’ It was no wonder that Mrs. Tibbet was anxious to be at home again, for she had left her four young babies under no better care than that of their elder sister Salamander ; and past experience had taught her but too well what sort of care-taking hers was. On reaching home, the first thing she heard was the loud screaming of one of her little ones, and she hurried to the kitchen where she had left them. There was not a kitten to be seen, but she soonfo^ .a out two by their voices. One was among tho ashes under the grate, its fur singed a little, but no further harm done; the other in an empty bucket, into which it had somehow managed to tumble, but could not get out again, try as it would. That difficulty was soon settled, and the two kittens placed com¬ fortably on a bit of old carpet in the cupboard ; but where were the other two P Salamander also had disappeared, so most likely they were somewhere with her ; but that thought did not give poor Mrs. Tibbet any comfort. She searched the downstairs rooms in vain, and was going to look into the upper ones, when, at the foot of the stairs, she was met by one of her lost children, who was rolling down head over heels, and too much frightened even to cry. Salamander was scampering down after it at full speed, but on seeing her mother she wisely tuimed round and took herself off ; while the fourth kitten was found mewing at the top of the stairs. Having been licked and fondled by their mother, all four soon forgot their troubles in sleep. Salamander was racing about upstairs, and Mrs. Tibbet was thinking of the under-house-cat’s place at the Hall, and what a good thing it would be for her wild daughter to go there. There had been a time when this same Sala¬ mander had had as much love given to her alone as the four little ones had now between them; but, though Mrs. Tibbet’s love for her children w'as very strong, still there was not enough for more than four at once. Besides, Salamander was nearly seven months old, — quite old enough, her mother thought, to do for herself in the worjd. She was worse than useless at home, she was quite sure of that ; when the babies w'ere sleeping, she 'vvoke them up by the noise she made ; and if left at home with them, either led them into all sorts of mischief or made them cry by playing too roughly with them. It was quite time it was put a stop to, and what a good chance this would be! But how could she manage it? that was the difficulty ; for Salamander was too comfort¬ ably off at home to be likely willingly to leave it for a strange place. While she was still thinking it over ill her mind Mrs. Tibbet fell asleep. The next day, when she was sitting before the kitchen fii’e, while Salamander lay coiled up asleep in a clothes-basket, two ladies came into the kitchen. ‘ Cook,’ . said one, ^ if we were to send the eldest kitten away, do you think the old cat would fret much ? ’ ^ Fret ? not she, ma’am ! she’d think it a good riddance, I’U be bound: that big kitten is just the plague of her life, and of mine too.’ Salamander slept on, dreaming of rats and mice and everything delightful, but before many hours had passed her sleep was roughly broken. She woke with a start, and for some time could not make out where she was ; but as soon as she was wide a\vake she found that she was shut up in a basket, from which there was no way of escape, and in wliicli she was soon jolted about in a most uncomfortable man¬ ner. She could not understand it, so she tried to persuade herself that it was an unpleasant dream, and kept her eyes tightly shut that she might fancy siie was asleep. At last the jolting left off and the basket w^as set down. She opened her eyes, lialf expecting to find herself in the clothes-basket, but in that she was disappointed. Through the chinks in the basket she could see a bright fire burn-

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— — "T No. XLVII. CHATTERBOX. 371 ing, and from the general look of things, though she could not see them plainly, she thought that she was in the kitchen at home, though it was strange that she did not hear the kittens squalling. Presently a shadow came between her and the fire. It must be Mrs. Tibbet, and in very humble voice she said, — ^ Oh, mother, please let me out.’ * What do you call me mother for ? ’ said the voice of a stranger. ^ I am Mrs. Pepper, upper-house-cat at the Hall, and I suppose you are the under-house- cat that was to come to-day.’ ^ If you please, I am Salamander.’ ^ Well, Salamander, if I were you I should get out of that basket; it can’t be very comfortable in tljere.’ ^ Indeed it isn’t : but how can I get out, please, Mrs. Pepper ? ’ * You must get it down on its side first, — that’s right : now push hard against the cover.’ And, fol¬ lowing the directions of her new friend. Salamander at last got out of her prison. ^ And so you are one of Mrs. Tibbet’s children ! ’ said Mrs. Pepper, after they had stood looking at each other for a few minutes. ^ Well, I knew something of her once, so you are not quite like a stranger. But, come, we won’t stay here. You are tired, 1 dare say.’ * Yes, rather,’ said Salamander. * Well, we won’t go into the dining-room ; they talk so loud, they would very likely wake us. There is a rug in the haU — very comfortable, when you want a quiet nap ; but first we must get something to eat.’ Salamander was glad to hear this, for she had had no food the whole of the day, and Mrs. Pepper went on : ^ I see the cook has left the larder door open — though she has a rough way of speaking, she does sometimes do a kind thing — so we’ll go in and get a bit of supper.’ Salamander feasted that night, and thought herself a very lucky cat. When they had finished their supper, Mrs. Pepper proposed to show Salamander the rug in the hall of which she had before spoken, adding that it was so soft and warm that she would go to sleep in a minute, and then in an hour or two, when she was quite rested, she would take her over the house and snow her all the rooms that were not shut up. But an unexpected accident quite overturned their plans. They had just reached the hall when Mrs. Pepper said that it would be a wise thing, now while they could, to bring away a bone or two from the larder for their breakfast in the morning, and so they went back again. Mrs. Pepper gave Salamander the leg of a chicken to carry, and said she herself would soon come after her with a bit of tongue which she must get down from the shelf. Salamander did as she was bid, but when many minutes passed and Mrs. Pepper did not come, she began to feel anxious, and at last made up her mind to go and see after her. She had no difficulty in finding her way to the larder, but, to her great surprise and vexation, the door was shut. She was still standing there, wondering what had happened, and not knowing what to do, when she heard her own name softly spoken. ‘ Salamander ! ’ said Mrs. Pepper from the inside, * is that you ? ’ ^ Oh ! Mrs. Pepper, who has shut you in there P how will you ever get out ? ’ ^ It’s that horrid cook : I heard her coming down the passage, but before I could get down she had slammed the door to.’ ^ But what will you do ? ^ It can’t be helped now. I shall have a good break¬ fast, that’s one comfort. I only wish there was a bit of carpet here, or something warm. When she opens the door in the morning I shall slip out before she can get a sight of me. But you go back to the hall, Salamander ; you’ll do no good here, and may get into trouble if you are found.’ On her return to the haU, Salamander found the Squire’s * wide-awake ’ hat on the floor, and thinking it looked even more comfortable than the rug, she rolled herself up in it and soon fell fast asleep, (To be continued.) THE THAMES PROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XXII.— FEOM WOOLWICH TO EEITH. HAVING Woolwich, we soon see Barking on the north. The river, from Woolwich to Barking, is called ^Galleons’ Reach,’ so designated from the Spanish vessels of that build and name which the English privateers used to bring here after capture. The huge erection on the left is the engine-house for the great sewage-works’ outfall for the north of the Thames, Barking itself is celebrated for producing some of the finest sailors that navigate the world of waters. They especially affect the fishing-trade of the North Sea, one of the most boisterous in the world. They are, almost to a man, even to a boy, engaged in the Norwegian lobster fisheries. A strange place is Barking, and thoroughly meeting that description which long since was written of it and several similar towns on the banks of the Thames, and from which we make a quotation : — * And on the broken pavement here and there Doth many a smelling sprat and herring lie ; A brandy and tobacco shop is near, And hens, and d^s, and hogs are feeding by, And here a sailor^ jacket hangs to dry; At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen, Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry ; Now singing shrill, and scolding oft between. Scold answers loud-mouthed scold — bad neighbourhood, I ween.’ From Barking Creek to Half-way House the river is called Tripcock’s Reach, and it was here, off Trip- cock’s Point, that, in September, 1878, the terrible collision took place between the river-steamer Pmncess Alice and the steamship Byioell Castle, which resulted in the loss of so many lives of London holiday-makers. Past Barlring, the river bank on the north is called Dagenham Reach, so named from an inundation at this point, which was the result of carelessness in not closing a sluice, and which resulted in such mischief that it cost 65,000/. to get the water off the land (which here sinks far below the level of the Thames), and to make good the embankment. Now we make Half-way Reach, and soon pretty Erith, six miles from Woolwich, on the south, comes in view. With its church buried among the trees it is a lovely spot. Some years since a gunpowder ex- I plosion here threw down the Erith river embankment

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Erith.

Page 379

No. XLVII. CI-IATTEIIBOX. The Prisoner’s Daughter. when the Thames was at low water. There was a certainty of a terrible inundation if the breach were not lillecl up before high water. The garrison at "Woolwich was applied to ; the Sappers and Miners were soon on the alert, and what between earth-bags, earth, spades, and, above all, most willing hands and arms, the embankment was finished before the water rose, and no damage was done to the land. Above Erith, and on the hill, may be seen Belvi- dere House, the seat of Lord Saye and Sele, one of whose ancestors was murdered by Jack Cade, who pretended that the nobleman favoured the French. Erith Church is interesting, apart from its archi¬ tectural beauty, as the spot which was first designated by King John as that where he would meet the barons. But, as you know, Kunnymead was afterwards chosen as the spot where the Great Charter was to be signed. (To be continued.)

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874 CHATTERBOX. No. XLYII. THE PRISONER’S DAUGHTER. Many years ago, during troubled times in France, a M. Delleglaie was ordered to be remoyedfiom Lyons, where be was in prison, to Paris. His daughter, who had been allowed to visit him frequently, and°had used every effort to get him set free, asked leave to go with him in the same vehicle ; but this was refused. The girl, however, nothing daunted, resolved to follow her father on foot. For more than 300 miles she kept up with the carriage conveying the prisoners. Whenever it stopped, she used her scanty means to obtain food for M. Delleglaie, did all she could for his comfort when they stopped for the night, and by her entreaties persuaded the soldiers to treat him with more kindness than the other prisoners. At length they reached their journey’s end, where father and child had to part; but the girl, though nearly worn out by the fatigue and exposure, at once began fresh efforts to obtain her fariier’s release. Scarcely a day passed but what she presented herself before some one of the authori¬ ties, and implored their favour. From some she met with kindness, from others rude or stern refusal. But at last, after three months of exertion, she obtained her re\vard, and her aged father was delivered up to her charge. They at once set out on their return home ; but before Lyons was reached the brave girl was attacked by illness, and soon paid for her parent’s life by her own. A. R. jB. THE BOY TRAPPER. {Continued from page 363.) By Haery Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. They found to their great delight that the ducks were beginning to come in now, and Don was kept busy rowing from one side of the bayou to the other to pick up the dead and wounded birds that Bert brought out of the numerous flocks which took wing as they approached. After a dozen fine fat mallards had been brought to bag, Bert declared that it was a sin to shoot any more, and took his place at the oars, while Don sat in the stern and steered. ^ These ducks tell us that it is time to go to our shooting-box,’ said the latter. ^ We always wait until they begin to come in before we make up our party, you know.’ ^ We ought to go over there and fix up a bit first, said Bert. ^ If we don’t find anything in our trap, let’s go over there and see how things look. We liave had some splendid times in that little shooting-box, haven’t we ? ’ They certainly had, and they found much pleasure in living them over again in imagination. While they were talking about the many happy hours they had spent there, they reached Bruin’s Island, and Don brought the canoe round and ran the bow upon the beach. The hounds jumped out, and running about with their noses close to the ground, began to show the same signs of excitement that they had exhibited on the day of their first, visit to the island. The boys knew more now than they did then, and consequently were not in such haste to declare that it was a bear the dogs scented. It might be Godfrey Fjvans ; and that he or somebody else had been there since they left was very evident. Their trap had been sprung by the aid of a long pole, which was still fast under the heavy roof ; the lever and rope had been carried away; and the bag of corn which Don had hung upon the sapling had also disappeaied. Don was provoked, and laid up in his mind a few sharp words, to be ad¬ dressed to Godfrey on the subject, should they ever happen to meet again ; but he had very little to say. The boys had been thoughtful enough to bring an axe, a piece of rope, and another small bag of corn with them, and although they had no assurance that their labour would not be wasted, they set the trap again and started for home. ^If Godfrey did that,’ said Don, Gie must have swam the bayou, unless he has a boat hidden away in the bushes somewhere, which is not liliely. If it was summer now, he would probably spring that trap every day, just to keep us from catching that bear ; but the weather is getting frosty, and he’ll not relish many more cold baths. I don’t think he will trouble us that way any more.’ When they reached the mouth of the bayou, Bert, who was steering, directed the canoe across the lake, toward the point on which the shooting-box was located. During a pause in the conversation, he looked toward the place where it ought to be, but could see nothing of it. ^ What’s the matter ? ’ asked his brother, who saw that there was something wrong. ‘ That’s Long Point, isn't it ? ’ asked Bert, in reply. ‘ It certainly is, but whei e’s the house ? ’ ‘ You haven’t been there in almost six months, and perhaps you have forgotten where it is,’ said Don, with a laugh. ^ No, I haven’t. It stood close beside a big shell- bark, didn’t it ? Well, there’s the tree ; now show me the shooting-box ? ’ Don faced about on his seat, expecting to point the building out to his brother at once, and was a good deal surprised when he found that he could not see it himself. There was the tree, sure enough, but Ihe spot which the shooting-box ought to have occupied, was vacant. After running his eyes all along the shore, to sat¬ isfy himself that he had made no mistake as to the locality, Don picked up the oars again, and writh a few more strotes brought the canoe to the bank. All there was left of the shooting-box they could have carried away in their arms. Even the stove had not es(;p,ped destruction. The chimney had fallen upon it and it was completely ruined. * Godfrey means to put a stop to all our fun if he can, doesi/t he ? ’ said Bert, who thouglit that a man who would steal a canoe and spring a trap would be guilty of any meanness. ^ Let’s go home,’ w^as Don’s reply. ^ We’ll have another shooting-box here some day, Bert, and it will beat the old one all to pieces.’ The boys thought they had had hard luck that day, and so did their father when he had heard their story ; but they came very near bavin" worse luck that night, and they never knew anything about it until several days afterward. The General found it out the next morning. He

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No.XLVII. CHATTERBOX. 875 ■went to the fields at an early hour, as he alw^ays did, to set his negroes at work, and was met by the hostler, who had an exciting piece of news to tell. ^ Misser Gordon,’ said he, ^ Misser Don’s hound dogs done treed two fellers down dar in de quarter. Dey’s been dar aU de blessed night top o’ dat ar house ; yes, sar, dat’s what dey says, sar ! ’ The General replied that if the two fellows had come there for the purpose of stealing, he was glad of it, and said he would go and take a look at them. When he saw them perhaps he would know where the contents of his smoke-house had been going lately. He rode down to the quarters as soon as his horse was brought out, and when he came within sight of the cabin in which the boys kept their captured quails he saw two persons sitting astride of the ridge¬ pole, and Don’s hounds gathered about the building, keeping guard over them. The General could scarcely believe his eyes, although when he came to recall several little things which Don and Bert had told him he was not so very much surprised after all. The persons whom the hounds had forced to take refuge on the roof of the cabin were boys ; and as soon as the General was near enough to them to dis¬ tinguish their features he saw that they were Lester Brigham and Bob Owens. CHAPTER XV. — bob’s ASPIRATIONS. ‘ I THINK it my duty to inform you that the parties to whom you have given your order for fifty dozen live quails wiU certainly disappoint you. They did not seek the contract for themselves, but for another person, who knows nothing whatever about trapping, and who is much'too indolent to put forth the neces¬ sary exertion if he did. You will get no birds from him. If, after waiting a reasonable time — I should think two weeks would be long enough — you become satisfied of this fact, I shall be happy to receive your order, and will guarantee you satisfaction.’ This was a rough copy of the letter Lester drew up to send to the advertiser in the and Gun, on the evening of the day on which he held that in¬ terview with Don and Bert, when the former refused to join his sportsman’s club. He read it to Bob in his best style, and was astonished when his friend declared that it wouldn’t do at all. ^ You seem to forget that I am working for a new shot-gun,’ said Bob. ‘ The language isn’t half strong enough.’ ‘ You can’t improve it anywhere,’ replied Lester, who was rather proud of the production. ' Do you want me to abuse Don and the rest ? That would be poor policy, for the man would say right away that we were jealous of them, and trying to injure them. I have told him that he will get no birds from David, and if he does it will be our fault.’ ^Bob could not see the force of this reasoning. There was so much at stake that it was necessary they should do everything in their power to secure the contract, and he was sure it would help matters if a few hard words were added respecting Don and David. So they were put in, and the letter was copied and dropped into the post-office. After that, Lester took up his abode with Bob Owens. According to an agreement made between them. Bob went through the ceremony of sending a note to Lester by a negro boy, inviting him to come over and spend a week with him, bringing his horse and gun, and they would have a fine time shooting turkeys and driving the ridges for deer. This ar¬ rangement enabled the two conspirators to be together day and night. They intended to pass the most of their time in riding about through the woods, and if a deer or turke}^ happened to come in their way and they should be fortunate enough to shoot it, so much the better ; but if the game kept out of their sight they would not spend any precious moments in looking for it. Their object was to devote themselves exclusively to destroying all David’s chances for earning the hundred and fifty dollars. They would watch him closely, and when they found out where his traps were set they would visit them daily, and steal every quail they found in them. During the first few days the boys spent together they found out two things: one was that there was a pile of traps in the yard behind Godfrey Evans’s cabin, and that they were never touched except when the family happened to be in want of kindling wood. The other was, that David left home bright and early every morning, and went straight to General Gordon’s. AVhat he did after he got there they could not find out. They would alwaj^'s wait an hour or two to see if he came out agiiin, and then they would grow tired of doing nothing, and spend the rest of the day searching the woods and brier-patches in the neighbourhood of the cabin, in the hope of finding some of David’s traps. But they never found a single one, for the reason that they were all set on the Gen¬ eral’s plantation, and the boys never thought of look¬ ing there for them. ' It’s my opinion,’ said Lester, one day, when the two were seated at a camp-fire in the woods, broiling a brace of squirrels which Bob had shot, ' that David has given it up as a bad job, and left the way clear for us.’ ' Hurrah ! ’ shouted Bob. 'Well— yes; but I’d hurrah louder if he had only set a dozen or two traps, and given us a chance to rob them. If he’d done that, we might have had a hundred birds on hand now. The best thing we can do is to set our own traps, and catch the quails as fast as we can, keep an eye on David all the same.’^ This programme was duly carried out — that is, they spent the rest of the day in setting their traps, but they did not devote any more time to watching David’s movements. (To hd continued.) THE BOY IH THE STREAM. LITTLE boy, while leaning down to drink, Fell in a stream, and soon began to sink ; A man in passing heard him as he cried For aid, and, running to the river-side. Began to scold the boy with all his might For getting into such a plight. ' Oh, save me — save me first !’ the child rejilied; ' And then there will be time enough to chide.’ Of men in trouble we may say the same : Assist them first, and gain the right to blame*

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376 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVII.

Page 383

Godfrey forcing an entrance into the Smoke-house.

Page 384

378 CHATTERBOX. No. XLYIIL THE BOY TBAPPER. (Continued fromp. 375.) By Harry Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. WO incidents happened within a few hours that sugf^ested new ideas to them, and made them sure that at last they had the game in their own hands. They had built a good many traps, and having no mule and waggon at their command, as Don Gordon had, it took them all the rest of the day to set them, so that it was dark by the time they reached home. They found the family at supper, and listening with great interest and attention to something Mr. Owens ■was saying. Mr. Owens was like Godfrey Evans in two re¬ spects. His ideas ran just as far ahead of his in¬ come as Godfrey’s did, and he hated those who were better off in the world than him.seif. Especially did he dislike General Gordon. The latter was looked up to by all the best people as the leading man in the community, and that was something Mr. Owens could not endure. He wanted that honour himself ; and because he could not have it he made it a point to oppose and injure the General in every possible way. ^ What do you think Gordon is trying to do now?’ Mr. Owens asked, just as the bo5^s came in and took their seals at the table. ^ Gardner’s mail contract ha.s run out, and as he doesn’t intend to put in another bid that meddlesome Silas Jones asked the General who ■w’ould be a good man to take his place ; and Gordon hadn’t any more sense than to recommend Dave Evans.’ ' Well, of all the things I ever heard of ! ’ exclaimed Bob. * That’s what I thought,’ continued Mr. Owens. ‘I heard them talking about it at the post-office. Gordon was as busy as a candidate on election day. He was going around speaking to all the men about it, and asking them if they would lend their influence to secure the contract for David ; and although I put myself in his way two or three times he never said a word to vie. I suppose he thought my infiuenco didn’t amount to anything one way or the other, but perhaps he’ll see his mistake some day.’ * What’s the pay, father ? ’ asked Bob. ^Thirty dollars a month was Gardner’s bid, and he rode the route only twice each week. But he had to go rain or shine. How would you like it, Bob ? ’ * The best in the world ! ’ exclaimed the boy, eagerly. ^ Three hundred and sixty dollars a-year ! Couldn’t I sport just as fine a hunting and fishing rig as anybody ? Can’t you get it for me, father ? ’ ' I was thinking about it on- the way home, and I made up my mind that I could try. Gordon thinks he holds the whole state of Mississippi under his thumb, but he hasn’t got me there.’ * Nor my father, either,’ said Lester. ‘ He’ll help you, Mr. Owens.’ ^ I was counting on him. When I send in tlie ap¬ plication, I’ll have to send a bond for a few hundred dollars with it.’ ‘ Father will go on it if I ask him ; and I will, for I’ll do anything to help Bob, and beat that beggar, Dave Evans.’ The conversation continued for an hour or more in this strain, and when the boys had heard David and all his friends soundly abused, and Bob had provided for the spending of every cent of the money he would earn during the first year he rode the route, if his father succeeded in obtaining the appointment for him, he and Lester went out to attend to their horses and talk the matter over by themselves. Bob was in ecstacies ; and while he Tvas counting off on his fingers the various articles he intended to purchase with his wages, Lester suddenly laid his hand on his arm. ‘ What’s that P ’ said he, in a whisper. Bob looked in the direction indicated by his com¬ panion, and saw a dark figure creeping stealthily along the fence. His actions plainly showed that he had no business there, and, as if moved by a com¬ mon impulse, the two boys dropped to the ground and waited to see what he was going to do. ^ It’s some thieving nigger,’ whispered Bob. ^ If he lays a hand on anything we’ll jump up and catch him.’ ^ Hadn’t I better go into the house and call your father ? ’ asked Lester. T, no ; you and I can manage him. Do you see those fence pickets over there ? Well, we’ll sneak up and get one apiece, and then if he attempts any resistance we shall be ready for him.’ The pickets of which Bob spoke were piled about twenty yards nearer to the barn than the boys then were, and they succeeded in creeping up to them and arming themselves ithout attracting the notice of the prowler. The latter followed the fence until he reached a point opposite the spot where the barn, corn-cribs, and other outbuildings were located, and there he stopped to survey the ground before him. Having made sure that there was no one in sight, he moved quickly toward the smolce-house, and tried the door. ‘ I don’t think you’ll make much there, my friend,’ whispered Bob. ‘ That door is locked.’ The prowler found it so, and after a few ineffectual attempts to force it open by pushing with his shoulder against it he faced about and disappeared in the barn. While the boys w^ere tiying to make up their minds whether or not they ought to run up and cor¬ ner him there, he came out again, and he did not come empty-handed either. lie carried a bag of meal on his shoulder — the one Mr. Owens had put in the barn that morning for the use of his horses — and in his hand something that looked like a stick of stove-wood ; but it was in realitj^ a strong iron strap, which he had found in the barn, and wnicli he in¬ tended to use to force an entrance into the smoke¬ house. He deposited his bag of meal upon the ground, set to work upon the hasp with his lever, and in a few minutes more the door swung open. ^Now is our time,’ whispered Bob, as the robber disappeared in the smoke-house. ^ Stand by me, and we’ll have a prisoner when we go back to the house.’

Page 385

No. XLVIII. CHATTERBOX. 379 Lester would have been very glad indeed to have had some excuse for remaining in his place of con¬ cealment, and allowing his companion to go on and capture the robber alone ; but he could not think of any, and when Bob jumped up and ran toward the smoke-house, Lester followed him, taking care, however, to regulate his pace so that his friend could keep about ten or fifteen feet in advance -of him. Bob, who was in earnest, and not in the least alarmed, moved with noiseless footsteps, while Lester, preferring to let the robber escape rather than face him with no better weapon than a fence picket in his hand, made all the noise he conveniently could, hoping that the man would take the alarm, and run out of the smoke-house before they could reach it. But the thief was so busily engaged that he did not hear their approach, and never dreamed of danger until the boys halted in front of the door and ordered him to come out and give himself up. We ought rather to say that Bob halted in front of the door, and boldly stood his ground there, while Lester took care to shelter himself behind the building, and showed only the top of his cap to the robber. ‘ WeVe got you now, you rascal ! ’ exclaimed Bob, bringing his club against the side of the smoke-house with a soundinfy whack. ‘ Come out and surrender yourself, or wedl come in and take you out.’ ' Yes,’ chimed in Lester, in a trembling voice, at the same time hitting the building a very feeble blow with his fence picket. ^ Come out, and be quick about it. There are a dozen of us here, enough to make - ’ Lester finished the sentence with a prolonged shriek of terror, for just then something that seemed to move with the speed and power of a lightning ex¬ press train, dashed out of the intense darkness which concealed all objects in the interior of the smoke¬ house, and Lester received a glancing blow on the shoulder that floored him on the instant. While the latter was caking upon the robber to surrender. Bob heard a slight rustling in the smoke-house, and know¬ ing very well what it meant he jumped back out of the door-way, and raised his club in readiness to strike ; but the thief was out and gone before he could think twice. The instant the robber landed on his feet outside the door, he turned toward the place where he had left his bag of meal, and happened to come into col¬ lision with Lester, who went down with a jar that made him think every bone in his body was broken. It was a minute or two before he could collect his scattered wits and raise himself to his feet, and then he found that he was alone. Bob was scudding across the field in pursuit of the robber, who carried a side of bacon on one shoulder and the bag of meal on the other. But burdened as he was he ran quite fast enough to distance Bob, who presently came back to the smoke-house, panting and almost exhausted. ^Is he gone ?’ asked Lester, who was groping about on the ground in search of his club. ‘ I should say he was,’ Bob managed to reply. ' lie ran like a deer. He knocked you flatter than a pan¬ cake, didn’t he ? ’ ^ He didn’t hurt me as badly as I hurt him,’ said Lester. ^ Did you hear my club ring on his head ? ’ 'No, but I heard you yell. You didn’t strike him.’ ' What’s the reason I didn t ? I did, too ; but it must have been a glancing blow, for if I had hit him fairly I should have knocked him flatter than he knocked me. I yelled just to frighten him.’ ' I guess you succeeded, for I never saw a man run as he did. He got away, and he took the meal and bacon with him. They’ll not do him any good, how¬ ever, for ^ he’ll bo in the calaboose by this time to¬ morrow, if there are men enough in the settlement to find him. I know him.’ ' You do ? Who was he ? ’ 'Godfrey Evans. He’s been hiding in the cane ever since he and Clarence Gordon got into that scrape, and no one has ever troubled him. But somebody will trouble him now. I’ll tell my father of it the first thing. I wonder how Dave will feel when he sees his father arrested and packed off to jail ? ’ 'I wouldn’t do anything of the kind if I were you,’ said Lester. 'You wouldn’t?’ cried Bob, greatly astonished. 'Well, I won’t let this chance to be revenged on Dave slip by, I tell you.’ ' We can take revenge in a better way than that. We’ve got just as good a hold bn him now as we want, and we will make him promise that he will make no effort to catch those quails.’ ' 0, 1 am no longer interested in that quail busi¬ ness,’ said Bob, loftily. ' I’d rather have three hun¬ dred and sixty dollars tlian seventy-five.’ ' But you must remember that you haven’t been appointed mail carrier yet, so you are by no means sure of your three hundred and sixty dollars. And even if you were it would be worth your while to earn the seventy-five dollars, if you could, for that amount of money isn’t to be found on every bush.’ Lester went on to tell his friend of a bright idea that had just then occurred to him, and before he had fully explained how the events of the night could be made to benefit them, he had w^on Bob over to his way of thinking. The latter promised that he would say nothing to his father about the theft of which Godfrey had been guilty, until he and Lester had first told David of it, and noted the effect it had upon him. If they could work upon his feelings sufficiently to get him to give up the idea of trapping the quails, well and good. Godfrey might have the meal and bacon, and welcome. But if David was still ob¬ stinate, and refused to listen to reason, they would punish him by putting the officers of the law on his father’s track. ' It is a splendid plan and it will work, I know it will,’ exclaimed Bob, in great glee. 'It will be some time before my appointment — those folk in Washington move very slowly — and while I am waiting for it I may as well make seventy-five dollars. I can get my shot-gun with it, and spend my three hundred and sixty for the other things I need.’ Bob slept but little that night for excitement, and dreaming about the glorious things that might be in store for him, kept him awake. He and Lester were up long before the sun, and as soon as they had eaten breakfast, they mounted their horses and . rode

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380 CHATTERBOX. No. XLVIII. oif in tlie direction of Godfrey Evan^s house. Early as it was when they arrived there, they found the cabin deserted by all save Dan, who sat on the bench by the door. David was hastening through the woods toward his father’s camp, intent on finding the pointer, and Mrs. Evans had gone to her daily labour. ‘He’s fust gone over to the General’s house, Dave has,’ said Dan, in reply to a question from Le.ster ; and he thouglit he told the truth, for we know that David went in that direction on pui-pose to mislead his brother. ^ Yes, he’s went up thar, an’ it’s no ways likely that he’ll be to hum afore dark.’ (To he continued,) CLOCKS STRIKING. l^yrHE first, too fussy to be good. Struck nine as quickly as he could ; The second, in his cob-webbed eight-day case. Wheezed out nine words at an asthmatic pace ; Then fell upon the old church bell A hammer rusted with the rain, And nine slow pealings went to tell An hour was* dead, and could not live again. 'Now who can best define The voice that tells the hour. In garret, hall, or high-church tower — John, Mike, and Valentine ? ’ After a short delay — ^ It strikes the hour to make the hour go on/ ' Said merry Mike. . And Val, he laughed so gay. But had no word to say ; Then dreamy John Looked up, quite poet-like, And, blushing, said, ' Oft as I hear it strike. It seems as though I felt the pulse of Father Time, you know.’ G. S. Outham. A DOMESTIC SERVANT. (Continued from ^age 371.) ^^^^^ALAMANDER’S first thought when she woke in the morning was about Mrs. Pepper, and her imprisonment in the larder. If she had already escaped, she thought she would have seen something of her before this, but at any rate she would go and see. She looked in at the kitchen-door as she passed, but as theie ^ t' was no one there but the cook, lighting the fire, she wont on towards the larder. The door was stiU shut, as she had feared ; and although she listened for several minutes, she could hear no sound within. Mrs. Pepper must be asleep, she thought, and the only thing she could do would be to amuse herself in some way or other till the cook should let her out. The back-door was a-jar, and when she peeped out she saw enough to interest her there. There was no green grass, as there was in the yard at her old home — not even a stone to be seen : everything was a dazzling white, even the roofs of the out¬ houses and the branches of some of the trees. It seemed very odd to Salamander, who had never seen snow before, and after standing still a little while she trotted out -to try whether things felt as strange as they looked. At first she thought it great fun pat¬ tering about, and leaving such deep foot-prints wherever she went, but still it was rather tiring; and when the snow that had stuck to her paws began to melt, she felt so cold and uncomfortable that she was glad to hurry in-doors again. The kitchen tire was burning brightly now, and Salamander seated herself comfortably before it, just as if she had been at home. But she was soon re¬ minded that she was not really at home in a way that was not very pleasant. ' Get along with you, you dirty little thing ! ’ said a gruff voice behind her ; ' what business have you with your wet feet in my clean kitchen ? ’ and before she had time to look round, or even to consider what she had better do, a push from the cook’s broom had swept her right out of the kitchen into the passage. It took her so much by surprise, that for a moment sue hardly knew what had happened to her. As soon as she had recovered from the shock, her first care was to get into a place of safety ; but when she had hidden herself in a dark corner of the hall, she gave way to a burst of angry indignation at the way she had been treated. Call her ' a dirty little thing, indeed ! she, who was never comfortable if there was the least bit ,of a cobweb on the tip of her whiskers, or a speck of dust on her paws ! It was too bad ! more than any cat could be expected to put up with, and she would leave the house that very day — that she would ! But in a few minutes her anger began to cool, and wiser thoughts came into her head. What was the use of her running away when she did not know the way home, and still less how her mother would receive her if she could get there ? Perhaps, after all she was better off where she was, if she could only keep clear of the cook. Salamander was so wrapt up in these thoughts that EARLY RISING. "PvR. LRHNGSTONE, when a poor factory lad, JL/ rose early to study Latin and Greek before going to his work at six o’clock in the morning. Sir- Waiter Scott w*ould rise at five, light his fire, and sit down to literary work. Francis Chantrey, the sculptor, rose before daylight, and worked with a candle fixed in his cap. Mihu Bui'ritt, ' the learned blacksmith,’ who is said to have mastered fifty languages and dialects, would begin study at three o’clock in the morning, although he only left work at his forge three hours before. This amount of sleep was all the Duke of Wellington allowed himself for some years. John Wesley found that by four o’clock his body had taken sufficient rest. It is said that the late President of the French Republic, Marshal Mac- mahon, used also to rise at four o’clock. Many more names might be added to show that early rising can do much towards making men 'healthy, wealthy, and •wise.’ A. R. B.

Page 387

Mrs. Pepper watching the antics of her young friend. slie did not hear a light footstep crossing the hall, and did not see Mrs. Pepper till she spoke to her. ^ W hy, Salamander ! what a foolish Idt you are to sit here in the cold, when there are fires in all the sitting-rooms, and no one to make any use of them ! ^ ^ Oh, Mrs. Pepper, I’m so glad you are let out at last. I did go to the kitchen fire, but the cook drove me away witli her broom; and you should have heard how she scolded I ’ ^ You mustn’t mind what the cook says or does,’ replied her friend ; ^ she doesn’t know any better : it is plain she has never learnt manners. I hardly ever go into the kitchen, — never in the daytime, and I should advise you to do the same. Let’s go into the drawing-room now.’ Salamander felt rather ashamed of having gone into the kitchen, and hoped Mrs. Pepper would not find out that they had been altogether brought up there.

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382 CHATTERBOX. No. XLYllI. The rest of the day passed quietly away, and so did many days after. The cold weather did not last long : at the end of a week the snow was all gone ; and ten days after Salamander’s arrival Mrs. Pepper herself proposed a walk, little guessing what effect the fresh air would have on her young companion. Till now she had been on her good behaviour ; partly because she was, for the first time in her life, among strangers ; and partly because Mrs. Pepper was her¬ self so grave and quiet, that being constantly with her was enough to make the wildest Iritten sober — for a time, at least. But as soon as they were out¬ side the door all that w^as at an end. The feeling of freedom was so delightful, that she forgot every¬ thing else and scampered off like a young colt. Poor Mrs. Pepper ! It was very different from her notion of a walk, and she was too much astonished at first to say a word. Then she began to call after her as loud as she could ; bidding her come back at once, and, as she valued her place, not to behave in a way so little fitting the dignity of an under-house-cat at the Hall. But Mrs. Pepper might just as well have shouted out to the withered leaves that the wind w^as driving about the yard, that they were to keep still, and not dance about in that way. They would have paid quite as much attention to what she said as Salamander did ; for she was making up for having been quiet so long, and was now rushing about like a mad creature. Mad, or nearly so, Mrs. Pepper at last thought she must be ; and, despairing of making her listen to reason, she sat down in the sunniest spot she could find to watch, with an angry expres¬ sion in her half-closed eyes, the antics of her young friend. By-and-by Salamander’s wild fit passed off, and when she had peeped into every nook and corner she could find, she came back in a much steadier nfood. Mrs. Pepper’s first intention had been to give her such a scolding as she w’ould never forget ; but on second thoughts she changed her mind. If there really ^vas, as she was inclined to think, something of madness in this very strange conduct, excitement would be just the thing to bring on another fit, and she did not at all wish that. It was, therefore, in a milder tone of voice than might have been expected, that she now told her they must go in at once ; they had been out too long already, considering the time of year. Salamander looked surprised ; the time had seemed very short to her : she said, — ^ But you have been sitting stiU all the time, Mrs. Pepper ; I forgot that. I don’t wonder at your being tired. I’m sure I should be ! ’ ‘ It’s a pity you didn’t think of that before,’ replied Mrs. Pepper, shortly. But Salamander was snuffing at a hole in the ground, and did not seem to hear her. ^ Is this a rat-hole, Mrs. Pepper P ’ ‘ Yes, to be sure ; what else should it be ? A rat came out of it while I was sitting here, and ran down the yard.’ ^ Oh, Mrs. Pepper, did you catch it ? ’ asked Sala¬ mander, with spariding eyes. ‘ I catch it ! No, indeed ! It isn’t my place to see after the yard-rats ; that’s Sancho’s buaness.’ ‘ But Mr. Sancho wasn’t at home, was he ? ’ ^ Well, and if he wasn’t, whose fault was that? Listen to me, Salamander : you know nothing of the world ; but I can tell you, for I have seen enough of it, that if you begin by taking up work that nobody expects you to do, there’ll be no end to the work they loill expect you to do at last.’ Salamander wished very much had seen the rat; but she said nothing, and followed Mrs. Pepper into the house. CHAPTER III. - AUNT SCRUB. Mrs. Tibbet had a sister, several months younger than herself, whose name was Scrub. She lived at a farm-house in the same village, and from time to time paid a visit to her sister’s family. She did not come very often, for her hfe was a busy one, and it was but seldom that she could spare the time. Of all her nephews and nieces. Salamander was her favourite. Even the wildness that vexed her mother so much. Aunt Scrub rather liked than not. ‘ Much better so,’ she would say, ^ than be an idle, good-for- nothing kitten, sleeping before the fire all day, and too lazy to give herself any trouble. You must remember how young she is, Sister Tibbet; wdien she grows up I believe she will be a hard-working cat, which I would rather see her than anything else.’ Aunt Scrub seldom came without bringing some¬ thing with her which she thought 'would be a treat to Salamander ; a mouse it might be, or a young rat, or sometimes a plump sparrow : for she had noticed that at home all these good things were given to the younger kittens. As long as she lived at home, Salamander had looked forward to these visits as some of the greatest pleasures she had : but things were changed now ; so much so, indeed, that there were few things she dreaded more than that her aunt should find out where she was, and come to see her at the Hall. For what would Mrs. Pepper, for whose good opinion she cared a great deal, think of her ? Aunt Scrub was so rough-looking, while Mrs. Pepper was the most sleek and shining cat she had ever seen. Besides, she was upper-house-cat at the Hall, where one out¬ door and two indoor servants were kept, wliile Aunt Scrub was cat-of-all work at a farm-house. But days and weeks passed on, and no Aunt Scrub appeared. At last one morning, when Mrs. Pepper had found her way into the dairy, and Salamander, too much afraid of being found there by the cook to venture in, was waiting for her in the passage, Sancho put his head in at the back-door, and said, — ^ There’s somebody down there wishes to see you. Salamander.’ ‘‘ Aunt Scrub ! ’ said Salamander to herself, and having given a hasty look round to make sure that Mrs. Pepper could not see her, she darted out of the door and down the yard. There, true enough, out¬ side the gates, she found her aunt, as kind as ever, but looking. Salamander thought, rather graver than usual. ^ And when did you see your mother last, my. dear ? was one of her first questions. 'When I was at home, — before I came here, I mean.’ Aunt Scrub looked surprised, but she only said, — ' Ah, your mother leads a busy life,’ and then spoke

Page 389

No. XLVIII. 383 CHATTERBOX. of something else. ^ flow do you like Mrs. Pepper ? ’ presently. ^ Very much ; she is very kind, generally ; ^ and as she said so, Salamander looked round rather anxiously. 'I knew her well some years ago,' her aunt went on, ^ and I couldn’t see much to like in her then ; but she may be changed since that time, — I hope she is. Does she ever say anything to you about her relations. Salamander ? ^ ‘No, never. I didn’t know she had any.’ ‘Never told you she had a sister Kving in the village, I suppose .P ’ ‘ In the village ! ’ repeated Salamander, more and more surprised. ‘ Yes, and not very far from this house ; a sister who has to work harder to get a living than any other cat in the village, and who would often be glad of the bones that her sister Pepper has picked. No, Mrs. Pepper would indeed be changed if she were to tell you that. I was about your age. Salamander, when I first saw her : it Vv'as just after I had gone to live at the farm-house, and that winter was a very cold one. One morning a poor cat and two kittens were found half frozen in the snow. No one knew where they came from, so my mistress took them in, and with good care and feeding they soon came round. A week or two after the old cat disappeared, but the two little Idttens, Moss and Pepper, were left behind, and my mistress was glad to get rid of them as soon as possible. Moss was taken by a farm labourer, who chose her because she was the largest and strongest-looking, and Pepper was left with me some time longer. We were not very good friends, for she would do nothing but eat and sleep ; and one day, when I asked her to go a-mousing with me, she set up her back and hissed at me. W ell, before long, my mistress heard that they needed a cat at the Hall, and Pepper was sent there. Moss was very glad to hear of her sister’s good fortune, and as soon as she could find time she went up to see her. But Pepper’s head was quite turned, and she thought her¬ self far too grand to have anything to do with poor Moss ; so that, though she came again and again. Pepper would never even go to the door to speak to her, and at last she gave it up in despair, and I don’t believe they have seen each other all these years. And now. Salamander dear, you won’t wonder that I couldn’t like Mrs. Pepper, and was almost sorry to hear you were with her ; but if you don’t take after her it won’t matter.’ Poor Salamander ! She wondered what Aunt Scrub would think of her if she knew what her own feelings had been a little while ago. But they were quite gone now, and her manner towards her aunt, as she said good-bye, was more loving than it had ever been before ; and as she went back to the house she felt heartily ashamed of herself for having even thought that Mrs. Pepper or any one else was better than dear, kind Aunt Scrub. She found Mrs. Pepper in a very good humour, for she had had as much milk and cream as she wished for, and had not been shut in this time. She did not ask Salamander any questions, but warned her that if she went on like this, going out in all weathers, she would catch a terrible cold some day. {Concluded in our next. ) GEOFFREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. THE SUMMONER. ‘ A sompnour was ther with us in that place, That hadde a fii’e-red chei'ubinnes face.’ The ‘ Sompnour,’ or Summoner,was an officer whose business it was to serve summonses on people who had been guilty of bad conduct, and bring them before the archdeacon’s court. But whatever good may originally have been in the office was entirely lost in our author’s time, through the bad character of the men engaged in it, for they were accused of not only taking bribes to let evil-doers escape punishment, but of working on the fears of innocent and timid people by threatening them with a summons, and so obtain¬ ing money from them. And Friar Iluberd appears to have had good reason for saying, as he did, that a summoner was a man of whom no good could be said ; but as both himself and his office have long since been abolished, we can afford now to laugh at his oddities. Our Summoner was no exception to the bad reputa¬ tion of his class, and his person was by no means attractive. He had a fiery-red face covered with pimples, narrow eyes, ugly black eyebrows, and a plucked beard ; and at his visage the little children were sorely frightened. There was no ointment of any sort, that would clear away the knobs from his red cheeks. Tie loved garlic, onions, and leeks, and strong red wine; and when he had drunk much he would cry out as tliough he were mad, and would speak nothing but Latin. He had two or three phrases of that language which he had learned out of some decree, and no wonder he could repeat them when he heard them all day, for you know that a jay can cry ‘Watt’ as well as any one; but if you tried his learning any further you would find he had spent all his philosophy. But, after all, he was a good-natured sort of rogue in his way ; for though he kept all the young people in his district in terror, yet if he got a good fellow into his clutches he would let him off easily for a pint of wine, and tell him not to be afraid of what the Arch¬ deacon said, for a man’s conscience was in his purse, and if he paid well he was all right. He was a droll fellow, too, this Summoner of ours, for he had stuck a garland on his head as big as the bush at an ale¬ house door; * and, as he rode along, he carried before him a huge cake by way of a buckler. But our worthy Friar could not endure the sight of him, and gave the company his opinion of summoners in general, telling a story to show how bad they all were. And when the Summoner heard it he was so mad at the Friar that, standing high in his stirrups, and shaking like an aspen leaf for very^ anger, he cried out, ‘ Lordings, but one thing I desire. I be¬ seech you of your courtesy that, since ye have heard this false Friar, ye suffer me to tell my tale also ; and may Heaven save ye all but this odious Friar ! ’ And he then treated the company to his views about Friars, as the Friar had given them his about Summoners, and relieved his mind by telling a story in which a Friar was shown to be a sad rogue. A. R. * It used to be the custom to erect a stalce with a bush on it at the doors of ale-houses as a sif?n» and this was called ‘ tho ale- stake,’ a phrase that is often met with in old writers.

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386 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIX. GRANNY’S BONNET. < I was a girl/ says Granny, lOr Whenever there’s aught amiss : And then comes a little story Of ‘ people did that or this — There never were such good manners, There never were folk so strong, Ah ! never such pretty faces As when she herself was young. ^ Wlien I was a girl,’ says Granny, ^ How prettily did we dress.’ And she thinks her great old honnet A. pattern of loveliness : — Now, Granny has kept that honnet, I never can tell how long, And she loves to look upon it. And talk of when she was young. I’ve a very great mind, now. Granny, To save up a bonnet too ; I can look and think upon it, If ever I’m old like you : — But shall I be sure, like Granny, Whenever a thing goes wrong. To think that bonnets and all were right, When I, long ago, was young ? E. M. A. F. S. THE BOY TRAPPER. (Continued from page 380.) By Harry Castlemon. 5 (Copyright.) Porter and Coates 1878. HE visitors turned their horses about and rode away, and as soon as they were out of sight of the cabin they struck into the woods to make one more effort to find David’s traps, if he had set any, But, as usual, they met with no success, and Lester again gave it as his opinion that David had no intention of trying to trap the quails. Bob thought so, too; but in less than half an hour they received positive proof that thev were mistaken. They were riding around the rear "of one of the General’s fields, on their way home, when they happened to cast their eyes through the bushes that lined the fence, and saw something that surprised them greatly, and caused them to draw rein at once. There was a waggon in the field, and Don and Bert Gordon were passing back and forth between it and a little thicket of bushes and briers that stood a short distance away. They left the waggon with empty hands, and when they came back they brought their arms full of something, wliich they stowed away in a box. While Lester and Bob were looking at them, a small, dark ob ject suddenly arose from the box and came toward them, passing swiftly over their heads and disappearing in the woods. ^That’s a quail !’ exclaimed Bob. ‘ It escaped from Don’s hands.’ ‘ Yes, sir, and we have made a discovery,’ said Lester. ‘ Dave Evan’s hasn’t given up trapping the quails after all. He’s catching them every day, and Don and Bert are helping him.’ ^ It’s just like them,’ replied Bob, in great disgust. ^ They’re always poking their noses into other people’s business. But I don’t feel as badly over it as I did a short time ago.’ ^ I know what you are counting on. You are as sure of that mail carrier’s berth as you would be if you were to ride the route for the first time to-day ; but if you should happen to slip up on it, you’d be glad to have the seventy-five dollars to fall back on. ' Oh, I am willing to w-ork for it,’ replied Bob, quickly, ^not only because I want it myself, but because I don’t want Dave Evans to have it. What’s to be done ?’ ^ That trap must have been as full as it could hold.’ said Lester, thoughtfully. ^ They have made five or six trips between the waggon and that clump of bushes since we have been here. A\e know where one of the traps is set now, and that will guide us in finding the rest. When we do find them, we’ll carry out our plan of robbing them every day.^ They must have trapped some birds before, and if we watch them when they go home we can find out where they keep them. What do you say to that ?’ Bob replied that he was willing, and so the two dismounted, and having hitched their horses, set themselves to watch the waggon. They followed it at a respectful distance, as it made the rounds of the traps (they did not know that they also were followed by somebody, who kept a sharp eye on all their movements), and Bob grew angry every time he saw more quails added to those already in the coop. ^ Those fellows are always lucky,’ he growled. ‘ I’ll warrant that if we visit those traps we set yes¬ terday, we’ll not find a single bird in them. Don and Bert are hauling them in by dozens.’ ^So much the better for us,’ returned his com¬ panion. ^ Every quail they catch makes it just so much easier for us to earn seventy-five dollars apiece.’ Bob, feeling somewhat mollified by this view of the case, turned his attention to Don and his brother, who, having visited all their traps by this time, climbed into the waggon and drove toward home. CHAPTER XVI. — don’s HOUNDS TREE SOMETHING. Lester and his companion followed the waggon at a safe distance, and saw it driven to the negro quarters, which were located about half a mile below the General’s house. It stopped in front of one of the cabins, and Don and Bert began the work of transferring the quails from the coop to the building in which they were to remain until they were sent up the river. Bob and Lester counted the number of trips they made between the waggon and the door of the cabin, and made a rough estimate of the number of birds they had caught that morning. ^ They’ve got at least a hundred,’ said Lester, when the waggon was driven toward the house, ^ and that is just one-sixth of the nmnber they want. At that rate that beggar Dave will be rich in a week more.’ <Not if we can help it!’ exclaimed Dave, angrily.

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No. XLTX. CHATTERTBOX. 387 ^That cabin will burn as well as the shootine:-box didr * But we don’t want to do too much of that sort of work/ answered Lester. ^ We may get the settle¬ ment aroused, and that wouldn’t suit us. I’d rather steal the birds, wouldn’t you ?’ Bob replied that he would, but hinted that if they attempted it they might have a bigger job on their hands than they had bargained for. In the first place, there were Don’s hounds. ' But we braved them once — that was on the night we borrowed Don’s boat to go up and burn his shooting-box — and we are not afraid to do it again,’ said Lester. ^ We didn’t alarm them then.’ Bob acknowledged the fact, but said he was afraid they might not be so lucky the next time. And even if they succeeded in breaking into the cabin without arousino* the dogs, how were they to carry away a hundred live quails P The only thing they could do would be to nut them in bags, and it was probable that half of them would die for want of air before they could get them home. They would be obliged to make two or three trips to the cabin in order to secure them all, and each time they would run the risk of being discovered by the hounds. While the two friends were talking these matters over, they were walking slowly toward the place where they had left their horses. Having mounted, they started for home again, and the very first person they saw when they rode out of the woods into the road was David Evans, who had just been up to the shop to restore the pointer to his owner. * There he is !’ said Bob, in a low whisper. ^ He is dressed up in his best, too.’ * Best !’ sneered Lester. ^ Why, I wouldn’t be seen at work in the fields in such clothes as those !’ ‘ Nor in any other, I guess. They are the best he can afford,’ said Bob, who had some soft spots in his heart, if he was a bad boy, ‘ and I don’t believe in making fun of him.’ ‘ But you believe in cheating him out of a nice little sum of money though, if you can,’ retorted Lester. ‘No, I don’t. I am working to keep him from cheating 77ie out of it. If he will keep his place among the niggers, where fellows of his stamp belong. I’ll be the last one to say or do anything against him ; but when he tries to shove himself up among white follr, and swindle me out of a new shot-gun, and get appointed mail carrier over my head, it’s something I won’t stand. Say, Dave,’ he added, drawing rein, as the subject of his remarks approached, ‘ can you spare us just about two minutes for a little private con¬ versation P’ ‘ I reckon,’ replied David. ‘ Have you joined that sportsman’s club, and are you going to prosecute me for being a pot-hunter P’ ‘ Lester has already told you what we are going to do about that, and you may rest assured that we shall do it,’ answered Bob, sharply. ‘ What we say, we always stand to. What we want to talk to you about now is this : We know, as well as you do, that your father is hiding out here in the cane, and that he dare not show himself in the settlement for fear he will be arrested. You wouldn’t like to see him sent to jail, would you P’ ‘ I know what you mean,’ replied David. ‘ My father may have been foolish, but he has done nothing that the law can touch him for.’ When he said this he was thinldng of Clarence Gordon and the barrel with the eighty thousand dollars in it. He did not know that Godfrey was guilty of highway robbery, and he forgot that he had also committed an assault upon Don, and that he had received and cared for stolen property, knowing it to be stolen. ‘ Hasn’t he, though 1’ cried Bob. ‘ He got into my father’s smoke-house last night and stole some meal and bacon. He forced a lock to do it, too. The law can touch him for that, can’t it P’ David leaned against the fence and looked at the two boys without speaking. He did not doubt Bob’s story. He had been expecting to hear of such things for a long time. He had told himself more than once that when his father grew tired of living on squirrels, somebody’s smoke-house and corn-crib would be sure to suffer. Godfrey was getting worse every day, and something told David that he would yet perform an act that would set every man in the .settlement on his track. ‘We can send him to prison,’ continued Bob. ‘You would not like that, of course, and you can prevent it, if you like. Lester and I are the only ones who know that he robbed my father last nig-ht, and we will keep it to ourselves on one condition.^ ‘ I know what it is,’ said David. ‘ You want me to promise that I will trap no more quails. Perhaps you want the money yourselves.’ ‘ That’s the very idea,’ said Lester. ‘ It isn’t the money we care about,’ exclaimed Bob, quickly, ^ ^ We’ve set out to put down this business of trapping birds and shipping- them out of the country, and we’re going to do it. You think that because Don and Bert are backing yoii up, you can do just as you please ; but we’ll show you that they don’t run this settlement. You’re getting above your business, Dave, and it is high time you were taught a lesson you will remember the longest daj^ you live. What do you say P Will you trap any more quails P’ ‘ Y’'es, I will/ replied David, without an instant’s hesitation. ‘Don’t forget that we can put the constable on your father’s track to-morrow morning,’ said Bob, his voice trembling with rage. ‘I wasn’t thinking of my father. He has made his bed and he must lie in it. I was thinl^ing of my mother. She must have something to eat and wear this winter, and how is she to get it, if I give up this chance of making a little money?’ ‘Just listen to you, now 1’ Bob almost shouted. ‘ One would think to hear you talli that you are used to handling greenbacks by. the bushel. You are a pretty looking ragamuffin to call a hundred and fifty dollars ‘ a little money,’ are you not ? It’s more than your old shantee and all you’ve got in it are worth. Go on !’ he yelled, shaking his riding whip at David, as the latter hurried down the road toward home. ‘ I’ll send you word when to come down to the landing and see your father go off to jail.’ ‘ I never saw such independence shown by a fellow in his circumstances,’ said Lester, as he and* Bob rode

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r 388 CHATTERBOX. No. XLIX. away together. ' One would think he was worth a million dollars.’ * He thinks he will soon he worth a hundred and fifty, and that’s what ails him,’ answered Bob, whose face was pale with fury. ^ But there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip, as he will find before he is many days older, i’ll tell my father to-night what Godfrey Evans did, and as soon as it grows dark we’ll go down to that cabin and carry off all the birds we can catch. The rest we will liberate.’ A part of this programme was duly carried out. As soon as they reached home Bob told his father’ what had happened the night before, and was a good deal surprised, as well as disgusted, because Mr. Owens did not grow very angry, and declare that Godfrey should be punished to the full extent of the law. * A bag of meal and a side of bacon are hardly worth making a fuss about,’ said Bob’s father. * I will put a new lock on the smoke-house. But how is it that you boys did not tell me of this at once ? ’ * Because we wanted to make something out of it,’ replied Hob. ^If it hadn’t been for Dave, Lester and I would have pocketed a tidy little sum of spending- money ; but he’s ffone and got the job of trapping the quails, or rather tnat meddlesome Don Gordon got it for him, and, not satisfied with that, he has the cheek to run against me when I am trying to be appointed mail carrier.’ ^ Well,’ said Mr. Owens. ^ W'ell,’ repeated Bob, ^ I told him his father was a thief, and I could prove it, but I would say nothing about it if he would a^ree not to trap any more quails. If he had done that, I should have brought up this matter of carrying the mail, and made him promise to leave me a clear field there, too ; but he wouldn’t listen to anything.’ * I am glad you told me this,’ said Mr. Owens, after thinking a moment, ^ and it is just as well that you did not say anything to David about the mail. No one knows that I am going to put in a bid for the contract, and I don’t want it known ; so be careful what you say. Gordon will never get that mail route for David, for the authorities will think twice before appointing the son of a thief to so responsible a situation.’ *But are you going to do nothing to Godfrey ?’ ^ I’ll keep him' in mind, and if it becomes necessary I’ll put the constable after him, and teU liim that the more fuss he makes in capturing him, the better it will suit me.’ {To he continued.) HOPE FOR DULL BOYS. Douglas JEBROLD was considered a dull boy : at nine years of age he could scarcely read. Goldsmith was a very unpromising boy. Dryden, Swift, and Gibbon, in their early pieces, did not show any talent. The mother of Sheridan, herself a literary woman, pronounced him to be the dullest and most helpless of her sons. The father of Barrow i , said to have exclaimed, * If it please God to take away any of my children, I hope it may be Isaac : ’ the short-sighted parent thought the lad a miracle of stupidity, but he proved afterwards to be the glory of his family. THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. xxm. FROM ERITH TO GRAVESEND. • iKi ra Y FAYING Erith we soon approach a very classic portion of the Thames — one which takes its place in the history of our country. The north bank of the Thames at this point, and on to Tilbury, is linked with the memory of Queen Elizabeth. The shore now assumes a more romantic appearance. Generally low, fiat, and marshy, it rises as we approach Pur- fleet in abrupt chalky cliffs, on the sum¬ mit of the highest of which, named Queen Bess’s Rock, a beacon was placed at the time when the expected arrival of the Spanish Armada excited all England. It was assumed that the Spanish Admiral would sail up the Thames with the intention of taking London. Hence it was that an army was assembled here on the banks of the Thames, It is said that Purfleet takes its name from the ex¬ pression uttered by Elizabeth as she looked upon the squadron of vessels furnished by the Port of London, and as it sailed down the Thames to join Drake at Plymouth. ^ My poor fleet ! ’ it is reported that the queen observed, and hence the name ^ Purfleet.’ But there is no truth in this legend. Elizabeth was not a woman likely to look in despair upon the London ships ; and after the victory over the Spaniards there would be no sense in perpetuating the queen’s comment upon the value of a portion of the royal fleet even if it had been made. Elizabeth herself fixed the royal standard# which waved from this rock. Purfleet is now a busy rural village. Opposite Purfleet lies Dartford, where King Alfred routed the Danes. It is curiously interesting^ that two of the most popular sovereigns wdio have reigned in England should have shown their patriotism at adjacent points, and in reference to similar dangers, for (omitting all reference to the Norman Conquest) from the time of the invasion of the Danes, England had never been in such danger as at the period of the threatened Spanish invasion. It was also at Dartford that the celebrated leader, Wat Tyler, raised the flag of rebelliun. Dartford also supplied the flist Protestant martyr burnt for heresy on Tower Hill. He was Sir Richard Wich, Vicar of Dartford (the title 'Sir ’in those daysbeing given to clergymen) ; and he suffered in 1440, greatly pitied by the people, who came secretly by night to the place of execution to gather his ashes and the ground he stood upon, as holy relics. The Vicar of Barking (on the other side of the river) was so ill-advised as to mix spices and perfunies with that portion of the ashes of the martyr in his possession, and to announce the 'sweet smell’ as a miracle. Finally he admitted the imposture, and he narrowly escaped with his life. Here, at Purfleet, is also stationed the Government Powder-magazine, removed from Greenwich in 1762. From Purfleet to Greenhithe the river is called Long^ Reach. Now the park of Ijigress Hall breaks upon the view. The house was built by Alderman Harmer with the stone of old London lliidge. Here once

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Gravesend.

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390 CHATTERBOX. No. XLTX. lived Eliza Cook, one of the best poets of the home affections. Greenhithe is celebrated as the point where Govern¬ ment training-ships have for a long time been stationed, although Grays, on the other side of the river, is now considered better fitted to this purpose. Here, at Green¬ hithe, all ships are ^ swung ’ for the adjustment of their compasses ; and here is to be found a very curious museum of apparatus for effecting the complete iso¬ lation of the magnetic needle — a requirement which has not yet been obtained, and for which the Govern¬ ment offer a large reward — one thousand pounds, we believe, unless, indeed, the sum has been increased. At Greenhithe Church there was once a musical ring of bells, which ring was the delight of Queen Elizabeth, when she was camping opposite with the army of the Thames. She found great pleasure in floating in her barge over the river at this point, listening to the bells. Ben Jonson himself has written a couple of pleasant lines concerning the rival rings of the churches that overlook the Thames. He says, — ‘ Hark how the bells upon the waters play Their sister-tunes from Thames’s either side.’ Greenhithe Church was struck by lightning in 1638, and partially burnt, when the celebrated bells fell, and were never again swung. Here are some fine pits, whence chalk has been taken for centuries. In these deserted pits, and between May and July, myriads of nightingales may be heard. Soon after passing Greenhithe we reach the spot where the author of JRohinson Ci'usoe lived for some time. Then we approach Northfieet, which looks like an industrious place. And now pleasant Gravesend comes in view. {To he continued.) A DOMESTIC SERVANT. {Concluded from page 383). CHAP. IV. — GBEAT CHANGES. LTHOUGH Salamanderhad now been several weeks at the Hall, and knew most of the house quite well, there was still one room into which she had never been — had not even peeped. The door of that room was never by any chance left open, and if she ever hap¬ pened to be near when any one went in or came out she was at once driven angrily downstairs. Once she had asked Mrs. Pepper about it, but she only answered sharply, that whatever was in the room it was no concern of hers; she had better mind her own business, and not keep about the room in that way, if she didn’t wish to get herself into trouble. Salamander was surprised, as Mrs. Pepper had always said before that they had a right to go wherever they pleased; but it was plain that she could learn nothing from her, and she was obliged to be quiet. The only thing she had found out was that there must be a bird of some sort there, for she was sure that the singing, which often sounded through the house, came from that particular room ; but by this time she had quite given up trying to get in, and seldom thought more about the singing than about the other noises in the houses. It was not, therefore, from any interest she felt in the room that on this evening, after she had left off looking for Mrs. Pepper, she stopped suddenly short in the middle of a scamper along the passage, just as she reached the door. A little way back there was a turn in the passage, in the dark corner of which she had heard a slight noise as she passed, and she now turned back to see what it was. But it was no mouse, as she had hoped, but Mrs. Pepper herself, who at first drew further back into the shade ; but when Salamander came nearer, and was just beginning to speak, rushed out in a great fury. She was in such a passion that Salamander could hardly imderstand a word she said, — indeed she did not wait to listen, but made her escape upstairs as fast as possible. Mrs. Pepper did not follow her, and she sat down on a door-mat to wonder what was the matter. Though Mis. Pepper had often spoken crossly to her lately, she had never been anything like this before, and she couldn’t think what she had done to vex her. She also wondered what she was doing up there: she looked as if she were on the watch for something, — a mouse, perhaps : but then she had never Imown her do such a thing before, and she had only once seen her catch one, and that was when it ran across the rooni almost under her nose. But Salamander had tired herself out with running about, and in the middle of her thinking she feU fast asleep. When she awoke the house was shut up, and all was quiet. She listened for some time in the hope of hearing footsteps upstairs, for she was more curious than ever to know where Mrs. Pepper was ; but there was no sound to be heard but tlie ticking of the great clock in the hall. Then she looked into the dining-room. The fire was burning very low, which showed she must have slept some hours. Mrs. Pepper was certainly not there. Nor was she in any of the lower rooms, as she soon found out by looking ; and at last she screwed up her courage and made up her mind to go upstairs and really see what Mrs. Pepper was about. If she was very angry, most likely she would do nothing worse than scold ; and besides, by this time her ill-temper might have passed away. She walked along on tip-toe, and stopped to listen every now and then; but still she heard nothing. At last she came to the turn ; the moonlight was shining in brightly through a window in the passage, and lighted up what had been the dark corner. Mrs. Pepper was not there. Where could she be ? She searched in every place she could think of, but it was all of no use. Salamander sat down on one of the upper stairs, and was soon fast asleep again. The housemaid, when she came down in the morning, stumbled over her and nearly fell : while the cat, still half asleep, was rolled down two or tln*ee stairs. If it had been the cook she would have been kicked down the rest of the way, but the housemaid was more good-natured, and when she had opened the shutters of the staircase window she turned back to stroke her and say, ^ Poor puss ! ’ She was very fond of Salamander. For some reason or other the house seemed very

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No. XLIX. CHATTERBOX. 391 dull and quiet that morning. Salamander thought that she missed something, though for some time she could not recollect what. At last she remembered that it was generally about this time that the sweet singing, which she heard every day, began. But it did not begin on tliis morning, and the silence made the house seem quite dull. An hour or two later she was sitting by the dining¬ room fire, when, to her great surprise, Mrs. Pepper came in. She sat down on the rug without saying a word, and looked so uncommonly cross that Sala¬ mander was afraid to speak to her. Presently she stepped into the fender, as though she felt chilly, and Salamander noticed a tiny yellow feather lying on the rug, just where she had been sitting. A few minutes after a bell in the kitchen rang violently, and both the housemaid and cook were sent for by their mistress, who looked as if something had vexed her very much. ' One- of the cats has killed my canary,’ she said, as they came in, ^ and if I can’t find out which, they must both be sent away. I wish to know whether you saw either of them near this room when you came down this morning.’ The housemaid remem¬ bered poor Salamander ; she was very sorry, but the truth must be told. ^ There was one of them on the front stairs, ma’am.’ ^ Which.?’ ^ The smallest of the two— the little black one.’ ^ Of course it was she, then. I thou^. it it was most likely. Well, she must be sent away at once : tell James to see to it.’ ^ Is he to drown it, ma’am ? ’ asked the cook. ‘Not if he knows any one who wants a cat; but at any rate she mustn’t be here another day.’ The housemaid looked rather unhappy as they went downstairs, but the co.ok growled, — ‘ Didn’t I always say as how no good would ever come of that little blackey ? ’ When James heard about it, he asked the houss- maid how they knew which cat it was. ‘ I saw her on the stairs the first thing this morning, and missus says it must be she ; and I’m afraid so, too.’ ‘ And where was the other ? ’ asked James. ‘ I can’t say ; I didn’t see her till a good bit after.’ ‘ And what time did you first go to that room ? ’ ‘ It wasn’t I went first. I forgot the shutters this morning, and when missus went in after breakfast to fetch some work she opened them herself, and there was the canary’s feathers lying about on the floor.’ ‘ And was it all right when you shut the shutters last night ? ’ ‘Oh, yes! quite right: I saw it asleep on its perch.’ ‘ And no one went into the room before missus this morning ? ’ ‘ No, I’m quite sure of that.’ ‘ Well, then, I should say her being on the stairs when you came down tliis morning just shows it wasn’t the black one as did it. Depend upon it that other slipped in with you last night, and out with missus this morning ; she’s the sliest-looking cat, that there grey one, that ever I set eyes on.’ ‘ Well, to be sure,’ said the housemaid, ‘ how foolish we were not to think of that before 1 I’ll go and speak to missus now directly.’ ' That morning Mrs. Pepper again disappeared, and Salamander again looked for her in vain. But this time days passed and she did not come back. At last — in about a fortnight’s time — Aunt Scrub again came to see her, and she told her all about it, and asked her what she thought could have become of her. ‘ Mrs. Pepper, my dear.? ’ said her aunt; ‘ why, I saw her myself not many days ago ! She is gone to live at a small cottage in the village, next door to where Moss is. She told me this place didn’t suit her health, but I fancy there must be some other reason.’ From this time Salamander \vas a changed cat. She gave up her wild kittenish ways — as indeed it was high time she should, considering her age — and settled down to the sober business of life. The house had become sadly overrun wfith mice in Mrs. I’epper’s time, so that at last, what with tlie mice and cats together, hardly anything had been safe anywhere ; no wonder that the cook’s temper was a little soured! But now Salamander not only set to work tooth and claw to catch the mice, but gave up herself the thievish habits which she had learnt from Mrs. Pepper. Even the hard heart of the cross cook was softened at last, and she who used to say that she couldn’t abide the sight of a cat, least of all a black one, now told the housemaid that if all cats were as well be¬ haved as this one, she didn’t Imow but how she might like them well enough. She not only allowed Salamander to be in the Iritchen, but gave her a little milk in her own saucer. For a long time there was no other cat at the Hall, and when at last one was taken it was quite a young one, to be under Salamander. When she had been there some time she was sent somewhere else, and a younger one taken in her place, and the same with her when she grew older ; so that a number of young cats received their training from Salamander : and so well did she teach them their duties, that a cat from the Hall was always counted to be quite a treasure. Some years have passed now since Salamander first went out to service. She is still at the Hall, but has lost all her old friends, — Mrs. Tibbet, Aunt Scrub, and Sancho the stable-cat ; and is herself, to say the least, an elderly cat. Aunt Scrub lived to a good old age, and towards the end of her life, when she was old and feeble and past work, received very great kindness from those wdiom she had served so faith¬ fully in her younger days. As for Mrs. Pepper, it was never exactly known what became of her. The labourer to whose cottage me had been sent said he could not afford to keep a cat that did no work and was so nice about her eating, and she herself told her friends that she wasn’t going to stay long at a place where she wasn’t valued ; so that when she actually disappeared it was not generally known whether she had been sent away in disgrace or had gone of her own accord. Salamander herself is very grave and quiet, compared to what she was in former days; but, for all that, she is remarkably happy and con¬ tented-looking. She has long ago learnt to think with Aunt Scrub that the busiest life is generally the happiest, and that there are few things that make people so miserable as having too little to do.

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394 CHATTERBOX. No. L. THE BOY TRAPPER. (Continued from page 388.) .Q By Habrt Castlemon. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. he first thing the two hoys did (• after they had eaten their din- / ner, was to fit up one of the y unoccupied negro cabins for ^My<f the reception of the bii’ds they intended to steal that night. ^ There was a good many holes y nrH patched in the roof wliere L % the shingles had been blown ^ olf, and numerous otliers to be NsO^V-^ boarded up in the walls where the chinking had fallen out, and the afternoon was half gone before their work was done. They still had time to visit their traps, but all the birds they took out of them could have been counted on the fingers of one hand. Bob looked at them a moment, then thought of the big box full he had seen Don and Bert take home that morn¬ ing, and grew very angiy over his ill luck. He pro¬ posed to wring the neck's of the captives, and have them served up for breakfast the next morning, but Lester would not consent. Every one helped, he said, and these five birds, added to the forty or fifty they were to steal that night, would make a good start toward the fifty dozen they wanted. After the boys had eaten supper, they secui*ed four meal bags, which they hid away in a fence corner, so that they could find them again when they wanted them, and then adjourned to the waggon-shed to lay their plans for the night’s campaign. Of course their expedition could not be imdertaken until everybody about the General’s plantation was abed and asleep. That would not be before ten or twelve o’clock — the negroes kept late hours since they gained their free¬ dom, Bob said — and they dared not go to sleep for fear that they would not wake again before morning. They hardly Imew what to do with themselves until bed time came. They spent an hour in talking over their plans, then went into the house and played checkers, and were glad indeed when the hour for retiring arrived. They made a show of going to bed, but they removed nothing but their boots, which they slammed down on the floor with more noise than usual. They heard the clock in the kitchen strike every hour, and when it struck twelve they began to bestir themselves. Bob’s room being located on the first floor, in one of the wings of the house, it was a matter of no difficulty for him and his companion to leave it without arousing any of the family. All they had to do was to open one of the windows, drop to the ground, pull on their boots, and be off ; and this they did in about the same time that it takes to tell it. They picked up their meal bags as tliey passed along the fence, and in half an hour more were inside General Gordon’s fence, and moving cautiously along the lane that led toward the negro quarters. A few steps brought them into the midst of the cabins, which were as dark and silent as though they had been deserted. Some of them were deserted, while others were occupied by the field hands. The one in which the quails were confined stood on the outskirts of the quarters, and Bob, who had taken particular pains to mark the building, so that he would know it again, had no difficulty in finding it. It was the only cabin that was provided witn a covered porch ; and that same porch, or rather the posts which supported the roof, came very handy to the young prowlers a few minutes later. They waffied round the building two or three times to make sure that there was no one near it, and then Bob cautiously mounted the steps and tried the door. The patter of little feet, and the shrill notes of alarm that sounded from the inside, told him that he had aroused the prisoners. ^.Tiist listen to that,’ whispered Lester, greatly amazed. ^ The cabin must be full of them.’ ^ We’ll soon know" how many there are,’ answered Bob. ‘ I’d give something if I could see Don Gor¬ don’s face when he comes down here in the morning.’ As Bob spoke he opened one of the meal bags, and drew from it the iron strap which Godfrey Evans had used in prying open the door of the smoke¬ house tw^o nights before. Lester struck a match on his coat sleeve, and when it blazed up so that Bob could see how to work he placed the strap be¬ tween the hasp and the door, and exerted all his strength in the effort to draw out the staple with which it was confined. But that staple wa*s put there to stay. It was made by the plantation black¬ smith, under Don’s personal supervision, and as it was long enough to be clinched on the inside of the door Bob made no progress whatever in his efforts to force an entrance. ^ We can do nothing here,’ said he, after he had pulled and pushed until the inside of his hands seemed to be on fire. ^ We must try the window.’ ^ But that is so high ; you can’t reach it,’ said I^ester. ‘ Kot from the ground, I Imow . You will have to hold me up.’ Descending from the porch with noiseless foot¬ steps, the boys passed around to the rear of the cabin, and when Lester had stationed himself under the window Bob quickly mounted to his shoulders. He examined the window as well as he could in the dark, and began to grow discouraged. It was boarded up with two-inch planks, and they were held in their places by the largest spikes Don could find at Mr.' Jones’s store. Bob pushed his lever under one of the planks, but when he laid out his strength upon it, Lester rocked about in so alarming a manner that Bob lost his balance, and to save himself from falling jumped to the ground. ^ We' might as well go home,’ said he, rubbing his elbow, which, owing to Lester’s unsteadiness, he had scratched pretty severely on the rough planks. ^ If we only had a bundle of straw we’d start a bon¬ fire.’ ^ It’s a pity to go home and leave all these birds here,’ replied Lester. ^ Let’s get up on the roof and tear off some of the shingles. We can climb up by those posts that support the roof of the porch.’ ^ 0, it is easy enough to get up there, but what good will it do to tear off the shingles ? We couldn’t get the birds out unless one of us went down after them, and it wouldn’t be me, I can tell you 1 ’

Page 401

No. L. CHATTERBOX. 395 ' We’ll not try to get the birds at all. We’ll leave the holes open, so that they can escape. Wouldn’t that be better than allowing them to stay here for Dave Evans to make money out of ? ’ ‘1 should say it would/ exclaimed Bob, who always grew angry whenever anything was said about David’s chances of making money. ^ But we’ll first make one more effort to get the birds ourselves. Hold me up again, and don’t wobble about as you did before.’ In a few seconds more Bob was again perched upon his companion’s shoulders, and this time he was sure that his efforts would be crowned with success. The planlrs were fastened to the window casing, which, on one side was too badly decayed to hold the spikes. He started some of them with the first pull he made at his lever, and encouraged by his progress was about to prepare for a greater effort when Lester littered an exclamation of alarm, and jumped from under him. ^ Hullo ! ’ exclaimed Bob, who came to the ground with a heavy fall. ^ Do you want to liill a fellow ? ’ ^ No,’ said Lester, whose voice trembled so that it was almost inaudible. * There’s somebody coming.’ Before Bob could ask any more questions, a loud, shrill whistle, which sounded only a little distance away, rang through the quarters, followed almost im¬ mediately by the impatient yelp of a- hound. The young prowlers were frightened almost out of their senses. Before they could make up their minds what ought to be done, a voice shouted, — ^Here they be! Take ’em, fellers! Take ’em down ! ’ Another impatient yelp and the rush of feet on the hard road told the boys that Don Gordon’s hounds were coming. This aroused them, and showed them the necessity of maldng an effort to escape. It was useless to run ; the only place of safety was the roof of the cabin, and they made the most frantic efforts to reach it. They darted quickly around the corner of the building, sprang upon the porch, and squirmed up the posts with the agility of monkeys. But with all their haste they did not have a second to spare. They had scarcely left the porch before the hounds bounded up the steps, and a pair of f learning jaws came together with a snap close to jester’s foot, which he drew out of the way just in time to escape being caught. Panting and almost breathless with terror, the two boys crept cautiously up the roof — the moss-coloured shingles were so slip¬ pery that it was all they could do to keep from sliding olf among the hounds — and seating themselves on the ridge-pole looked at each other and at the savage brutes from which they had so narrowly es¬ caped. Then they looked all around to find the per¬ son who had set the dogs upon them, but could see nothing of him. ‘ Where has he gone, I wonder ? ’ said Lester, who w'as the first to speak. * Haven’t the least idea,’ replied Bob. * Who was it P ’ * Don’t know that, either. It didn’t sound to me like Don’s voice, but it sounded lilce his whistle, and if it was him I wish he’d come and call the dogs otf. I am willing to give up now, Lester. Luck is always on his side, and if he will let us go liome without making any fuss about it, I’ll promise to leave him alone in future.’ Lester could not find fault with his companion for losing his courage and talking in this strain, for he was frightened half to death himself, and he would have made all sorts of promises if he could only have climbed down from that roof and sneaked off to bed without being seen by anybody. Don did not show himself, although they called his name as loudly as they dared, and neither did the hounds grow tired and go away, as Lester hoped they would. They were much too well trained for that. It frequently happened while Don and Bert were hunting ’coons and ’possums at night that the game took refuge in a tree much too large to be cut down in any reasonable time by such choppers as they were. In that case Don would order the hounds to watch the tree, and he and Bert would go home, knowing that when daylight came they would find the dogs still on duty and the game closely guarded. The animals seemed to be perfectly satisfied when they found that Lester and Bob had taken refuge on the top of the cabin. They wallied around the building two or three times, as if to make sure that there was no way of escape, and then laid down on the ground, and prepared to take matters very easily until their master should come out to them in the morning. When Bob saw that, he lost all heart. ^ If we never were in a scrape before, we’re in one now,’ said he. We may as well make up our minds to stay here all night.’ ^ Oh, we can’t do that,’ replied Lester, greatly alarmed. ^ Some one will certainly see us.’ ^ Of course they will. How can we help it ? ’ ^ I should never dare show my face in the settle¬ ment again if this night’s work should become known,’ continued Lester, who was almost ready to cry with vexation. ^ It would ruin me completely, and you, too. Don and Bert would ask no better fun than to spread it all over, and your chances of carrying the mail would be knocked higher than a kite. Let’s pull off some of these shingles and throw them at the dogs. Perhaps we can drive them away.’ ‘ You don’t know them as well as I do. They’ll not drive worth a cent. We’re here, and here we must stay until somebody comes and calls them away. We’ll hail the first nigger we see in the morning, and perhaps we can hire him to help us and keep his mouth shut.’ This was poor consolation for Lester, but it was the best Bob had to offer. Things turned out just as he said they would. They sat there on the ridge pole for more than four hours, Lester racking his brain in the hope of con¬ juring up some plan for driving tlie dogs away, and Bob grumbling lustily over the ill luck which met him at every turn. At last, when they had grown so cold that they could scarcely tallf, i nd Lester began to be really afraid that he should freeze to death, the gray streaks of dawn appeared in the east. Shortly after¬ ward the door of the nearest cabin opened, and a negro came out and stood on the steps, stretching his arms and yawning. ^ It’s the luckiest thing that ever happened to us/

Page 402

said Bob, spealdng after a great elfort. ‘ That’s the hostler. He knows me, and will help ns if anybody will. Say, Sam,’ he added, raising his voice. ^ Sam ! ’ ^ Who dar ? ’ asked the negro, looking all around, as if he could not make up his mind where the voice came from. ^ Who’s dat callin’ Sam ?’ ^It’s me. Here I am, up here, on top of this cabin,’ replied Bob, slapping the shingles with his ©pen hand to show the negro where he was. ^ Wal, if dat ain’t de beatenest thing!’ exclaimed Sam. ‘ What you two gemmen doin’ up dar ? ’ ^ Oh, we were coming through here last night, taking* a short cut through the fields, you know, and the (logs discovered us and drove us up here.’ ‘ I thought I heerd ’em fursin,’ said Sam ; ‘ but I thou£rht mebbe they’d done cotch a ’coon.’ ^ Well, call ’em off and let us go home 1 ’ exclaimed T.-ester, impatiently.

Page 403

Page 404

398 CHATTERBOX. No. L. ' Dat’s impossible, dat is. Dem dar dogs don’t keer no mo’ fur us black uns dan nuffin, dem dogs don’t. Can’t call ’em off, lease why, dey won’t mind us. Have to go arter some of de white folks, suali ! ’ ‘ Go on and get somebody, then, and be quick about it,’ said Bob, desperately. ^ And, Sam, if you can find Bert, send him down. We want to see him par¬ ticularly, and it will save us walking up to the house.’ The negro went back into his cabin, but came out again a few minutes later and started up the road toward the house. CHAPTER XVII. — CONCLUSION. directly home. Our folic will wonder what has be¬ come of us.’ Are these your bags ? ’ Ao, sir,’ replied Hob, promptly. ^^One doesnt usually carry meal-bags to bring home ’coons in. ' I am aware of tliat fact,’ said the General : but couldn’t they be used to carry quails in ? These bags have your father’s name on them, and y^ou had better come and get them.’ These words were uttered in a tone of command, and Bob thought it best to obey. He snatched up the bags, and with Lester by his side made his way down the lane witli all possible haste. When they were safe in the road Bob drew a long* breath and re- Bob and his companion were so utterly disheartened and so nearly overcome with the cold, that they no longer looked upon exposure as the worst thing that could happen to them. They had made up their minds that it could not be avoided, and told them¬ selves that the sooner it was over and they were allowed to leave their airy perch, the sooner they would breathe easily again. They could not talk now. They could only sit and gaze in the direction in which the hostler had disap¬ peared, and wait for somebody to come and call off the doo-s. Bob hoped that somebody would be Bert. He w^s a simple-minded little fellow, and might be persuaded to believe the story that Bob had told the hostler. But Bert did not come to their relief ; it was his father. When Bob saw him he wished most heartily that the roof would open and let him down out of sight. , . o , ‘ Why, boys, what is the meaning of this ? asked the General, as soon as he came Tvithin speaking dis¬ tance. ‘ It means that we have been up here since mid¬ night and are nearly frozen,’ replied Bob, trying to sniile and look as innocent as a guilty boy could. * We were out ’coon-hunting in the river bottoms, and came through your fields, because that was the nearest way home ; but the dogs saw us and drove us up here.’ The General had but to use his ej^es to find all the evidence he needed to prove this story false. The meal-bags, in which the boys expected to carry away the stolen quails, were lying on the ground in plain sight, one of them having fallen in such a position tlTat the owner’s name, which was painted on it in large black, letters, was plainly visible. More than th^, under one of the planks which protected the window, was the iron lever with which Bob had tried to force an entrance into the cabin. He left it sticking there when he fell off Lester’s shoulders. * Well, you may come down now,’ said the General. ^ The hounds will not trouble you.’ It was easy enough to say come down, but it was not so easy to, do it, as the boys found when they began working their way over the frosty roof. The shingles were as slippery as glass, and their hands seemed to have lost all their strength; but they reached the ground without any mishap, and were about to hurry away as fast as their cramped legs would carry them, when the General asked,’ — ' Hadn’t you better go up to the house and get warm ? ’ ^ Oh no, thank you, sir ! ’ replied Bob. ^ We’ll go marked, — ^That’s the end of that scrape.’ ' I don’t see it,’ returned Lester. ' It is only the beginning of it. Lveiybody in the settlement will know it before night.’ ^AVho cares if they do?’ cried Bob, who began to feel like himself, now that he was on solid ground once more. ^ They can’t prove that we went there to steal the quails : and well not confess it.’ * No, sir,’ replied Lester. ^ You re a sharp one. Bob, to make up such a plausible story on the spur of the moment: but I know the General did not believe a word of it/ ‘So do I — but what’s the odds? Let’s see him prove that I didn’t tell him the truth. Now the next thing is something else : we must make up a story to tell my folk when we get home.’ ‘ Can’t we run back to the house and go to bed before any of the family are up ? ’ ‘ I am afraid to try it. A better plan would be to go back in tlie woods and build a fire and get warm. Then we’ll go home, and if anybody asks us where we have been, well say we couldn’t sleep, and so we got up and went ’coon-hunting.’ ‘ I wish we had one or two coons to back up the story,’ said Lester. ‘ Oh, that wouldn’t help us any. People often go hunting and return empty-handed, you know.’ (To be continued.) LONDON SPAHHOWS. T is a curious and interesting question where the London vSparrows get their dinners. It is very certain tliey fre¬ quent the Parks, Squares, and large Gardens, more than other places sur¬ rounded by houses, simply because there are trees, shrubs, and little nooks, to which they can at once fly off and get out of sight at the first alarm. There are exceptions. When you can see them eating in the midst of a very busy neighbourhood, hardly noticing you as you pass close to them — in the mews, for instance— you see a con¬ gregation of them enjoying themselves, not minding how near horses are to them, or even men and women. Our picture was sketched near Regent’s Park, where the birds are allowed by the ducks to come and share the boiled rice which is placed there for their food.

Page 405

No. L. CHATTERBOX. 399 SCRAPS OF BIOGRAPHY. SIDNEY SMITH added to his many accomplish¬ ments some knowledge of medicine. ^ This is the house to he ill in,’ he would say: ^indeed everybody who comes here is expected to take a little something ; I consider it a delicate compliment when my guests have a slight illness.’ In his house there was a small room containing all kinds of household necessaries, with shelves on one side filled with medicines. Of these the poor people in his arish had the benefit. Amongst other appliances he ad a stomach-pump, which was once the means of saving his footman’s life. This servant had a liking for dough, and one night found a lump which had been prepared with arsenic for rats, and carelessly left upon the dresser. Unaware of this he ate the dough, and was soon in great agony. Sydney Smith was called out of bed, and told what had happened. He at once put the stomach-pump into use, and all through the night applied the remedies which his medical books prescribed. The man’s life was in danger for some days, but he at last recovered, and showed his gratitude by tending his master in his last illness, Sydney Smith noticed his servants to have a dislike to cheap things, and thought more soap was used in his house, and of a more expensive kind than was necessary. He therefore bought six pounds at two prices, but before giving them to the servant he changed the papers, so that the cheap one was in the paper which had contained the dearer kind, and had its price marked thereon. ^ Well, Betty,’ he said soon after, ^ which soap do you find washes best ?’ ' Oh, please sir, the dearest, in the blue paper. It makes a lather as well again as the other ! ’ * Well, Betty, you shall always have it then.’ * And so,’ he says, ^ the unsuspecting Betty saved me some pounds a-year, and washed the clothes better.’ When Sir Walter Raleigh was passing from his prison to the scaffold, amongst those who pressed forward to see him was an old man whose head was bald. Sir Walter, noticing him, asked ^ Whether he woidd have ought of him ? ’ To which the old man replied, ‘ Nothing but to see him, and to pray to God for^ himf Whereupon the knight thanked him, saying, ^ I am sorry I have no better thing to return thee for thy good will, but take this night-cap (a very rich wrought one which he wore), for thou hast more need of it now than I.’ A. R. B. A FRIENDLY LION. N Martin’s Histonj of the British Colonies it is said that Prince, a tame lion on board H.M.S, Anadne, was much attached to his keeper, a seaman, who, having got drunk one day, was ordered to be flogged. The grating was rigged on the main deck, opposite Prince’s den, a large barred-up place, the pillars very strong, and cased with iron. When the keeper began to strip, to undergo this horrid punish¬ ment, the lion rose gloomily from his lair, and got as near to his fiiend as possible. On beholding his bare back, he walked hastily round the den, and when he saw the boatswain inflict the first lash his eyes sparkled with fire, and his sides resounded with the strong and quick beating of his tad. At last, when the blood began to flow down the poor fellow’s back, under the cat-o’-nine-tails the lion’s fury be¬ came tremendous ; he roared with a voice of thunder, shook the strong bars as if they were osiers, but finding his efforts to break them unavailing, he roUed and roared in a manner so terrific, that the captain, fearing the consequences, ordered the unfor¬ tunate keeper to be cast off and to enter the den. It is impossible to describe the joy shown by the lion. He licked the bleeding back of his keeper, caressed him with his paws, and even folded them around him as if to protect him from similar treatment. THE DISCERNING DOG. KNOW a dog — in fact I know too many, For dogs and I don’t very well agree ; But still I think them cleverer than any Fourfooted beings ; save, perhaps, the bee. Perhaps the bee ? It seems I was forgetting Bees have six legs ; at least, I fancy so. Yes ; dogs are sharp, but what with sport and petting I vote them bores, and far too much ^ the gO.’ But, clever is the dog ; so every writer Who haiq)8 on animals has often said : And, for his gifts, man loves the shaggy biter. And lets him share the larder and tlie bed. I know a dog, owned by a Mr. Draper, Who is of dogs the tip-top dog, I think ; He takes a penny for a daily paper. While Mr. D. sits down to eat and drink. Quickly he leaves the room — he knows no lagging, Nor sports upon the Common as he goes ; Into the shop he bounds, his big tail wagging, Among the customers he thrusts his nose. Upon the counter lays he down the penny ; And, as he does so, much must wonder why A tasteless coin like it has value any. And why so small so great a thing can buy. It* must strike Dash, one thinks, as not quite proper (Getting a castle for a cottage rent). To take a paper for that bit of copper : But master gets the most, so he’s content. The shopman likes his joke, and offers sl3dy The Standard: but the dog’s a stolid whig. He drops the Tory print, offended highly. For Beaconsfield he does not care a fig. The Daily News his master likes — the wherefore Dash does not ask ; but it’s enough for Dash His master reads that paper daily ; therefore, Master shall have it, and no other trash ! Beware, news-vendor, carry not your funning Beyond dog-patience, or the joke you’ll rue ; W^ho so discerns, may have, perchance, the cunning To take the penny and the paper too ! G. S. O.

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Page 407

No. LI CHATTERBOX 401

Page 408

402 CHATTERBOX. No. LI. THE BOY TRAPPEB. [Continued from page 398.) By Haebt Castlemos. (Copyright.) Porter and Coates. 1878. - \EAVING Bob and his friend to get out of their difficulties as best they can, we will go hack to Godfre)-’s cabin and see wliat the two boys who live there are doino*. The day of rest, which Don said would work such wonders in David, did not seem to be of much benefit to him after all. He had been somewhat encouraged by Bert’s cheering woi s, and the knowledge that influential friends were working for hiin, and. like Boh Owens, he had indulged in some rosy dreams of the future; hut that short »terview with the vouno- horsemen who met him in the road below the C-al’s house, reminded him that. he had active enemies, who would not hesitate to injiu y every means in their power. He thought about his father all day, and wondered if there was anything he could do that would bring him hack home where he belonged, and make a respectable man of hm. He ha^ ample leisure to turn this problem over in his mind, for he was alone most of the day. As soon as he reached the cabin, Dan, who acted as if he did not want to be in his brother’s company, shouldered his rifle and went off by himself; and it was while he was roaming through the woods that he “ade a discovery which did much to bring about some of the events we have already described. Dan felt so mean and sneaking that he did not want to see anybody, if he could help it ; and when he accidentally encountered Bob Owens and Lester Brigham in the woods, he darted into the bushes and concealed himself. He watched *em while Bi^ were watching Don and Bert, and when he saw them hitch their horses and creep along the fence m pursuit of the waggon, he suddenly recaBed some scraps of a conversation he had overheard a few days be¬ fore. He knew that Lester was workmg against David, and believing from his stealthy movements and Bob’s that there was mischief afoot, he followed them with the determination of putting in a word, and perhaps a blow, if he found that David s interests were in jeopardy. He saw every move the two boys made. He was lying in the bushes not more than fifty yards from them, while they were watching Don and Bert put the captured quails into the cabin, and when they went back to the place where they had left their horses, they passed so close to him that he caught some of their conversation. _ When they were out of sight and hearing Dan arose and sat down on the nearest log to make up his mind what he was going to do about it. ‘ I’ll bpt you a boss you don’t steal them quail nor set fire to the cabin, nuther,’ said he to himself. ‘Thar’s a heap of birds in thar— seems to me that they had oughter ketched ’most as many as they want by this time— an’ they shan’t he pestered ; kase if thej^ be, what’ll become of my shar’ of them hundred an fifty dollars ? It’ll be up a ^ holler stump, whar i thought it had gone long ^‘O. ^ j i j Dan knew that if Lester and his friend had any de- si<ms upon the cabin and the quails that were m it, they would not attempt to carry them out before night; but thefearthat something might happen if he wenthome a-rain troubled him greatly, and he resolved that he would not lose sight of the cabin for a few hours at least. He did not know what he would do to Lester and Bob if he caught them in the act 9*. steal the quails ; that was a point on which he could not make up his mind until something hajipened to su-gest an idea to him. While he was sitting in his ulace of concealment, thinking busily, he heard a rastling in the bushes, and looked up to see one of Don’s Bounds approaching. , In the days gone by, before Dan became such a rascal as he was now, he had often accompanied Don and Bert on their ’coon and ’possum hunting exp^i- tions, and the old dogs in the pack were almost m well acquainted with him as they were with their master. Bose recognised him at once, and appealed to be glad to see him. , < I want you to stay here with me till it comes dark, ole feller,’ said Dan, patting the ammal s head. (.He never kicked the hounds, as he did the pointer. He knew better.) ‘If them feUers comes we 11 make thino-s lively fur ’em. You hear me? Dan waited sdmost twelve hours before he had an opportunity to carry out the plan he had so suddenly Whtn he became tired of sitting still, and began to feel the cravings of appetite, he went into the woods and shot four squirrels which Bose treed for him These he roasted over a fire, and divided with his four-footed friend. When it began to grow dark he went back to his hiding-place, where he remained until he thought it time to take up a new position. This was by the side of the road, and a, short distance from the biir gate, which opened into the lane leading to Se negrB fuarters. Tlie^re Dan lay foraliiiost four hours, stretched out behind a log, with the hound by his side. He saw several negroes pass in and out ot the gate, and although some of them talked by within ten feet of him, no one saw him, and the well- trained hound never betrayed his presence by so much Finally, ^o Dan’s great relief, the lights in the General’s house were put out, then a door or two was slammed loudly in the quarters, and after that all was Dan had grown tired of watching, and must have fallen asleep, for he knew nothing more until a low o-rowl frorn the hound aroused him. He was wide Swake in an instant, and having quieted the animal bv placing his hand on Ins neck, he looked all aroim^l to tee what it was that had disturbed him. He heard footsteps in the field on the opposite side of the road, and presently two figures appeared and clambered over the fence. They crossed to the „ate, which they opened and closed very carefully, and went do^vn tbe lane. a ^ ^Them’s our feUers, Bose,’ whispered Dan, who was highly excited. ^They’ve got bags slung over their shoulders, an’ they think they’re going to play smash, stealin’ them birds of our’n j but me and you will see how many they’ll get, won t we . As soon as Bob and Lester were out of hearing, Dan arose, and holding the hound firmly by the neck

Page 409

No. LI. CHATTERBOX. 403 with one hand, he opened the gate with the other, and moved noiselessly down the lane toward the quarters. His plan was to make sure that Bob and his friend had come there to force an entrance into the cabin in which the quails were confined, and if he found that that was their object, he would make a pretence of setting Bose upon them. He did not in¬ tend to do so in reality, for he knew the dog too well. The animal always did serious work when he began to use his teeth, and Dan did’nt want either of the young thieves killed or maimed. He knew that if he could excite the hound, and induce him to give tongue, the rest of the pack would be on tlie ground in two minutes’ time ; and as they were all young dogs (Carlo was shut up in the barn every night to do guard duty there), they would not be likely to take hold of the boys, if left to themselves. They would not let them escape, either. They would sur¬ round them and keep them there until morning, and that was what Dan wanted. He could not afford to watch the cabin every night, and he thought it would be a good plan to give Bob and his friend a lesson they would not forget. That the prowlers had come there to force an en¬ trance into tne cabin, was quickly made plain. Dan saw them try the door, and then go around to the other side of the building, and attempt to pull off the planlts that covered the window. Dan heard something crack as Bob laid out his strength on the lever he was using, and believing that the thieves were on the point of accomplishing their object, he uttered a loud whistle to let the rest of the pack know that they were wanted, and shouted : ‘ Here they be ! Take ’em, fellers ! Take ’em down ! ’ Bose, who had been growing more and more im¬ patient every moment, was quite ready to obey. Ut- * tering a loud yelp, which was almost immediately answered by the rest of the pack, he raised himself upon his hind legs, and struggled so furiously to escape that Dan was obliged to drop his rifle and seize him with both hands. But when the brute was thoroughly aroused, it was hard to restrain him. The thick, loose skin on the back of his neck did not afford Dan a very good hold, and ahnost before he knew it, Bose slipped from his grasp, and bounded toward the cabin. At the same instant, a chorus of loud bays sounding close at hand an¬ nounced that the rest of the pack were coming at the top of their speed. Bob and Lester had never before been in so much danger as they were at that moment. Dan, who began to fear that the plan he had adop¬ ted for protecting the quails was about to result in a terrible tragedy, was very badly frightened. He stood for a few seconds as if he had been deprived of all power of action, and then caught up his rifle and took to his heels. He ran as if the pack were after him instead of Bob and Lester, and never slackened his pace until he was out of hearing of their angry voices. He crept home lili:e a thief, and got into bed without arousing even David or his mother. But he could not sleep. He was haunted by the fear that something dreadful had happened down there in the quarters, and that there would be a great uproar in tne settlement the next morning. He felt that he could never be himself again until he knew the worst, so a little while before daylig-ht he put on bis clothes slipped quietly out of the cabin, and bent his steps toward the bi" gate near which he had been con¬ cealed tlie night before. By the time he reached it there was light enough for him to distinguish objects at a considerable distance, and we can imagine how greatly relieved he was when he discovered Bob and Lester perched upon the ridge pole of tlie cabin. At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, but a second look told him that there was no mistake about it. He would have been glad to know if either of them had been injured by the hounds before they they got there, but that was something he could not find out just then. They had not been torn in pieces, as he feared, and that was a great comfort to him. ^ ^ They never had a closer shave, that thar is sar- tin,’ thought Dan, as he turned about and trudged to¬ ward home. wonder what dad would say if he knowed what a smart trick I played onto ’em ! I wish I could go an’ tell him, but I am a’most afeared, kase he must be jest a bilin’ over with madness. He’s lost the inter — I reckon Dave must have stole him, kase I on’t see how else he could have got him — an’ I don’t ''keer to go nigh him agin, till I kin kinder quiet his feelins by tellin him some good news ’bout them hundred an’ fifty dollars. The events of this night were the last of any in¬ terest that transpired in the settlement for more than two weeks. Affairs seemed to take a turn for the better now, and the boy trapper and his two friends were left to carry out their plans without any opposition. Bob and Lester kept out of sight altogether ; but they need not have been so careful to do that, for the General was the only one who was the wiser for what they had done, and he never said a word about it to anybody. They could not even muster up energy enough to go out of nights to rob David’s traps ; and perhaps it was just as well that they did not attempt it, for they might have run against Dan Evans in the dark. The latter spent very little time at home now. He was sometimes absent for two days and nights, and David and his mother did not know what to make of it. He had built a camp near the field in which the traps were set, and there he lived by himself, sub¬ sisting upon the squirrels and wild turkeys that fell to his rifle. (Concluded in our next.) RUDOLPH OP HAPSBURG. From the German. WHILE the Emperor Rudolph was in Nuremberg, on business of state, a merchant came before him with a complaint against an innkeeper, to whom he had entrusted a bag of money. The Emperor asked him what proof he had of the fact, and the merchant answered that no one knew of the affair but themselves. The Emperor next inquired what kind of a bag it was, and after the merchant had described it minutely, he ordered him to withdraw into the next room. He was

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The Emperor produced the Bag of Gold. ahoiit to send for the innheeper, when fortunately the latter appeared with some of the principal inhabitants of the place to wait upon his majesty. Kudolpli Imew him very well, and he said to him familiarly, ' What a handsome hat you have! pray give it to me, and let us exchange ! ’ The innkeeper, proud of the distinction, gave his hat to him readily. The Emperor then sent secretly a reliable and well-known citizen to the wife of the innkeeper with this message : ‘ Your husband wishes you to send him the hag of gold, for which he has special need, and sends his hat to you as a proof. The wife handed over the bag without any suspicion, and the messenger returned with it to the Emperor, j who asked the merchant if he knew it, and the latter . said with joy that it was his own. Then the inn¬ keeper was called in, and the Emperor said to hnn, ^This man accuses you of having defrauded him of a hag of gold that he gave to you on trust; what have

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charge Ihe innkeeper answered -for I have never had anything to do with liim.’ But when the Emperor produced the hag, the innkeeper was so confounded at the sight that he stammered out a confession of his guilt. Ihe merchant had his gold restored to liim, andthe culprit was heavily fined. ’ AU Germany resounded with the praise of tlie Emperor’s sagacity. r - - ■- DOVER CASTLE. WHEN you go into a lion’s den you like to feel able to draw back if the wild beast is more than a match for you. England was such a den to William, the Duke of p«ormandy, and his brave men. When he left France in his little open boat, and led his black-haired warriors to the white cliffs of England, what a desperate deed it seemed ! But his high heart did not quail as those cliffs grew clearer to his sight. He

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406 OHATTEUBOX. No. LI. was a king of men in an age of men, and wounds and weather were trifles. His Norman knights and soldiers caught their leader’s spirit, and met billows and blows as manfully as he did. The great battle of Hastings was won by pluck, and now wisdom must secure the bonny island. Before AVilliam dared to leave the sea-coast and pounce on London, he determined to fortify a long strip of the Kentish and Sussex shore, extending from the town of Sandwich to that of Hastings, perhaps forty-six miles as the crow^ flies. He built castles, and left trusty garrisons in five towns, namely. Sand¬ wich, Dover, Hythe, Bomney, and Hastings. The most important and central point of this line was Dover ; and William had some years before compelled Harold to swear that the castle of Dover should be surrendered to him on the death of William the Confessor. , These five towns are called the ^ Cinque Ports still, and many old names and customs yet linger there, and show how solid was the work of the great Duke William. In after days, before England had a regular navy, these five towns furnished nearly all the men-of-w^ar required by the State. As a set-off to this burden the Cinque Ports enjoyed many privileges. Each port sent two barons, as they were called, to Parlia¬ ment, and every free man w^as entitled to a provision of some sort. The judges of England were not allowed to hold assizes wdthin the liberties of these five boroughs.* The citizens were never called upon to serve in the militia ; and the barons of the ports, in number ten, had for many years a singular honour — they were allowed to carry the canopy over the kind’s head when he went to his coronation. ^ G. S. 0. KIlSraLY CONSIDERATIOlSr. From Madame Bunsen’s Letters. WHEN King Frederick William III. of Prussia lay dying in the year 1840, he still showed the greatest care for the w^elfare of his people and the good of those around him. In his palace-yard there stood a pump much renowned for the purity of its water, to which the public used to resort for the supply of their houses. The noise of pumping, however, and the creaking of the pump-handle, was supposed by the physicians to disturb the king, and they therefore ordered the water-seekers to be kept out of the palace-yard. The king at once noticed the cessation of the creaking, and asked the reason. On hearing the explanation, he begged that no one should be prevented fetching the water as usual. He noticed, likewise, the small nuruber of petitions placed on his table while he lay sick in his bed, saying that he feared some were kept back for fear of wearying him, and he commanded that all might be brought to him as long as he was ab’e to read them. This kindly thought for his people he maintained to the last day of his life. H* A. F. • They had a judge of their own ; namely, the Constable of Dover Castle GEOPPREY CHAUCER AND HIS PILGRIMS. THE PAEDONER. With liim ther rode a gentil Pardoner Of Eouncevall, his frend and his compere.’ ITH his friend the Summoner rode the Pardoner, the oddest character in the whole company, and the farthest removed from anything in our own times. Both himself and his profession have vanished like the Summoner’s, which is no loss, for those two joUy compan¬ ions were decidedly the black sheep in the fiock of pilgrims. The Pardoner was the worse of the two, for he took advantage of the people’s belief in holy things, by pretending^ that his false relics could absolve their sins, and bring them pros¬ perity, and thus obtained more money in a day than the Parson could in two months ; and, indeed, he beguiled both Parson and people by his tricks, though all the better-educated Catholics knew he was an im¬ postor. He could not have been a regular priest, for he wore long hair, and taUmd about getting married ; and appears to have merely bought his patent and license for the exhibition and sale of his relics. His appearance was as strange as his character. His long hau‘, which was as yellow as wax, hung down as smooth as a streak of flax, in thin locks, one by one, and overspread his shoulders ; and for jollity he wore no hood, but kept it trussed up in his wallet, and had nothing on his head but a cap with a ^ vernicle ’* sewn upon it. He thought he rode all in the newest fashion ! His eyes were as glaring as a hare’s, and no beard had he, or ever would have any; his face was smooth, as though it was newly shaven. His voice was small, like a goat’s, and as he rode along he sang full clear, ^ Come hither, love, to me !’ his friend the Summoner joining in a bass, louder than a trumpet. But of his craft, from Berwick imto Ware, there was not such another Pardoner ! He had just come from Pome, and his wallet that lay before him in his lap was brimful of pardons, and lie said that he had a piece of the sail of St. Peter’s boat, and all sorts of wonderful things ; and he had a cross made of ^ laton,’t and full of stones. Now w^hen the Doctor had finished his story of Virginius, our host, who had been so moved^ by it that he required something lively to cheer him up again, he turned to the Pardoner, saying, ^ Thou fair friend, thou Pardoner, tell us some merry jest right anon.’ at shall be done,’ quoth the Pardoner, /but first I will bite on a cake, and have a drink at this ale-stake.’ ' Nay,’ cried all the gentles; ' let him tell us of no ribaldry. Tell us some moral thing, that we may learn some wit, and then we will gladly hear.’ ♦ Veronica : the ‘ true Image.’ t A mixed metal, the colour of brass.

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No. LI. CHATTERBOX. 407 * I agree/ quoth the Pardoner : ‘ but I must think of some honest thing whilst I drink.’ He then, with the utmost candour, began to tell all about his own proceedings, which were nothing honest. How, when he came to any place, he assembled all the people in the church, and first telling whence he came, and showing his patent, with their liege lord’s seal on it, so that no priest or clerk should be so bold as to interrupt him in his work, he preached a sermon against covetousness. But this was only to get the people to give their pence freely, for he was liimself the most covetous of men. Then would he speak a few words in Latin, to give colour to his discourse, and bringing out his relics, get the people’s money, which, as he plainly tells us, was all jie wanted. ^But hearken, lordings,’ said he ^though I my¬ self be a full vicious man, yet can I tell you a moral tale.’ And this was tlie tale that the Pardoner told : — ^ In Flanders, once upon a time, there was a com- any of young folk who haunted taverns, and spent oth night and day in gambling and riot, and playing and dancing. ^ Now as three of these revellers were sitting drinking one morning, they heard a bell ringing before a corpse that was carried by, and one of them, calling to his serving-boy, bid him go find out who it was that was carried to his grave. Sir,” said the boy, there is no need : it was told to me two hours ago. He was an old companion of yours, who, as he sat drinking last night, was suddenly slain by a secret thief called Heath, who is killing all the people in this country : he hath slain a thousand in this pesti¬ lence. And, master, ere he cometh here, methinks it were needful to be ready to meet him evermore, for thus my dame taught me.” ^ The boy saith true,” said the taverner, for he hath slain this year both man, and woman, and child, in a village about a mile off. I believe his habitation must be there.” ^ And when the three rioters heard this, they made a compact to stand by each other like brothers, and vowed to seek out this Heath, and slay him before night. And up they started in their rage, and sallied out towards the village. But scarce had they gone half a mile, when, just as they were about to get over a stile, they met a poor old man, who greeted them meekly with, Now, God save you, lords ! ” What, churl!” cried the proudest of these rioters, why art thou all wrapped up but thy face ? Why livest thou so long in such great age ?” ^ The old man looked him in the face and replied, — ^ Because there is no one who will exchange his youth for my age, and Heath, alas ! will not have my life. But, sirs, it is not courtesy in you to speak thus to an old man, or to do him more harm than you would a man did to you, should you live to be old. x\nd God be with you, for I go whither I have to go.” ‘ Nay, old churl I thou shalt not : thou part not so lightly 1” said the man. Thou spake but now of this traitor Heath. Tell us where he is, or thou shalt dearly rue it. I believe thou art one of his spies, and art of his counsel to slay us young folk, thou false thief 1” ' ^^Nay, sirs,” quoth he. If ye wish to find Heath turn up this crooked way, for in that grove I left him under a tree. See ye that oak ? There ye shall find him ; and God save you and amend you 1” ^ Thus spake the old man . And the three rioters ran till they came to the tree, and there the}^ found a great heap of golden florins ; and tliey forgot their search for Heath in their gladness at the sight of the bright gold coins. And down they sat by the precious hoard, and the worst of them spoke first. ^ Brethren.” said he, mind what I say. Fortune hath given us this treasure that we may live in jollity and mirth ; but we cannot carry it either to your house or mine in the day-time, lest men say we are strong thieves. This must be carried by nigJit, wisely and slyly. Let us draw ^ cuts ’ which of us shall go to the town arid bring us bread and wine, and then we will wait till night, when we can carry our treasure where we think best.” 'And it fell to the lot of the youngest of them to go to the town. But he was no sooner gone than one of the others proposed that they two should kill him when he returned, and divide the treasure between themselves. In the meanwhile the youngest one was thinking how he could get all the gold to him¬ self : so he bought poison and mixed it with some of the wine, and returned to the tree with the provisions. And the other two killed him, and sat down to make merry over their splendid prospects, and talk of the happy life they shoidd lead; and they drank the poisoned wine their companion had brought them, and they died beside their golden treasure. ' And thus these three revellers found Heath under the tree, even as the old man told them.’ The Pardoner, having finished his tale, warned the company against avarice ; and wishing to improve the occasion, told them how fortunate they were in having a good Pardoner with them, for that one of them might fall from his horse and break his neck ; and that they had better all bring out their money and be absolved from their sins on the spot. ' Come forth. Sir Host,’ said he ; ' as thou art the most sinful man here, ye shall first begin ; so unbuckle thy purse at once 1’ But though the host could stand a great deal, this man’s impudence was too much for him. And he told the Pardoner his opinion of him and his relics so plainly that all the company began laugliing, and the Pardoner grew so angry he spoke never a word in reply. Then the worthy Knight, wishing to pre¬ vent a quarrel, and saying, ' Enough ; no more of this 1’ made the Host and the Pardoner kiss and be friends, and they all rode merrily on their way. You have now made the acquaintanco of all the members of that goodly company of pilgrims who rode to Canterbury five hundred years ago; and have been introduced to every class of society in the days of Pdchardthe Second, from the gentle Knight to the poor Ploughman. How our pilgrims fared when they arrived at their journey’s end, or what became of them afterwards, we cannot tell ; for Chaucer never finished his work. It breaks off abruptly with a .ser¬ mon from the Parson : for the good man did preach a sermon after all, notwithstanding the previous ob¬ jections of the host and the Shipman. A. K.

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No. LIT. CHATTERBOX 409 Don jumped on his pony and rode homeward.

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410 CHATTERBOX. No. LII. THE BOY TBAPPEB,. [Concluded from page 403.) By Harry Castlemon. (Copyright.) ‘ Porter and Coates. 1878. HINGS \vent on smoothly for a week, and during this time David and his friends were as busy as they could be. Quails were more abundant than they had ever known them to be before. They seemed to flock into the General’s fields on purpose to be caught. In the meantime the General’s timber and nails were used up rapidly. The boys had the hardest part of their work to do now, and that was to build a sufficient number of coops to hold all the birds. Silas Jones said that the Emma Eeane was expected down every day, and Don declared that the birds must be shipped on her when she came back from New Orleans, if it took every man and woman on the plantation to get them ready. She came at last, and Don was at the landing to meet her. He held a short interview with her captain and Silas Jones, who was freight agent as well as express agent and post-master, and when it was ended he Jumped on his pony and rode homeward as if his life depended upon the speed he made. When he arrived within sight of the field where the traps were set, he saw his brother and David coming in with another wag¬ gon load of birds. , , j -r. ^ How many this morning ? asked Don. ' We have enough now to make fifty-five dozen al¬ together,’ replied Bert. , ^Hurrah for our side!’ cried Don. 'We’ll ship them all. Captain Morgan will stop and get the birds when he comes back, and he will see them shipped on the railroad at Cairo. ^ Did he say how much it would cost to send them off ? ’ asked David. ^ No. He will put it in his bill when he comes down again. He carries freight by the hundred, you know. He will pay the railroad charges, too, and add that to his own bill.’ ' But what shall I do if both bills amount to more than ten dollars ? ’ asked David, with some anxiety. Don did not seem to hear the question, for he paid no attention to it. The truth was he had arranged matters so that David would not be required to use any of his ten dollars. Silas Jones was to foot all the bills and pay himself out of David’s money when it was forwarded to him by the agent at S - , the place where the quails were going. But Don couldn’t stop to explain this just now. He told his brother and David to make liaste and put the quails into the cabin ; and when that was done and they came into the shop, he set them at work on the coops. There was much yet to be done, but they had ample time to do it in, with more than a day to spare. When the next Wednesday night arrived fifty-five dozen quails were boxed and marked ready for shipment at the landing. . , i The boys camped at the landing that night to keep guard over their property. They pitched a little tent on the bank, built a roaring fire in front of it. and in company with Fred and Joe Packard, who came down to stay with them, passed the hours very pleasantly. The Emma Deane came up the next afternoon, and when the freight had been earned aboard and she backed out into the stream again, David drew a long breath, expressive of the deepest satisfaction. Ilis task was done, and he hoped in a few days more to reap the reward of his labour. The boys felt like resting now. They had worked lono* and faithfully, and they were all relieved to know that their time was their own. Don and Bert paid daily visits to their bear trap, hunted wild turkeys, and drove the ridges for deer, while David stayed at home and made himself useful there, until he began to thinli it time to hear from somebody, and then he took to hanging about the post-office as persistently as ever his father had done. Finally his anxiety was relieved by the arrival of the fi^^t letter that had ever been addressed to himself. He tore it open with eager hands, and read that the quails had been received in good order, and^ that the money, amounting to one hundred and ninety-two dollars and fifty cents, had been paid over to the aorent from wdiom they were received. David could hardly believe it. The man had paid him for the extra five dozen birds : he was to receive forty-two dollars more than he expected ; and there had been no freight charges deducted. i i j- Every succeeding day found David at^ the landing waiting for his money, and so little did he know about business that he could not imagine wffio w^as to give it to him. . -n • j At last the Emma Deane came down again. David stood around with the rest and watched her while she was putting off her freight, and having seen her back out into the stream, was about to start for home, Silas Jones came up and tapped him on the shoulder. ' Don’t go away,’ said he. ' I want to see you. David waited an hour before Silas was ready to tell him what he wanted of him. By that time the most of the hangers-on had dispersed ; and wlien the last customer finished his trading, Silas stepped be¬ hind his desk and opened his safe. ' There it is,’ said he, slapping a package of green- • backs on the desk, and then holding it up to Davids view. ' How do you like the looks of it ? David’s eyes opened to their widest extent. He had never seen so large a package of money before. He looked hastily about the store to see if Dan was any¬ where in sight, and was greatly relieved to find that he was not. There were three or four men standing by, and, they appeared to be enjoying David’s astonishment, f Is— is it mine, Mr. Jones ? ’ he managed to ^k. ' Some of it is, and some of it is mine. There are a hundred and ninety-two dollars and a halt here, and twenty-eight of it belongs to me. Freight bills, you know. The coops you put those birds m were as heavy as lead. If you had put less timber m them your expenses would not have been so heavy. ^ Don thought it best to have them strong so that they would not be broken in handling,’ said David. ^ That was all right. Now let me see, added Silas, consulting his books. ^Fifty-five dozen live quails at three fifty per dozen— one ninety -two, fifty ; less twenty-eight, leaves one sixty-four, nrty’* Just step around here and sign this receipt. i

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No. LII. CHATTERBOX. 411 David obeyed like one in a dream. Pie put his name to the receipt, and, scarcely knowing what he was about, thrust the package of money which Silas handed him into his pocket and wallred out of the store. ^ There goes the proudest boy in the United States,’ said the grocer. Yes ; David was proud, but he was grateful, too. He was indebted to Don and Bert for his good for¬ tune, and he was sorry that he could do nothing but thank them when they came home. He went straight to the cabin, and to his great surprise and joy found his mother there. She was alone in the nouse, but David, profiting by his past experience, made a thorough examination of the premises before he said a word to her. Having thus made sure that Dan was not about, he pulled out his package of gi’eenbacks and laid it on his mother’s lap. There was joy in the cabin that day. If David had never before realised that it is worth while to keep trying, no matter how hard one’s luck may be, he realised it now. We will leave him in the full enjoyment of his success, promising to bring him to the notice of the reader again at no distant day, in another story, which will be entitled The Mail Carrier. Infanta without being seen, and with a view to de¬ ciding whether or not he would care to marry her. The authorities, however, soon released the Prince and his friend, and they were set at liberty to con¬ tinue their strange journey. Opposite Gravesend is Tilbury, celebrated for its fort. There the army of the Thames awaited the coming of the Spanish Armada, and their Queen Ehzabeth, then between fifty and sixtv, rode smilingly through the ranks, and addressed tne soldiers in a rin^ng speech, at one point of which she said, — ^Let tyrants fear. I have always so behaved myself that under God I have placed my chief est strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and good¬ will of my subjects, and therefore am I come amongst you, as you see, at this time ... to live or die amongst you all — to lay down for my God and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honour and my blood, even in the dust.’ But soon all danger was over, and the honest folk went back to their daily work. Gravesend once passed, and ^ Cliff ’ left behind, the Thames for many miles is bounded by flat and unin¬ teresting banks. Now the river suddenly widens with great rapidity, and to the south we may see the mouth of the Med¬ way, while on the north the longest pier in England — that of Southend — may be marked stretching far out into the river, or rather sea, for the water has now been salt for many furlongs. The Thames at this point, and as we near the Nore Light, is six miles wide. We are between forty and fifty miles from London Bridge, at the forty-fifth mile from which stands London Stone. This marks the boundary of the Port of London, which extends to this point. We have now reached the mouth of the river, and the Nore Light tells that our journey is over. Visitors may inspect the strange-looking craft to which the title ^Nore Light’ has been given. The sailors will be found very simple, pleasant men, and it will be only kind to buy some of the simple trifles (chiefly in olive wood, and from the Mediterranean) which they offer for sale. From source to Nore the Thames flows 230 miles, of which 138 are navigable. Over its placid bosom passes more wealth, upon its banks resound the hum and roar of more industry, than upon all the streams of Europe put together. Many a pleasant memory of the history of our land should have been awakened as we have glided down the river. Well may the poet write, — ‘ Thames, the most loved of all the ocean’s sons By his old sire, to his embraces runs. Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea. Like mortal life to meet eternity ; Though with those streams he no resemblance holds, Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold, His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore, Search not his bosom, but descry his shore.’ Again, one may say with Denham, speaking of Father Thames, — ‘ 0 could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme. Though deep yet clear, though gentle yet not dull, Strong without rage, without o’erflowing full.’ THE THAMES FROM SOURCE TO MOUTH. No. XXIV.— FEOM GBAVESEND TO THE NOBE LIGHT. ^ RAVESEND is a rational corruption of Graves- \J ham, for certainly, with respect to outward- bound ships, the grave ends at the town in question. Once passed that spot, and if death comes the restless sea will be the place of burial. The power of the London Custom House stretches no farther down the river than this point, and here up-stream bound ves¬ sels are boarded by the sailor-like landsmen who are Custom-house officers, and who accompany the vessels up the Thames so that there shall be no evasion in the payment of Custom-house dues. The Thames here is a mile across, and the water is quite brackish. Here the tide rises and falls twenty feet. At Gravesend, early in 1863, the Princess of Wales first touched English ground when coming to make Great Britain her home. . Gravesend is stiU used, now and again, as the point of embarkation and disembark¬ ation for Royal personages. It was once proposed to make a tunnel under the Thames at this point. The cost, however, prevented the scheme from being seriously entertained. Above the pleasant little borough may be seen Windmill llill, where an ancient old mill still stands, and whence a fine view of the surrounding country may be obtained ; especially visible is Gad’s Hill, where Mr. C. Dickens lived and died, and where it is said Henry V. when young, and then Prince of Wales, helped to steal purses. Another Prince of Wales — he who was afterwards Charles I. is associated with Gravesend, for here in this neigh¬ bourhood he and the Duke of Buckingham of that day were arrested as suspicious characters. They were travelling as John and Thomas Smith, and were making for Spain, where Charles wished to see the

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Soiitheud,

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ILLUSTRATED AND MISCELLANEOUS BOOKS. CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. ‘The People’s Edition.” Printed from long primer type, leaded and spaced, and makes three thousand more pages than the best editions heretofore offered in the same number of volumes. It contains all of the authorized works, some reprinted pieces *to be found in no other editions, and over 200 illustrations on steel and wood by Cruik- shank. Phiz, Barney, Darley and others. 15 vols., 12 mo. Bound in Cloth Extra, Black and Gilt Stamp, .... $22.50 Any volume sold separately, . . .1.50 DICKENS’ WORKS. “THE UNIVERSITY EDITION.” The same as described above. Bound in Ma¬ roon Cloth, gilt tops, uniform with “The University Edition” of Shakspeare and the “Riverside Poets.” 15 vols. Sold in sets only, . . . 25.00 Half Calf, extra, ..... 50.00 DICKENS’ CHILD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. Popular edition. An entirely new edition from new electrotype plates made and printed at “The University Press,” large type, fine tinted paper. i2mo. 24 illustrations. Cloth, black and gilt . $1.00 DICKENS’ WORKS. “THE CAMBRIDGE EDI¬ TION.” The best and most profusely illustrated Ameri¬ can Edition yet offered. Printed at the Cam¬ bridge University Press from large type, on line heavy tinted paper made expressly for the work, and containing over 650 steel plates and wood-cuts from designs by Cruik- shank, Phiz, Harvey, Barnard, Darley, De Neuville, Bayard and others, many of which can be found in no other editions, either American or Foreign. 30 volumes. Dark Green Cloth, Gilt Tops, . 45.00 Half Calf, extra, ..... ipo.oo DICKENS’ CHILD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. The most elegant edition of this popular work ever produced In Europe or America. Holiday edition, with 100 fine illustrations by De Neuville, Emile Bayard, F. Lix and others. 12 Cloth, beveled and gilt extra, . , . . . , , Half calf, . . . . Full Morocco, . . , , , . . , , , , . NEW EDITIONS OF POPULAR BOOKS. $2.50 4.00 6.O0 THE CARLETON SERIES. My Days and Nights on the Battle Field. Following the Flag. Winning His Way. By Charles Carleton Coffin, author of “The Boys of ’76,” “The Story of Liberty,” “Our New Way Round the World,” &c. These re¬ markably interesting books having been long out of print, there being a large demand for them, we shall issue new and uniform editions in an attractive form. 3 vols., i6mo. Cloth, in a neat box, . . $3.75 OUR NEW WAY ROUND THE WORLD. By Charles Carleton Coffin, author of “The Boys of ’76,” “The Story of Liberty,” “Fol¬ lowing the Flag,” “Winning His Way,” “My Days and Nights on the Battle-Field,” &c. A new and improved edition of this standard book of travel, which is interesting and use¬ ful to young and old ; with a large number of additional illustrations. I vol. Small quarto. Cloth, • . . 2.50 THE YOUNG LADIES’ LIBRARY. Papers for Thoughtful Girls, By Sarah M. Tytler. The Young Woman’s Friend, By Daniel C. Eddy, D. D. Christian Heroines, By Daniel C. Eddy,D. D. This series of books is presented to the public in a new dress, and the volumes confidently of¬ fered as being among the most popular thoughtful and rel'gious books for girls and young ladies ever published. More than one hundred and thirty thousand volumes of the series have been sold. 3 vols., i6mo. Cloth, black and gold, in a box $4.50 Each volume may be had separately, . .1 .50 PIONEER LIFE AND FRONTIER ADVENTURE. An authentic record of the romantic life and daring exploits of Kit Carson and his com¬ panions, from his own narative. By Col. D. C. Peters. i vol. 8vo. Cloth, illustrated 2.50 sent For Sale at ail Bookstores. If not to be found at the Bookstores, postpaid on receipt of price, by the Publishers, ESTES & LAURIAT, 301 to 305 Washington Street, - Boston.

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COLUMBIA BICYCLE. — The practicability of the bicycle as a road machine has been thoroughly and satisfactorily demonstrated, and the won¬ derful performances of professional and amateur riders attract universal attention. Appleyard rode i oo miles in 7 hours, over a common turnpike road, and Waller has accomplished 1404 miles in 6 days. The art of riding ^ns easily acquired, the exercise is most beneficial to- health, and the sport is une¬ qualled. Send three cent stamp for 24-page catalogue and price¬ lists, containing full information. THE POPE MFG. COo, 50 SUMMER STREET, BOSTON, - - MASS. THE FAMILY GIFT BOOK. ILLUSTRATED LITTLE WOMEN. The publishers haveprcpared, at great expense, an edition oqMiss Alcott’s American Classic, “LITTLE WOMEN,” embellished with nearly two hundred characteristic illustrations designed especially for tins work, in one handsome small quarto volume. Price $5.00. FOUR NEW BOOKS FOR YOUNG FOLKS’ BY POPULAR AUTHORS. JACK AND JILL, a Village Story. By Louisa M. Alcott. With Illustrations. Uniform with “LITTLE WOMEN,” etc.. Price $1.50. A GUERNSEY LILY, or Children in the Channel Islands. By Susan Coolidge, author of “WHAT KATY DID,” etc. Profusely illustrated. One small quarto volume, illuminated cloth covers. Price $2 00. NEW BED-TIME STORIES. By Louise Chandler Moulton. Illustrated by Addie Ledyard. Uniform with “BED-TIME STORIES.” Price $1.25. WE AND THE WORLD. A Story for Boys. By Mrs Ewing, author of “JAN OF THE WINDxMILL,” etc. With 10 illustrations. Price $1.25. NEW EDITIONS OF FAMOUS BOOKS. SANDFORD AND MERTON. By Thomas Day. With illustrations. Price $1.00. OLD-FASHIONED FAIRY TALES. The original Munroe and Francis edition, containing all the familiar stories, with characteristic pictures. 2 vols. Price $2.00. * Favorite Authors, in Sets, Uniformly Bound. LOUISA M. ALCOTT. AUNT JO’S SCRAP BAG, 5 vols. In a box, price $:;.oo, comprising “MY BOYS,” “SHAWL STRAPS,” “CUPID AND CHOW CHOW,” “MY GIRLS,” “JIMMY’S CRUISE IN THE PINAFORE,” etc. SUSAN COOLIDGE, 6 vols. in a box, price $9.00, comprising “THE NEW-YEAR’S BARGAIN,” “WHAT KATY DID,” “WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL,” “MISCHIEF’S THANKSGIVING,” “NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS,” “EYEBRIGHT.” THE INGELOW STORIES, 5 vols. in a box, price $6.25, comprising “STUDIES FOR STORIES,” “STORIES TOLD TO A CHILD,” 2 vols., “A SISTER’S BYE-HOURS,” “MOPSA THE FAIRY.” LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 3 vols. in a box, price $3.75, comprising “BED-TIME STORIES,” “MORE BED-TIME STORIES,” “NEW BED-TIME STORIES.* JULIANA HORATIA EWING, 4 vols. in a box, price $5.oc, comprising “JAN OF THE WINDMILL,” “SIX TO SIXTEEN,” “A GREAT EMERGENCY,” “WE AND THE WORLD.” JOLLY GOOD STORIES. 3 vols. in a box, price $3.75, comprising “JOLLY GOOD TLMES,” “JOLLY GOOD TIMES AT ^ SCHOOL,” “MICE AT PLAY.” All of these popular books are for sale by all booksellers, but when not to be found, send directly to the publishers, who will mail postpaid on receipt of price, ROBERTS BROS., Publishers, 299 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON. _ _ _ _ _